Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World: Studies in Honour of Matthew Freeman Trundle 1350283800, 9781350283800

Table of contents :
Cover
Halftitle page
Series page
Title page
Copyright page
CONTENTS
FIGURES
TABLES
CONTRIBUTORS
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABBREVIATIONS
IN MEMORIAM MATTHEW FREEMAN TRUNDLE
12 October 1965 – 12 July 2019
Selected publications of Matthew Trundle
CHAPTER 1 MONEY, POWER AND THE LEGACY OF MATTHEW TRUNDLE IN ANCIENT MEDITERRANEAN STUDIES Jeremy Armstrong, Arthur J. Pomeroy and David Rosenbloom
Case studies
Notes
Bibliography
CHAPTER 2 THE UPKEEP OF EMPIRE: COSTS AND RATIONS Anthony Spalinger
Notes
Bibliography
CHAPTER 3 PIETY, MONEY AND COINAGE IN GREEK RELIGION Matthew Trundle
Notes
Bibliography
CHAPTER 4 NAVAL SERVICE AND POLITICAL POWER IN CLASSICAL ATHENS: AN INVERSE RELATION David Rosenbloom
Socio-economic class and military service
Misthophora for jury service
The ratio of military to jury pay: Maintaining military advantage
Naval service, migration and economic opportunity
A significant minority: Athenian the¯tes in the navy during their political ascendance
Naval service and political power
Notes
Bibliography
CHAPTER 5 THE PERILS OF VICTORY: SPARTA’S UNEASY RELATIONSHIP WITH THE PROFITS OF WAR Ellen Millender
Pausanias and the perils of Plataea
Agesilaus II and the political benefi ts (or dangers?) of booty
Brasidas, Gylippus and Lysander: The hazards of victory and hegemony
Notes
Bibliography
CHAPTER 6 PEGASI AND WAR: PATTERNS OF MINTING AT CORINTH IN THE LATER FOURTH CENTURY bce Lee L. Brice
Why strike coins?
Corinth: A case study
Conclusions
Notes
Bibliography
CHAPTER 7 THE WAGE COST OF ALEXANDER’S PIKE-PHALANX Christopher Matthew
Notes
Bibliography
CHAPTER 8 SICILY IN THE MEDITERRANEAN c. 540-31 bce: EVIDENCE FROM COIN CIRCULATION Christopher de Lisle
Methodological issues and limitations
Findings
Conclusions
Notes
Bibliography
CHAPTER 9 RRC 1/1: THE FIRST STRUCK COIN FOR THE ROMANS Kenneth A. Sheedy
Addendum
Notes
Bibliography
CHAPTER 10 THE MILITARY HISTORY OF EARLY ROMAN COINAGE Jeremy Armstrong and Marleen K. Termeer
The military context of early Roman coinage
Early coin production by Rome and the allies
Rome’s military economy
The Mediterranean military economy c . 300
Conclusions
Notes
Bibliography
CHAPTER 11 CORRUPTION, POWER AND AN ORACLE IN THE LATE ROMAN REPUBLIC: THE RESTORATION OF PTOLEMY AULETES John Rich
Recognition and flight
Lentulus Spinther’s assignment
The oracle
Impasse
Restoration and aftermath
Conclusion
Notes
Bibliography
CHAPTER 12 MONEY AND WEALTH IN TACITUS Arthur J. Pomeroy
Notes
Bibliography
CHAPTER 13 GOTHIC MERCENARIES Daniel K. Knox
The difficulty of identifying mercenaries
Conditions for mercenary service in Late Antiquit
Defining mercenary service
Gothic mercenaries in the late fifth century
Conclusion
Notes
Bibliography
INDEX

Citation preview

MONEY, WARFARE AND POWER IN THE ANCIENT WORLD

i

Also available from Bloomsbury A CULTURAL HISTORY OF MONEY IN ANTIQUITY edited by Stefan Krmnicek GREEK WARFARE: MYTH AND REALITIES by Hans van Wees SHIPS AND SILVER, TAXES AND TRIBUTE: A FISCAL HISTORY OF ARCHAIC ATHENS by Hans van Wees WAR AS SPECTACLE: ANCIENT AND MODERN PERSPECTIVES ON THE DISPLAY OF ARMED CONFLICT edited by Anastasia Bakogianni and Valerie M. Hope

ii

MONEY, WARFARE AND POWER IN THE ANCIENT WORLD: STUDIES IN HONOUR OF MATTHEW FREEMAN TRUNDLE

Edited by Jeremy Armstrong, Arthur J. Pomeroy and David Rosenbloom

iii

BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP, UK 1385 Broadway, New York, NY 10018, USA 29 Earlsfort Terrace, Dublin 2, Ireland BLOOMSBURY, BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published in Great Britain 2024 Copyright © Jeremy Armstrong, Arthur J. Pomeroy, David Rosenbloom and Contributors, 2024 Jeremy Armstrong, Arthur J. Pomeroy, David Rosenbloom and Contributors have asserted their right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Authors of this work. For legal purposes the Acknowledgements on p. xi constitute an extension of this copyright page. Cover image: Silver tetradrachm of Ptolemy I, struck in the name of Alexander IV, depicting Athena marching, verso. 4th century BC . Photo by DeAgostini/Getty Images All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. Bloomsbury Publishing Plc does not have any control over, or responsibility for, any third-party websites referred to or in this book. All internet addresses given in this book were correct at the time of going to press. The author and publisher regret any inconvenience caused if addresses have changed or sites have ceased to exist, but can accept no responsibility for any such changes. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Rosenbloom, David Scott, editor. | Pomeroy, Arthur John, 1953- editor. | Armstrong, Jeremy, editor. | Trundle, Matthew, 1965-2019, honoree. Title: Money, warfare and power in the ancient world : studies in honour of Matthew Freeman Trundle / edited by David Rosenbloom, Arthur J. Pomeroy, Jeremy Armstrong. Description: London ; New York, NY : Bloomsbury Publishing, 2024. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2023028745 (print) | LCCN 2023028746 (ebook) | ISBN 9781350283763 (hardback) | ISBN 9781350283800 (paperback) | ISBN 9781350283770 (pdf) | ISBN 9781350283787 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: War--Economic aspects--Rome. | War--Economic aspects--Greece. | War, Cost of. | Coinage--Rome. | Coinage--Greece. | Military history, Ancient. | Rome--Economic conditions--510-30 B.C. | Greece--Economic conditions--To 146 B.C. | Trundle, Matthew, 1965-2019. Classification: LCC HB195 .M58 2024 (print) | LCC HB195 (ebook) | DDC 330.938--dc23/eng/20230712 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023028745 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023028746 ISBN:

HB: 978-1-3502-8376-3 ePDF: 978-1-3502-8377-0 eBook: 978-1-3502-8378-7

Typeset by RefineCatch Limited, Bungay, Suffolk To find out more about our authors and books visit www.bloomsbury.com and sign up for our newsletters.

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CONTENTS

List of Figures List of Tables List of Contributors Acknowledgements Abbreviations In Memoriam, Matthew Freeman Trundle 1

Money, Power and the Legacy of Matthew Trundle in Ancient Mediterranean Studies Jeremy Armstrong, Arthur J. Pomeroy and David Rosenbloom

vi vii viii xi xii xiii

1

2

The Upkeep of Empire: Costs and Rations Anthony Spalinger

11

3

Piety, Money and Coinage in Greek Religion Matthew Trundle †

29

4

Naval Service and Political Power in Classical Athens: An Inverse Relation David Rosenbloom

45

The Perils of Victory: Sparta’s Uneasy Relationship with the Profits of War Ellen Millender

73

5 6

Pegasi and War: Patterns of Minting at Corinth in the Later Fourth Century bce Lee L. Brice

105

7

The Wage Cost of Alexander’s Pike-Phalanx Christopher Matthew

127

8

Sicily in the Mediterranean c. 540–31 bce: Evidence from Coin Circulation Christopher de Lisle

145

RRC 1/1: The First Struck Coin for the Romans Kenneth A. Sheedy, with an Addendum by Michael Rampe

175

9

10 The Military History of Early Roman Coinage Jeremy Armstrong and Marleen K. Termeer

197

11 Corruption, Power and an Oracle in the Late Roman Republic: The Restoration of Ptolemy Auletes John Rich

219

12 Money and Wealth in Tacitus Arthur J. Pomeroy

245

13 Gothic Mercenaries Daniel K. Knox

259

Index

279 v

FIGURES

8.1 8.2 8.3 8.4 8.5 8.6 8.7 8.8 8.9 9.1 9.2 9.3 9.4 9.5 9.6 9.7

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Finds of Syracusan coinage minted in Period III Hoard finds in Sicily by period deposited All external coinage in Period IV hoards Findspots of Campanian coinage minted in the First Punic War Roman coins in Sicilian hoards of Period VI Non-Sicilian coin finds at Morgantina and Monte Iato by minting date Sicilian coin finds in Gaul and Illyria, by date of minting (top) and deposit (bottom) Distribution of Sicilian coinage abroad by period minted (left) and deposited (right) Sources of coinage deposited in Sicily, by period of deposition ACANS inv. 07GS16. RRC 1/1. Mint: Neapolis. 3.16g. Left panel: Obverse. Right panel: Reverse Overlay of ACANS inv. 07GS16 and Glasgow, Hunterian Mus. 151 Glasgow, Hunterian Mus. 151. RRC 1/1. Mint: Neapolis. 3.11g. Top panel: Obverse. Bottom panel: Reverse ACANS inv. 07GS117. Mint: Neapolis. 6.51g. Left panel: Obverse. Right panel: Reverse ACANS inv. 07GS121. Mint: Neapolis. 3.71g. Left panel: Obverse. Right panel: Reverse ACANS inv. 07GS36. Mint: Cales. 6.95g. Left panel: Obverse. Right panel: Reverse ACANS inv.07GS16. 3D model using a photogrammetry approach

151 153 154 157 159 161 162 164 166 175 179 180 184 184 185 191

TABLES

2.1 2.2 6.1 7.1 7.2 7.3 8.1 8.2 8.3 8.4 8.5 8.6 9.1 9.2 9.3 9.4

Provisioning of soldiers, based on P. Anastasi I Daily calorific value of provisions as estimated by Heagren (2012, 169–72) Number of control marks in each series of Ravel Period Five staters The sub-units of the pike-phalanx The structure of a file of the pike-phalanx The monthly and annual wages of a file of the pike-phalanx CH 8.35 (‘Selinunte 1985’) Sicilian coins in western Mediterranean hoards, Period II Sicilian coins in eastern Mediterranean hoards, Period II Sicilian hoards containing eastern Mediterranean coins, Period III Macedonian coins in Sicilian hoards Hoards containing Roman coins minted in Sicily in Period VI RRC 1/1 Taliercio Mensitieri (1986) phase I Taliercio Mensitieri (1986) phase I, group Ic Bronze unit issues with obverse head of Apollo/ reverse man-headed bull

16 17 115 134 135 137 147 148 149 150 154 160 178 182 182 187

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CONTRIBUTORS

Jeremy Armstrong is Associate Professor of Ancient History at the University of Auckland, New Zealand. He received his BA from the University of New Mexico and his MLitt and PhD from the University of St Andrews. He works primarily on archaic central Italy, and most specifically on early Roman warfare. He is the author of War and Society in Early Rome: From Warlords to Generals (2016) and the editor/co-editor of a number of volumes on ancient warfare. He was a friend, collaborator and colleague of Matthew Trundle at the University of Auckland. Lee L. Brice is Distinguished University Professor in the Department of History at Western Illinois University. He has published seven books on ancient history including most recently People and Institutions in the Roman Empire, coedited with Matthew Trundle and Andrea Gatzke. His articles and chapters address Corinthian coinage, mutiny, ancient military history, pedagogy and the Roman army on film. He is the series editor of Warfare in the Ancient Mediterranean World and senior editor of the series Research Perspectives: Ancient History. He initially met Matthew over a decade ago through Garrett Fagan and formed a fast friendship that resulted in several collaborations and much fun. Christopher de Lisle has been Assistant Professor of Greek History at the University of Durham since 2021. His doctoral thesis, completed at Oxford (2013–17), was published as Agathokles of Syracuse: Sicilian Tyrant and Hellenistic King (2021). He was a British Academy Postdoctoral Fellow at University College, Oxford (2017–21). He was taught by Matthew Trundle as an undergraduate at Victoria University of Wellington (2008–10) and abandoned a law degree in order to take his Honours course in 2011. Daniel K. Knox is a PhD candidate in the Department of Medieval Studies at Central European University in Vienna. His PhD research is focused on the contested papal election of ad 498 and the subsequent ‘Laurentian Schism’ that erupted in Rome in the first decade of the sixth century. Between 2019 and 2022 he was an assistant professor (Prae-doc) in the History Faculty at the University of Vienna where he taught classes in late antique social media and digital humanities. Daniel first met Matthew during his graduate studies at Victoria University of Wellington, when, along with David Rosenbloom, Matthew led a group of Classics students on a six-week field trip to Greece. He subsequently followed Matthew to the University of Auckland, where Matthew became not only a cherished mentor, but a true friend. Daniel would not be where he is today without Matthew’s guidance. Christopher Matthew is Lecturer in Ancient History at the Australian Catholic University in Sydney. After first meeting at a conference, Christopher remained a friend viii

Contributors

and research collaborator with Matthew Trundle for many years, and the two would often workshop ideas, review drafts of each other’s work, and engage in the collegial debates and discussions for which Matthew was well known, and well respected. The author of several books and articles on various topics of ancient warfare, Christopher teaches units on the Ancient Near East, the Roman Republic, the Greek City-States, Pompeii and Greek Drama. Ellen Millender is the Omar and Althea Hoskins Professor of Greek, Latin and Ancient Mediterranean Studies and Humanities at Reed College, Oregon, USA. She has published on many aspects of Spartan society, including literacy, kingship, military organization, women and leadership. Forthcoming publications address Spartan austerity, Xenophon’s treatments of Spartan obedience and emotional practices, and the role of both spectacle and performance in Xenophon’s accounts of Sparta. Professor Millender is also completing a monograph on the Athenians’ construction of Spartan ‘otherness’. She frequently collaborated with her dear friend, Matthew Trundle, on ancient history panels and greatly misses their exchange of ideas. Arthur J. Pomeroy is Professor Emeritus of Classics at Victoria University of Wellington, New Zealand. His research interests include Roman social history, Roman historiography, and the depiction of ancient Greece and Rome in film and television. He has published a number of chapters and articles on the Roman historian, Tacitus, while his most recent book is A Companion to Greece and Rome on Screen (2017). He was a colleague of Matthew Trundle during his time teaching at Victoria University of Wellington. John Rich is Emeritus Professor of Roman History at the University of Nottingham, where he taught throughout his career. He has published widely on Roman history and historiography, and in particular on Roman war and imperialism, the reign of Augustus, and the historian Cassius Dio, and was a contributor and editorial board member for The Fragments of the Roman Historians (gen. ed. T. J. Cornell, 2013). Along with his colleague, the late Wolfgang Liebeschuetz, John Rich taught Matthew Trundle ancient history throughout his undergraduate years at the University of Nottingham (1984–87). David Rosenbloom is Professor and Chair of the Ancient Studies Department at the University of Maryland Baltimore County. He is the author of Aeschylus: Persians (2006) and co-editor (with John Davidson) of Greek Drama IV: Texts, Contexts, Performance (2012). He has published numerous articles and chapters on Greek tragedy, comedy, history and rhetoric. He was Matthew Trundle’s colleague in the Classics Department of Victoria University of Wellington from 1999–2011 and will always cherish memories of co-teaching and travelling with him throughout Greece – from Komos, Crete to Delphi and all points between – over six-week periods in 2001, 2007 and 2010. Kenneth A. Sheedy is Associate Professor at Macquarie University in Sydney, Australia. He is the founding director of the Australian Centre for Ancient Numismatic Studies (from 2000). He is also a member of the teaching staff of the Department of History and Archaeology. He was elected a Fellow of the Australian Academy of the Humanities in ix

Contributors

2010 and is the representative of the Academy for the SNG Australia Project at the Union Académique Internationale. Matthew Trundle was a visiting scholar at ACANS. Anthony Spalinger is Emeritus Professor of Ancient History (Egyptology) at the University of Auckland, New Zealand. His research interests include the art of war in the ancient world, ancient Egyptian calendrics, the ancient economy of Egypt, and narrative in Egyptian art. His most recent book is The Books Behind the Mask (2022), a study of the narrative structures employed in the monumental inscriptions of the military pharaohs. He was a colleague of and co-lecturer in ancient military history with Matthew Trundle during his time at the University of Auckland. Marleen K. Termeer is Assistant Professor in Ancient History at the Radboud Institute for Culture and History (Radboud University Nijmegen, The Netherlands). Her research focuses on Roman expansion in the Republican period, and cultural interaction between Rome and other players in Italy and the Mediterranean. Her current project Coining Roman Rule? (NWO Veni 016.Veni.195.134) examines the introduction of coinage in the Roman world as part of these broader dynamics. Matthew Trundle’s work on mercenaries and mobility has been inspirational in this context. Matthew Trundle † was Professor of Classics and Ancient History at the University of Auckland. His research interests were primarily in the field of ancient Greek history, and he was the author of Greek Mercenaries from the Late Archaic Period to Alexander (2004), and the editor of a number of volumes including New Perspectives on Ancient Warfare (2010), Beyond the Gates of Fire: New Perspectives on the Battle of Thermopylae (2013) and Brill’s Companion to Sieges in the Ancient Mediterranean (2019). He died on 12 July 2019, after a battle with Acute Lymphoid Leukaemia.

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This volume was produced during a very difficult period, between 2020 and 2023, marked by the Covid-19 pandemic. Indeed, as editors, we often wondered what Matthew Trundle would have thought about the pandemic and the varied responses to it worldwide. However, we know he would have been deeply touched by the effort and dedication that the contributors to this volume demonstrated in producing and revising their chapters under such trying circumstances. As a result, our first thanks must be to them. We would also like to thank the anonymous reviewers for their thoughtful suggestions in improving the manuscript and the School of Humanities at the University of Auckland for providing the generous subvention which allowed this volume to be published. Many thanks must also go to Francesca Taylor, whose editorial assistance vastly improved the final product. Thanks should go, as well, to Lily Mac Mahon and Zoë Osman at Bloomsbury for their work and support in bringing this volume to fruition. Finally, we must also thank Matthew Trundle himself, to whom this volume is dedicated, for his friendship, scholarship, and his boundless enthusiasm for the subject that inspired this volume. He made us all better scholars, and better people, and the world is a poorer place without him. Jeremy Armstrong, Arthur J. Pomeroy and David Rosenbloom

xi

ABBREVIATIONS

Ancient abbreviations generally follow those in the Oxford Classical Dictionary, 4th edition. Modern bibliography abbreviations follow those in l’Année philologique. ACANS

Australian Centre for Ancient Numismatic Studies

AIO

Attic Inscriptions Online (http://www.atticinscriptions.com/)

CH

Price, M. J., et al (1975–), Coin Hoards. London and Leuven: Royal Numismatic Society and Peeters.

CID

Rougement G., ed. (1977), Corpus des inscriptions de Delphes, Vol. I, Lois sacrées et règlements religieux. Paris and Athens: De Boccard, École française d’Athènes.

HNItaly

Rutter, K. and A. Burnett (2001), Historia Numorum: Italy, London: British Museum Press.

IGCH

Thompson, M., O. Mørkholm, and C. Kraay (1973), Inventory of Greek Coin Hoards, New York: American Numismatic Society.

KRI

Kitchen, K. (1968–90), Ramesside Inscriptions: Historical and Biographical, Oxford: Blackwell.

OLD

Glare, P. G. W., ed. (2012), Oxford Latin Dictionary, 2nd edn. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

RRCH

Crawford, M. (1969), Roman Republican Coin Hoards, London: Royal Numismatic Society.

Urk.

Sethe, K. and H. Helck (1903–61), Urkunden des Ägyptischen Altertums, Leipzig: J.C. Hinrichs’sche Buchhandlung.

xii

IN MEMORIAM MATTHEW FREEMAN TRUNDLE

12 October 1965 – 12 July 2019 Matthew Trundle will be remembered as a kind and charismatic figure, as well as an astute scholar, who worked ceaselessly to popularize Classics in the United Kingdom and Ireland, in North America, and in Australasia. In particular, he made major contributions to the study of warfare in the Greek and Roman worlds and, in association with the payment of mercenaries, the role of money in ancient societies. xiii

In Memoriam, Matthew Freeman Trundle

Matthew was born in London and graduated with a BA from the University of Nottingham in 1987, with joint Honours in Ancient History and History. He then moved to McMaster University in Canada, first gaining an MA and then, in 1996, completing a PhD thesis, entitled ‘The Classical Greek Mercenary and His Relation to the Polis’, under the supervision of Daniel Geagan. In 1999 he was appointed lecturer in Classics at the Victoria University of Wellington, New Zealand and rapidly rose to Associate Professor in Classics and Associate Dean (Humanities and Social Sciences), before being appointed Professor of Classics and Ancient History at the University of Auckland in 2012. Matthew often recalled that Xenophon’s narrative of the adventures of the Greek mercenaries fighting their way back home from Persia in the Anabasis inspired his interest in Classics. It is perhaps unsurprising then that his first major publication was Greek Mercenaries: From the Late Archaic Period to Alexander (2004) and, in association with fellow McMaster graduate Garrett Fagan, he organized a joint APA/AIA panel in 2008 that formed the basis for the edited volume New Perspectives on Ancient Warfare (2010). At the time of his death, he was working on a monograph on the interconnection of coinage and warfare in the Greek and Hellenistic worlds, as well as completing the compilation of inscriptions found during excavations at Isthmia that Daniel Geagan had entrusted to him. Sadly, before he completed these projects, Matthew died from leukaemia in Wellington on 12 July 2019. Matthew will be remembered among his colleagues and students for his caring and selfless nature, always seeing and seeking the best in those around him. The first to buy a round of drinks, he was well known for his gregarious participation in the meetings of the major classical associations, including the Classical Association (UK), the American Philological Association (now Society for Classical Studies), the Classical Association of South Africa, and the Australasian Society for Classical Studies. He also presented papers at numerous universities around the world, including in China, South Korea and Japan. An outstanding teacher and dynamic public speaker, he was an untiring promoter of Classics wherever he went, not only encouraging undergraduates, secondary school teachers and colleagues in the tertiary system, but also generously devoting his time and attention to the wider community. Among his successful pupils, for instance, he numbered Victor Vito, All Black and Wellington Hurricanes rugby team captain. For some time, he was a regular guest on Kim Hill’s Saturday Morning programme on Radio New Zealand, sharing his knowledge of the ancient world with listeners throughout the country. He also regularly submitted opinion pieces to The New Zealand Herald and other local print media, often offering political commentary using ancient parallels. Proud of his blue-collar roots and a vocal Labour supporter, both in New Zealand and the United Kingdom, Matthew argued strongly for the importance of a dynamic and inclusive democracy. The principles that Matthew taught in the classroom as being central to life in the ancient Greek polis, isonomia (ἰσονομία, ‘equality before the law’) and isēgoria (ἰσηγορία, ‘equality in speech’), were also central to his approach to modern society and politics. xiv

In Memoriam, Matthew Freeman Trundle

A father to Christian, husband to Catherine, and dear friend to many, he is deeply missed. In his honour, the University of Auckland has established an endowment to fund a biennial lecture in Classics at Auckland and Wellington. ὣς σὺ μὲν οὐδὲ θανὼν ὄνομ᾽ ὤλεσας, ἀλλά τοι αἰεὶ πάντας ἐπ᾽ ἀνθρώπους κλέος ἔσσεται ἐσθλόν . . . Selected publications of Matthew Trundle ●

(1998), ‘Epikouroi, Xenoi and Misthophoroi in the Ancient Greek World’, War and Society 16: 1–12.

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(1999), ‘Identity and Community Among Greek Mercenaries in the Classical World: 700–323 bce ’, Ancient History Bulletin 13: 28–38. [Repr. in Wheeler, E. (ed.) (2007), The Armies of Classical Greece, 481–92, Aldershot: Ashgate]

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(2001), ‘The Spartan Revolution: Hoplite Warfare in the Late Archaic Period’, War and Society 19: 1–18.

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(2003), ‘Camilla and The Volscians: Historical Images in Aeneid 11’, in J. Davidson and A. Pomeroy (eds), Theatres of Action, 164–85, Auckland: Polygraphia. Prudentia Supplement.

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(2004), Greek Mercenaries: From the Late Archaic to Alexander, London: Routledge.

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(2006), ‘Money and the Great Man in the Fourth Century bce : Military Power, Aristocratic Connections and Mercenary Service’, in S. Lewis (ed.), Ancient Tyranny, 65–76, Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press.

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(2008), ‘OGIS 1.266: Kings and Contracts in the Hellenistic World’, in P. McKechnie and P. Guillaume (eds), Ptolemy Philadelphus and his World, 103–16, Leiden: Brill.

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(2010), ‘Why Did Greeks and Romans Fight Wars?’, The Journal of Greco-Roman Studies 40: 37–56.

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(ed. with G. Fagan) (2010), New Perspectives on Ancient Warfare, Leiden: Brill.

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(2010) ‘Introduction’ (with G. Fagan), in M. Trundle and G. Fagan (eds), New Perspectives on Ancient Warfare, 1–19, Leiden: Brill.

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(2010) ‘Coinage and the Transformation of Greek Warfare’, in M. Trundle and G. Fagan (eds), New Perspectives on Ancient Warfare, 227–52, Leiden: Brill.

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(2010), ‘Light Armed Troops in Classical Athens’, in D. Pritchard (ed.), War, Culture and Democracy in Classical Athens: 139–60, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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(2012), ‘Greek Athletes and Warfare in the Classical Period’, Nikephoros: Zeitschrift für Sport und Kultur im Altertum 25: 221–37.

xv

In Memoriam, Matthew Freeman Trundle

xvi

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(ed. with C. Matthew) (2013), Beyond the Gates of Fire: New Perspectives on the Battle of Thermopylae, Bradford: Pen and Sword.

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(2013), ‘Thermopylae’, in C. Matthew and M. Trundle (eds), Beyond the Gates of Fire: New Perspectives on the Battle of Thermopylae, 27–38, Bradford: Pen and Sword.

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(2013), ‘Conclusion: the Glorious Defeat’, in C. Matthew and M. Trundle (eds), Beyond the Gates of Fire: New Perspectives on the Battle of Thermopylae, 150–63, Bradford: Pen and Sword.

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(2013), ‘Why Greek Tropaia?’, in J. Armstrong and A. Spalinger (eds), Rituals of Triumph, 123–38, Leiden: Brill.

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(2013), ‘The Business of War: Professional Soldiers in Antiquity’, in B. Campbell and L. Tritle (eds), The Oxford Handbook of Warfare in the Classical World, 407–41, Oxford: Oxford University Press.

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(2016), ‘The Spartan Krypteia’, in G. Fagan and W. Riess (eds), The Topography of Violence in the Greco-Roman World, 60–76, Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press.

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(2016), ‘Coinage and the Economics of the Athenian Empire’, in J. Armstrong, (ed.), Circum Mare: Themes in Ancient Warfare, 65–79, Leiden: Brill.

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(2017), ‘The Reception of the Classical Tradition in New Zealand War Reporting and Memory in the Late Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Centuries’, in D. Burton, S. Perris and W. J. Tatum (eds), Athens to Aotearoa: Greece and Rome in New Zealand Literature and Society, 307–19, Wellington: Victoria University Press.

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(2017), ‘Spartan Responses to Defeat: From a Mythical Hysiae to a Very Real Sallassia’, in J. H. Clark and B. Turner (eds), Brill’s Companion to Military Defeat in Ancient Mediterranean Society, 144–61, Leiden: Brill.

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(2017), ‘Greek Historical Influence on Early Roman History’, Antichthon 51: 21–32.

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(2017), ‘Hiring Mercenaries in the Classical Greek World. Causes and Outcomes’, Millars 43.2: 35–61.

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(2017), ‘Coinage and Democracy: Economic Redistribution as the Basis of Democratic Athens’, in R. Evans (ed.), Mass and Elite in the Greek and Roman Worlds: From Sparta to Late Antiquity, 11–20, London: Routledge.

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(2017), ‘The Anabasis 401–399 bc’, ‘The Corinthian War 395–388 bc’, ‘Fourth Century bc Greek Wars’, ‘Carthaginian Offensives in Sicily, 409–307 bc’, in M. Whitby and H. Sidebottom (eds), The Encyclopaedia of Ancient Battles vol. III, 13: 1–9, 14: 1–11, 15: 1–5, 16: 1–14, Hoboken, NJ: Wiley-Blackwell.

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(2018), ‘The Role of Religion in Declarations of War in Archaic and Classical Greece’, in M. Dillon, C. Matthew and M. Schmitz (eds), Religion and Classical Warfare Volume 1: Ancient Greece, 24–33, 212–14, Barnsley: Pen and Sword.

In Memoriam, Matthew Freeman Trundle ●

(2018), ‘War and Society in the Ancient Mediterranean’, in M. S. Muehlbauer and D. J. Ulbrich (eds), The Routledge History of Global War and Society, 79–91, London: Routledge.

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(2018), ‘The Pinker Thesis: Were There Angels of a Better Nature in Ancient Greece?’, Historical Reflections / Reflexions Historique 44: 17–28.

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(ed. with J. Armstrong) (2019), Brill’s Companion to Sieges in the Ancient Mediterranean, Leiden: Brill.

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(2019), ‘Sieges in the Mediterranean World’, in J. Armstrong and M. Trundle (eds), Brill’s Companion to Sieges in the Ancient Mediterranean, 1–17, Leiden: Brill.

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(2019), ‘The Introduction of Siege Technology into Classical Greece’, in J. Armstrong and M. Trundle (eds), Brill’s Companion to Sieges in the Ancient Mediterranean, 135–49, Leiden: Brill.

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(2019), ‘The Limits of Nationalism: Brigandage: Piracy and Mercenary Service in Fourth Century bce Athens’, in R. Evans and M. De Marre (eds), Piracy, Pillage and Plunder, 25–37, London: Routledge.

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(ed. with A. Gatzke and L. L. Brice) (2020), People and Institutions in the Roman Empire: Essays in Memory of Garrett G. Fagan, Leiden: Brill.

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(ed. with G. Fagan, L. Fibiger, and M. Hudson) (2020), The Cambridge World History of Violence, vol. I, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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(2020), ‘Violence, Law and Community’, in G. Fagan, L. Fibiger, M. Hudson and M. Trundle (eds), The Cambridge World History of Violence, vol. I, 533–49, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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CHAPTER 1 MONEY, POWER AND THE LEGACY OF MATTHEW TRUNDLE IN ANCIENT MEDITERRANEAN STUDIES Jeremy Armstrong, Arthur J. Pomeroy and David Rosenbloom

. . . the sinews of war are limitless money . . . . . . nervos belli pecuniam infinitam . . . Cicero, Philippics, 5.2.5. At the time of his death, Matthew Trundle was working on a monograph investigating the relationship between money and military action from early Greece to Alexander the Great and his successors. This had long been an area of interest for him, but was something to which he had begun to devote significant attention from 2016 on, as he attempted to summarize and synthesize his thoughts on the wider phenomenon. Sadly, that volume remained unfinished, although one relatively complete chapter (subsequently edited by Christopher de Lisle) can be found in this collection. The chapters in this volume, however, continue in the broad vein Matthew had started to mine, exploring multiple relationships between money, war and political power – both personal and collective – in the ancient Mediterranean world and indeed extending the scope to include different cultures and socio-political systems, ranging from Pharaonic Egypt to late antique Europe. Contributed by friends and colleagues of Matthew, they are a testament to his influence on scholarship and a scholarly conversation that covers the breadth of antiquity. While obviously both warfare and forms of currency existed before the Lydian introduction of coinage in the late seventh century bce ,1 the widespread adoption and use of coined money by the mid-fifth century in (especially Greek-speaking) communities throughout the Mediterranean marked a watershed moment in that it enabled the accumulation and easy transfer of wealth in ways that made it both an instrument and an aim of warfare.2 It facilitated military networks, allowing both states and individual military leaders to harness manpower and resources, from across a wide region, using an increasingly universal and accepted method of exactly quantifying wealth. As suggested by Cicero in the quotation at the outset of this chapter, coinage quickly became one of the most prominent physical manifestations of the multivariate connections, or sinews, which bound ancient militaries together. In the eastern Mediterranean, the monetization of warfare eventually subsumed the ‘citizen soldier’ and ‘mercenary’ under a single rubric: the professional soldier.3 Matthew’s work often strove to unify the social and economic systems that crisscrossed the ancient Mediterranean basin. In doing so, one of his key contributions was to 1

Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World

emphasize how ancient mercenary service relied, first and foremost, on social bonds – the economic connections were secondary.4 Although often defined by (and derided for) being soldiers for hire, the simple pursuit of wealth was not a mercenary’s only, or even primary, aim. His was not a world driven by money; however, it may have been a world increasingly shaped by money. The spread of coinage across the Mediterranean, often through mercenaries and other military expenses, fundamentally changed the nature of both warfare and society in the region. While more social military pursuits, such as seeking timē (honour) and displaying virtus (manliness), remained intact, leaders also needed to consider this new physical manifestation of (economic) power. A state or war leader could not be successful without access to coined money. Aristotle’s concept of warfare as a natural art of acquisition seems to be tailor-made for the insights of New Institutional Economics (NIE), an approach to the history of economics based on the work of Douglass North in which the ‘structure’ – institutions, technology, demography and ideology of a society – determine the ‘performance’ of an economy, quantified by measures such as volume and stability of production, allocation of benefits and costs, gross domestic product, per capita income, and so on.5 Some historians have come to see warfare and its putative objective, ‘empire’, as the preeminent mechanism for mobilizing ‘the economic resources of the Mediterranean’.6 It must be noted, however, that Matthew never fully subscribed to this sort of model. His economic systems were more embedded and shaped as much by concepts like ‘positive reciprocity’ as they were by economic theory.7 However, as Matthew also recognized, the simple economic aspects, which form the grist for NIE’s mill, cannot be ignored. Warfare was the dominant coinage-intensive activity in ancient Mediterranean societies; it commanded the most manpower and marshalled the most resources; it posed the greatest risks and promised the highest rewards. The difference between victory and defeat in battle – life or death, freedom or slavery, flourishing or blight, glory or shame – was the sharpest stimulus to the production, allocation and distribution of private and collective resources in the ancient Mediterranean. Thucydides, the earliest exponent of the nexus of money, military domination and political power in the evolution of the polis and the formation of empires,8 understood the acquisition of power over other cities as a derivative of ‘a surplus of money’ (periousian chrēmatōn, 1.2.2; cf. Arist. EN 1119b27).9 Powerful agents parlayed such surpluses into spheres of domination cemented by a mutual desire for gain: ‘desiring profit (tōn kerdōn), the weaker accept servitude (douleia) to the more powerful and the more powerful, having surpluses, acquire the weaker cities as subjects’ (Thuc. 1.8.3). In prehistory, Thucydides suggested Minos and Agamemnon gained surpluses, developed naval power, controlled islands and coastal populations, reduced piracy and brigandage, and diverted the gains of vanquished marauders to themselves (Thuc. 1.4, 7–8, 9–11). Populations settled closer to the sea, exploited its resources, secured surpluses of money, built fortifications and occupied isthmuses ‘for the sake of seaborne commerce’ and ‘to win advantage over their neighbours’ (Thuc. 1.7.1). In Thucydides’ scheme, Athens represents the culmination of the process of seeking to maximize collective wealth and to parlay it into supremacy over others. 2

Money, Power and Legacy

However, as Matthew identified, this process was incredibly dynamic and not nearly as straightforward as one might initially suppose. As he argued in 2011, while coined money was essential to the growth of Athenian naval power in the fifth century bce , the financial structures of the Athenian ‘empire’ seem to have been more geared toward redistribution than accumulation, especially during the Peloponnesian War, when Athens paid a premium for rowers and hoplites.10 As quickly as wealth flowed in from allied states and other sources, it often flowed out to misthophoroi (mercenaries) as chrēmata (coined money) just as quickly. Indeed, warfare suddenly appeared to be more about spending money than acquiring it, although the two remained linked. But as Matthew suggested, ‘Xenophon (An. 7.1.27) estimated that the total annual revenue of the Athenian empire in 431 bce was 1,000 talents. The siege of Potidaea, from which Athens derived little compensation, may have cost as much as 2,000 talents (Thuc. 2.70.2; Isoc. 15.113). We can guess that the costs of the Sicilian expedition were enormous, running to at least 150 talents per month for the fleet, crews and army’.11 Money was a tool to be used; war was an investment for future gain. More than any other collective activity, ancient warfare demanded coinage and observed no limit in securing sources for it. Even one of the kings of (supposedly) moneyless Sparta, Archidamus, understood that, ‘War is not a matter of arms more than it is a matter of the expenditure that advantages arms’ (Thuc. 1.83.2). He was aware that the Peloponnesians would need money and naval power to fight a war against Athens either ‘to be overpowering with ships’ or ‘to deprive the city of the revenue that supports its naval power’. He planned to obtain money and naval power through alliances with Greeks and ‘barbarians’ (Thuc. 1.82.2).12 Only in the case of wartime finance did individuals or cities consider using temple treasuries. The Corinthians talked of borrowing from treasuries at Delphi and Olympia to lure rowers away from Athens (Thuc. 1.121.3),13 an expedient that probably never materialized but cannot be entirely ruled out.14 On the other side, Pericles allayed Athenian anxieties by listing the financial resources at their disposal, which included gold and silver bullion in private and public dedications, sacred implements for processions and competitions, Persian spoils and wealth of this kind, valued at greater or equal to 500 talents (Thuc. 2.14.4). Pericles factored in the resources from other temples. If the Athenians had no other recourse, they could strip the gold leaf from Athena’s chryselephantine statue – 40 talents of refined gold; although they were obligated to pay it back (Thuc. 2.13.5). When push came to shove, nothing was off limits. Indeed, while the Athenians were not driven to such measures by the Peloponnesian War, when Athens was besieged by Demetrius Poliorcetes in 295 bce , the general Lachares did eventually resort to this.15 The Athenians borrowed around 6,000 talents from the treasury of the other gods during the Archidamian War.16 When they became desperate, they melted down golden Nikai from the Parthenon for coinage. According to Diodorus, Phocian generals coined more than 10,000 silver talents out of Delphi’s many treasuries, including Croesus’ dedications, to hire mercenaries for the Third Sacred War (Diod. Sic. 16.56.3–7; cf. 16.30). Cash-heavy armies were also magnets for merchants and markets; indeed, the formation of the latter was arguably a by-product of monetization accelerated by the 3

Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World

introduction of coinage. Thucydides identifies the deficiency of the Greek mobilization in the Trojan War as ‘not so much a scarcity of men as a lack of money’ (Thuc. 1.11.1) that prevented the full deployment of Agamemnon’s military forces. As Matthew noted, ‘coined money . . . enabled commanders not only to centralize supply redistribution, but also to attract suppliers to armies more effectively’.17 Already in Homer, after the completion of their defensive fortifications in Iliad 7, the Achaeans attracted the Lemnian merchant Euneus, son of Jason and Hypsipyle. The Achaeans bartered for wine in exchange for bronze, iron, hides, oxen and slaves (Il. 7.465–75).18 The lack of a single portable and fungible medium of exchange is a drag on market formation and hence military efficiency. Soldiers allocated the tasks of cultivating food and pillaging for booty – presumably, in Thucydides’ view, to barter for market supplies – did not participate in the fighting against Troy (Thuc. 1.11.1–2). It is not clear whether achrēmatia in this section means ‘lack of money’ (Thuc. 1.11.1–2) or ‘lack of resources’, for Thucydides wrote as if the Achaeans could have arrived at Troy with ‘an abundance of food’ (Thuc. 1.11.2),19 thereby obviating the need to commit troops to farming and pillaging and enabling them to take Troy in a shorter time with less effort (Thuc. 1.11.2). The supposed Achaean need to cultivate their own food (never mentioned in Homer) and to maraud for media of exchange to barter for food (likewise never mentioned) prevented Achaean power from reaching its potential.20 Moving from the epic to historical writing, we need not take Diodorus at his word – that the ‘market mob’ thronging around Agesilaus’ army in Ephesus ‘for the sake of booty’ was no less in number than his 4,400 hoplites and cavalry (Diod. Sic. 14.79.2; cf. Xen. Hell. 3.4.17 for Ephesus as a ‘workshop of war’) – to realize that armies drew sizeable markets for the major inputs and outputs of warfare – armaments, provisions and booty. Indeed, the conversion of the spoils of battle into coinage was a basic military function. Nicias raised 120 talents by selling war captives from Hyccara in Sicily in 415 bce (Thuc. 6.62.4). Livy claimed that, before the siege of Murgantia in 296 bce , Decius obliged his soldiers to sell booty to traders in order to attract a commercial following for his army during a run of siege and sack operations (Livy 10.16–17). Polybius reported that merchants acquired booty at prices below market value from Scipio’s forces late in the Second Punic War: soldiers anticipated expropriating even greater riches (Polyb. 14.7.1– 3). It has been suggested that booty from Syracuse and Capua was converted into the silver denarius coinage Rome first issued in 211/10 bce ;21 this was fed by gold donated to the treasury by senators and those who followed their lead (Livy 26.36.5–8) and specie from New Carthage, Tarentum and Metaurus.22 Thucydides realized that money was not tantamount to military and political power; it was only as good as the military capability – power (dynamis) – it could sustain. He imagined that future generations would think Sparta’s renown far surpassed its actual power if they formed their judgement from the building foundations of a deserted Sparta. The lack of expenditure on urban amenities obscures the fact that Sparta occupied two-fifths of the Peloponnese but held hegemony over the entire land mass and over allies outside of it (Thuc. 2.9.2–3). Sparta did not concentrate its population in an urban centre (or even define one by a peribolos wall); nor did it invest resources in spectacular 4

Money, Power and Legacy

temples and buildings, but ‘continued living in villages in the ancient Greek way’ (Thuc. 1.10.1–2). Thucydides believed that posterity would judge Athens to be twice as powerful as it actually was on the basis of its impressive buildings and temples (cf. Alcibiades on extravagant expenditure as a symbol that inflates Athens’ actual power, Thuc. 6.16.2). Money could buy spectacles of invincible power and even slavery (through tribute payments, Thuc. 1.121.5) more easily than it could buy actual power. Thucydides insisted on examining the powers (dynameis) of cities rather than their images (opseis) of power (Thuc. 1.10.3). Athens would be tempted, as Xerxes was in his invasion of Greece, to send a spectacle of invincible power to Sicily at an incalculable cost in money and lives (especially Thuc. 6.30–32).23 Thucydides’ narrative proceeds in stages toward the disastrous realization of the fallacy that money is power, a delusion akin to fallacious equations of money and wealth (Arist. Pol.1256a–58b)24 and of money and happiness (Hdt. 1.29–33). Kallet and Kroll put it succinctly, ‘whereas money made the Athenian empire, it would be money that would bring it down’.25 Thucydides’ analysis of Athens’ catastrophic misprision of money as power suggests that coined money functioned both as financial and cultural capital. Money paid for the buildings, festivals, rituals and performances that monumentalized and magnified Athenian power while connecting Athens’ subjects to the city as its ‘metropolis’ – it financed the acquisition of cultural capital. And because of the purity of its silver, the magnitude of its issues and the extent of its diffusion, the Athenian owl came to be viewed as quintessential coinage among ‘Greeks and barbarians alike’ (Ar. Ran. 717–35). Clare Rowan cogently argues that Roman coins were ‘monuments in miniature’ that ‘monumentalized contemporary events and ideas’.26 Athenian owls can also be considered monuments: silver embodiments of a virtually unchanging ideal of Athens as a victorious, powerful, wealthy, authoritative and trustworthy polis. Christopher Howgego has asked whether ‘the apparent neatness with which monetary systems fit the character of empires should cause us to question whether coinage has to some extent determined our own typology of empires’.27 The coinage of empires shows an awareness that money is power: not only is it expended for victory, but it also commemorates and glamourizes that victory as the possession of the Roman people, bearer of the epithets victor and invictus.28 Coinage is the means and end of victory, cyclically depleted and replenished; the coins themselves programmatically depict victory as the crowning glory of the city or of its personified representative, who himself becomes a divinity, displacing the gods of previous coinages. In sum then, and as Matthew clearly recognized and explained in his many works, coinage is key to untangling the tangled web of war, politics and socio-economics in the ancient Mediterranean, from the time of its introduction in sixth-century bce Lydia through the Roman period (and, indeed, after). These small artefacts, easily passed from hand to hand, were typically created for the express purpose of funding warfare and served as a proxy for, and physical embodiment of, the myriad connections and power dynamics which flowed through the region. While both war and coined currency could, and did, exist separately from each other, together they formed a potent combination, especially in highly competitive, multi-state contexts such as those of the Classical and Hellenistic periods. 5

Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World

Case studies The chapters of this volume comprise a range of case studies, which illuminate not only how powerful men and states used money and coinage to achieve their aims but how their aims and methods were often shaped by the medium of coined money – typically with unintended consequences. The volume begins with Anthony Spalinger’s exploration of how pre-monetized New Kingdom Egypt mobilized resources for a military venture far from home. Matthew Trundle’s contribution explores the monetization of piety, the uses of coinage in religious ritual and the role of temples as economic centres to argue that coinage opened up religion to outsiders and to new cults, democratizing and professionalizing religious practices – but also exposing them to new forms of ridicule. David Rosenbloom explores the inverse relation between rowing in the fleet for a wage and exercising power as paid juror and assemblymen among Athenian thētes as a factor in the evolution of Athens’ navy from a citizen-based organization to one manned increasingly by metics, mercenaries and slaves. Ellen Millender analyses the destabilizing effects of booty and money on the traditional politeia of Sparta during the course of the Peloponnesian War. Lee Brice questions the assumption that warfare and increased coining activity were directly related within the highly contested politics of Corinth in the late fourth century. Christopher Matthew tallies the costs of paying members of the pike phalanxes on the move and argues that the logistics of paying these troops at the rate of one talent per year affected the course of Alexander’s invasion of the Persian empire. Employing the largest database of coinage found in Sicily yet compiled, Christopher de Lisle charts the eventual entry of this silver-poor island into the economic networks of Rome and Carthage, which preferred bronze fiduciary coinages. Kenneth Sheedy shifts our view to the Roman world by re-examining the first known issue of struck Roman coinage (RRC 1/1), and points to the questionable role of these quarter units as symbols of an alliance between Rome and Neapolis. Jeremy Armstrong and Marleen Termeer further explore the origins of Roman coinage c. 300 bce , arguing that the move was part of a Roman strategy of cementing economic, political and (most importantly) military ties with monetized Italian allies. John Rich examines the opportunities for enrichment among leading Romans by supporting client kings, taking the restoration of Ptolemy Auletes in the late Republic and the surrounding intrigue as a test case. Arthur Pomeroy tries to make sense of Tacitus’ narrative of the credit and cash crisis in Annals 6.16–17. A story emerges of large-scale investment in loans and usury, contrary to aristocratic landed values, and of the Senate’s attempt at a solution that only exacerbates the problem. Tiberius’ temporary use of the public treasury to bail out debtors (many of whom were senators) hinges on questions of enforcement of regulations, both historical and renewed, in an atmosphere where fear predominates. Finally, building on Matthew Trundle’s conceptualization of the mercenary in the Classical period, Daniel Knox asks the question ‘were the Goths mercenaries?’ and explores the careers of Theodoric Strabo and Theodoric the Amal in an effort to understand the nature of the mercenary in sixth-century ce Europe. 6

Money, Power and Legacy

Although diverse in period and focus, the chapters in this volume are unified by their engagement with Matthew’s ideas and the core themes of his many scholarly works, a select list of which is printed at the end of the In Memoriam. Whether in the form of tokens of exchange or struck metal, coins allowed firmer economic ties between sectors of society. Mercenaries are the most obvious example of large-scale employment associated with an exchange that maintained its value over a wide geographic area. However, the usefulness of currency was also recognized in Mediterranean trade and assumed importance in allowing power to be projected over a wide geographical area. As Matthew recognized, wealth could help in creating empires and encouraging competition. It also, through bribery, encouraged self-interested behaviour that could hollow out states.

Notes 1. Schaps (2004), 34–92; Kroll (2012). 2. Trundle (2016), 68. 3. Trundle (2004), 8–9. 4. Ibid., 4–5. 5. North (1981), 3; Scheidel, Morris, and Saller (2008), esp. 1–12; Bang (2009). 6. Bang (2009), 204; cf. Rowan (2013), 366–9. 7. Matthew’s ideas in this sphere were aligned broadly with Mauss’s (2016) ‘gift’, although he never explicitly used this model himself. 8. Kallet-Marx (1993), esp. 21–36. 9. Ibid., 35–6. 10. Trundle (2011). 11. Ibid., 240. 12. Cf. Osborne and Rhodes (2017), 151. 13. Parker (1983), 170–4. 14. Hornblower (1996), 364–5. 15. Kroll (2011), 251–4. 16. Samons (2000); Blamire (2001). 17. Trundle (2016), 67. 18. Stanley (1986); Schaps (2004), 74–7; Tandy (1997), 72–5; cf. Il. 9.71–2. 19. Hornblower (1991), 36 for the incoherence. 20. Cf. Pritchett (1971), 30–1. 21. Woytek (2012), 329. 22. Frank (1933), 83–4. 23. Kallet (2001), 21–66. 24. Schaps (2004), 209–10. 25. Kallet and Kroll (2020), 126.

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Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World 26. Rowan (2019), 2–4 and 34. 27. Howgego (1995), 51. 28. Weinstock (1957), 219–20.

Bibliography Bang, P. (2009), ‘The Ancient Economy and New Institutional Economics’, JRS 99: 194–206. Blamire, A. (2001), ‘Athenian Finance 454–404 b.c.’, Hesperia 70: 99–126. Frank, T. (1933), An Economic Survey of the Roman Republic, vol. 1, Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University. Hornblower, S. (1991), A Commentary on Thucydides, vol. 1, Books I–III, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Hornblower, S. (1996), A Commentary on Thucydides, vol. 2, Books IV–V.24, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Howgego, C. (1995), Ancient History from Coins, London: Routledge. Kallet, L. (2001), Money and the Corrosion of Power in Thucydides: The Sicilian Expedition and Its Aftermath, Berkeley: University of California Press. Kallet, L. and J. Kroll (2020), The Athenian Empire: Using Coins as Sources, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kallet-Marx, L. (1993), Money, Expense, and Naval Power in Thucydides’ History 1–5.24, Berkeley: University of California Press. Kroll, J. (2011), ‘The Reminting of Athenian Coinage, 353 b.c.’, Hesperia 80.2: 229–59. Kroll, J. (2012), ‘The Monetary Background of Early Coinage’, in W. Metcalf (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Ancient Coinage, 33–42, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Mauss, M. (2016), The Gift, trans. J. Guyer, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Originally published as: Mauss, M. (1923–4), ‘Essai sur le don: Forme et raison de l’échange dans les sociétés archaïques’, L’Année sociologique n.s. 1: 30–186. North, D. (1981), Structure and Change in Economic History, New York: Norton. Osborne, R. and P. J. Rhodes (2017), Greek Historical Inscriptions: 478–404 b.c., Oxford: Oxford University Press. Parker, R. (1983), Miasma: Pollution and Purification in Early Greek Religion, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Pritchett, W. K. (1971), The Greek State at War, Part 1, Berkeley : University of California Press. Rowan, C. (2013), ‘The Profits of War and Cultural Capital: Silver and Society in Republican Rome’, Historia 62 (3): 361–86. Rowan, C. (2019), From Caesar to Augustus (c. 49 bc to ad 14): Using Coins as Sources, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Samons, L. II. (2000), The Empire of the Owl: Athenian Imperial Finance, Stuttgart: Franz Steiner. Schaps, D. (2004), The Invention of Coinage and the Monetization of Greece, Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Scheidel, W., I. Morris and R. Saller, eds (2008), The Cambridge Economic History of the GrecoRoman World, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Stanley, P. (1986), ‘The Function of Trade in Homeric Society’, Münstersche Beiträge zur Antiken Handelsgeschichte 5.2: 5–15. Tandy, D. (1997), Warriors into Traders: The Power of the Market in Early Greece, Berkeley : University of California Press. Trundle, M. (2004), Greek Mercenaries from the Late Archaic Age to Alexander, New York: Routledge.

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Money, Power and Legacy Trundle, M. (2011), ‘Coinage and the Transformation of Greek Warfare’, in G. Fagan and M. Trundle (eds), New Perspectives on Ancient Warfare, 227–52, Leiden: Brill. Trundle, M. (2016), ‘Coinage and the Economics of the Athenian Empire’, in J. Armstrong (ed.), Circum Mare: Themes in Ancient Warfare, 65–79, Leiden: Brill. Weinstock, S. (1957), ‘Victor and Invictus’, HTR 50 (3): 211–47. Woytek, B. (2012), ‘The Denarius Coinage of the Roman Republic’, in W. Metcalf (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Ancient Coinage, 315–34, Oxford: Oxford University Press.

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CHAPTER 2 THE UPKEEP OF EMPIRE: COSTS AND RATIONS Anthony Spalinger

When considering warfare, one must keep in mind not only military objectives but also the means through which they may be obtained. Armies, for example, need to be fed, which involves not just food but also transport for that food, involving in turn calculations about numbers of men, numbers of days, terrain – friendly or not – to be covered, and the means of transport. With that in mind, this chapter attempts a cost analysis of one New Kingdom Egyptian campaign: Thutmose III’s famous defeat of a coalition of Palestinian and Syrian ‘rebels’ at the logistically significant city of Megiddo c. 1457 bce .1 The larger purpose of this analysis is to see Thutmose’s campaign in terms of the relation, particularly the monetary relation, between the Egyptian war machine and the maintenance of the extended pharaonic state. The Megiddo campaign, and its successful conclusion, is historically significant for the extent of contemporary official records kept and promulgated by Thutmose’s order. In particular, the Annals of Thutmose, found in a series of inscriptions at the temple of Amun-Re at Karnak, which record this campaign and others. Pertinent inscriptions also appear elsewhere. Yet they are not enough to develop a straightforward equation involving numbers of men, loaves of bread, and so forth. For that, we must tease out a more complete picture by piecing together relevant information from other sources found both earlier and later in time, written or otherwise, dealing with military campaigns as well as commercial enterprises that involved large numbers of people and supplies on the move in the ancient Egyptian world. In what follows, the focus is on grain supplies, for which our data is relatively solid. Ultimately, we can but make assumptions, sometimes based on assumptions made by others before us, about not just grain supplies but also the size of armies and their standard practices affecting the cost of their operations. How many soldiers were involved in this particular campaign, and how long did Thutmose’s army take to travel from the Western Delta to Tjaru in the Eastern Delta, cross the Sinai desert, march through the Aruna Pass and finally reach Megiddo? How many Egyptians back home did it take to grow the grain the men set out with and found in some of the granaries under Egyptian control along the way, especially between eastern Egypt and Gaza? How did the existence of those granaries affect the army’s need to transport grain, and how did the advance through physically diverse territory governed by previously subdued small city-states also play a part in our hypothetical quartermaster’s calculations? Previous research, including my own, has attempted to determine the size of Thutmose’s army at Megiddo and that of the Megiddo coalition that he faced.2 The 11

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population of Egypt itself, as calculated by Manning (albeit for a much later, Ptolemaic Egypt), was c. 500,000 adults.3 This result is suggestive of a 7,500 or even a 10,000 strong army force. While Redford estimated 10,000 men on the Egyptian side,4 my original estimate was c. 5,000 men.5 Manassa’s work on a Ramesside-era literary account of Thutmose’s siege of Megiddo suggests that the Egyptians employed 1,900 chariots.6 Since this figure lends credence to my earlier estimate of 2,000 chariots, I now maintain that the Egyptian army totalled c. 7,500 men, for, along with his battle-trained troops, Thutmose’s army would have included various non-combatant assistants, such as the cadets and the men and boys whom Heagren calls ‘porters’.7 The Egyptians captured 924 chariots from the enemy,8 so we can assume that the ratio between Egyptian and enemy war vehicles was around 2/1. We can assume that Thutmose took twelve days to go from Gaza to Yehem, a town situated near the first of Thutmose’s options for taking his army inland toward Megiddo, and then two more days to arrive at the Aruna Pass, his second option. Some additional days would be involved in taking apart the chariots, marching through the pass and reconstructing the chariots before the battle could commence.9 It is useful to keep in mind that Redford has calculated a ten-day limit for carrying soldiers’ rations across the Sinai,10 and Heagren has calculated what we might expect for the army’s speed.11 Nonetheless, some inexactitude remains and 27–28 days is what we can assume. Although Oren contends that in the period before Thutmose III’s march to Megiddo the Sinai route witnessed no ‘organized military expeditions between the reign of Ahmose and the joint reign of Hatshepsut and Thutmose III’,12 well-traversed roads were Thutmose’s arteries of advance, as they were the sure means of getting to localities where food supplies could be found in fortified granaries, within the walls of previously subdued cities, or in fields available for Thutmose’s use. The network of the Ways of Horus depended upon the redistributive patterns for goods, such as grains, established by the Egyptians before regnal year twenty-two of Thutmose III. Such a network suggests a degree of administrative sophistication that Schulman’s admittedly dated study has described. The soldiers no longer had to obtain basic supplies, such as food and equipment, for themselves.13 The government provided rations and materiel, set a clear organizational structure, required some degree of training and brought in officers from well-established families of the administrative class. Oren concurs with Schulman about the degree of Egyptian administrative control, noting that Egyptian control over the Sinai route and Gaza existed before Thutmose III’s independent reign.14 By the time Thutmose’s army set out for Megiddo, ‘Foodstuffs and other provisions required by the armies on the journey across the Sinai desert were stored in forts and administrative centers along the WOH’.15 Redford also has argued that the troops and supporting animals would have had enough supplies to cover the trip to Gaza.16 After only one day in Gaza, after reaching that city from the Sinai, Thutmose III’s army was equipped to travel north, because it had sufficient supplies. Kemp’s analysis of the Middle Kingdom fortresses as sites of protected granaries revealed that, while they had to ‘maintain secure supplies of grain for the campaigning armies’, the extent of those supplies varied with fluctuations in the Egyptian army’s size 12

The Upkeep of Empire: Costs and Rations

and activities.17 The fort at Askut, for example, probably served as a ‘fortified grain store’ and thus could handle any increase in soldier numbers.18 Nonetheless, it remains sub judice whether an army in excess of 5,000 men could have been provided for by these depots. On the other hand, it was necessary for the Egyptian state to ‘support an empire with the minimum of operating costs’.19 For our purposes we may ignore the costs of garrisons, etc. To me the issue is one of metrics – namely how large were the storehouses in all of the Sinai garrisons, and how much could they provide in grain for an extensively prepared campaign northwards? Before leaving pharaonic Egyptian administrative practices entirely behind, let us acknowledge that budgeting was an active practice, as evidenced by the papyrus known as P. Anastasi I. There, among other things, we find examples of the practical skills Egyptian officers were expected to have, including how to calculate daily rations of bread for a unit of 5,000 soldiers.20 Schulman concluded that a New Kingdom army company consisted of 250 men and hence an army of 5,000 men divided into twenty companies.21 Mueller’s research on wage rates, which discussed an expedition to the Wadi Hammamat and the use there of P. Rhind (exercise 65) as an exemplar of mathematical calculations at the time, leads him to observe that: ‘Egyptian bookkeepers employed the device of converting rations into a fictitious number of people to calculate their expenditure’.22 Unfortunately, such an artificial mathematical exercise cannot, for example, be used to determine the exact caloric intake of workers, be they soldiers or not.23 But all is not lost, as we shall see below. Once Thutmose’s army was on the road, its system for transporting supplies involved porters (based on Ramesside examples visible in the Kadesh reliefs), but it also required animals, both pack and draught. Horses, primarily associated with chariots, are the only animals mentioned by the Annals as being present in the Aruna Pass.24 However, both oxen and donkeys were used as pack and draught animals by Hittites, Egyptians and others from the Early Bronze Age. Yet neither the Megiddo nor the Kadesh accounts indicate the presence of oxen, perhaps because, as Heagren’s mathematical data show, oxen would slow the army down. By the Late Bronze Age, though, as Heagren argues, donkeys were primary components of military transport systems. Since his work on the subject, Shai et al. have covered in detail the usefulness, cost and upkeep of these animals,25 and Bar-Oz et al. have studied an important burial site for a donkey at Tell Haror that indicates ‘the centrality of the donkey as a pack animal in societies for which caravans played a pivotal economic role’.26 While I do not believe that oxen played any important role in Thutmose’s Megiddo campaign, I am convinced that Thutmose III used donkeys as pack animals,27 as supported by the following points. Archaeological data from the Early Bronze Age in Canaan reveals that donkeys carried heavy goods over rough terrain. Granted that this discussion was limited mainly to Early Bronze Age III society, it nevertheless revealed that donkeys were excellent beasts of burden both during warfare as well as for long-distance commercial transport. A donkey’s value for transport rested not least on its ability to carry about 75-kilogram loads; donkeys could cover c. 24 kilometres/day, given six hours of marching and occasional rest days at 13

Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World

regular intervals. Oxen, on the contrary, clock in at either 15 kilometres/day or 19–24 kilometres/day. Cheaper to maintain than an ox, as well as faster, donkeys are also far less demanding than horses in terms of food intake and have superior endurance. Fodder was needed as well as water for the pack and draught animals,28 and the use of hard or dry fodder appears in Ramesses II’s Kadesh reliefs.29 Records of provisions for the animals show a tripartite division of animal feed into hard fodder (e.g. barley and oats), green or dry fodder (crops grown on farms especially for animals such as hay, straw, clover and broad beans), and pasturage.30 As Heagren observes, fodder is difficult to transport over long distances and likely to be the first source to run out should logistical difficulties arise.31 Considering equal size, donkeys not only eat less, but also lower quality (and hence less costly) food than either horses or oxen. The suggested dietary intake for oxen is c. 7 kilograms of hard fodder and 11 kilograms of dry and green fodder.32 Dietary requirements for donkeys, according to Heagren, are 1.5 kilograms of hard fodder and 5 kilograms of green fodder per day.33 The necessity of providing provisions for the animals across the Sinai is thus apparent, but it is selfevident that, once the Egyptians reached Gaza and the Asiatic cities beyond, the enemies’ agricultural domains could be efficiently sequestered for the animals’ upkeep, at which point pasturage would have been the easiest food to obtain. It is worth noting that foraging off the land applies at this point to the soldiers themselves. The distinction between green and dry fodder is not simple to define. As Heagren observes, ‘less dry fodder was needed than green fodder in order to provision a horse’,34 and he estimates that horse rations were around 2.5 kilograms of hard fodder and 7 kilograms of green/dry fodder each day.35 As for water, horses consume a lot – 15 litres/day at the minimum to 30 plus. Even grazing was insufficient for this purpose, since horses, which consume c. 14 kilograms of forage daily, still need some dry (hard) fodder, or else they soon get ill, especially when working arduously.36 Hence it was necessary to provide hard or dry fodder as well as letting them graze, or to use the local supply centres and vassal cities. Moving on to the cost of ‘fuelling’ Thutmose’s human army, we must limit ourselves largely to one component of the food available to his soldiers: grain.37 Warburton estimated, very roughly, the Ramesside income in grains to be 30 million litres per year, but he qualifies his figures and provides others that appear to contradict his estimate.38 Manning, concentrating upon Ptolemaic Egypt, sets the actual grain revenue at 6 million artabas of wheat, enough to feed 500,000 adults.39 Although data on military rations40 rarely appear in ancient Egyptian accounts, much of our data for grain supplies is solid. However, when we do find the number of breads or beers involved, the ‘cooking ratio’ – or loss from processing grain into consumable food and drink – is unknown, making it impossible to determine the original amount of grain (and the approximate weight of the item), or the resultant caloric intake.41 Looking at the problem from the other end of the telescope, temporary swellings of the Egyptian army during military campaigns complicate budgeting for minimum and maximum annual ration units, in the same way that soldiers resident in garrisons would complicate budgeting because they would most likely require fewer calories than soldiers actively engaged in warfare.42 14

The Upkeep of Empire: Costs and Rations

However, let us begin to pick apart our problem by considering what we know about ‘rations’, and attempt to establish the relation between a ration’s weight and its calories, as well as the number of rations/calories a soldier received per day. Kaplony-Heckel’s study of demotic ostraca from Armant introduces us to ‘q, apparently the term for a standard ration of bread.43 Kemp’s study of XIIth Dynasty Middle Kingdom granaries within fortresses in Nubia discusses rations and granary capacity, leading to some conclusions with regard to maximum and minimum ‘annual ration units’ based on one kg grain/day/ soldier as a reasonable upper limit to expect. Even better for our purposes, Deir el Medineh provides us with useful details about a New Kingdom settlement of unskilled labourers working on the royal tombs in the Valley of the Kings, despite its belonging to a slightly later era. At its high point, the village housed c. 120 workmen and their families. Estimates of the total population vary from a minimum of 500 to as many as 1,200 people during Dynasties XIX (c. 1292–1190 bce ) and XX (c. 1190–1075 bce ).44 The basic grain rations per month at Deir el Medineh were 4 sacks of emmer wheat and 1.5 sacks of barley. Janssen concluded that this grain ‘was amply sufficient for a family of about ten persons, including some small children’.45 There were also lower rations for young men: 1.5 sacks of wheat and 0.5 sack of barley. Considering the amount of grain in these rations surplus to requirements, Janssen asserts that the workmen ‘used part of their rations to barter in exchange for other commodities’,46 such as figs, vegetables and water; beer (as with additional processed cakes) probably came from the redistribution of foods offered to the gods.47 Thus we find a sort of benchmark for comparing rations for an active soldier with a Deir el Medineh workman’s total monthly ration. First, though, we must try to determine an active soldier’s daily ration, as well as the relation between rations and calories. Kemp’s research led him to believe that the daily ration of grain was c. 1 kilogram, equal to 1,458 calories/day.48 Reliant in part on previous scholarly research, he cautiously estimated the minimum caloric intake per soldier per day to be 3,500 calories.49 Heagren significantly refined this analysis in his survey of arguments put forward by previous scholars for a range of from 3,000 to 3,600 calories per day.50 Roth, for example, was correct in pointing out that a calorie intake of 3,600 for the soldiers of the Macedonian army, as estimated by Engels, was too high.51 Engels based this figure on the recommended amount of required calories as stated by the US Army for a soldier on active service.52 Roth argued that an average Roman legionnaire, being of lesser stature (and older), required fewer calories and less protein. The same could be said for a Macedonian and of course an Egyptian. Winlock’s study showed that the average height of the sixty or so slain Egyptian soldiers in the mass grave he was excavating was 169 centimetres, and that their average age was between thirty and forty years.53 If these individuals were in reasonable shape, then their ideal weight would have been around 65 kilograms.54 Heagren further notes that, ‘According to the U.S. Army figures, an average 30–40 year old individual needed only 3000–3200 calories per day whereas a 16–19 year old needed 3600 calories.’55 Roth, an expert on the Roman army, indicated that the figure of 15

Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World

3,000 calories was the recommended amount and not a minimum requirement.56 A soldier of modern times could (and often does) operate on less than this, although any great decrease could debilitate a soldier both physically and mentally within a few days.57 Let us consider the relation between calories and rations from a different angle. P. Anastasi I seems to suggest a distribution of food for 5,000 men, which Heagren has diagrammed as shown in Table 2.1. That gives us a relation between number of men and number of loaves of bread from a roughly contemporary source. However, Heagren regarded the number of loaves and cakes to be small for 5,000 military men per day.58 As an interesting aside that sheds light on how a day on the march might play out, the foods, called a ‘peace gift’, appear to be handed out in the morning. The army is to have set off at midday and expected to reach the final destination before nightfall. Before setting off, though, let us consider ancient Egyptian units of measurement, particularly the heqat (barrel), the khar (sack), and the deben (weight), which varied over time. From Janssen, we will accept the following as appropriate for Thutmose’s era: 1 khar = 2 deben of copper, and 76.88 litres = 2 deben of copper.59 Kemp’s study of Middle Kingdom fortresses provides the following data: 1 heqat of emmer wheat = 3.75 kilograms; somewhat lighter than wheat, 1 heqat of barley = 2.25 kg; 1 kilogram wheat = 0.27 heqat; and 1 kilogram barley = 0.44 heqat. If 1 sack = 16 heqat = 2 copper deben, then 1 heqat = 1/8 deben; 0.27 heqat of wheat comes out to be 0.034 deben and 0.44 heqat of barley is 0.055 deben. The last two results refer to a daily output of processed grain rations for one soldier.60 In an Egyptian record from the regnal year six of Seti I that was found at the Gebel Silsileh quarries, we can learn about rations for 1,000 soldiers who were dispatched to bring back sandstone.61 The weight of the bread, given as 20 deben, would have sufficed for most of the men’s food intake. Following Roman source material, Heagren estimated that the caloric values of the supplies were as shown in Table 2.2.62 Since the pharaoh states that he had increased the provisions for his army, the breads – at 20 deben/person – come to c. 4,175 calories. While the bread formed 73.3 per cent of the daily rations, fresh vegetables came to 4.2 per cent and meat 22.5 per cent. The men also received two sacks of grain per a month of thirty days, which may have been associated with wages, but this is a different aspect of how rations may have functioned.63 We can now reasonably assume that, on its march to and battle for Megiddo, Thutmose’s army would have to carry with it at least the equivalent of c. 3,000 calories/man/day. However, as Heagren observes, to meet daily requirements for protein as well as calories,

Table 2.1 Provisioning of soldiers, based on P. Anastasi I

16

Provisions

Quantity

Bread

300 loaves

Cakes

1,800

Goats

120

Wine

30 measures

The Upkeep of Empire: Costs and Rations

Table 2.2 Daily calorific value of provisions as estimated by Heagren (2012, 169–72) Item

Quantity

Weight

Calories

Protein

Bread

10 deben

0.91 kg

2,087.5

80.5 g

Vegetables

1 bundle

50 g

170

10 g

Roast beef

1 portion

160 g

640

15 g

1.12 kg

2897.5

105.5 g

Totals:

‘the Egyptian soldier needed a reasonably balanced diet’.64 Heagren and Roth’s somewhat divergent conclusions with respect to daily caloric intake depend solely on processed grain foods. Heagren presents one result for calculations involving 1 kg/bread that indicates a total of 960.5 calories/man per day, a figure greater than Roth’s 630 calories/man.65 We have yet to discuss liquids as part of daily rations. The daily requirement of water is c. 4 litres, half of that sum being supplied by consumed food. At least 1.9 litres of water alone were required on a daily basis.66 However, an obvious substitute for some of that water was the beer brewed from barley that formed part of daily rations. If the average consumption was c. 2.3 to 2.8 litres per day – a minimum sum – we must adjust our calculations, given that 1 kg of beer has roughly 3,600 calories.67 Returning to those 4 sacks of emmer wheat and 1.5 sacks of barley that the Deir El Medineh workers received each month, we can translate them into 0.13 sacks/day (2.13 heqat) and 0.05 sack/day (0.8 heqat). The grand total is thus 2.93 heqat/day. Given that 1 heqat of emmer weighs 3.75 kilograms and 1 heqat of barley weighs 2.25 kilograms, we arrive at 7.99 kilograms and 1.8 kilograms respectively, with a grand total of 9.8 kilograms. If one assumes this was meant to feed a family of c. 10 people (following Janssen), one can see why the daily estimate of rations for Thutmose’s soldiers set at 1 kilogram of grain per day fits. In other words, 1 kilogram grain/day = a soldier’s ration. We can now begin to draw up a tentative conclusion with regard to the cost to the pharaoh’s treasury of provisioning his soldiers, starting with an estimate of the costs per day for the twenty-seven days68 that we have estimated it took Thutmose’s army to arrive at Megiddo. Given c. 7,500 men in toto and c. 1 kilogram/grain per day, we arrive at the cost of 7,500 kilogram/day. In addition, we must assume further costs for the additional breads handed out in certain locations such as at Gaza (likewise assuming portable ovens were used for preparing the breads). Let us return to the calculations we worked through above that resulted in a daily output of processed grain rations for one soldier: If 1 sack = 16 heqat = 2 copper deben, then 1 heqat = 1/8 deben; the daily 0.213 heqat of wheat comes out to be 0.0266 deben and 0.08 heqat of barley is 0.01 deben. We can now say that in deben, the grains would come out to be, per individual per month, 0.798 deben and 0.3 deben respectively. Thus, for the twenty-seven-day Sinai trek alone, the sums would have been large: roughly 5,392 copper deben for 2,696 sacks of emmer and 2,025 deben for 1,012.5 sacks of barley, weighing a total of 202,500 kilograms. One can see that a well-designed series of relay fortresses were necessary at an early stage. 17

Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World

At Deir el Medineh, the data on rations are clear. The workmen there had to pay out for additional food items. In other words, although their staple of protein remains grain, supplemental foods were always present in their diet, just as the soldiers partook of vegetables and the like in addition to needing wood (for cooking) and other staples. Unlike the Upper Egyptian tomb workers, the men of the army could also live off the land. Finally, Thutmose’s army had to feed the pack animals as well as the horses. Lying at the root of these calculations is the role of provisioning in the Egyptian army at the time. It ought to be clear that the Egyptian armies depended upon safe locales, i.e. friendly or at least docile Asiatic towns and cities, where the soldiers could receive foods, water and other sorts of supplies from the residents, if only due to their ability to exploit and dominate the latter. That is in part why estimating total food consumption on a trek is difficult when we turn to the settled areas of Palestine and Syria. However, this does not apply to the ten days of march that the Egyptians made between Tjaru and Gaza, notwithstanding the presence of portable ovens, wells and supply depots. By and large, the figure of consumption and their costs becomes more realistic during this period of time. Nonetheless, we proceed without first-level analysis. Overall, even when considering only the grain supplies, one can now see how high the cost of warfare could have been for the New Kingdom Egyptian state. It could not have achieved any domination over parts of Western Asia, in particular Palestine and Syria, without these parameters:69 1. Control over the Sinai. This was achieved by the joint reigns of Hatshepsut/ Thutmose III, but the garrison-administrative structure along the Ways of Horus was nevertheless an expense. 2. The pre-existence of a divided polity in Palestine and portions of southern Syria. 3. Owing to the last, the ability of the Egyptian army to live off the locals, their cities and fields being used to sustain the troops. 4. The avoidance of any large military state until the Egyptians reached Mitanni and the Euphrates. Later, of course, they had to face the Hittites in Syria. 5. Control over the maritime coastal-hugging routes in Palestine and Syria. For the workers at Deir el Medineh, the daily 1 kg grain ration seems sufficient. However, the cost of supplementary supplies was not small for soldiers, men who actively performed their tasks in more strenuous and life-threatening conditions than the farmers or ‘state workers’, who had a comparatively well-off life. But the total cost! The cost to the state of maintaining the workers at Deir el Medineh was significantly smaller than that of one army’s foray into Palestine.70 Consider that we have travelled almost one Egyptian civil month with a large cohort of men occupied in reaching their destination without even accomplishing their goal of taking Megiddo. None of them were, in fact, primary producers. The country – agrarian Egypt in this case – had to produce a reasonable surplus to keep them in active duty, and it had to do it in the non-harvest part of the year when the soldiers were not engaged in direct warfare. 18

The Upkeep of Empire: Costs and Rations

Estimating the costs of cereals is a worthwhile economic activity for a historian as it allows us to see, in stark manner, the costs of empire for pharaonic Egypt. Could the Egyptian kingdom supply a large amount of grain, as surplus, for their massive armies? In the New Kingdom? Oren maintains that local support was necessary in the Sinai just as it was a prerequisite for Egyptian advances on land in Palestine and Syria.71 Oren’s evaluation of the archaeological data runs contrary to Redford and Heagren’s assumptions concerning the needs for prepared food rations already given out to the Egyptian soldiers before they transited the Sinai corridor. The cost estimates, which I have given above, nonetheless reveal the immense expense. How does Warburton’s figure of 30 million litres of grain produced annually72 stand up in comparison with that calculated for traversing the Sinai? If we restrict the cereals to emmer wheat alone, that 30 million must be divided by 4.78 litres to arrive at 6,276,151 heqat for the total. For one day spent crossing the Sinai, one soldier expended c. l kilogram in grain or 0.27 heqat. For ten days he consumed 2.7 heqats. Assuming 7,500 soldiers in Thutmose’s army, we multiply 7,500 by 2.7 and arrive at 20,250 heqats. Now let us divide 6,276,151 by that integer. The result is 310. That is to say, the grain that could have been given, in processed form, to the soldiers covered 1/310 of the total production per annum, according to Warburton. This is quite high, and should tell us that we cannot assume that the Egyptian army brought significant amounts of food with them, even on the Ways of Horus. In the case of Thutmose’s army, because the season of harvest had not yet come to pass, it was not difficult to withdraw able-bodied men from Egypt, although just how many men could be ‘detached’ from home and what they demanded on the basis of grain consumption should be part of a final total cost reckoning.73 Those soldiers needed to be supplied across the Sinai and then largely live off the Asiatic territories, as the Egyptian state did not as a rule completely pillage and plunder its Asiatic domain. It operated through prepared centres of logistic support and the latter would supply the troops with the necessary sustenance. A glance at the Kadesh reliefs shows that the supplies brought along by Ramesses II via his porters, freight animals and the like were not large. Egyptian armies were expected to demand supplies from the cities they conquered, and the surrounding area would be used for provisions and supplies. Nonetheless, the total costs to the state of military upkeep were large. The Egyptian armies operated well in a cost-operative milieu and therefore acquired a degree of operational freedom.74 On the other hand, although mobility was increased by this policy – which, I believe, was forced upon the Egyptian war machine – the troops would have to be constantly on the move because local food supplies would have been rapidly exhausted, at least in the immediate vicinity of the army, leading to the degree of hostility one would expect from wholesale exploitation. In summary, this chapter has considered grain supplies as part of attempting a cost analysis of one New Kingdom Egyptian campaign, with the purpose of understanding the much larger relation between the function of the Egyptian military and pharaonic Egypt’s state goals. Despite having to follow assumptions about key elements, one must 19

Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World

begin somewhere. For me, this task is connected to a great one – understanding the cost of empire. In this instance, the Egyptians were fortunate to have a sizeable quantity of grains at home whilst simultaneously securing the Sinai through a relatively small expenditure (food, personnel, water). The remaining demands of an army’s forward march northwards were taken care of by on-the-spot requisition and relatively easy travel conditions, given established food sources and pre-existing routes. After Thutmose III’s victory at Megiddo, Palestine fell into his lap. Henceforth, the Egyptians faced major problems mainly on the boundaries of their Asiatic imperium, e.g. Amunhotep II and Seti I near the eastern periphery of Palestine, Ramesses II at Kadesh and in Syria, and Amunhotep II again in Syria. With Norbert Elias, I view the state of pharaonic Egypt as a ‘survival unit’, one geared ‘physically to wipe out other people or to protect its own members from being physically wiped out’.75 As he asserts, in the past these ‘units’ possessed the same functions as those possessed by advanced nation-states of today. Although this survival function played a part in the way the ancients lived and formed their functional interdependencies, it cannot be separated from, or reduced, to economic factors.76 Ultimately, as he emphasizes, one cannot divorce military factors from economic ones.

Notes * Particular thanks to Harriet Margolis for her work in editing and improving an earlier draft of this chapter. 1. For a useful comparison, see Christopher Matthew’s chapter, ‘The Wage Cost of Alexander’s Pike-Phalanx’ in this volume. 2. Kurochkin (2009), 126–37 and 138–47. In general, see Spalinger (2005), 32–45 and 149–50; Spalinger (2020), 84; and Ussishkin (2018), 221–9 (Chapter 11). Goedicke (1985), 98–9, has additional commentary on the numbers of men engaged in fighting at Megiddo as well as the sizes of the coalition opposed to Thutmose. 3. Manning (2003), 135. 4. Redford (2003), 195–201. See Spalinger (2016); and Morris (2005), 150–1, 189–91. 5. When doing these calculations, I felt that one half of that sum would require c. 3,000 animals to transport food and water for both man and beast. Those series of calculations depended upon the situation in the narrow Aruna Pass and the time it took for the whole army to go through the defile. See Spalinger (2020), 84. 6. Manassa (2013), 108. 7. Heagren (2012), 196. 8. Spalinger (2020), 110–11. 9. Ibid., 87, 99–100. 10. Which fits well within the data from the Hellenistic Period. Spalinger (2005), 36. 11. Heagren (2012), 197; for example, see Spalinger (2020), 84. 12. Oren (2006), 283.

20

The Upkeep of Empire: Costs and Rations 13. Schulman (1964); Spalinger (2020), 35. 14. Oren (2006), 279–92. I am not going to discuss the present contentious scholarly issue concerned with the designation, ‘The Ways of Horus’. 15. Ibid., 289. WOH = Ways of Horus. However, because the origin of the grains at Heboua I (Tjaru) is unknown we cannot be sure whether they were Egyptian, that is, sourced specifically from ‘the Delta breadbasket’. The overall number of foreign – i.e. Canaanite – liquid containers are small in the archaeological record. Furthermore, the vessels were mainly of North Sinai manufacture, albeit of Egyptian types. Oren also posits that the grains stored along the road ‘were transported directly [to] redistributive entrepots in the Sinai corridor’, but could have come from ‘(southern?) Canaan’ (Oren [2006], 289). If the cereals came from the north, then they would have first been transported to the East Delta, redistributed to Tjaru, and hence sent further north to Gaza and beyond. 16. Redford (2003), 20. Elsewhere I have noted the logistic parameters advanced by Redford and Heagren while expressing scepticism of Redford’s interpretations, given that this highway traversed inhospitable territory, as a result of which the Egyptians had not merely to safeguard their supplies but also to ensure the availability of sufficient dietary requirements for men and animals. Basing themselves on Oren’s earlier research concerned with the Ways of Horus, both Redford and Heagren turned to the presence of beer jugs with labels associated with the Egyptians of late Dynasty XVIII and early Dynasty XIX times. Those seal impressions revealed that ‘sailors’ (soldiers) were associated with the Sinai pathway. They were, in the two authors’ words, ‘marines’, and belonged to the Egyptian war machine. The beer jugs were standard, ubiquitous, and hence very utilitarian. Therefore, it is reasonable to agree with them that some type of imperial reorganization occurred there during the days of Seti I (Goldwasser and Oren [2015]). Those seal impressions most probably belonged to Egyptian royal ships, although the conundrum remains as to whether those ‘marines’ were stationed in the fortresses or were travelling north on foot to Gaza. Could those ships recorded on two fragmentary locally manufactured vessels also indicate that naval contingents supplied the local Egyptian fortresses and garrisons on this road? Their more recent study has helped explicate matters with regard to the Sinai advance of any New Kingdom pharaoh (Goldwasser and Oren [2015], 25–39. Cf. Arthur and Oren [1998], 193–212). 17. Kemp (1986), 133. 18. Ibid., 134. 19. Heagren (2012), 191, referring back to Na’aman (2005), 216–31, and page 224 in particular. 20. Malamat (1957), 114–21; Fischer-Elfert (1986), 150–7. See also Heagren (2012), 160–78. Most of the diagrams included in this study are taken from his thesis. Always useful are the chapters in Lynn (1993). His chapter, ‘The History of Logistics and Supplying War’ (9–27), is essential. Morris (2018) ably covers many sides of the Egyptian occupation of Palestine and sections of Syria during the New Kingdom. One is always in need of MacMullen (1984), 571–80, especially pages 576–7, where note 21 provides an important statement concerning costs of an army’s movement. He wisely discusses baggage trains, a factor that I have not seen examined thoroughly in the Egyptological scholarly literature, including my work. 21. Schulman (1964), 26–7. 22. Mueller (1975), 249–63, see especially 253. 23. To a degree, this is what Kemp analysed in his discussion of rations when he followed William Kelly Simpson’s brief study of the wooden tallies from Uronarti. Kemp (1986), 131–3; Simpson (1963), 220–2. 24. Classically, Urk. IV 650.3 and 652.10; see also Turner (2021).

21

Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World 25. Shai et al. (2016), 1–25; see also Bar-Oz et al. (2013), 1–7 – the discovery of a donkey burial at Tel Haror with a metal bridle bit and saddlebags. For horses, see Turner (2021). 26. Bar-Oz et al. (2013), 5. Note that this evidence is not refuted by the Kadesh depiction of Ramesses’ camp, which shows oxen also as draught animals. 27. Spalinger (2005), 179–82. 28. Redford mentions that they had to carry beer along with them, which he felt was placed in 20,000 small jars: Redford (2003), 201, and see in general pages 195–201; Heagren (2012), 195. 29. Heagren (2012), 182; Wreszinski (1935), Pl. 92a. As Heagren comments after citing Wreszinski on page 182 (note 98): ‘In this scene, some of the horses in the upper left hand portion of the camp appear to be receiving rations. However, this is not so for the majority of the horses in all the camp scenes unlike the more fortunate donkeys.’ 30. Heagren (2012), 179–80. 31. Ibid., 179–82. 32. Ibid., 181. 33. Ibid., 178. 34. Ibid., 179 n.83. Barley is not suitable for modern horses reared on oats: Heagren (2012), 179 n.82, referring to Piggot (1986), 25–30 and page 25 in particular. 35. Heagren (2012), 182; see my comments in Spalinger (2005), 35. 36. The use of hard or dry fodder appears in Ramesses II’s Kadesh reliefs. Heagren (2012), 182; Wreszinski (1935), pl. 92a. 37. Heagren has done an analysis of other food items, such as cakes, wine and goats. Heagren (2012), 176-8. 38. Warburton (2000), 69–70 and note 20 in particular. The total grain production would be higher, as the pharaoh’s ‘state income’ does not include grain kept by the Egyptian peasant for himself and his family. 39. Manning (2003), 135, n.21. He is cautious with regard to these conclusions. 40. On rations in Egyptian accounting, see Ezzamel (2012); Eyre (2014); and Janssen (1997), Chapter II. See also Kemp (1989), Chapter 3 = Kemp (2006), Chapter 4. For the related issue of the economy of imperialism vis-à-vis deportations, and the effects on Egypt’s homeland, see Langer (2021) and (2022). 41. Spalinger (1986). But I shall ignore this here in order to make the calculations simpler. 42. Kemp (1986), 134. Kemp’s study independently paralleled some of my own work on hieratic grain rations and economic redistribution: Spalinger (1986), 307–52; Spalinger (1987), 283–311. Additional information can be derived from the Middle Kingdom account papyri as well as from other sources as covered by me – e.g. P. Boulaq 18, the Manshiyet es-Sadr Stela of Ramesses II, and the expedition to the Wadi Hammamat under Ramesses IV: Heagren (2012), 175–8; and Spalinger (2005), 40–2. 43. Kaplony-Heckel (2015), 167–202. 44. Janssen (1975), 463. For the number of workmen, Davies (2017), 205–12, provides the necessary data. Cf. Butzer’s (1984) comments on pages 928 and 933 note 70 of his ‘Siedlungsgeographie’, where he offers a ‘reasonable and conservative figure’ of 500 people/ hectare, and c. 4 people in a nuclear family per dwelling. See also Troy (2003); McDowell (1999), 21 (maximum of sixty-eight houses), and 51; Demarée (2008), 45, suggests 300 to 500 people; and Toivari-Viitala (2001), 4, estimates 190–370 inhabitants in the reign of Ramesses IX, including the workmen, their wives and children and perhaps aged parents; if the servants

22

The Upkeep of Empire: Costs and Rations and state-supplied servants were included, the total population would have been about 450–500. 45. Janssen (1975), 463. See Butzer (1984), 925–6; Kemp (1977), 129–32; cf. Lacovara (1997), 82–3. 46. Janssen (1975), 463. 47. Ibid., 472–3. 48. Kemp (1986), 131–2; and Heagren (2012), 175. 49. Kemp (1989), 132. Unfortunately, the apparently useful account of P. Butler 534 (BM 10333), now available in KRI VII 13–15.11, is not of use for the numerically-minded scholar; cf. Schulman (1964), 26 and 106. 50. Heagren (2012), 161. 51. Roth (1999). 52. Engels (1978), 123; US Army (1961), 25. Note the positive comments of Keegan (1987), 64, as well as Spalinger (2007), 130. 53. Winlock (1945), 7–8. 54. US Army (1961), 130. See also the comments in Spalinger (2007), 130. 55. Heagren (2012), 161; US Army (1961), 25. 56. Roth (1999), 8. 57. Spalinger (2005), 40–1. 58. Heagren (2012), 176–8. Although I have previously supported this opinion, I argued that, independent of the practicality of the account – after all, it is a test of sorts – we must remember that ‘the amount is stated to be too small for the soldiers’. See Spalinger (2005), 151. Redford, in considering the supplies that Thutmose’s army needed to traverse the Sinai, calculated eighty small loaves for each man and 1,000 donkeys to carry beer; Redford (2003), 195–201. See now Morris (2005), 150–1, 189–91. Heagren (2012), 195, referring to Redford (2003), 201. However, Redford’s figures are based upon the assumption that the men did not stop to pick up additional supplies on the way north, which I find improbable. 59. Janssen (1975), 109. 60. Kemp (1986), 131–2. 61. Kitchen (1975), 59–61; see also Kitchen (1993), 56–7. 62. Heagren (2012), 168–75. We are dealing with daily rations, as the text indicates. 63. Ibid., 173. In his coverage of wage rates in the Middle Kingdom, Mueller discusses an expedition to the Wadi Hammamat and identified different types of compensation for different types of workers there, as follows: Unskilled labourers received ten loaves and ⅓ unit of beer; work personnel received fifteen loaves and r6/60 units of beer; Mueller (1975), 249–63. 64. Heagren (2012), 161. 65. Ibid., 178. We have thus far been referring to grains generally, without specifying whether the grains used for bread were wheat or barley, or some combination of the two. In Kemp and Simpson’s work based on the Uronarti tallies, we find information about trstt bread rations. Specifically, Simpson referred to the use of volume of grain consumed by the workforce (mSo): In ‘B’ 60 units are baked from 2/3 heqat of northern barley, and in ‘C’ 70 units from one heqat of wheat. The barley–wheat ratios and equivalences can be found in a further study of mine: Spalinger (1988), 255–76. Cf. Ezzamel (1997), 563–601; Eyre (2009), 16–30. 23

Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World 66. Spalinger (2005), 35. P. Lansing informs us that New Kingdom soldiers were provided with water every three days, even if substandard in quality. Heagren (2012), 185 n.112: on salt, Gardiner (1937), 108: 10.1. 67. Heagren (2012), 162–3 and nn.13–14. 68. It being simpler to multiply/divide by 27 rather than 27–28 days, I have chosen the lesser number. 69. Cf. Morris (2005), 192–201, 207–10. I wish to add here ‘the most thorough-going and most practicable’ work on military operations without magazines for provisioning, following Perjés (1970) 6; Kankrin (1820–3). The data are roughly applicable for our time period: ‘An army can operate without magazines set up beforehand only in areas whose population density is over 35 persons per square kilometre.’ 70. Cf. my population estimates and the size of the New Kingdom army and that of Palestine in Spalinger (2005), 96–7, 124–5, and 202–5. 71. Oren (2006), 283. 72. Warburton (2000), 69–70 and n.20 in particular. 73. In general, see Bietak and Forstner-Müller (2011), 23–50. Forstner-Müller (2010), 108–24, provides a ballpark figure for the XV Dynasty: 28,835 (5 persons /household) to 34,602 (6 persons/household) for the later XV Dynasty. The number of people/household can be queried. There is a survey by Nielson (2021). 74. Heagren (2012), 191. 75. Elias (2012), 134. This study can supplement Warburton (2006), 37–55. 76. Elias (2012).

Bibliography Arthur, P. and E. Oren (1998), ‘The North Sinai Survey and the Evidence of Transport Amphorae for Roman and Byzantine Trading Patterns’, JRA 11: 193–212. Bar-Oz, G, P. Nahshoni, H. Motro and E. Oren (2013), ‘Symbolic Metal Bit and Saddlebag Fastenings in a Middle Bronze Age Donkey Burial’, PLoS One 8 (3) (March): 1–7. Bietak, M. and I. Forstner-Müller (2011), ‘Topography of New Kingdom Avaris and PerRamesses’, in M. Collier and S. Snape (eds), Ramesside Studies in Honour of K. A. Kitchen, 23–50, Bolton: Rutherford Press. Butzer, K. (1984), ‘Siedlungsgeographie’, in W. Helck and W. Westendorf (eds), Lexikon der Ägyptologie V, 923–34, Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Davies, B. (2017), ‘Variations in the Size of the Deir el-Medina Workforce’, in C. di Biase-Dyson and L. Donovan (eds), The Cultural Manifestations of Religious Experience: Studies in Honour of Boyo G. Ockinga, 205–12, Münster: Ugarit Verlag. Demarée, R. (2008), ‘Letters and Archives from the New Kingdom Necropolis at Thebes’, in L. Pantalacci (ed.), La lettre d’archive: communication administrative et personelle dans l’antiquité proche-orientale et égyptienne: Actes du colloque de l’Université de Lyon 2, 9 - 10 juillet 2004 (Bibliothèque générale 32/Topoï supplément 9), 43–52, Cairo: Institut Français d’Archéologie Orientale. Elias, N. (2012), What is Sociology?, Dublin: University College Dublin Press. Engels, D. (1978), Alexander the Great and the Logistics of the Macedonian Army, Berkeley: University of California Press.

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The Upkeep of Empire: Costs and Rations Eyre, C. (2009), ‘On the Inefficiency of Bureaucracy’, in P. Piacentini and C. Orsenigo (eds), Egyptian Archives, 15–30, Milan: Cisalpino. Eyre, C. (2014), The Use of Documents in Ancient Egypt, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Ezzamel, M. (1997), ‘Accounting, Control and Accountability: Preliminary Evidence from Ancient Egypt’, Critical Perspectives on Accounting 8: 563–601. Ezzamel, M. (2012), Accounting and Order, New York: Routledge. Fischer-Elfert, H. (1986), Die satirische Streitenschrift des Papyrus Anastasi I: Übersetzung und Kommentar, Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Forstner-Müller, I. (2010), ‘Settlement Patterns at Avaris: A Study of Two Cases’, in M. Bietak, E. Czerny and I. Forstner-Müller (eds), Cities and Urbanism in Ancient Egypt: Papers from a Workshop in November 2006 at the Austrian Academy of Sciences, 108–24, Vienna: Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften. Gardiner, A. H. (1937), Late Egyptian Miscellanies, Brussels: Fondation Égyptologique. Goedicke, H. (ed.) (1985), Perspectives on the Battle of Kadesh, Baltimore, MD: Halgo. Goldwasser, O. and E. Oren (2015), ‘Marine Units on the “Ways of Horus” in the Days of Seti I’, JAEI 7: 25–39. Heagren, B. (2012), The Art of War in Pharaonic Egypt: An Analysis of the Tactical, Logistic, and Operational Capabilities of the Egyptian Army (Dynasties XVII-XX), PhD thesis, University of Auckland, Auckland. Janssen, J. (1975), Commodity Prices from the Ramessid Period: An Economic Study of the Village of Necropolis Workmen at Thebes, Leiden: Brill. Janssen, J. (1997), Village Varia: Ten Studies on the History and Administration of Deir el-Medina, Leiden: Nederlands Instituut voor het Nabije Oosten. Kankrin, Y. (1820–3), Über die Militärökonomie im Frieden und Krieg, und ihr Wechselverhältnis zu den Operationen, St. Petersburg: Gräff. Kaplony-Heckel, U. (2015), ‘Das taglische Brot. oq «Brot, Ration» auf demotischer ErmentOstraka’, in S. Deicher and E. Maroko (eds), Die Liste: Ordungen von Dingen und Menschen in Ägypten, 167–202, Berlin: Kulturverlag Kadmos. Keegan, J. (1987), The Mask of Command, New York: Viking. Kemp, B. (1977), ‘The City of El-Amarna as a Source for the Study of Urban Society in Ancient Egypt’, World Archaeology 9: 123–39. Kemp. B. (1986), ‘Large Middle Kingdom Granary Buildings (and the Archaeology of Administration)’, ZÄS 113: 120–36. Kemp, B. (1989), Ancient Egypt: Anatomy of a Civilization, 1st edn, London: Routledge. Kemp, B. (2006), Ancient Egypt: Anatomy of a Civilization, 2nd edn, London: Routledge. Kitchen, K. (1975), Ramesside Inscriptions: Historical and Biographical I, Oxford: Blackwell. Kitchen, K. (1993), Ramesside Inscriptions: Translated and Annotated. Notes and Comments, Oxford: Blackwell. Kurochkin, M. (2009), ‘Thutmose III – The Way to Megiddo: Problems of Interpretation and Weaponry and Offensive Tactics’, in St. Petersburg Egyptological Readings 2007–2008: In Commemoration of Oleg Dmitrievich Berlev On the Occasion of his 75th Birthday, 126–47. St Petersburg: State Hermitage Publishers. Lacovara, P. (1997), The New Kingdom Royal City, London: Routledge. Langer, C. (2021), Egyptian Deportations of the Late Bronze Age, Boston: de Gruyter. Langer, C. (2022), ‘The Political Economy of Foreign Labour in Pharaonic Egypt, 2700–1069 bce: An Assessment of Impacts on Northeast African and Southwest Asian Societies’, in D. Warburton (ed.), The Earliest Economic Growth in World History. Proceedings of the Berlin Workshop, 131–58, Leuven: Peeters. Lynn J. (ed.) (1993), Feeding Mars: Logistics in Western Warfare from the Middle Ages to the Present, Boulder, CO: Westview Press. MacMullen, R. (1984), ‘The Roman Emperors’ Army Costs’, Latomus 43: 571–80. 25

Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World Malamat, A. (1957), ‘Military Rationing in Papyrus Anastasi I and the Bible’, in H. Cazelles (ed.), Mélanges bibliques rédigés en honneur de André Robert, 114–21, Paris: Bloud & Gay. Manassa, C. (2013), Imagining the Past: Historical Fiction in New Kingdom Egypt, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Manning, J. (2003), Land and Power in Ptolemaic Egypt: The Structure of Land Tenure, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. McDowell, A. (1999), Village Life in Ancient Egypt: Laundry Lists and Love Songs, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Morris, E. (2005), The Architecture of Imperialism: Military Bases and the Evolution of Foreign Policy in Egypt’s New Kingdom, Leiden: Brill. Morris, E. (2018), Ancient Egyptian Imperialism, Hoboken: Wiley Blackwell. Mueller, D. (1975), ‘Some Remarks on Wage Rates in the Middle Kingdom’, JNES 34: 249–63. Na’aman, N. (2005), ‘Economic Aspects of the Egyptian Occupation of Canaan’, in N. Na’aman (ed.), Canaan in the Second Millennium bce, 216–31, Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Nielsen, B. (2021), ‘The Size of Towns in Ancient Egypt 2500, 1850, 1250 and 200 bc – A Reconstruction’. Available online: https://www.academia.edu/65895473/The_size_of_towns_in_ Ancient_Egypt_2500_1850_1250_and_200_BC_a_reconstruction (accessed 23 August 2022). Oren, E. (2006), ‘The Establishment of Egyptian Imperial Administration of the “Ways of Horus”: An Archaeological Perspective from North Sinai’, in E. Czerny et al. (eds), Timelines: Studies in Honour of Manfred Bietak II, 279–92, Leuven: Peeters. Perjés, G. (1970), ‘Army Provisioning, Logistics and Strategy in the Second Half of the 17th Century’, Acta Historica Scientiarum Hungaricae 16: 1–52. Piggot, S. (1986), ‘Horse and Chariot: The Price of Prestige’, in D. Evans, J. Griffith and E. Jope (eds), Proceedings of the Seventh International Congress of Celtic Studies held at Oxford, from 10th to 15th July 1983, 25–30, Oxford: Oxbow. Redford, D. (2003), The Wars in Syria and Palestine of Thutmose III, Leiden: Brill. Roth, J. (1999), The Logistics of the Roman Army at War (264 bc – ad 235), Leiden: Brill. Schulman, A. (1964), Military Rank, Title and Organization in the Egyptian New Kingdom, Berlin: Bruno Hessling. Shai, I. et al. (2016), ‘The Importance of the Donkey as a Pack Animal in the Early Bronze Age Southern Levant: A View from Tell es-Safi/Gath’, ZDPV 132: 1–25. Simpson, W. (1963), ‘Two Lexical Notes to the Reisner Papyri: whrt and trsst’, JEA 59: 220–2.  Spalinger, A. (1986), ‘Baking in the Reign of Seti I’, BIFAO 86: 307–52 . Spalinger, A. (1987), ‘The Grain System of Dynasty 18’, SAK 14: 283–311. Spalinger, A. (1988), ‘Dates in Ancient Egypt’, SAK 15: 255–76. Spalinger, A. (2005), War in Ancient Egypt: The New Kingdom, Oxford: Blackwell. Spalinger, A. (2007), ‘Some Notes on the Chariot Arm of Egypt’, in P. Kousoulis and K. Magliveras (eds), Moving Across Borders: Foreign Relations, Religion and Cultural Interactions in the Ancient Mediterranean, 119–37, Leuven: Peeters. Spalinger, A. (2016), ‘Operational Bases. Gaza and Beth Shan’, in C. Karlshausen and C. Obsomer (eds), De la Nubie à Qadech: La guerre dans l’Égypte ancienne, 63–80, Brussels: Safran. Spalinger, A. (2020), Leadership under Fire: The Pressures of Warfare in Ancient Egypt, Paris: Soleb. Toivari-Viitala, J. (2001), Women at Deir el-Medîna: A Study of the Status and Roles of the Female Inhabitants in the Workmen’s Community during the Ramesside Period, Leiden: Nederlands Instituut voor Het Nabije Oosten. Troy, L. (2003), ‘Resource Management and Ideological Manifestation: The Towns and Cities of Ancient Egypt’. Available online at: https://www.arkeologi.uu.se/ digitalAssets/483/c_483244-l_3-k_troyall.pdf (accessed 23 August 2022).

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The Upkeep of Empire: Costs and Rations Turner, S. (2021), The Horse in Ancient Egypt: Its Introduction, Nature, Role and Impact, Wallasey : Abercromby Press. US Army (1961), Nutrition, Baltimore, MD. Ussishkin, D. (2018), Megiddo-Armageddon: The Story of the Caananite Israelite City, Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society. Warburton, D. (2000), ‘Before the IMF: The Economic Implications of Unintentional Structural Adjustment in Ancient Egypt’, JESHO 43: 65–131. Warburton, D. (2006), ‘Aspects of War and Warfare in Western Philosophy and History’, in T. Otto, H. Thrane and H. Vankilde (eds), Warfare and Society: Archaeological and Social Anthropological Perspectives, 37–55, Aarhus: Aarhus University Press. Winlock, H. E. (1945), The Slain Soldiers of Neb-Hepet-Re Mentu-hotpe, New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art. Wreszinski, W. (1935), Atlas zur altaegyptischen Kunstgeschichte II, Leipzig: Hinrichs.

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CHAPTER 3 PIETY, MONEY AND COINAGE IN GREEK RELIGION Matthew Trundle

The invention and spread of coinage in the eastern Mediterranean transformed the Greek world.1 Here, I want to discuss the ways in which coinage changed how Greeks practised religion and thought about their gods and their sanctuaries and themselves in a religious context. Disembedding religion from Greek society is impossible. Disembedding any aspect of Greek life from its interconnectedness with other component parts of Greek society is arguably undesirable. In addition to political, social and cultural centres, temples were always the focus of economic activity. The economic interdependence between the sanctuary and the Greek community is well illustrated in both Aristophanes’ Wealth and Birds. Passages from both texts demonstrate the economic interplay of sacrifice and worshipper: Priest: You can’t make things any worse! Now this Wealth’s got his sight back, I’m nearly dead from starvation. I’m the priest of Zeus the Saviour, and I’ve nothing to eat! Chremylus: Heavens, how come? Priest: Nobody offers any sacrifices anymore. Chremylus: Why not? Priest: Because they’re all rich. In the old days, when they had nothing, you could count on a sacrifice from a merchant on his safe return from a voyage, or a defendant who had got off; or perhaps someone would have a grand sacrificial feast at home, and then naturally he’d invite me. But now nobody sacrifices at all. I never see a living soul, apart from a darn sight too many who think the temple is a gent’s toilet. Aristophanes, Wealth 1172–1184, trans. Alan Sommerstein Pisthetaerus: When anyone sacrifices and, according to the rite, offers the entrails to the gods, these birds take their share before Zeus. Formerly men always swore by the birds and never by the gods. And even now Lampon swears by the goose whenever he wishes to deceive someone. Thus, it is clear that you were once great and sacred, but now you are looked upon as slaves, as fools, as Maneses; stones are thrown at you as at raving madmen, even in holy places. A crowd of bird-

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catchers sets snares, traps, limed twigs and nets of all sorts for you; you are caught, you are sold (pōlous’) in heaps and the buyers finger you over to be certain you are fat. Aristophanes, Birds, 518–530, trans. Eugene O’Neill Unlike the place of the temple-sanctuary in the Near East, most sanctuaries of the Greeks functioned within – rather than independently from – the communities that they served.2 In the majority of sanctuaries, priesthoods rotated amongst the elite of the community, and the boundaries between secular and religious worlds were for all intents and purposes, non-existent.3 *

*

*

If we begin with terminology whereby wealth and faith might find connection, two people come to mind: one Archaic and largely mythical, alive when coined money was emerging into the world, and the other very much a man of the classical Athenian world of money and power. Both illustrate the connection Greeks saw in fortune and wealth and piety. These are the stories of Croesus in Herodotus and Nicias in Thucydides (and Plutarch). Both represented the world’s wealthiest and most fortunate men, but both met unfortunate ends despite their resources. The term used to describe Croesus – olbiōtatos in the Greek – can refer both to wealth and to happiness, and the play on words is central to the story that Herodotus tells of how Croesus, despite his obvious riches, is not the olbiōtatos, nor even is he second or third (Hdt. 1.30). But the twist in the story, perhaps, is that his wealth did save him to a degree, for through his gifts to the god Apollo he established a relationship with Delphi and the god akin to ritualized friendship – central to which was gift-giving. Croesus’ relationships with the Greeks, and with Apollo especially, at least in one version of his story, see him saved from the flames of the pyre due to his wisdom and the beneficence of the god reciprocating the relationship Croesus had cultivated.4 Croesus’ memory in the Greek world was therefore secured alongside Solon as a beneficent ruler worthy of respect, despite his fall from power to the Persian Cyrus. The story of Nicias is more relevant still to this discussion. Nicias’ wealth was unsurpassed, but he died ignominiously in Sicily. Thucydides described him as a man whose whole way of life (epitēdeusis) was focused on customary virtue (aretē nenomismenē) (7.86.5), but also (7.50.4) as inordinately given to superstition (theiasmos).5 Plutarch’s life highlights his good fortune (tychē), and his wealth as a man who dispensed his money generously to festivals in Attica and Delos, and his piety – or eusebeia.6 For me, it seems significant that Nicias’ wealth came directly from the slave-mining operations at Laureion.7 Nicias was a man of coined-money rather than of traditional farming of the land, and almost entirely one who exploited the land and enslaved children, yet he could still be described as amongst the most honourable – dare one suggest pious? – men of his age. Nicias represents the typical Greek double standard in which wealth and duty must be connected no matter how one acquired one’s money. 30

Piety, Money and Coinage in Greek Religion

Gift-giving gave status to both Croesus and Nicias. Such reciprocity was a central part of aristocratic – and therefore all important – relationships in the Greek world,8 including the relationship between human beings and the gods.9 In order to give, one had to have resources. Resources mediated relationships. Sacrifice, reciprocity and redistribution were all closely interlinked, and all had economic implications.10 Nomisma, a fundamental Greek word for money, has its roots in terms like nomos (‘custom’ or ‘law’), the verb nemō (‘to redistribute’) and nomizein (‘to acknowledge’ or ‘recognize’ – and even ‘to understand’). Coinage, law and justice reflected proper redistribution in both tangible and abstract terms.11 Thucydides uses nomizō in his short eulogy of Nicias’ life (7.86.5), to express the customary virtue (aretē nenomismenē) that Nicias focused his way of life on. The liberal distribution of his resources in religious festivals illustrated well this devotion. Piety was seen in actions, rather than in belief per se, in Greek contexts. Thus, those who gave generously, who used resources as a means rather than as ends in themselves were viewed with more affection and respect than those who hoarded what they had and protected their own private property. This redistribution of property mediated relationships with the living and with the divine. By the fifth century bce , money pervaded many aspects of the Greek world.12 Religious life was no different. Despite the overwhelming significance and importance of tradition within religious practice, money still pervaded the religious sphere after its emergence within the Greek world of the later sixth century. Money is profane by its very nature: it is impersonal, lacking prestige, dare one say it,‘grubby’ (cf. Plat. Rep. 416e–417a); but coined money still interacted with religious practices as it did with every other sphere of classical Greek life. When the Greeks talked of money, the ideology of using resources as a means to an end dominated their language. For example, the most common Greek word for money – chrēmata – comes from the Greek word for a tool, a chrēma or ‘useful thing’, something by which things are achieved.13 Thus, money in itself was not enough – it was a means to an end, whether that be getting a job done or establishing friendships and relationships – even with the gods. Money, as a useful thing, neatly fitted into existing practices of Greek religious customs and especially gift-exchange. Money – as chrēmata – became a tool to get closer to the gods and to recognize or acknowledge – nomizein through nomisma – such relationships. *

*

*

Those Greek states that adopted coinage, for not all did, did so under the influence of the East. The origins of coinage in a Greek context have a religious flavour. Many years ago, Bernhard Laum14 tried to show the very specific links between coinage and religion and more recently Richard Seaford15 has argued for a philosophical and intellectual link between the two. He, among others, points out the early association of religion and the origins of coinage, especially in the communal and redistributive nature of the sacrifice. The sacrificers shared meat and then dedicated the metal spits – obeliskoi – to the sanctuary as a memorial of the holocaustic sacrifice. Coins – as oboloi – were a perfect way to provide a durable memorial of the dedicatory moment, and so functioned as gifts in much the same way as the spits to the gods, serving as storable wealth and memorials 31

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at the same time.16 The earliest deposit of coins in a Greek context, IGCH 1154, was found in the sanctuary of Artemis at Ephesus – temples were a natural repository for wealth and valuable offerings, and thus for coinage.17 Coins were a means by which communities could provide illustrations of the provenance and ownership of precious metals through stamps and markings. The stamps on the coins of the Greek states identified the – usually civic – authority that had produced them. Respect for the authority of the issuer was an important part of users’ trust in the value of the coin.18 Most communities placed a symbol with a religious flavour on the obverse, often the head of a state’s patron deity. Most famously, the head of Athena appeared on the coins of Athens, but also those of Corinth and most of the states that minted coins followed suit in identifying deities with which they were associated.19 Coins presented an identity, or at least a close alignment between civic gods and civic authority. Money in a religious context is well illustrated in a number of ways in the early Greek world. In a pre-coinage environment in which silver functioned as a measure of value and means of exchange, Solon’s laws included the costs in weighed silver of the various victims and items of dedication.20 Plutarch highlights his interest in the silvermeasurement of the value of sacrifices: Punishing the same act sometimes harshly and implacably, and sometimes mildly, as if playing, by laying down a trivial fine, is irrational – unless money was scarce in the city back then and the difficulty of getting it made the fines in silver a big deal. For example, in the costs of festivals, Solon reckons a sheep and a drachma equal to a medimnos of grain, and he orders the victor at the Isthmian games to be given a hundred drachmae, the Olympic victor five hundred, someone who brings in a wolf five drachmae, and one for a pup. Demetrius of Phaleron says that the former was the cost of a bull, and the latter of a sheep. In the sixteenth axōn, he sets the costs of these at special sacrifices, which should be expensive, but even these are cheap compared to their cost nowadays. Plutarch, Life of Solon 23.2–4 The attribution of a measure of value to the sacrificial animal was a significant moment. It was an important step towards the world of coinage. Part of this process can be seen in the substitution of meanings of traditional terms for sacrificial gifts to more broad terms relating to resources – and then eventually to monetary funds.21 For example, the use of a monetary fee expressed in coin replaced the skin (derma) of the sacrificial animal, and the pelanos or cake offering itself comes to mean a ‘cult fee’ in the fifth century.22 Inscriptions from Crete give the monetary equivalents for animal offerings, whereby an ox is worth two drachmae, and refer to coins as ‘cauldrons’, which were themselves commonly dedicated in sanctuaries.23 In a similar fashion, the consultation fee at Delphi comes to be denoted by the price in coin in the same period (e.g. CID 1:13). A famous set of mid-fifth-century inscriptions from the Athenian acropolis, IG I3 35 and 36, regulating the newly established priestess of Athena Nike,24 illustrate this: 32

Piety, Money and Coinage in Greek Religion

[The Council and People decided.?] -kos proposed: [to install] a priestess for Athena Nike to be [allotted?] from all Athenian [women] . . . the priestess is to receive fifty drachmas and to receive the backlegs (skele) and skins (dermata) of the public sacrifices (demosion) . . . Side 1: IG I3 35, c. 448, trans. AIO The Council and the People decided. Aigeis held the prytany. Neokleides was secretary. Hagnodemos was chairman. Kallias proposed: for the priestess of Athena Nike the fifty drachmas written on the stele, the kolakretai in office in the month Thargelion shall pay (them) to the priestess of Athena Nike . . . Side 2: IG I3 36, 424/3, trans. AIO Here, payment in coin supplements, and then supersedes, a pre-existing system of payment through redistribution of the skins and legs of the sacrificial victims by kolakretai – literally ‘ham-collectors’, transformed by coinage into payment officers. Coins replace the traditionally distributed fruits of sacrifice both in name and in fact. There is a good deal of evidence that illustrates the frequency with which coinage played some part in the life of religious sanctuaries by the Classical period. This reflected the growing levels of monetization in the Greek world from coinage’s appearance in the later sixth century and onward. Some classical sanctuaries operated as banks. Greek temple-banks offered loans for their own profit in coin from funds owned by a particular deity and intended for the maintenance of cult expenses.25 Herodas’ Fourth Mime, about a visit to a temple by two women – admittedly from a later period – nicely illustrates the flow of gifts from worshipper to sanctuary, and concludes with a coin placed in an offering box (thesauros). Such offering-boxes for the receipt of coins were common.26 We should note the early fourth-century money box for offerings near the acropolis, currently located in the entrance of the Acropolis Museum and probably originally from the sanctuary of Aphrodite on the north slope of the acropolis. It bears this inscription: Offering box (thēsauros): first fruits (aparchē) to Aphrodite Ourania as a preliminary offering (proteleia) for marriage: 1 drachma. SEG 41.182 Both the mime and the inscription show the ease with which coins functioned interchangeably with gift exchange and the divine environment. Inscriptions from the fifth and fourth centuries of sanctuary accounts illustrate the level to which coinage was used in dedications and sacrifices and its highly functional use as a measure of value. For example, a set of regulations concerning the Eleusinian Mysteries from the second quarter of the fifth century reads:27 . . . an obol from each [initiate]; and the . . . shall take half an obol [each] from each initiate; and the priestess of Demeter shall take at the Lesser Mysteries from each 33

Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World

initiate an obol, and at the Greater Mysteries an obol from each initiate; [all the?] obols shall belong to the two Goddesses except for one thousand six hundred drachmas; and from the one thousand six hundred drachmas the priestess shall pay the expenses just as they have been paid until now; and the Eumolpidai and the Kerykes are to take from each initiate five obols from the men, three obols from the women . . . and the Athenians may . . . the sacred money . . . whatever they wish, just like the money of Athena on the acropolis; and the hieropoioi shall look after the money [of the Two Goddesses?] on the acropolis IG I3 6 C, ll 5–23, 32–38, translation from AIO Coins are prominent in these inscriptions, and clearly aided in the incorporation and redistribution of resources in small and large denominations depending on what was required.28 As we have seen, the sale of the skins of sacrificial victims alone yielded a great return in coin. One example, the festival of the Diisoteria of 334/333, yielded over 2,500 drachmae in one feast (IG II2 1496, ll. 118–19). Unlike meat and skins, coins offered a durable means of storing the dedicated wealth accrued in a sanctuary. Metals and coins abounded at many of the major sanctuaries within the Greek world. The resource management and flow of goods to and from the temple, as well as the economic centrality of the temple, were features of Greek life both before and after coinage’s appearance. It is clear that coinage played an important role in the life of the sanctuaries of many Greek communities. *

*

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But the question remains: what did coinage actually change in the sphere of Greek religion? If one looks at the way that coinage transformed other areas of Greek life, such as the military and politics, one sees that it brought with it a democratization, by which I mean the incorporation of both outsiders and disenfranchised insiders, alongside a certain degree of professionalization.29 Of these likely changes, a broadening of the religious community may easily be envisaged. Many scholars see the basis and purpose of Greek religion as community building.30 In this respect the introduction and spread of coinage in some Greek cities had much the same effect as it had politically; coinage strengthened the civic group ideology, while undercutting the power of the elites in many other aspects of communal life, socially and economically. By the fifth century, many rituals and festivals were produced by and for the city, especially in Athens, and many were paid for by the people under the term dēmotelēs. Aristotle describes the various officials responsible for organizing these payments at Athens.31 Sacrifice, coinage distribution, the sale of grain, the distribution of meat at the sacrifice as food, the use of the skins for sale and the use of coin all came together in this process. If coins facilitated the participation of a wider number of people in religious activity, then we might make the case that coinage enabled larger, bigger, and – by association – broader participation in festival activity generally. In the words of Robert Parker discussing politics and religion in the late sixth century – the time of the introduction of coinage at Athens – ‘Festivals were opened up in the 34

Piety, Money and Coinage in Greek Religion

sense, perhaps, that the elite practices were given a more popular setting, which may have encouraged broader participation.’32 At a fundamental and basic level, coins facilitated the participation of greater numbers of people through payment and exchange of an item of common media more readily available to poorer people. An easily divisible and exchangeable commodity, like a coin, could replace prestige items like animals for sacrifice or other valuable goods, which themselves are difficult to divide up into smaller units dedicated to the temples. This is the idea presented in the New Testament: Jesus looked up and saw the rich putting their gifts into the offering box, and he saw a poor widow put in two small copper coins. And he said, ‘Truly, I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all of them. For they all contributed out of their abundance, but she out of her poverty put in all she had to live on.’ Luke 21.1, English Standard Version Here the coins, poor tokens as they are, act to incorporate the otherwise disenfranchised woman, acting as the lowest common denominator in the exchange process that allows her into the temple. Unsurprisingly, the Temple in the New Testament is a site of markets and commercial activity, like sanctuaries in the Greek world.33 And Jesus came to the Temple and he expelled all the sellers (pōlountes) and merchants (agorazontes) and he overturned the tables of the money-changers (kollybistai) and the seats of the sellers of doves. Matthew 21.12, English Standard Version The advantages of coinage as a means of exchange in any environment, however, worked both ways. The convenience of coinage – both as a means of payment and redistribution – gave sanctuaries the ability, as J. K. Davies observes, to ‘top-slice’ and apportion resources as they had never before been able.34 This ability is well illustrated in the two parts of the inscription from Eleusis that I quoted earlier. Of course, democratization and a broadened franchise were never universal, just as coinage was not universally adopted by all the Greek states. Many priesthoods continued to be controlled by certain elite families. This is well illustrated by Sparta’s traditional assignment of religious duties to inherited religious roles for the sacrificers, the heralds and the kings who led rituals. Significantly, Sparta did not mint any coinage until the third century and thus remained aristocratic, exclusive and highly traditional.35 Even in highly monetized fifth-century Athens, aristocratic families like the Eteoboutadai retained defined and inherited religious roles within the city.36 Sitta von Reden’s model of an ‘embedded money economy’ may have much relevance here.37 Money did something to transform the way in which religious activity was coordinated and paid for, but the traditional controls of elites and socially high-status groups remained of fundamental significance. Embedded religious roles made it difficult for money to erode or fully replace the way in which cult and religious practice was conducted. That said, some religious cults 35

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were transformed in the fifth century, perhaps as part of the democratic rather than the financial changes in Athens of the period. The democratic process of the lot determined the priestess of Athena Nike so that she did not necessarily come from a chosen elite family. Additionally, boards of supervisors, treasurers and performers of rites, also democratically appointed, take an increasingly central role in the religious life of the city. Coinage may have influenced several transformations of Greek religion in the later fifth and fourth centuries. The first of these is the introduction of new gods.38 One obvious way in which money facilitated the establishment of new gods in Attica was through its impersonal mobility and the ability to undermine an aristocracy’s control of resources and cult. Thus, coinage provided a mobile and impersonal means by which worshippers might establish new cults through the purchase of land for new sanctuary sites, and it provided the means to furnish sacrifice and ritual practices as well as to pay salaries to officiants and priests. A good example of such a new god appearing in Athens is that of Bendis from Thrace. The new festival of Bendis, established in 414/3, is mentioned in the opening of Plato’s Republic, where Socrates is told that it was worth staying for the festival, since it would feature a new spectacle – a torch race on horseback – presumably paid for by means of new funding (Plat. Rep. 327a–28a). A fragmentary inscription mentions a special tithe or eparchē to support the new cult.39 Coinage also transformed existing cults. Although managed by private families, the Eleusinian cult became one of the central cults of the Athenian democracy in the Classical period. IG I3 6 C, the inscription pertaining to cult practice at Eleusis that was mentioned above, illustrates how the flow of coinage from initiates’ fees helped finance its operation as a public institution, with funds managed ‘just like the money of Athena on the acropolis’ (ll. 34–6). Money enabled mass-participation in the cult and meant that massparticipation was in the interests of its administrators. Finally, we might consider the notion put forward by Tullia Linders in 1975 that, inter alia, money plays a role in secularizing cultic resources. She suggests that the appropriation of resources and the ownership of a durable and impersonal commodity like coinage, both by individuals and the state, imposed a more cynical and secular view of sanctuary property in the Classical period. She interpreted inscriptions like those concerning the Eleusinian cult as illustrating such an appropriation by the state authorities of sacred treasure. The use of coins for essential services, especially for military activity, was a crucial part of any state’s means to wage effective warfare, and especially naval warfare, in the Classical period.40 Clearly, the Athenians saw the acropolis as a source of revenues for military adventures. The question of both the ownership of property stored in sanctuaries, and the ability of those who controlled the sanctuaries to use the money and specifically for what purposes, is complex. Thucydides presents Pericles frankly recognizing that the Athenian temples of the acropolis and indeed all over Attica functioned as storehouses for silver both coined and uncoined (that is to say yet to be coined). . . . there were still at this point 6,000 talents of coined silver on hand in the acropolis (at its maximum it had been 9,700 talents, from which expenditure had been made on the Propylaea to the acropolis and on other buildings as well as on 36

Piety, Money and Coinage in Greek Religion

Potidaea). Besides this there was the uncoined gold and silver in public and private offerings, and there were all the sacred items used for processions and competitions, and the Persian spoils and anything else of that kind, not less than 500 talents in all. To this he added the not insignificant treasures from the other sanctuaries, which were available for their use, and if they were absolutely without other resource there was the inlaid gold on the statue of Athena herself. He pointed out that the statue had on it forty talents’ weight of refined gold which was removable. And he said they would have to pay full compensation for any use made of this in safeguarding their survival. Thucydides, 2.13.3–6, trans. Mynott So long as the money was paid back, the Athenians felt no compunction about using this coinage in the event of need.41 Here, and most clearly, we can see the blurring of the sacred and the profane. Given that ancient Greeks probably saw no blur at all, this is easily explained. More complicated still were questions of ownership regarding the enormous resources stored in the Panhellenic sanctuaries of Delphi and Olympia. Thucydides mooted the idea that this money might be used against Athens at the start of the Peloponnesian War (Thuc. 1.121.3). Infamously, the Phocians did appropriate the funds of the sanctuary of Delphi to wage the Third Sacred War (Diod. Sic. 16.30, 56.3–8). But at the time, the Phocians held the sanctuary just as the Delphians had done before them. The disapprobation that the Phocians received for this action as temple robbers came from their enemies and punishment only came from the fact that they lost the Third Sacred War. The victors made it illegal for anyone to possess Phocian-Delphic coins. But the Phocians claimed through one story that they had divine sanction to do as they had done.42 The point is that those who controlled sanctuaries used their wealth to whatever end they, and therefore the god, determined best. Piety had little to do with it – and might made right. One example of a new practice that appeared in the fifth century was that of placing a coin in the dead person’s mouth to pay the ferryman – known as Charon’s obol.43 Here is a good example of a changed practice that reflects the everyday world of a monetized state. Spits and other precious goods had long travelled to the hereafter with the dead in Greek burials, but the practice of coins to pay the ferryman across the river to the underworld is not attested either archaeologically or in literature before the fifth century. Cemetery excavations reveal that where there are coins, they are usually singular and very small denominations of bronze (sometimes silver) and they are most commonly placed in the mouth (though not always). Aristophanes’ Frogs has two obols paid as the fare – a comment on the contemporary two-obol distribution (diōbelia) or on the price of theatre admission.44 Heracles: An old sailor will row you over in a boat no bigger than this for the fare of two obols. Dionysus: Wow! What a lot two obols buys. Aristophanes, Frogs 139–41, trans. S. T. Stevens 37

Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World

This is meant ironically, but the whole practice is a clear example of the everyday use of coinage and its influence on belief – a real world practice spilling over into the netherworld. Such a blurring of the sacred and the worldly is typical in comedy. A fragment of Plato Comicus takes the theme of religious dedications and prestige traditional items as its starting point, and then ends the list of dedications and recipients in the highly monetized world of prostitution.45 Perhaps this is really a telling statement on the nature of Greek society and its monetized culture in the early fourth century. The goddess Aphrodite outlines the types of dedication required by her and her attendants. She begins with food and nature’s gifts and ends with money and sex: Aphrodite: first you must offer to me, the Goddess who nurtures children, a well-hung bit of cake, a tart made with the best flour, sixteen birds intact and soaked in honey, twelve crescent-shaped dainties. And there are also these additional items which are the cheapest. Listen: Three sacks of bulbs for Orthannes, and for Konisalos and his two attendants, a platter of myrtle berries plucked by hand (since divinities don’t like the smell of burning off hair); a quarter pound of wheat for the Dogs and the Hunters, a drachma for Lordon, three obols for Kybdasos, a leather hide and sacrificial cakes for the hero Keles. Plato Comicus, Fr. 188 (KA) 7–18, trans. R. Rosen The last three of these are sexual positions – each deified – and the poet has cleverly distinguished positions by money – three obols for ‘bent over forwards’ (kybda), a drachma for ‘bent over backwards’ (lordō), and for the hero and best of them, ‘straddled like a horse’ (kelēs) one must pay an animal’s hide (derma). The hide was traditionally taken and sold by a sanctuary after a dedicatory holocaustic sacrifice – it is not money, but a prestige item of the traditional sacrifice, as we saw with Athena Nike’s new priestess, paid from the sale of skins for coin. The list of religious offerings can be likened to what we see from the inscriptional evidence – a mixture of things, animals, cakes and sacrificial fruits mixed with coins as well. The distinction of one prestige item from others bought by coin is telling – in the end it signifies exchange, typical of prostitution and all religious interaction. If we come back to Aristophanes’ Wealth it is about the money – where we began this chapter. *

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To conclude, money did affect religious practice and the ways in which sanctuaries managed their affairs and their resources. The increased role of the state itself, through the state’s ability to manage its resources through coin, brought the major sanctuary sites 38

Piety, Money and Coinage in Greek Religion

of Athens, and then of Greece as well, into the political world of war and power more starkly. But as with other aspects of the Greek world and perhaps even more than other areas, money did not transform Greek religious practice entirely. It facilitated some changes and the mobility and resettlement of new gods in new sanctuary sites, but as far as other trends in Greek religion are concerned, great transformations were tied up in a variety of other social and political changes in the fifth and fourth centuries.

Notes 1. This paper was originally delivered by Matthew Trundle in January 2013 at the 144th meeting of the Society for Classical Studies; he planned to incorporate a modified version of it into his book on Money and the Transformation of the Greek World. The paper captures his interests and his voice very well. Editorial interventions have largely been limited to the addition of references and other scholarly apparatus. 2. Oppenheim (1977), 106–9; Seaford (2004), 68–87. 3. Lambert (2012). 4. Hdt. 1.87; Bacchylides Ep. 3, Pindar P. 1.94; Kurke (1999), 130–74; Pelling (2006); Mills (2014), esp. n.12. 5. Adkins (1975); Stadter (2017), 288–91. 6. Plut. Nic. 3–4; Pelling (1992). 7. Xen. Poroi 4.14; Davies (1988), 403–7. 8. von Reden (1995), 13–44, 79–104; Mitchell (1997), 1–72; Kurke (1999), 101–71; Schaps (2004), 71–7; Seaford (2004), 23–67. 9. Pulleyn (1997); Parker (1998). 10. von Reden (2010), 164–8; Naiden (2013); Hitch and Rutherford (2017). 11. Will (1954) and (1955); von Reden (1995), 157–8, 177; Kurke (1999), 13–14, 41; Seaford (2004), 142–3. 12. All dates are bce unless otherwise noted. 13. Kallet-Marx (1993), 29–30; von Reden (1995), 174–5; Seaford (2004), 100, 287–90. When the ancient Greeks spoke of money, they were primarily thinking of coinage: Schaps (2008). 14. Laum (1924), 8–126. 15. Seaford (2004), 102–15. 16. Schaps (2004), 92–110; Kroll (2012); Konuk (2012), with much further bibliography. 17. Robinson (1951); Williams (1991–3); Kerschner and Konuk (2020); Kerschner (2020). 18. von Reden (1995), 179–82; Schaps (2004), 90–2; Trundle (2010), 231–2; Elkins and Krmnicek (2014). 19. Brice and Ziskowski (2021). See also Brice in this volume. 20. Ath. Pol. 8.3; Schaps (2004), 88–90. 21. Seaford (2004), 75–115; von Reden (2010), 158–62. 22. Sokolowski (1954), 153–64.

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Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World 23. Gagarin and Perlman (2016), 107–8; Naiden (2020). 24. Blok (2014); Osborne and Rhodes (2017), no. 137. Cf. Pafford (2013). 25. Ampolo (1989/90); Davies (2001); Dignas (2002), 13–109; von Reden (2010), 156–85; Chankowski (2011). 26. Kaminski (1991); Dignas (2002), 21–4; Zoumbaki (2019). 27. Clinton (1974), 10–13; Osborne and Rhodes (2017), no. 106; Lambert (2020), no. 1. 28. Davies (2001), 119–20; Kim (2001). 29. Trundle (2017). See Rosenbloom in this volume on the incorporation of rowers. 30. Parker (1986); Sourvinou-Inwood (2000a, 2000b); Vlassopoulos (2015). 31. Aristotle Ath. Pol. 54.6–7. Davies (1988), 378–9; Parker (1996), 5, 123–37; von Reden (2010), 164–82. 32. He notes, however, that ‘a revolution against the actual forms of aristocratic culture certainly did not occur’; Parker (1996), 76. 33. Kristensen (2020). 34. Davies (2001), 120. 35. Powell (2010). See Millender in this volume for the destabilizing impact of money on Spartan society. 36. Clinton (1974), 10–23, 47–50; Blok and Lambert (2009); Lambert (2012), 69–72. 37. von Reden (1995), 171–94. 38. Parker (1996), 152–87; Anderson (2015). 39. IG I3 136, ll. 20–2, Cf. IG I3 383, ll. 142–3; IG I3 369, ll. 67–8; IG II2 1361; IG II2 1496, ll. 86–7; Parker (1996), 170–5; Wijma (2014), 139–52. 40. In this volume, see Rosenbloom, Matthew, and Armstrong and Termeer, and contrast Spalinger and Brice. 41. Cf. IG I3 52a–b; Aristoph. Lys. 174; Thuc. 1.121, 143; Ath. Pol. 44.1; Samons (1993); Harris (1995), 28–36; Blamire (2001). 42. Diod. Sic. 16.33.1–2; Ehrhardt (1966); Scott (2014), 149–59. 43. Grinder-Hansen (1991); Stevens (1991); Alföldy-Găzdac and Găzdac (2013). 44. Sommerstein (1996), 168. 45. Rosen (1995).

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Piety, Money and Coinage in Greek Religion Blok, J. H. (2014), ‘The Priestess of Athena Nike: A New Reading of IG I3 35 and 36’, Kernos 27: 99–126. Blok, J. H. and S. D. Lambert (2009), ‘The Appointment of Priests in Attic Gene’, Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 169: 95–121. Brice, L. L. and A. Ziskowski (2021), ‘Athena, Peirene and Pegasi: Myth and Identity in Corinthian Numismatics’, Numismatic Chronicle 181: 1–16. Chankowski, V. (2011), ‘Divine Financiers: Cults as Consumers and Generators of Value’, in Z. H. Archibald, J. K. Davies and V. Gabrielsen (eds), The Economies of Hellenistic Societies: Third to First Centuries bc, 142–76, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Clinton, K. (1974), The Sacred Officials of the Eleusinian Mysteries, Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society. Davies, J. K. (1988), ‘Religion and the State’ in J. Boardman, N. Hammond, D. Lewis and M. Ostwald (eds), The Cambridge Ancient History, 368–88, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Davies, J. K. (2001), ‘Temples, Credit and the Circulation of Money’, in A. Meadows and K. Shipton (eds), Money and Its Uses in the Ancient Greek World, 117–28, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Dignas, B. (2002), Economy of the Sacred in Hellenistic and Roman Asia Minor, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Ehrhardt, C. (1966), ‘The Fate of the Treasures of Delphi’, Phoenix 20: 228–30. Elkins, N. T. and S. Krmnicek (2014), ‘Dinosaurs, Cocks and Coins: An Introduction to “Art in the Round” ’, in N. T. Elkins and S. Krmnicek (eds), ‘Art in the Round’: New Approaches to Ancient Coin Iconography, 7–22, Rahden: Verlag Marie Leidorf. Gagarin, M. and P. J. Perlman (2016), The Laws of Ancient Crete: c. 650–400 bce, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Grinder-Hansen, K. (1991), ‘Charon’s Fee in Ancient Greece: Some Remarks on a Well-known Death Rite’, Acta Hyperboreia 3: 207–18. Harris, D. (1995), The Treasures of the Parthenon and Erechtheion, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Hitch, S. and I. Rutherford (2017), Animal Sacrifice in the Ancient Greek World, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kallet-Marx, L. (1993), Money, Expense, and Naval Power in Thucydides’ History 1–5.24, Berkeley: University of California Press. Kaminski, G. (1991), ‘Thesauros: Untersuchungen zum antiken Opferstock’, Jahrbuch des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts 106: 63–181. Kerschner M. (2020), ‘The Archaic Temples in the Artemision of the “Central Basis” ’, in P. van Alfen and U. Wartenberg (eds), White Gold: Studies in Early Electrum Coinage, 191–262, New York: American Numismatic Society. Kerschner M. and K. Konuk (2020), ‘Electrum Coins and their Archaeological Context: The Case of the Artemision of Ephesus’, in P. van Alfen and U. Wartenberg (eds), White Gold: Studies in Early Electrum Coinage, 83–190, New York: American Numismatic Society. Kim, H. S. (2001), ‘Archaic Coinage as Evidence for the Use of Money’, in A. Meadows and K. Shipton (eds), Money and Its Uses in the Ancient Greek World, 7–22, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Konuk, K. (2012), ‘Asia Minor to the Ionian Revolt’, in W. E. Metcalf (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Greek and Roman Coinage, 43–60, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Kristensen, T. M. (2020), ‘Space, Exchange and the Embedded Economies of Greek Sanctuaries’, in A. Collar and T. M. Kristensen (eds), Pilgrimage and Economy in the Ancient Mediterranean, 204–27, Leiden: Brill. Kroll, J. H. (2012), ‘The Monetary Background of Early Coinage’, in W. E. Metcalf (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Greek and Roman Coinage, 32–42, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Kurke, L. (1999), Coins, Bodies, Games and Gold, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Lambert, S. D. (2012), ‘The Social Construction of Priests and Priestesses in Athenian Honorific Decrees from the Fourth Century bc to the Augustan Period’, in M. Horster and A. Klöckner 41

Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World (eds), Civic Priests: Cult personnel in Athens from the Hellenistic period to Late Antiquity, 67–133, Berlin: De Gruyter. Lambert, S. D. (2020), Attic Inscriptions in UK Collections 4.3A: British Museum, Decrees of Other Bodies, https://orca.cardiff.ac.uk/id/eprint/137777. Laum, B. (1924), Heiliges Geld: eine historische Untersuchung über den sakralen Ursprung des Geldes, Tübingen: Mohr. Linders, T. (1975), The Treasurers of the Other Gods in Athens and their Functions, Meisenheim: Hain. Mills, S. J. V. (2014), ‘The Lydian Logos of Herodotus 1.50–2’, Greece and Rome 61: 147–51. Mitchell, L. G. (1997), Greeks Bearing Gifts: The Public Use of Private Relationships in the Greek World, 435–323 bc, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Naiden, F. S. (2013), Smoke Signals for the Gods: Ancient Greek Sacrifice from the Archaic through Roman Periods, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Naiden, F. S. (2020), ‘The Monetisation of Sacrifice’, in A. Collar and T. M. Kristensen (eds), Pilgrimage and Economy in the Ancient Mediterranean, 163–86, Leiden: Brill. Oppenheim, A. L. (1977), Ancient Mesopotamia: Portrait of a Dead Civilization, 2nd edn, Chicago: Chicago University Press. Osborne. R. and P. J. Rhodes (2017), Greek Historical Inscriptions 478–404 bc, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Pafford, I. (2013), ‘Priestly Portion vs. Cult Fees: The Finances of Greek Sanctuaries’, in M. Horster and A. Klöckner (eds), Cities and Priests: Cult Personnel in Asia Minor and the Aegean Islands from the Hellenistic to the Imperial Period, 49–64, Berlin: De Gruyter. Parker, R. (1986), ‘Greek Religion’, in J. Boardman, J. Griffin and O. Murray (eds), The Oxford History of the Classical World, 254–74, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Parker, R. (1996), Athenian Religion: A History, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Parker, R. (1998), ‘Pleasing Thighs: Reciprocity in Greek Religion’, in C. Gill, N. Postlethwaite and R. Seaford (eds), Reciprocity in Ancient Greece, 105–26, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Pelling, C. B. R. (1992), ‘Plutarch and Thucydides’, in P. A. Stadter (ed.), Plutarch and the Historical Tradition, 10–40, London: Routledge. Pelling, C. B. R. (2006), ‘Educating Croesus: Talking and Learning in Herodotus’ Lydian Logos’, Classical Antiquity 25: 141–77. Powell, A. (2010), ‘Divination, Royalty and Insecurity in Classical Sparta’, in A. Powell and S. Hodkinson (eds), Sparta: The Body Politic, 85–135, Swansea: The Classical Press of Wales. Pulleyn, S. (1997), Prayer in Greek Religion, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Robinson, E. S. G. (1951), ‘The Coins from the Ephesian Artemision Reconsidered’, Journal of Hellenic Studies 71: 156–67. Rosen, R. (1995), ‘Plato Comicus and the Evolution of Greek Comedy’, in G. W. Dobrov (ed.), Beyond Aristophanes: Transition and Diversity in Greek Comedy, 119–37, Atlanta, GA: Scholars’ Press. Samons, L. J. (1993), ‘Athenian Finance and the Treasury of Athena’, Historia 42: 129–38. Schaps, D. M. (2004), The Invention of Coinage and the Monetization of Ancient Greece, Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Schaps, D. M. (2008), ‘What Was Money in Archaic Greece’, in W. V. Harris (ed.), The Monetary Systems of the Greeks and Romans, 38–48, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Scott, M. (2014), Delphi: A History of the Center of the Ancient World, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Seaford, R. (2004), Money and the Early Greek Mind, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Sokolowski, F. (1954), ‘Fees and Taxes in the Greek Cults’, The Harvard Theological Review 47: 153–64. Sommerstein, A. H. (1996), Aristophanes, Frogs, Warminster: Aris & Phillips. Sourvinou-Inwood, C. (2000a), ‘What is Polis Religion?’, in R. Buxton (ed.), Oxford Readings in Greek Religion, 13–37, Oxford: Oxford University Press. 42

Piety, Money and Coinage in Greek Religion Sourvinou-Inwood, C. (2000b), ‘Further Aspects of Polis Religion’, in R. Buxton (ed.), Oxford Readings in Greek Religion, 38–55, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Stadter, P. A. (2017), ‘Characterization of Individuals in Thucydides’ History’, in S. Forsdyke, E. Foster and R. Balot (eds), The Oxford Handbook of Thucydides, 283–99, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Stevens, S. T. (1991), ‘Charon’s Obol and Other Coins in Ancient Greek Funerary Practice’, Phoenix 45: 215–29. Trundle, M. (2010), ‘Coinage and the Transformation of Greek Warfare’, in G. Fagan and M. Trundle (eds), New Perspectives on Ancient Warfare, 227–52, Leiden: Brill. Trundle, M. (2017), ‘Coinage and Democracy: Economic Redistribution as the Basis of Democratic Athens’, Richard Evans (ed.), Mass and Elite in the Greek and Roman Worlds, 11–20, New York: Routledge. Vlassopoulos, K. (2015), ‘Religion in Communities’, in E. Eidinow and J. Kindt (eds), The Oxford Handbook of Ancient Greek Religion, 257–72, Oxford: Oxford University Press. von Reden, S. (1995), Exchange in Ancient Greece, London: Duckworth. von Reden, S. (2010), Money in Classical Antiquity: Key Themes in Ancient History, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Wijma, S. M. (2014), Embracing the Immigrant: The Participation of Metics in Athenian Polis Religion (5th – 4th Century bc), Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag. Will, É. (1954), ‘De l’aspect éthique des origines grecques de la monnaie’, Revue Historique 212: 209–31. Will, É. (1955), ‘Réflexions et hypothèses sur les origines du monnayage’, Revue Numismatique 17: 5–23. Williams, D. (1991–3), ‘The “Pot Hoard” Pot from the Archaic Artemision at Ephesus’, Bulletin of the Institute of Classical Studies 38: 98–103. Zoumbaki, S. (2019), ‘Monetization of Piety and Personalization of Religious Experience: The Role of Thesauroi in the Greek Mainland and the Cyclades’, in S. Krmnicek and J. Chameroy (eds), Money Matters: Coin finds and ancient coin use, 189–208, Bonn: Habelt Verlag.

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CHAPTER 4 NAVAL SERVICE AND POLITICAL POWER IN CLASSICAL ATHENS: AN INVERSE RELATION David Rosenbloom

Perhaps in reaction to claims that service on Athenian triremes offered citizen rowers a ‘democratic education’ or over time proved the worthiness of thētes (marginalized citizens) to exercise citizenship in the Athenian democracy, lines of correlation and causation among socio-economic status, military function, political power and the evolution of democracy at Athens have been decentred.1 The first proposition to be dismissed is that naval power played a causal role in the formation and evolution of democracy at Athens, or, indeed, anywhere in the Greek world.2 Non-democratic poleis, such as Sparta and Corinth, maintained navies; this had no discernible effect on their political organization. These cities used slaves, non-citizen perioikoi and mercenaries as rowers. Democratic Athens, mutatis mutandis, adopted such practices with increasing frequency over the course of the fifth and fourth centuries bce (Thuc. 1.121.3, 143; 7.63.3; IG I3 1032).3 Athens, by contrast, had employed large numbers of thētes as rowers after the creation of the fleet and the victory at Salamis in 480. Indeed, increasing democratization at Athens in the half-century between the reforms of Ephialtes in 462 and the oligarchic takeover of 411 was predicated on the agency of these citizens in the democratic process as dicasts and assemblymen rather than on their active service as rowers. Military service may explain or justify power of the lower classes; but such service did not constitute their power. This was a result of their activity in majoritarian institutions coordinated by prosecutors and orators classified as ponēroi (‘bad’, ‘base’ and ‘inauthentic’ [Xen.] Ath. Pol. 1.2-9,13; cf. [Arist.] Ath. Pol. 28).4 Athens became increasingly democratic after 462, not because marginalized citizens rowed in the fleet, but because they no longer rowed in the fleet in such large numbers over such long periods of service. As rowers and citizens, thētes remained virtually invisible in Athenian society and politics from 480 through 428.5 The exercise of their rights and assertion of the power of their numbers in the courts and assembly were the basis for their visibility and political power. Vincent Gabrielsen has pointed out that the long-term employment of Athenian citizens as rowers would have risked ‘demographic suicide’ for them and their city.6 This chapter argues a corollary to this premise: long-term employment as rowers would have been ‘political suicide’ for thētes in Athens’ direct democracy, in which the exercise of power required physical presence in political and legal venues. Naval service was a fulltime occupation that hindered rowers’ participation in democratic institutions. Thucydides’ Pericles reminds the Athenians in 432 that ‘sea power is a matter of art, and like any other art, it is not possible to practise it at any old time as an avocation; rather, 45

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it leaves no time for an avocation’ (1.142.9).7 Unlike their counterparts in the infantry and cavalry, fifth-century citizen rowers and hypēresia were professionals: they worked abroad for long stretches of time, and wages from naval service and whatever could be stolen or seized during it comprised the bulk of their income.8 Accordingly, this chapter argues that citizen rowers did not exercise political power as a group until demographic, economic and political conditions in Athens permitted it: thetic migration to and concentration in Athens and Piraeus; the burgeoning of the economies in these centres, which provided opportunities for wage-earning, and – fundamentally – economic incentive to participate in the political process offered by the introduction of pay for jury service.

Socio-economic class and military service Some historians have severed linkage between socio-economic status and military identity in the Athenian democracy by dismissing Solonian census classes, which were based on the capacity of citizen land to produce dry and wet measures of produce ([Arist.] Ath. Pol. 7.4), as irrelevant to the structure of the Athenian military and its various branches – cavalry, hoplites and marines, archers and mounted archers, naval crews and rowers.9 One justification for this view is the recognition that in order for a zeugitēs in 431 to produce 200 medimnoi of wheat as required by the Solonian census, he would need to own a farm of between 8 and 13 hectares.10 Producing mandatory measures of wheat would require more arable land than available in Attica to sustain a force of 13,000 to 18,000 hoplites (Thuc. 2.13.6).11 This formulation is incomplete, since it does not include liquid measures, which also qualified a citizen for a telos ([Arist.] Ath. Pol. 7.4).12 Moreover, virtually all responses to this problem assume that Solon’s measures of wet and dry produce remained in place even after the economy, society, religion, military and politics at Athens became highly monetized after c. 450.13 For Hans van Wees, this means that the majority of hoplites were volunteer thētes.14 This theory lacks explicit support in contemporary evidence; and the pressure on thētes to serve voluntarily as the backbone of both the infantry and navy would have placed enormous pressure on this population, which was under no compulsion to serve. That some correlation between the titles of Solonian census classes (rather than criteria for membership) and military roles persisted in the fifth century is difficult to deny. These designations lingered in Athenian society and determined eligibility for political participation and for recruitment and service in the military.15 Thucydides would not have noted that pentakosiomedimnoi and hippeis did not serve on the 100-ship fleet that conducted a show of force in 428 but that metics did, if Solonian classes were irrelevant to military service (Thuc. 3.16.1). Pentakosiomedimnoi is an unambiguous reference to a Solonian census class in a military context. The extraordinary character of the muster (it was hardly a military emergency) does not negate the importance of Solonian census classes in the context of military eligibility; if such classes were germane in this instance, they were also relevant in others. Pentakosiomedimnoi and hippeis were 46

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registered either as cavalrymen or as hoplites.16 Thucydides leaves the reader to infer that hoplites (he never uses the term zeugitai) and thētes served in the fleet; but he does not specify their respective duties and modes of recruitment (Thuc. 3.16.1). Since the Athenians neither expected nor intended to fight a naval battle, but to make a show of force and to ravage Peloponnesian coastal land, it is distinctly possible that hoplites were not conscripted as rowers, as is often assumed, but were carried aboard the ships to disembark at landing points, perhaps as many as forty to sixty-plus in a ship.17 Such service promised numerous opportunities for taking booty. If Thucydides can refer to pentakosiomedimnoi and hippeis as census and military recruitment classes, then he can employ the word ‘thētes’ in the same way (Thuc. 6.43). Vincent Rosivach argues that the 700 thētes serving as marines on board the seventy fast triremes the Athenians sent to Sicily in 415 were not ‘Solonic (sic) thetes’; rather, the word bore the socio-economic sense of ‘a poor person who works for wages’.18 This, however, is what Solonian and all thētes were: free, poor people who had to sell their labour to subsist. Solonian thētes were allegedly accorded political rights and responsibilities commensurate with this socio-economic status.19 Thētes were citizens who owned their own persons. If they owned land, this did not require a team of oxen to plough; they would need to supplement their work by selling their labour.20 More commonly, after the monetization of Athens, thētes were landless citizens who lived by selling their labour for a wage. The defining feature of thētes’ land – if they had any – was its lack of economic or sociopolitical utility. There was no distinction between a landed and landless thēs.21 Thētes’ land was considered a negligible benefit to its owners and to the community; it was defined as insufficient for a livelihood. The core meaning of the label ‘thēs’ changed little over time.22 For Achilles, as for Solon, thētes formed the lowest stratum of free persons. Achilles declared the life of a man bound to work (θητευέμεν) the land of a poor farmer preferable to ‘being lord of all the dead corpses’ (Od. 11.488–91). Thētes were one rung above slaves and one degree above social death. Their position was widely recognized as unenviable. As early as Homer, thētes were available to row beside slaves: Antinous suspects that Telemachus used his ‘his own thētes and slaves’ (ἑοὶ αὐτοῦ/ θῆτές τε δμῶτές τε) to row to Pylos instead of ‘select youths of Ithaca’ (Hom. Od. 4.643–4).23 Status as a free person born in Attica entitled a thēs to a minimal level of participation and power and no compulsory duty to serve in the military. Aristotle defines thetic political participation as exclusion from office-holding: ‘the fourth class, the thetic, who have no share in archē’ (τὸ δὲ τέταρτον τὸ θητικόν, οἷς οὐδεμιᾶς ἀρχῆς μετῆν, Pol. 1274a21; cf. [Arist.] Ath. Pol. 7.4). Even in democratic Athens, zeugitai did not gain entry to archonships until 457/6 ([Arist.] Ath. Pol. 26.2). Thētes never gained entry. Late in the fourth century, according to the Constitution of the Athens, ‘whenever someone about to be allotted an office is asked what census class he is in, no one would say “thetic” ’ ([Arist.] Ath. Pol. 7.4). The Athenians stopped enforcing the rule. The equivalence of thētes and citizen rowers in democratic Athens is a valid inference by exclusion.24 The principle that thētes had no share in archē (both in the sense of ‘office’ and ‘rule’) proved to be impossible to eradicate and was residual in Athenian culture during the democracy. 47

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Members of the three higher census classes did not identify with thētes; as marginal figures, they were unrepresentative of the group. In political institutions, thētes could only represent themselves as dicasts and assemblymen and not their tribes as bouleutai or the city as magistrates. Unable to represent others in their society, they are difficult for ancient and modern historians to see in the ancient record. Thucydides’ History is a case in point. Unlike money, hoplites, hippeis, mounted archers and archers, fortifications, and the triremes they rowed, rowers were not countable military assets of the Athenian polis (Thuc. 2.13.6–9; 8.1.2). That citizen archers, who were thētes and served with foreigners, were counted as military assets (Thuc. 2.13.8), suggests that thetic status was not the sole factor warranting rowers’ exclusion from enumerations of the city’s power.25 Since rowers did not ‘possess arms’, they may not have qualified as military assets (see e.g. Arist. Pol. 1297b1–2; Thuc. 8.66.1). Thucydides’ Pericles considers Athens’ hypēresia the most important component of the navy, ‘more numerous and better than the whole of Greece’ (Thuc. 1.143.1; cf. 6.31.3).26 Pseudo-Xenophon (Ath. Pol. 1.2), Plato (Leg. 707a4–b2), and Aristotle (Pol. 1327b7–9) imply that naval specialists were thētes; none of these writers would include them as citizens in their preferred polities. Thucydides’ account of the aftermath of the disaster in Sicily at Athens makes rowers’ invisibility conspicuous. Thucydides depicts the Athenians as privately and collectively aggrieved because they were ‘deprived of hoplites and hippeis in the prime of life . . .’. ‘They despaired’, he adds, ‘of being saved’ (ἀνέλπιστοι . . . σωσθήσεσθαι) because three things had vanished: ‘sufficient ships in the ship sheds, money in the treasury, and hypēresia for the ships’ (Thuc. 8.1.2). Rowers do not enter the picture. The tendency to recognize hoplites and hippeis as citizens and soldiers constitutive of the city’s power (δύναμις) is also prominent in Thucydides’ report of deaths from the plague in Athens: ‘no fewer than 4,400 hoplites [cf. 2.58.3] died from the ranks and 300 hippeis, but the number of the rest of the undifferentiated mass (ὄχλος) was undiscoverable’ (Thuc. 3.87.4).27 As he does with the number of hoplites and hippeis on campaign or killed in fighting, Thucydides precisely details ship numbers and losses in battle; he never enumerates casualties among thetic components of a force – rowers, archers, or hypēresia.28 A ship, which cost a talent or more to construct, was more individualized and idealized than the men who rowed it. The names of triremes declared the fundamental values of the Athenian polis; their rowers remained anonymous and invisible.29 Thucydides’ labelling of sub-hoplite citizen and non-citizen military populations at Athens, and elsewhere, as an undifferentiated, unqualified, and uncountable ‘mob’ (ὄχλος) reveals with unmistakable clarity his attitude toward rowers. Elite Athenian discourse – even in public venues – aligned this group with the thetic population and the qualities considered appropriate to it: deficiency in wealth and property, education, discipline and virtue ([Xen.] Ath. Pol. 1.5; cf. Eur. Antiope fr. 200, c. 427–416). Thucydides employs the noun ochlos (‘mob’, ‘annoyance’, ‘disturbance’) to depreciate sub-hoplite forces and non-Greeks as quantities without valuable qualities (cf. 2.88.3).30 At the same time, from the 420s onward, sources depict the lower class as the decisive element in democratic institutions – assembly and courts – and attribute to it the strongest allegiance to democracy of any segment of the Athenian population.31 The uses of word ‘ochlos’ and 48

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allied terms chart the ascendance of thētes as a political force at Athens in the distorted reflection of elite revulsion toward it – and this moment does not arrive until the 420s when stasis begins to emerge at Athens.32 Athenian military roles measured and reflected the socio-economic status of personnel, and consequently, their access to political power; this was an unavoidable legacy of Solonian census classes, however they may have been adapted in fifth-century Athens. Rowers were depicted as serving as a consequence of economic need and the prospect of pay (e.g. Thuc. 6.24.3; 8.43.3). They sold their labour and risked their lives to make a living (cf. Sol. fr. 12.41–6). This attitude likewise imbued the interpretation of thētes’ service as dicasts, which was performed out of economic need (e.g. Ar. Eq. 797– 804; Vesp. 711). The mode of recruitment Athens employed for rowers confirms the transactional nature of the relationship between the polis and citizen rowers. Throughout the fifth and into the fourth century, payment for service was sufficient to ensure the required supply of rowers and hypēresia on triremes (Thuc. 1.121.3; 6.31.3). Athenian crews were neither drafted by tribal lists in the fifth century nor organized by tribes.33 The Cleisthenic reforms failed to incorporate thētes as citizens with military duties into the tribal system.34 Hippeis and hoplites were conscripted from tribal lists; thētes served in all capacities as volunteers. A passage in Thucydides is sometimes interpreted to mean that sailors were conscripted from lists: ‘and they voted to send another military force, both naval and infantry, both of Athenians and of allies from the catalogue’ (στρατιὰν δὲ ἄλλην ἐψηφίσαντο πέμπειν καὶ ναυτικὴν καὶ πεζὴν Ἀθηναίων τε ἐκ καταλόγου καὶ τῶν ξυμμάχων, 7.16.1).35 The words τε ἐκ καταλόγου modify Athenian and allied ‘infantry’ not ‘navy’ (cf. Thuc. 6.26.2 for allied hoplites conscripted from lists). Thētes volunteered as marines; they were not, so far as we can tell, conscripted from lists (Thuc. 6.43.1; IG I3 60); thētes serving as rowers in the fleet were recruited in the same way. Thētes were professional rowers – they rowed to make a living (duty is not essential to thētes’ contract with the polis, though it cannot be excluded as a factor). It is possible to identify two conditions that reduced citizen participation in the navy and enabled the rise of thētes to political power in the 420s: introduction of pay for jury service and migration to population centres in Athens and Piraeus. The next section examines the first condition.

Misthophora for jury service The introduction of payment for jury service, misthophora, marked a watershed in the history of Athenian democracy.36 Modern historians tend to link the introduction to Ephialtes’ reforms, as did some in antiquity (Arist. Pol. 1274a5–11; Plut. Per. 9.3–5).37 Those reforms made dikastēria possible; but they appear to have culminated in the admission of zeugitai to the archonship in 457, removing the privilege of hippeis and pentakosiomedimnoi in this regard ([Arist.] Ath. Pol. 26.2). Introduction of pay for jury service, on the other hand, set Athens on the path to what Aristotle termed ‘the final 49

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phase of democracy’ (τελευταία δημοκρατία).38 Misthophora not only enabled, but positively invited the participation of those with insufficient resources, who would otherwise be unable to participate in self-government. There is no firm evidence for the date of its introduction or for the exact number of jurors serving in the courts at the time. Misthophora for jury service offered thētes 30 and older an alternative to service in the navy. The transfer of the allied treasury from Delos to Athens sometime before 454/3, when a sixtieth of each tribute payment dedicated to Athena begins to be recorded, is probably more relevant than Ephialtes’ reforms to the introduction of jury pay.39 The introduction of misthophora would require an augmented supply of silver coins in smaller denominations.40 Chester Starr notes a rise in obols among his Group V coins (dated c. 455–449). These coins, marked by ‘a breakdown in the inherited design’, might be an index of the introduction of misthophora for jury service; after 449, ‘obols and hemiobols are relatively more numerous’.41 Coins struck in the denomination of a triobol/ hemidrachm appear to postdate 450.42 The evidence of Athenian coinage may imply a date shortly after c. 450 for the introduction of misthophora for jurors. Political considerations make this hypothesis more appealing. Pericles’ citizenship law (451/0) could have been used to legitimate the practice of compensating citizens for the performance of non-military duties. The law guaranteed that those eligible for paid political service were legally defined citizens.43 The law may have also legitimated some who had been enfranchised through demes from the 470s to the early 450s, when the Athenian citizen population grew by a factor difficult to explain by natural growth alone.44 The rationale for the law offered in the Constitution of the Athenians, ‘because of the number of citizens’ (διὰ τὸ πλῆθος τῶν πολιτῶν, Ath. Pol. 26.4) suggests an intention to curtail new entrants, a segment of whom may have rowed in the fleet and become citizens prior to the law and the introduction of misthophora for jury service. Pay for jury service was not merely compensation or a ‘bonus’.45 For thētes, it was a path to the exercise of political power. Thētes volunteered for military service to earn a wage and to fulfil their duty to the city, even though it was not mandatory; the latter motive is obvious in times of crisis (see below). For many thētes, livelihood, life and identity were closely connected to naval service and pay. Jury service was likewise voluntary, paid and essential to both the class and the wider civic identity of thētes; it offered thētes a voice and power in the democracy, quite possibly for the first time in the city’s history. It is not necessary to endorse the stereotype that thētes acted exclusively for money to understand misthophora as a tactic to co-opt them into political agency. To attract thētes to serve in any capacity, the polis needed to offer payment. Nor can we deny political motives. Pericles sought to expand the politically active citizen body and reinforce his strength in mass political venues. As his great uncle Cleisthenes achieved numerical superiority in the assembly by allying with hoplites, Pericles expanded his alliance to include thētes as dicasts, extending his power base to the popular courts.46 The preponderance of thētes in the Athenian citizen population meant that in a random 50

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selection, they would represent over half the jurors in the total pool, and possibly far more, since they had the greatest financial incentive and would reap the greatest political reward.47 The generation of ‘new politicians’ who came to prominence after the death of Pericles used the dikastēria as prosecutors of public crimes to form bonds with jurors, gaining their trust, accumulating the power and influence needed to dominate in the assembly; they bypassed elected office as stratēgoi and the opportunity to build bonds with citizens in the crucible of battle.48 Many scholars consider the composition of fifth-century juries skewed toward poorer and older citizens.49 Because elite ideology depicts the courts as a locus for the exercise of a vicious demotic power – ‘tyranny’ – historians hesitate to validate elitist opinion or seek to palliate it by denying a class consciousness to thētes or a responsiveness to the political rhetoric that expressed it.50 When the system reaches its zenith a generation later, elite attitudes cast the courts as a venue for the criminalization and dispossession of the wealthy.51 Euripides’ Odysseus sums up the attitude upon his arrival at the land of the Cyclopes in Sicily when he asks about their government: ‘Whom do they obey? Has power been confiscated by the demos’? (τίνος κλύοντες; ἢ δεδήμευται κράτος; 119). Odysseus imagines two possibilities: monarchy, or the collective monarchy of the dēmos. Describing democracy as the dēmos’ ‘confiscation’ of power suggests the courts as a platform for demotic power and might imply confiscations conducted as a result of convictions of those accused of profaning the Mysteries and mutilating the Herms.52 Pericles legally defined the citizen as born from two Athenian parents, retooled the mint to produce coins in smaller denominations and invited thētes to serve as jurors. The next step was to ensure a ratio of jury to military pay that was not so attractive that it would disastrously deter thētes from thirty to forty-nine years of age from serving in the navy. The result, however, was a potentially unsustainable rise in military pay and a decline in citizen participation in the navy from somewhere between 66 and 50 per cent to around 33 per cent of the personnel on a trireme.53

The ratio of military to jury pay: Maintaining military advantage Misthophora for jury service presented complications. The framers of the law may have realized that one consequence of thētes’ serving as paid jurors would be a diversion of rowers thirty and older from naval to jury service. In the aftermath of the introduction, thētes over thirty inured to rowing could choose between two types of service, provided they were allotted places in the jury pool for the year.54 In order not to make jury service too enticing for anyone, the misthos seems to have been set at two obols.55 The ratio of jury pay to military pay at the time misthophora was introduced is not known.56 The 1,404+ talents spent to quell the revolt of Samos from 441 to 439 appear to require a rate of 1 drachma per day for rowers (IG I3 363.5, 12, 17, 19: 128+, 368+, and 908+ talents).57 The revolt turned into a full-blown crisis (Thuc. 1.115–6; 8.76.4; cf. Plut. Per. 26.2–4, 28.2–3). At probably three times the current rate of pay for jury service, a drachma per day would overcome any impediment jury pay might pose to the recruitment of 51

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seasoned citizen rowers, while also attracting metics, mercenaries and slaves to service. It would also have facilitated the rapid manning of successive squadrons of sixty, forty, and forty + twenty Athenian ships that were sent to Samos in 440/39 (Thuc. 1.116–7).58 That payments during the Samian war (441–439) come close to 1404+ talents suggests that hoplites earned two drachmae a day during the eight-month siege, one for themselves and one for a hypēretēs.59 This was apparently the rate paid during the siege of Potidaea nine years later (Thuc. 3.17.4).60 Moreover, we are unable to take into account the possible financial impacts of lost or disabled ships and casualties among the crews, although we know these occurred in large numbers (Thuc. 1.117.1; Arist. Rhet. 1365a30–3, 1411a1–4; Plut. Per. 8.9, 26.2). Nor do we not know whether the Athenians used funds from other sources in addition to Athena’s treasury. Even so, it is reasonable to suppose that Athenian military pay, from at least 441 until 413, was one drachma/day.61 No other military could match it; but given the grinding nature of Athenian siege tactics and strategy, which aimed to reduce victims to starvation, this level of payment rendered military operations hugely expensive. That Cleon increased the rate of pay for jury service to three obols in 425 likewise suggests a rate of one drachma per day for military service; otherwise, military service would lose its advantage over jury service among thētes over thirty. Aristophanes treats the increase as a demagogic enticement to indebt Cleon’s constituency of thētes to himself, creating ‘phratry brothers of the triobol’ (Eq. 255–7). However, the increase could have restored a ratio of one to two between jurors’ and rowers’ pay that might have existed at the introduction of misthophora. This increase would have enabled jurors to subsist, and it might also have also been close to the wage for unskilled labour at the time.62 After the debacle in Syracuse, wages for naval service hovered around three obols a day (Thuc. 8.45.2; Xen. Hell 1.5.4; Plut. Alc. 35.4). After Athens’ defeat, military pay probably reached a diobol and covered only food. Unless it is pure fantasy, Theopompus’ comedy, Female Soldiers (Stratōtides), was premised on military pay of a diobol (considered sufficient, however, for a man to keep a wife). Even so, if wives were to join their husbands on campaign for an additional diobol, ‘what household would not flourish’? (fr. 56). The premise of the comedy was the absurdity of trying to make a living on military pay in fourth-century Athens. Rowers’ pay would never return to the fifth-century level of a drachma a day in fourth-century Athens. The rate fluctuated between a di- and a triobol, and had to be supplemented by whatever booty could be taken.63 That pay for jury service did not increase from its three-obol rate set in 425, even in the face of rising wages and costs, is a function of stagnant military pay. Increasing jurors’ pay would have been counterproductive at a time when wages for rowers were comparable. In the fourth century, the polis sought to attract thētes to assembly meetings rather than to the courts, raising the rate for attendance from an obol to a triobol between 403 to 392 (Arist. Ath. Pol. 41.3; Ar. Eccl. 183–8, 205–12, 300–10, 380–93). By 322, the rate had risen to one and a half drachmae for a kuria assembly and one drachma for an ordinary assembly ([Arist.] Ath. Pol. 62.2). These rates were competitive with the wages the state paid unskilled 52

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labour in construction projects. Neither military nor jury pay kept pace with the cost of living and could attract thētes to service. By 362, these factors contributed to the construction of catalogues for calling up thētes to serve in the navy ([Dem. 50]).64 Two critical variables influenced thetic public service: financial incentives and location. The former depended upon the relative risks, rewards and opportunity costs involved in rowing, jury service, work on public projects and labour in private employment. The latter determined what sorts of opportunities for paid work might be available. Tangible benefits accrued to thētes who resided and worked in Athens and Piraeus.

Naval service, migration and economic opportunity A steady but unmeasurable migration of thētes to the city and Piraeus can be posited in the period c. 479 to c. 440.65 These movements facilitated thētes’ service in the fleet and made it possible for them to find employment other than rowing. Such migrants benefitted from Pericles’ introduction of pay for jury service and wages from the building programme, which also got underway in the period c. 450 to 447.66 Relocation at this time also enabled thētes to exercise their rights as citizens in the courts and assembly. If thētes’ connection to the land had been advantageous, they would not have volunteered for long stints in the navy, migrated to colonies and cleruchies, or moved to Athens and Piraeus.67 Both population centres teemed with economic opportunities as the central market and port of the Aegean from the 440s onward (Hermipp. Porters fr. 63; [Xen.] Ath. Pol. 2.7; Thuc. 2.38.2). Control of the sea generated unparalleled opportunities for wealth ([Xen.] Ath. Pol. 2.11–12), and naval power required skilled and unskilled labour ([Xen.] Ath. Pol.1.10–12). The sheer volume of government business ([Xen.] Ath. Pol. 3.1–8) and the requirement that subjects use Athenian courts provided profitable opportunities for rentiers and service providers alike ([Xen.] Ath. Pol. 1.16–18). The effects of the next phase of migration from the countryside to within the peribolos and long walls, during the plague from 430 to 426, are even clearer (Thuc. 2.16–17), for a critical mass of thētes remained in and around Athens and Piraeus after 426; and they magnified the power of their group. Thētes both shaped and adapted to this environment. In Aristophanes’ Knights of 424, Demos personifies a displaced population of thētes, even though he is called a ‘master, rustic in temperament’ (δέσποτης/ ἄγροικος ὀργήν, 40–1). Demos occupies, for the seventh year, an urban wasteland and lives in discarded casks, the nooks and crannies of rocks, and the towers of the city walls (Ar. Eq. 792–6; cf. Thuc. 2.17). The fantasy of the Knights returns Demos to the countryside where he belongs (Ar. Eq. 1393–5) and from where he cannot so readily hold the balance of power in the assembly and courts (cf. Arist. Pol. 1319a24–38). When restored to his ancestral home, Demos will eat humble rustic fare, boiled groats and pressed olive cakes, and ‘will learn what kinds of goods you [sc. Paphlagon] cheated him from by paying him a wage’; then he returns as an enraged peasant to wreak vengeance on Paphlagon (Ar. Eq. 805–7). The comedy’s fiction is not 53

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that thētes wield power in the democracy, live in proximity to the Pnyx and agora, or that Demos is a tyrant (Ar. Eq. 1111–50). Rather, the fiction is that wage-earning for jury service is foreign and detrimental to Demos and to the alleged autonomy of his rustic ancestral lifestyle (cf. Thuc. 2.16.1), and causes him to ‘gape’ at the demagogue Paphlagon ‘out of necessity, need and a wage’ (Ar. Eq. 804). Athenian culture shines a spotlight on thētes as a political force in the early 420s.68 Euripides’ Hippolytus (428) offers the first extant use of the term ‘mob’ (ὄχλος) to describe the composition of a political assembly. The title character differentiates his preferred mode of communication from that of demagogic politicians: he is ‘unsophisticated when it comes to giving a speech to the mob’ (ἄκομψος εἰς ὄχλον δοῦναι λόγον), ‘but more skilled at addressing my agemates and the few’ (Eur. Hipp. 986–7). Democratic orators, by contrast, are considered ‘substandard (φαῦλοι) among the wise (σοφοῖς), but more favoured by the muses when it comes to addressing a mob’ (παρ᾿ ὄχλῳ, Eur. Hipp. 988–9).69 Uses of the word ochlos and allied terms chart the dual emergence of thētes and demagogic prostatai tou dēmou as political forces at Athens and the elite reaction to them. Around 424, Euripides’ Hecuba disparagingly applies the term ochlos to a fleet, declaring that ‘in an army of 10,000 men, the mob is unbridled (ἀκόλαστος ὄχλος) and naval anarchy is stronger than fire: the bad man is the one who does nothing bad’ (Eur. Hec. 607–8, IA 913–14). As the 420s came to a close, Euripides’ Theban herald boasts to Theseus, ‘the city from which I have come is ruled by one man not by a mob’ (Supp. 410–11). That the phrase ‘naval mob’ (ναυτικὸς ὄχλος) is itself rare and limited to fourth-century writers (Thuc. 8.72.2; Arist. Pol. 1304a22, 1327b7–8) suggests that idea behind the ‘mob’ did not involve the navy so much as thētes in juries and political assemblies.70 By 415, a significant population of thētes dwelled in Athens and Piraeus and performed a range of non-agricultural labour.71 They were also paid jurors; they rowed in the fleet and served as marines, archers and in other land-based roles. In significant ways, these thētes were no longer ‘peasants’.72 By this time, thētes comprise a critical mass in political institutions and emerge into the light of Athenian culture, both as a ‘mob’ and as fictionalized individuals in comedy, whose ties to democratic politicians such as Cleon, Hyperbolus, Cleonymus and Cleophon comedies seek to demolish. The plots of the Acharnians, Knights and Wasps detach thētes from demagogic masters; the Knights puts an end to degrading misthophora and returns Demos to the ‘ancestral’ glory of an autonomous and peaceful life far from the urban centre.73 Aristotle uses the example of Cyrene as a warning that when the population of the masses (τὸ πλῆθος) exceeds the population of ‘notables’, stasis ensues: ‘minor villainy is overlooked, but once it has become major, it is more visible’ (ὀλίγον μὲν γὰρ πονηρὸν παρορᾶται, πολὺ δὲ γινόμενον ἐν ὀφθαλμοῖς μᾶλλόν ἐστιν, Arist. Pol. 1319b18–19) and ‘notables’ no longer tolerate democracy. The visibility of thētes in the heart of Athens and its democratic institutions two generations after the introduction of paid jury service was perceived by the socio-economic and cultural elite as ponēria – ignorance, baseness and villainy. 54

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A significant minority: Athenian the¯tes in the navy during their political ascendance The consequences of the introduction of pay for jury service in the period from c. 450 to the invasion of Sicily in 415 were fourfold. First, the rate of military pay increased to a drachma a day, making rowing more attractive for all potential servicemen. Second, naval recruitment shifted gradually from Athenian thētes to metics, mercenaries and slaves, as veteran citizen rowers thirty and older could seek jury instead of naval service or other public or private employment. Third, and closely related, thētes in their military prime could work on construction projects or provide private services, bypassing military service entirely and seeking entry into the jury pool of 6,000 once they became eligible. Fourth, the fact that a hoplite and his slave were each paid a drachma a day (Thuc. 3.17.4, c. 430) during siege operations possibly at Samos and at Potidaea may have prompted trierarchs, marines, hypēresia and (more rarely) rowers to employ their slaves as rowers (IG I3 1032). It is difficult to know when and in what context this practice originated and spread. The Erechtheum accounts record a metic, Simias, working with his four slaves fluting columns for roughly equal pay (IG I3 476.200–5). Masters profited from their slaves’ labour in a wide range of publicly financed employment, making that labour more attractive and more profitable.74 Evidence for the importance of mercenaries in the Athenian navy emerges just before the outbreak of the Peloponnesian War, a generation after the introduction misthophora. Thucydides’ anonymous Corinthian identifies mercenaries as a weakness in the Athenian navy and encourages his allies to believe that they can prevail in a war with Athens. The Peloponnesians can build a viable fleet with their own resources and with loans from Delphi and Olympia, enabling them to lure mercenary rowers (ξένους . . . ναυβάτας) away from Athens by offering higher pay (Thuc. 1.121.3). ‘Athenian power’, the Corinthian asserts, ‘is bought rather than their own’ (ἡ δὲ ὠνητὴ γὰρ ἡ δύναμις μᾶλλον ἢ οἰκεία, Thuc. 1.121.3). Peloponnesian power, by contrast, ‘is strong more because of our persons than our money’ (Thuc. 1.121.3). The Peloponnesians, therefore, claim an advantage: they can acquire the money to buy Athens’ mercenaries away from them; but their superior military prowess resides in their nature as warriors and cannot be purchased. Thucydides’ Pericles responds directly to the Corinthian’s contention. He seeks to persuade the Athenians that such a scenario is unlikely to create significant problems for the Athenian navy. Athens does employ mercenary rowers (τοὺς ξένους τῶν ναυτῶν, Thuc. 1.143.1). However, if Athens’ mercenaries absconded for a higher wage, Athenian citizen and metic manpower would remain more than a match for the enemy (Thuc. 1.143.1). The most important component of the fleet – helmsmen – are citizens; moreover, Athens specialist crews (ὑπηρεσίαν) are more numerous and skilled than in all of Greece (Thuc. 1.143.1). Pericles concludes by rejecting the scenario of the city’s mercenary rowers deserting for a higher wage. These rowers hail from cities subject to the laws of the Athenian empire (cf. Thuc. 7.63.3–4). A rower would not risk the penalty of exile from his native city (τήν τε αὑτοῦ φεύγειν) to row in another fleet for a few days of higher wages and diminished prospects of victory (Thuc. 1.143.1). 55

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Pericles formulates his response to boost Athenian confidence, but his basic premises – that Athens’ daily wage for rowers is difficult to top and that Athens has a reservoir of citizens and metics to power the fleet – ring true.75 According to Thucydides, Athens was able to man 250 ships in the spring of 428: 100 ships guarding Attica, Euboea and Salamis (3.17.2); 100 on a show of force around the Peloponnese manned by hoplites, thētes and metics (3.16.1, 17.2); 50 at Potidaea and elsewhere (3.17.2).76 That fall, the Athenians sent an unknown number of ships rowed and manned by 1,000 hoplites (αὐτερέται) to Mytilene to blockade the city with a single wall (Thuc. 3.18.3–4). Athens’ deployment of such a deep reserve of manpower was even more remarkable for being conducted at harvest time and while the city still reeled from the plague (Thuc. 3.3.1). The harvest hampered Spartan attempts to seize the momentum by conducting a lightning invasion of Attica in 428 (3.15.2), but this proved to be no obstacle to Athens’ capacity to mobilize between 32,000 to 50,000 men. Pericles’ denigration of the Peloponnesians as autourgoi in opposition to the Athenians was also pointed (1.141.2– 6). If Athenian thētes were ‘peasants’ who needed to tend harvests and assist their more prosperous neighbours in gathering theirs, they would have dragged their feet just as the Peloponnesians did. Nor does it appear to be the case that mercenaries, metics and slaves were so prevalent among rowers in the Athenian navy in 429 that a general could not address his men as ‘Athenians’ in a pre-battle exhortation. Such appearances, however, may well be deceptive. Prior to his audacious stand against seventy-seven Peloponnesian ships with his contingent of twenty ships in the Corinthian Gulf in the summer of 429, Phormio delivered a speech ‘having called together the Athenians’ (ξυγκαλέσας τοὺς Ἀθηναίους, Thuc. 2.88.3). According to Thucydides, Phormio’s speech was gratuitous. Phormio ‘always used to tell [his rowers] and prepare their minds in advance that no number of ships was so great . . . that it must not be endured, and the soldiers had for a long time grasped this precept: because they were Athenians (Ἀθηναῖοι ὄντες), they yielded to no mere mass (ὄχλον) of Peloponnesian ships’ (2.88.3). On this occasion, Phormio must remind his men of a long-standing and wellunderstood principle of what it means to be an Athenian rower. Athenians appear to comprise a significant majority of the 4,000 men in Phormio’s squadron. Given its small size and Phormio’s reputation as the premier naval tactician of his time, Athenians may in fact have comprised the bulk of the crews. In this case, the speech would be a sign of Phormio’s sheer audacity. His rowers held the Peloponnesians in contempt; but they could not overcome their fear of the Peloponnesians’ mind-boggling numerical superiority. Phormio ‘himself fearing the fear of his soldiers’ in the face of overwhelming numerical inferiority, spoke to remove their fear (Thuc. 2.88.1). ‘Athenians’, however, is not a literal designation and it may not be here.77 It is possible that Phormio’s rhetoric does not match the reality of the fleet’s composition. If Phormio addressed rowers composed of significant numbers of metics, mercenaries and slaves, he adopted an effective rhetorical stance, extending the reality of ‘being Athenians’ to his soldiers, irrespective of their origins, and instructing his men in what it meant to be Athenian. That efforts to retrieve corpses and wrecks after the battle were limited to the 56

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shoreline may be an indicator of the actual crew composition (Thuc. 2.92.4). After the squadron’s one-year term of service, Phormio traded free Peloponnesian captives onefor-one for free captives from his crews. While this does not help us sort out the status of the free members of his crew, it is noteworthy that Thucydides places no emphasis on the general’s trading to recover Athenians (2.103.1). His emphasis on the free status of the rowers, however, alerts us to the fact that slaves were also rowing on both sides. If Phormio defined his crew rhetorically as ‘Athenians’, Nicias could have adopted a similar approach in his address to the rowers in the harbour at Syracuse in 413; but he does not. Athenian and allied veterans comprise some portion of his fleet (Thuc. 7.61.3), but his 110-ship fleet (7.60.4) is five and a half times the size Phormio’s squadron. Unlike Phormio, Nicias addresses his rowers (ναῦται) as imitation Athenians: ‘you, considered Athenians for some time, even if you are not’ (οἱ τέως Ἀθηναῖοι νομιζόμενοι καὶ μὴ ὄντες), have been respected throughout Greece for your knowledge of our dialect and imitation of our ways’ (7.63.3). Nicias defines the bulk of the fleet as metics and long-serving mercenaries from allied cities who have adopted the Attic dialect and Athenian culture. Nicias’ ships and crews were severely degraded by 413 and cannot be treated as representative (Thuc. 7.12.3–14.2). Sailors were killed trying to gather firewood, plunder supplies and secure water (7.13.2). Slaves (θεραπόντες) absconded once the Syracusans became a competitive enemy (ibid.), and foreigners (ξένοι) of two types – rowers from subject cities under compulsion to serve and mercenaries – left in droves, some on the pretext of hunting their runaway slaves; others left the Hyccaran slaves they had bought in their places (ibid.).78 Nicias, wracked by disease, exhaustion and dread cannot bear to address his sailors as ‘Athenians’. He leaves little reason to doubt that, at this stage of the invasion, the majority of the rowers he addressed were metics, mercenaries and slaves. Measures related to the employment of mercenary rowers, such as withholding onehalf of their pay pending return to the home port to reduce desertion, had been in place for at least a decade prior to the invasion of Syracuse.79 Invoking Poseidon to join their chorus, Aristophanes’ chorus of hippeis describes the god as delighting in ‘dark-rammed, fast, mercenary triremes’ (καὶ κυανέμβολοι θοαὶ/ μισθοφόροι τριήρεις, Ar. Eq. 554–5).80 A rejuvenated and reprogrammed Demos announces at the end of the play: ‘First, I shall pay the full wage to all who drive the long ships when they return to port’ (πρῶτον μὲν ὁπόσοι ναῦς ἐλαύνουσιν μακράς, / καταγομένοις τὸν μισθὸν ἀποδώσω ᾿ντελῆ. Ar. Eq. 1365–6; cf. Ar. Eq. 1065–6). If mercenary rowers were paid in advance, they could escape when prospects for success appeared dim (Thuc. 7.13.2) or be lured away by the enemy for a higher wage. Dicaeopolis waxes indignant in Aristophanes’ Acharnians (425) when he learns that the city is hiring Thracian mercenaries at two drachmae a day, twice a rower’s wage: ‘the thranitēs folk’, he laments, ‘who save the city (σωσίπολις), would be groaning!’ (Ar. Ach. 161–3). Dicaeopolis’ exclamation may provide an index to the composition of the Athenian fleet during the mid-420s. The technicality of references to the top and bottom ranks of oarsmen on a trireme found in Aristophanes suggests that thranitēs is not a metonymy for ‘rowers’.81 Rather, thranitēs leōs refers to the oarsmen who coordinated the 57

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smooth and efficient rowing of a trireme on the top rank of oars. As the only rowers able to see the water, the strokes of the thranitai guided the men below them.82 Dicaeopolis’ exclamation may indicate that Athenian citizens were recruited to row on the top rank as thranitai, since it is unlikely that slaves or foreigners would be accorded the epithet sōsipolis, particularly in a citizen’s indignant response to non-Greek mercenaries receiving an excessively high wage.83 Moreover, a trireme had a vertical hierarchy. The locations that groups occupied on the ship both recapitulated and reinforced Athenian superiority and Athens’ own socio-political status rankings.84 The late fifth-century naval catalogue (IG I3 1032) replicates this hierarchy, listing in order trierarchs, marines, hypēresia, citizen rowers, foreign rowers (metics and mercenaries) and slaves.85 The naval catalogue of eight ships, four of which have survived on stone, indicates that citizens comprised some 30 per cent to 40 per cent of the personnel on a trireme.86 This is consistent with a citizen status for between 75 per cent and 100 per cent of thranitai, hypēresia and epibatai (83 men) – by no means an ‘insignificant minority’. The numbers of free foreigners are difficult to determine, but the number of slaves varies widely among the ships. In Trireme II they are just over forty of 200 or just over 20 per cent; in Trireme III, there could be as many as ninety-seven slaves, but ten of them appear to have served the hypēresia and did not row. In Trireme IV, there might have been ninety-three slaves.87 The advantages of skill and strength, continuity, experience and loyalty among thranitai explain the intense competition among trierarchs for their services during recruitment of crews for the Sicilian expedition, which included offers of supplemental pay (ἐπιφοραί, Thuc. 6.31.3) to rowers and hypēresia. The Paralos and the Salaminia, especially fast ships manned by Athenian citizens and used for guard duty, reconnaissance, and swift conveyance of information both express an ideal of the citizen oarsmen and entail the presence of slaves in ordinary triremes (Thuc. 3.33.1–2, 8.73.5–74). Surviving information regarding thalamioi/ thalamitai/ thalamakes, who occupied the lowest level of a trireme, confirms both a trireme’s spatial hierarchy and the different compositions of personnel on the first and third ranks. Closest to the bilge and vulnerable to maceration inflicted by opposing triremes’ rams, thalamioi appear to be the least regarded of the rowers on a trireme.88 When the Athenians emptied their ships and sent sailors ‘equipped as they were’ to form a mass of bodies in an assault on Pylos, only the thalamioi remained in the ship (Thuc. 4.32.2). Hans van Wees infers from this passage that thalamioi were slaves and not permitted to carry arms, as was the case in 388/7 when the Spartan Gorgopas sought to counter Chabrias and his men with his available marines and hoplites and ‘whoever was free’ (ἐλεύθεροι) of his crews (Xen. Hell. 5.1.11).89 In the Frogs, Aristophanes’ Aeschylus boasts that in his day, before Euripides persuaded the members of the Paralos to talk back to their leaders, sailors knew only how to call for barley cake (μάζαν) and say ‘ruppapai’ (Ar. Ran. 1071–3). Dionysus adds that they also knew how to fart in the mouths of a thalamax below them, to smear faeces on their messmates and to steal a cloak when they went ashore; but ‘now he talks back and no longer voyages here and again there as a rower’ (1074–7) – he deserts the ship. After Arginusae, the fleet is the brunt of graphic comic ridicule; but the difference in status 58

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between thranitai and thalamakes remains: farting on someone is a gesture of utter contempt in Aristophanes (e.g. Ar. Plut. 617–18). That the introduction of jury pay influenced thetic patterns of service in the fleet becomes clear in Aristophanes’ Wasps (422). After the fervent jurors and former soldiers of the chorus have been disabused of their allegiance to Cleon and his sycophants, they seek to limit jury service to military veterans (Ar. Vesp. 1114–21): But drones sit stealthily among us, not having a stinger, who stay at home devouring our toil for the tribute, not undergoing the rigours of warfare. This is the most grievous thing for us: if someone who does not do military service laps up our wage, not having taken up an oar, a spear, or a blister on behalf of this land. In short, I think in the future whoever of the citizens does not have a stinger should not earn a triobol. Thētes voluntarily served in the navy or in associated land-based roles, such as guard duty in Byzantium (Ar. Vesp. 236–8) or siege duty on Naxos (354–5). Once they reached the age of 30, thētes were eligible for jury service and the triobol. The chorus most likely refers to thētes who never rowed in the fleet or performed military service appropriate to their census group as stay-at-homes who gobble up their ‘toil for the tribute’ (τοῦ φόρου/ τὸν πόνον, Ar. Vesp. 1115–16). They are younger citizens (οἱ νεώτεροι) who ‘steal the tribute’ which the chorus claims ‘we are most responsible for being brought here’ (Ar. Vesp. 1099–1101). So far as we know, jury service was not accepted as a reason for the avoidance of conscription.90 This is not to say that citizens eligible for hoplite service did not shirk their duty – they did.91 Even so, individuals accused of this would not need to earn a triobol as a dicast.92 The Wasps offers evidence for a preference, available only to thētes, of jury over military service from age thirty onwards. The only citizens who could manage to avoid military service in their prime (ages twenty to twenty-nine) – without evading conscription and breaking the law – were thētes.

Naval service and political power The conduct of the soldiers and sailors serving on the eighty-two ships stationed on Samos in 411 substantiates the argument of this chapter – that outside of the institutions of the democracy, where majorities ruled (and particularly the courts), thētes struggled to exercise power or to achieve effective agency.93 For this reason, they tended to attach themselves to the prostatai tou dēmou, champions, defenders and representatives of the dēmos and democracy. In body and spirit, thētes sought to defend the democratic constitution; in reality, they were ineffective outside of majoritarian democratic institutions. When Alcibiades and the trierarchs on Samos plotted Alcibiades’ return to Athens under oligarchical rule and not democracy (Thuc. 8.47.2), the trierarchs openly informed the sailors – ‘the king would be their ally and give them money if Alcibiades returns and 59

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if we are not a democracy’ (8.48.2). According to Thucydides, ‘the mob was somewhat aggrieved in the moment at what was going on, but stayed quiet out of hope of an abundant wage from the king’ (8.48.3). Power, politics, democracy – these are not important to the ‘mob’ compared to the king’s wages. However, the oligarchic takeover of Samos and the murder of Hyperbolus, a prostatēs tou dēmou, sparked their activity (8.73.3). The murder of a democratic champion and representative was tantamount to losing their rights. The soldiers themselves dissolved the Samian oligarchy (Thuc. 8.73.6), formed their own democracy, and elected new democratic generals and trierarchs, replacing oligarchic conspirators (8.75-6). They decried the uselessness of the Athenian government and its error of ‘rescinding the ancestral laws’ (τοὺς πατρίους νόμους καταλύσαντας, 8.76.6).94 Thucydides does not mention Solon in this connection, but Aristophanes’ Clouds (423) promotes the idea that ‘Solon was a lover of the demos by nature’ (φιλόδημος τὴν φύσιν, Ar. Nub. 1187) in a bit of sophistic comedy that justifies Strepsiades’ not paying court fees or loan. The prostatai tou dēmou may have invoked Solon in this way as the founder of democracy to the chagrin of their opponents (cf. [Arist.] Ath. Pol. 29.4, 35.2; cf. Ar. Av. 1660–6, laws of Solon on inheritance which oligarchs sought to abolish).95 The Athenian oligarchs, fearing that ‘the naval mob would not stay in an oligarchic order – which happened’ (Thuc. 8.72.2), sent envoys to Samos to persuade them. When the envoys finally arrived, the soldiers refused to listen to them. They shouted ‘death to those who destroyed the democracy’ (8.86.2), and although they were composed for a time, their rage returned and they yearned to launch an attack against the Piraeus. Alcibiades, who, according to Thucydides, was the only person capable of controlling the ‘mob’, prevented their attack but sold out the soldiers at Samos, approving the 5,000 (but demanding restoration of the Boule of 500 in which thētes did not serve), which would exclude thētes and some hoplites from citizenship, but indicating that if by economizing they could provide provisions for the troops he would praise them (Thuc. 8.86.5). For all their heroic action in support of democracy on Samos and at Athens after the murder of Hyperbolus, thētes had their citizen rights revoked, and their sustenance in part depended on Alcibiades and the oligarchs at Athens. Notes * This chapter began its life when Matthew Trundle asked me to be part of a panel he was organizing at the meeting of the American Association of Ancient Historians in Erie, Pennsylvania in May 2011. A version of that paper was subsequently delivered at the Annual Meeting of the (then) American Philological Association in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania in Jan. 2012. I offer this paper as a tribute to the memory of my dearest friend. 1. Strauss (1996); Raaflaub (1990), 35–41; (1998a), 44–53, respectively, for these claims. 2. Amit (1965), 59–60; Ceccarelli (1993); van Wees (1995), esp. 161–2 (rowers, however, were already ‘seeking a greater share in government’); van Wees (2004), 82–3, 230; Gabrielsen (2002), 202; Robinson (2011), 230–7; Pritchard (2019), 83–4. 3. Unless otherwise stated, all dates are bce .

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Naval Service and Political Power in Athens 4. Arist. Pol. 1274a11–15, 1304a17–24; [Arist.] Ath. Pol. 27.1. For the political history of the term ponēros, see Rosenbloom (2002), (2003), (2004a) (2004b). Some later sources relating citizen rowers to democratization are badly anachronistic or plainly fictional (Arist. Ath. Pol. 24; Plut. Them. 19.4–6; Arist. 22.1). 5. See Neer (2002), 162–8 on ‘the disappearance of ships from the vase-painters’ repertoire’ and their rowers in the Classical period. 6. Gabrielsen (2002), 211; Strauss (1986), esp. 70–86, argues for the equivalent of ‘demographic suicide’ of thētes, using it to explain the lack of a thetic voice in the reconstructed democracy of the fourth century. 7. Rosivach (1985), 41–4, identifies the sailing season as extending from May to September for major naval operations. However, in addition to sieges at Samos, Potidaea and Mytilene, Athenian naval operations routinely continued through the winter, often in twenty-ship squadrons. See Thuc. 2.69.1, 85.4–6, 92.7, 102–3; 3.18.5, 19, 88, 115. Pericles scoffs at the inability of Peloponnesian farmers to conduct ‘long overseas wars’, man fleets, spend money and engage in warfare that conflicted with the agricultural cycle (Thuc. 1.141.2–6). See further below. 8. Cf. van Wees (2004), 199–201. 9. See Pritchard (2019), 104, who rejects the relevance of census classes for the military; for a defence of them, see Valdés (2022), esp. 362–6. Gabrielsen (2002), 204, acknowledges the use of census classes in recruitment in exceptional situations (Thuc. 3.16.1, 6.43), but concludes (215) that citizens in ‘naval complements – rich or poor – often were an insignificant minority’, severing the connection between thētes and naval service on this basis. See below for arguments against this hypothesis. 10. Foxhall (1997), 129–31: zeugitai required 8–13 hectares; van Wees (2001), 48–51, for the more specific figure of 8.7 hectares; van Wees (2013), 230 increases the minimum barley-producing farm to 13.8 hectares and a wheat-producing farm to 21 hectares. Garnsey (1988), 89–119, offers a different approach. By the time of Thucydides, zeugitai disappear and hoplitai replace them. We do not know how hoplitai qualified for their status, but we are under no obligation to use Solonian criteria. See Rhodes (1997), 4; De Ste. Croix (2004), 48–9. 11. Raaflaub (1999), 138 with n.49, 150–1 for the impact of this on hoplite status in fifth-century Athens; van Wees (2001), 46–55, uses 18,000 as a figure for hoplites (51); (2004), 55–7. Hansen (1981), 23–4, calculates 18,000 hoplites from the top three census groups. See also Pritchard (2019), 39–43, who uses 13,000. 12. van Wees (2013), 230–1, notes that a wine-producing farm needed 3.1 hectares to produce 200 liquid measures, but that the farmer would not be able to sell its product; olives required 21.6 hectares to produce the same volume of liquid. van Wees does not explore combinations of grains and grapes, which might lower the amount of land required. 13. van Wees (2001), 51 finds this hard to credit: ‘income derived from sources other than land would also – somehow – count towards one’s property assessment’. 14. Ibid., esp. 51–4. 15. The major sources are IG I3 46.36–46 (c. 445); Antiph. fr. 61 (Blass); Lys. fr. 260 (Carey); IG II2 30.12; [Dem.] 43.54; Arist. Pol. 1274a18–21; cf. 1319a24–30, 1321a5–21; [Arist.] Ath.Pol. 4.3–4, 7.3–4, 8.2, 26.2, 47.1; Ar. Byz. fr. 39; Plut. Sol. 18.1–3; cf. 13.4, Aristid. 1.2; Harp. s.vv. ἱππάς, θῆτες, πεντακοσιομέδιμνοι; Pollux 8.130; cf. 3.82; Eust. to Il. 21.450. 16. Hansen (1981), 23–4. Demosthenes used high-status hoplites (hippeis and pentakosiomedimnoi) among the ‘marines of . . . ships’ (i.e. ten per ship as tactical marines) in land operations: 120 of these 300 hoplites were killed ‘so many in number and the same

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Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World age-class they were the best men from the polis of the Athenians to die in this war’ (3.98.4). Cf. Thuc. 8.24.2, where ‘hoplite marines’ were ‘forced’ to serve on twenty-five ships: these were not thētes any more than the epibatai of Thuc. 6.32.1 who pour libations with the generals. Valdés (2022), 355, argues that epibatai were not conscripted from the catalogue, but it seems that generals and taxiarchs occasionally did this. 17. The decree authorizing the generals to launch thirty ships to collect arrears of tribute (IG I3 60. 9–18, c. 430) mandates five volunteer marines on each ship, forty hoplites, and ten archer-peltasts. The fleet is equipped primarily for land operations and secondarily for naval fighting. For other instances of missions employing forty or more hoplites per ship, see Thuc. 1.61.1; 3.91.1; 5.2.1, 84.1 (Athenians invaded Melos with thirty ships and 1,200 hoplites, 300 cavalrymen and twenty mounted archers; allies provided eight ships and 1,500 hoplites. In this case, either allied hoplites rowed or there were ship carriers to go with the horse carriers. 18. Rosivach (2012), 136–7; cf. Pritchard (2019), 41–3, who prefers ‘volunteers’. However, this is merely another way of saying ‘thētes’ (which Thucydides actually says): thētes volunteer for service because that is the way they participate. 19. Rosivach (2012), 132–3, accepts only formulations that include telos as references to Solonian telē. For Solonian democracy, see Hansen (1990), 99: ‘it is myth rather than history’. For a different view, see Wallace (1998). 20. According to van Wees (2001), 52, about 5 hectares. 21. Hignett (1952), 79, 84, 98, 122, attempts to track the different fates of landed and landless thētes from Solon to Peisistratus and Cleisthenes. But this is a distinction with a difference: whether they owned land made no difference to the fact they were thētes. 22. Rosivach (2012), 134–5, surveys the archaic meanings of the term thēs. 23. See Heubeck, West, and Hainsworth (1988), to 464, for a sceptical view of the meaning of θῆτες in this passage. 24. Strauss (1986, 1996, 2000) routinely refers to citizen rowers as thētes. See also Hansen (1981), 22 and (1988), 24. Pritchard (2019), 84, admits that rowers were the poorest segment of a ship’s complement and that hoplites did not row (51). That leaves only thētes as citizen rowers. 25. Corps of archers combined citizens and non-citizens. See Trundle (2010), 150–2. 26. Hypēresia comprised technical and administrative functionaries of the trireme, most notably, helmsman, boatswain, purser, bow master, shipbuilder/carpenter, aulete, and some others. See Casson (1971), 300–4; Morrison (1984); Gabrielsen (1994), esp. 106, 121–2; Morrison, Coates and Rankov (2000), esp. 109–23. 27. Diod. Sic. 12.58.2 claims losses of over 4,000 ‘soldiers’, 400 hippeis, over 10,000 free people and slaves, (i.e. thētes, metics and slaves). Hansen (1988), 14, conjectures 15,000 adult male deaths. See Akrigg (2019), 160–8. 28. Space does not permit a full accounting. Thucydides reports numbers of hoplite and cavalry casualties; see Rubicam (1991), esp. 194–8. He never enumerates the deaths of sub-hoplite warriors. Cf. Xen. Hell. 1.6.34. 29. See Casson (1971), 350–4, for ships’ names. 30. Pace Hunt (1999), 126, n.32, who claims that many of Thucydides’ uses of ochlos are probably or certainly not pejorative. The following are derogatory: 1.80.3; 3.87.3; 4.51.1, 109.2, 126.6; 6.17.2, 20.4, 63.2, 64.1; 7.62.2, 84.2; 8.25.2, 48.3, 86.5. 31. Thuc. 2.65.8–10, 4.28.3, 6.86.6; strongest commitment to democracy: 8.73–6, 86.1–7.2; cf. 8.65.2. For the problem of the tyranny of jurors, see Rosenbloom (2002), 292–300; for

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Naval Service and Political Power in Athens perspectives on the problem of popular tyranny, see Raaflaub (2003); Kallet (2003); Henderson (2003). 32. Connor (1971), 163–98; Rosenbloom (2002). 33. No credible evidence exists for thētes’ conscription by tribe/deme lists until [Dem.] 50.6 (362), pace Hansen (1985), 22. In this instance, demarchs and bouleutai prepared the lists, not generals and taxiarchs, as was the case for hoplites. See Hansen (1981), 24–9; Christ (2001), 400–3. For the deme lists of 362, see Davies (1981), 144–6; Gabrielsen (1994), 106–8; Rosivach (2001). On IG I3 1032, even though citizen sailors’ names are accompanied by demotics and metics’ by residential deme, there is no evidence that they were conscripted or organized by deme or tribe; cf. Bakewell (2008), 125–6; Pritchard (2019), 103–4. 34. Raaflaub (1998a), 39–53; (1998b), esp. 91–101; contra Ober (1998), 71–83. 35. Gabrielsen (2002), 205, interprets the clause to apply to both to the infantry and rowers. HCT IV.264 does not. Gomme (1933), 13 n.2, uses Thuc. 6.26.2 to suggest that the Athenians had catalogues for both hoplites and sailors, but this, as 7.16.1, refers to hoplites. 36. Pl. Grg. 515e2–7; Arist. Pol. 1274a5–11; [Arist.] Ath. Pol. 24.3, 27.3–4; Plut. Per. 9.3–5. 37. Hignett (1952), 342–3, dates to not long after 462; cf. Rhodes (1993), 338–40. Rosivach (2013) argues that the introduction of misthophora c. 461 was financed by the gold mines the Athenians seized from Thasos on the Thracian mainland, said to produce 80 talents a year (Hdt. 6.46.3). Fornara and Samons (1991), 66–75, take a gradualist approach. See also Ostwald (1986), 67–83. 38. Democracy’s ‘final phase’ entails introduction of payments for assembly and court attendance and is attainable by populous democracies with surplus wealth; this leads to numerical imbalance between rich and poor in political assemblies and the eclipse of the wealthy from them; moreover, in such democracies thētes and banausoi predominate (Arist. Pol. 1293a1–10: 1296a24–31; cf. 1320a17–b4). This is how comedians lampoon Athenian democracy in the 420s: as an alliance of banausoi, who can be rich (1278a21–4), and thētes, who cannot. 39. This is often connected to the disaster in Egypt in 454. See Meiggs (1972), 109–10, 420–1. Other dates before this remain possible. See Pritchett (1969); Robertson (1980), 112–19 (c. 461). 40. Cf. Fornara and Samons (1991), 27, 78, 91–3; cf. Rhodes (1992), 87. 41. Starr (1970), 56, 70–1, 81. 42. Kroll (1993), 59. 43. Fornara and Samons (1991), 74–5, noting the diapsēphismos of 445 (Philochorus FGrH 328 F 119) as an additional assurance. 44. Patterson (1981), 63–71, explains the near doubling of Athens’ population from 480–460 as the result of ‘unnatural growth’ (i.e. immigration). cf. Akrigg (2019), esp.139–60. 45. For the payment as a ‘bonus’, see Todd (1990), 169. 46. The first appearance of the word dikastērion in inscriptions is (IG I3 21.37, 43), sometimes dated c. 450/49. A later date for the inscription has been proposed. See below. 47. For c. 60,000 as the total Athenian population c. 431, see Jones (1957), n.46, 167–73; Garnsey (1988), 91; Hansen (1988), 8, suggests 60,000–80,000; Hansen (1991), 53, gives 60,000 c. 450. According to Aristotle, the wealthy shied away from jury service in a system that met frequently (Pol. 1320b27–9). For estimates of the number thētes in Athens c. 431, see Hansen (1988), 24, in the range of 10,000–40,000 (17–67 per cent of citizen population), with an estimate of 32,000 (53 per cent); van Wees (2001), 51–4, calculates that thētes comprised nearly 90 per cent of the citizen population: 54,667 thētes, 12,667 of whom served as hoplites,

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Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World out of the total population of 60,000 citizens, if the minimum requirement for zeugitai was 200 medimnoi. If the requirement for zeugitēs status were diminished to 150 measures, then thētes would number 53,000, 11,000 of whom would serve as hoplites, and comprise 88 per cent of the total citizen population. 48. Rosenbloom (2002), 292–300. Cleon was already powerful when he became a general, as Connor (1971), 145–7, points out. 49. E.g. Jones (1957), 9 (mostly thētes), 123–4; Ehrenberg (1951/62), 54; Markle (1985), 267–71; Hansen (1991), 184–6; cf. Rhodes (1993), 691. Ancient evidence is unanimous in this regard: Ar. Eq. 792–809; Vesp. 290–315, 563–5. 605–18, 698–712; [Xen.] Ath. Pol. 1.18; Isok. 7.54; Rosenbloom (2004a), 61 with n.25. 50. Strauss (1996) does not mention the courts; Strauss (2000) searches for signs of thetic ‘political power’ elsewhere, such as casualty lists on stone; but since ‘slaves’, ‘barbarian archers’ and other non-citizens are listed, appearance on casualty lists is not simply an index of political power. Todd (1990), esp. 158–70, blurs class identity among jurors, arguing that ‘peasants’ (thētes/αὐτουργοί), farmers (γεωργοί/zeugitai) and large landowners (hippeis, pentakosiomedimnoi) shared ‘middle class values’, and that litigants appealed almost exclusively to these throughout the fifth and fourth centuries. Ober (1998), 78, argues that victories on land and sea ‘blurred the lines appropriate to hoplites and thetes’. However, while hoplites were accepted as citizens in 508/7 and could hold archonships in 457/6, thētes do not emerge as a powerful force until the 420s, two generations after those battles; cf. Strauss (1986), 12–13. 51. Arist. Pol. 1273b41–74a21; cf. 1320a4-11, b20-1; Ar. Eq. 1111–50; Vesp. 508–654. This was replicated among Athens’ subject cities ([Xen.] Ath. Pol. 1.13-14, 16, 18. See Christ (1998), 72–117; Rosenbloom (2002), 292–300. 52. For the date of the Cyclops in the period 412–408, see O’Sullivan and Collard (2013), 39–41. For confiscations in relation to the mutilation of the Herms and profanations of the Mysteries, see Furley (1996), 45–8, with further bibliography. 53. Strauss (1986), 72, reasoning from Plut. Per. 11.4 and applying it to 100 ships, estimates that 66 per cent of those crews were Athenians; Akrigg (2019), 81–2, suggests 50 per cent. Robinson (1999), 144–7, estimates crews of 50 per cent Athenian citizens during the Egyptian expedition (460–454). 54. Pace Hignett (1952), 216, who believes that IG I3 82.18–19 implies that the 6,000 dicasts were selected in groups of 600 from each of the ten tribes. 55. We do not know the exact amount of dicasts’ pay before Cleon reportedly raised it to three obols in 425. The figure of two obols comes from Schol. Ar. Vesp. 88a, 300; cf. Ar. Nub. 863. Like the payment for attending the assembly, it may have started at an obol (Ar. Eccl. 300–2; [Arist.] Ath. Pol. 41.3). Loomis (1998), 9–31, 32–61, 261–6 and 266–90, tabulates and analyses data for the wages of public office holders, soldiers and sailors. 56. IG I3 21.13 may refer to ‘four obols’ as rowers’ pay. See Loomis (1998), 37–8, who accepts a date c. 450. Papazarkadas (2012), 71–2, following Mattingly (1996), 338–40, 453–60, 481–5, makes a case for the date 426/5; but, by that date, 1 drachma is already certainly the norm. For the claim that four obols were considered the standard rate of military pay, see Pritchett (1974), 19. 57. Fornara (1979), 9–12, demonstrates that these figures refer to three payments from the Treasurers of Athena to the generals. He assumes (12) that soldiers were paid 1 drachma/day on the basis of the Sicilian expedition twenty-five years later, citing Meiggs (1972), 259, and Dover in HCT IV.293, who notes that 1 drachma also comports with IG I3 364 (433/32) = Osborne and Rhodes (2017), no. 148; Meiggs and Lewis (1988), no. 61. Not everyone accepts Fornara’s analysis. See Meiggs and Lewis (1988), no. 55; Osborne and Rhodes (2017), no. 138, with additional bibliography. 64

Naval Service and Political Power in Athens 58. For the revolt, see Meiggs (1972), 188–94; Fornara (1979); Shipley (1987), 113–19. 59. The payments of 128+ and 368+ cover the costs of Pericles’ first mission for three months (Thuc. 1.115.2–3; cf. Diod. Sic. 12.27.2, ‘in a few days’, which is less plausible) with forty ships c. March 441 (120 talents) and his second mission after the revolt with sixty ships (Thuc. 1.116.1), which served for six months (c. March–c. August 440, 360 talents) and was augmented by forty ships c. April/May 440 (1.116.2). A final payment of 908+ talents poses difficulties. Fornara (1979), 13, claims that 908+ talents would have paid for a fleet of 160 triremes for 5½ months. It is unlikely that the full fleet remained for the siege. The sixty replacement ships for Pericles’ fleet, which arrived in August 440 with five new generals, and thirty allied ships that joined the fleet around the same time, would have prosecuted the siege from August 440 to March 439 (an increase in the number of ships from the earlier failed siege by twenty-five, 1.116.2–117.1). The forty reinforcing ships that arrived in April/May 440 and left in August (Thuc. 1.116.2) would be paid for five months (200 talents), and the sixty ships that prosecuted the siege would be paid for eight months (480 talents). Together, they account for 680 of the 908+ talents paid. It is possible that the thirty allied ships left for the winter and were replaced by thirty Athenian vessels. That would add 150 talents to the total (830/908+). Hypēretai for 1,000 hoplites over eight months would add another 80 talents to that (910/908+). 60. See Adcock (1925); HCT I. 273, 277; Hornblower (1991), 400–1, for the view that 3.17.4 refers to 430 and not to 428, as its place would indicate. 61. There is some agreement about Athens’ one-drachma wage: Jones (1957), 32, 142, n.54; Dover in HCT IV.293, against Gomme in HCT II.275–6; Andrewes in HCT V.97–9; Loomis (1998), 55–6; cf. Jordan (1975), 113–15. 62. We know little about wages for private labour c. 450. Our earliest evidence for rates of pay for skilled and unskilled construction workers in the fifth-century public sector derives from Erechtheum accounts more than forty years later (IG I3 475–6, 409/8–408/7). Wages range between three obols and one drachma/day for skilled and unskilled workers. See Loomis (1998), 105–8, for texts and analysis. Wages increase in the fourth century, while pay for jury service remains constant at three obols. The Eleusis accounts (IG II2 1672, 329/8) list wages ranging from 1.25 drachmae/day to 2.5 drachmae/day for skilled labour and 1.5 drachmae/ day for unskilled labour, exclusive of food allowances. See Loomis (1998), 111–14. In the fourth century, public wages for construction may have outstripped jury service by a factor of three. See Jones (1957), 123–4; Markle (1985), 271–81. 63. For the fourth century, see Loomis (1998), 36–55 (evidence), 56–8 (analysis). Loomis believes that rates rose back to one drachma, but this does not seem to be true for rowers and hoplites, who were paid a diobol and had to find the rest ‘from the war’ (Dem. 4.28–9, 359 bce ). 64. Cf. Gabrielsen (1994), 107; Rosivach (2001). 65. Garland (2001), esp. 59–62. [Arist.] Ath. Pol 24.1; Plut. Arist. 22.1 are anachronistic but describe an actual phenomenon. 66. Boersma (1970), 65–81; Shear (2016), esp. 13–40. 67. See IG I3 46.44–6 for Phantocles’ rider to the decree establishing the Athenian colony at Brea (c. 445) that limits eligibility to thētes and zeugitai. For an overview and analysis of Athenian colonization, see Figueira (1991), 217–50. 68. Garland (2001), 72, extends the absence of the thētes from political institutions until 404/3 because of their service in the navy. However, they are visible in the courts, assembly, military and, most importantly in Athenian culture after the death of Pericles as followers of leaders who pledge dedication to their class interests against those of the wealthy, well-born, well-educated and anti-democratic. 65

Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World 69. This tendency continues in Euripides’ plays, both for political assemblies and armies: Hec. 533; Or. 610–14; Phoen. 884; IA 517, 526, 1547; Phaethon fr. 483a (c. 420), fr. 1029. 70. Pace Strauss (1986), 71. 71. The rise of multi-family dwellings (synoikiai) and other rental properties in Athens and Piraeus is documented better in literature than by archaeology: Ar. Eq. 1001, Thesm. 232, fr. 137; [Xen.] Ath.Pol. 1.18; Thuc. 3.74.2 (Corcyra, c.428); Is. 2.27, 5.26–7, 6.19–21; Dem 29.3; 38.7; 45.28; [Dem.] 36.6, 34–5; [Dem.] 53.13–14; Aeschin. 1.43, 105, 124–5; Hyperid. fr. 37. See Garland (2001), 143, 214; Harrington (2021), 124–7. 72. Ehrenberg (1951/1962), e.g. 31, 50, 73, fails to differentiate between thētes and hoplites and treats as a reality what comedy seeks to create, a union of urbanized ‘peasants’ and wealthy farmers against demagogues and banausoi; Carter (1986), 77–98, equates ‘peasants’ and conservative lovers of peace; Todd (1990), 163, rejects the ‘nautikos ochlos theory’ because ‘peasants’ are ‘quietists’ – even after several decades of service in the Athenian fleet. 73. Rosenbloom (2002), 318–29. 74. Graham (1992), esp. 262–4. In the fourth century, ‘slaves who lived on their own’ and metics were enlisted as rowers (Dem. 4.36). 75. Cf. Strauss (1986), 71–2. 76. Even if we subtract the fifty ships from Potidaea and elsewhere in 428 as anachronistic, the account appears to ignore the forty ships sent to Mytilene ‘which happened to have been made ready to sail around the Peloponnese’ (Thuc. 3.3.2), unless Thucydides refers to the 100 ships of 3.16.1 and 3.17.2, and only sixty of them actually sailed around the Peloponnese. It also ignores the thirty ships under Asopius (3.7). Gabrielsen (2002), 206, claims that 160 ships and 32,000 were in service simultaneously; Pritchard (2019), 101, claims that 50,000 men were needed and about 39 per cent (19,380 men) were non-citizens. 77. For the logic of the equation, ‘Athenians’ = ‘Athenians + x’, see Loraux (1981/6), 33–7. 78. For subject cities serving ‘under necessity’, see Thuc. 7.57.4–6; cf. Xen. Hell. 1.6.25. 79. For these problems in the Athenian fleet, see Ar. Eq. 1366–7; Thuc. 8.29.2 (Alcibiades claims the Athenians employed the measure to combat dissolution and desertion); Xen. Hell. 1.5.4; [Dem.] 50.14–16 (high rate of mercenary desertions); Amit (1965), 31–52; Gabrielsen (1994), 122–4. This is a particular problem for Tissaphernes and the Peloponnesian fleet during the Ionian War (Thuc. 8.29.2, 45.6, 78.1, 83.3). 80. Commentators seek to avoid the meaning of ‘mercenary’ in this passage. Anderson and Dix (2020), 138, interpret μισθοφόροι to mean ‘payload bearing’, an otherwise unattested meaning, claiming that tribute arrived at Athens on Athenian triremes; but subject cities were responsible for bringing the tribute to Athens; see Osborne and Rhodes (2017), nos 152–3 = IG I3 68, 71. The adjective simply means ‘mercenary’ or ‘wage-earning’ and the plural substantive ‘mercenaries’. Neil (1901), 84, acknowledges this meaning, but views it as pointless and interprets the adjective as meaning ‘prize winning’ in reference to trireme races (cf. Lys. 21.5). Poseidon delights in the neighing and brazen ring of horses’ hooves and in bronze rams on ‘mercenary’ (i.e. rowed by professionals and/or paid foreigners) triremes. A similar distinction between elite non-military competition and professional warfare appears in Eur. IA 164–302: the heroes engage in aristocratic competitions on the shore while the sailors manning the ships await departure; they are seriously devoted to warfare (esp. 296–302). Neither barbarians, Agamemnon, nor Achilles can deter them from achieving their passion to sack Troy. 81. As Schol. Ar. Ach. 162a interprets it. 82. Casson (1994), esp. 63–6; Morrison, Coates and Rankov (2000), 135–50. 66

Naval Service and Political Power in Athens 83. Cf. Strauss (1986), 72–3 with antecedents; van Wees (2004), 314, n.55; most scholars are reluctant to hazard this interpretation. Morrison, Coates and Rankov (2000), 132, ‘an important class of oarsmen’; Dover in HCT IV.294–5, ‘estimation of their work as harder and more skilled and by their exposure to greater risk of injury from collision and missiles’, cf. 415 for the damage done to the outrigger and hence thranitai by Corinth’s reinforced bows. 84. van Wees (2004), 209–12; 230. 85. The occasion for this commemorative inscription remains unknown. For the document, see Laing (1965); Graham (1992); (1998); Bakewell (2008); Pritchard (2019), esp. 102–4. 86. Bakewell (2008), 144; Strauss (1986), 72–3, following Ruschenbusch, conjectures 36 per cent. 87. Graham (1998), 100–1. 88. Schol. Ar. Ran. 1074 claims that they were paid less because their oars were shorter, but this is conjecture, and does not agree with information regarding rowers’ pay or ship inventories, which give the lengths of spare oars as 9 and 9.5 cubits, shorter at the stem and stern, slightly longer in the middle. See Morrison, Coates, and Rankov (2000), 137–8. 89. van Wees (2004), 230, 314, n.55. Alternatively, thalamioi remained in the hold because boarding them first would make a quick getaway, if needed, more difficult (cf. Plat. Leg. 706b7–d7). 90. Christ (2001), 404–7; (2006), 52–65. 91. Christ (2006), esp. 45–65. 92. E.g. Andocides, who is accused of being 40 and never having served on campaign ([Lys.] 6.46), and the wealthy Callimachus (Isoc. 18.48-9). See further, Lys. 21.20. 93. Amit (1965), 43–6, uses events on Samos to argue that a large proportion of the crews of the ships stationed on the island were Athenian citizens; otherwise, they would not have been feared and respected by the oligarchs. This does not agree with the evidence and is not required. Even if citizens constituted 30–40 per cent of the crews, they would have numbered 5,000–6,600, a formidable opponent worthy of attempts at pacification and persuasion. 94. That Finley (1971), 7, erroneously attributes this statement to Alcibiades and not to the soldiers on Samos who made it is telling. 95. Hansen (1990), 88, maintains that a Solonian origin to democracy was not yet formed in 411; but this makes it difficult to explain why democracy is called nomoi patrioi and Cleitophon’s rider involving Cleisthenes’ and Solon’s constitutions ([Arist.] Ath.Pol. 28.3. Hansen (1991), 279 with n.15, seems to suggest a battle over Solon as founder of democracy and oligarchy.

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Naval Service and Political Power in Athens Shear, T. L. (2016), Temples of Victory: Public Building in Periklean Athens, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Shipley, G. (1987), A History of Samos 800–188 bc, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Starr, C. (1970), Athenian Coinage 480–449 bc, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Strauss, B. S. (1986), Athens after the Peloponnesian War: Class, Faction and Policy, 403–386 bc, London: Croon Helm. Strauss, B. S. (1996), ‘The Athenian Trireme, School of Democracy’, in J. Ober and C. Hedrick (eds), Dēmokratia: A Conversation on Democracies, Ancient and Modern, 313–25, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Strauss, B. S. (2000), ‘Perspectives on the Death of Fifth-Century Athenian Seamen’, in H. van Wees (ed.), War and Violence in Ancient Greece, 262–83, London: Duckworth. Todd, S. (1990), ‘Lady Chatterley’s Lover and the Attic Orators: The Social Composition of the Athenian Jury,’ JHS 110: 146–73. Trundle, M. (2010), ‘Light troops in Classical Athens’, in D. Pritchard (ed.), War, Democracy and Culture in Classical Athens, 139–60, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Valdés, M. (2022), ‘Thētes Epibatai in Fifth-Century Athens’, REA 124 (2): 351–77. van Wees, H. (1995), ‘Politics and the Battlefield: Ideology in Greek Warfare’, in A. Powell (ed.), The Greek World, 153–78, London: Routledge. van Wees, H. (2001), ‘The Myth of the Middle Class Army: Military and Social Status in Ancient Athens’, in T. Bekker-Nielsen and L. Hannested (eds), War as a Cultural and Social Force: Essays on Warfare in Antiquity, 45–71, Copenhagen: Danish Royal Academy of Sciences and Letters. van Wees, H. (2004), Greek Warfare: Myths and Realities, London: Duckworth. van Wees, H. (2013), ‘Farmers and Hoplites: Models of Historical Development’, in D. Kagan and G. F. Viggiano (eds), Men of Bronze: Hoplite Warfare in Ancient Greece, 222–55, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Wallace, R. W. (1998), ‘Solonian Democracy’, in I. Morris and K. Raaflaub (eds), Democracy 2500? Questions and Challenges, Archaeological Institute of America Colloquia and Conference Papers, No. 2, 11–29, Dubuque, IA: Kendall /Hunt Publishing.

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CHAPTER 5 THE PERILS OF VICTORY: SPARTA’S UNEASY RELATIONSHIP WITH THE PROFITS OF WAR Ellen Millender

In his treatment of the battle of Plataea, Herodotus recounts the activities of the Spartiate commander Pausanias after the Hellenes’ victory (Hdt. 9.76–88). Particularly memorable here is Pausanias’ refusal to follow the Aeginetan Lampon’s advice to impale the head of the slain Persian commander Mardonius in revenge for the Persians’ outrage of King Leonidas I’s corpse (Hdt. 9.78–9). Even more striking is the account that follows, which begins with a depiction of the wealth of gold and silver objects acquired and divided up by the Greeks (Hdt. 9.80–1). Herodotus then describes the Persian banquet that Pausanias ostensibly staged in order to demonstrate the absurdity of the Persians’ attempt to rob the Greeks of their poverty (Hdt. 9.82). Scholarly examinations of these scenes have often focused on the dichotomy that Pausanias constructs between Persian and Greek customs regarding both bodily mutilation and luxury.1 In its scornful comparison of Persian excess with Greek frugality, Pausanias’ duelling Persian and Spartan meals also provide a spectacle of the Lacedaemonians’ reputed disdain for wealth.2 Both vignettes, moreover, have figured prominently in studies of Pausanias’ reputed medism, since Herodotus’ portrayal of the Spartan regent appears to differ drastically from Thucydides’ negative portrait of Pausanias’ transformation into a Persian tyrant (Thuc. 1.128.3–135.1). Scholars have particularly questioned both authors’ testimony regarding Pausanias’ activities after his victory at Plataea, especially his reported attempts to ally himself to the Persians (Hdt. 5.32; Thuc. 1.128.3–135.1).3 Despite the questions that continue to swirl around Herodotus’ treatment of this apparent medizer, his descriptions of Pausanias’ response to the Aeginetan Lampon and attitude toward Persian spoils deserve careful consideration. As we shall see, these narratives point to a very real problem that underlies the Histories’ report of the regent’s post-Plataean activities. In his detailed account of this famous Spartan commander, Herodotus calls attention to the threat that Spartan military victories – and the material benefits they generated – posed to the foundational structures of Spartan society. At the same time, the Histories’ treatment of Pausanias highlights the anxiety that such profits generated among Sparta’s Homoioi (‘Peers’). While Herodotus locates this threat in the Greeks’ victories over the Persians in the early fifth century bce , the Histories demonstrates his recognition of the spoils of war as one of the most pernicious aspects of Sparta’s long hegemonic struggle with Athens. The dangers posed by war profits become far more explicit in the works of Thucydides and Xenophon. Both authors demonstrate how the Peloponnesian War and the warfare that Sparta 73

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continued to engage in during its resulting hegemony magnified the dangers and anxieties created by the successful outcome of battle. In the late fifth and early fourth centuries, the increase in war spoils and the lure of wealth gave rise to ambitious commanders involved in extensive campaigns abroad. Through their consequent deployment of ever-increasing funds to attain an unprecedented degree of power, prestige and independence, such military leaders increasingly destabilized the Spartan politeia.4

Pausanias and the perils of Plataea Fear concerning the effects of the victory over the Persians on Spartan society – via its leader, Pausanias – pervades Herodotus’ account of the aftermath of Plataea. Herodotus first hints at the dangerous consequences of such success in his account of Lampon’s attempt to persuade Pausanias to defile the slain Persian commander Mardonius. According to Herodotus, the Aeginetan began by extolling the Spartan regent’s role in the Greeks’ defeat of the Persians (Hdt. 9.78.2): ‘Son of Cleombrotus, you have performed a deed extraordinary in magnitude and grandeur; and since you have saved Hellas, the god has granted to you to lay up in store the greatest glory of all the Hellenes of whom we have any knowledge’.5 After making Pausanias alone responsible for the Greeks’ extraordinary victory, Lampon urges the Spartan prince to cap his achievement with an act that will have two benefits, likely presented in terms of their relative importance. This capstone to his achievement will both enable Pausanias to gain even greater fame (λόγος ἔτι μέζων; cf. Hdt. 9.78.3) and discourage other barbarians from acting recklessly against the Hellenes (Hdt. 9.78.2). After Lampon, then, urgently advises him to desecrate Mardonius’ corpse, Pausanias rejects this act as more appropriate for barbarians than for Greeks (Hdt. 9.79): ‘I thank you, my Aeginetan friend, for your goodwill and concern for me; but you have failed to hit the mark in regard to your judgement. For, after having exalted me, and my fatherland, and my achievement to the skies, you cast me down to the ground by advising me to maltreat the dead and saying that I shall gain more repute if I do so. The performance of such deeds is more fitting for barbarians than for Greeks, and even in barbarians we revile them. On such terms, indeed, I could not wish to please either the Aeginetans or those to whom such things are pleasing. It is enough for me to please the Spartiates by righteous deeds and speech.’ While Herodotus never suggests the presence of an audience at this exchange, Pausanias’ reply surely would have imparted key messages to his fellow Spartiates, if indeed this lesson ever took place. In his claim that he desires only to please his fellow Spartans by righteous deeds and words (Hdt. 9.79.2), Pausanias reflects the Spartans’ privileging of the collective over the individual and bolsters the ideology of the Homoioi. At the same time, however, both Lampon’s fawning upon Pausanias and the Agiad prince’s recognition of this adulation might reveal the seeds of ambition that ostensibly 74

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destroyed Pausanias. Although the regent faults the Aeginetan for encouraging his desecration of Mardonius’ corpse, he does not extend his critique to Lampon’s attempt to glorify him and to earn him unprecedented renown for his achievement at Plataea (Hdt. 9.79). Indeed, Pausanias’ reference to his own exaltation (Hdt. 9.79.1: ἐξάρας γάρ με ὑψοῦ) cannot help but bring to mind Thucydides’ description of the regent’s transformation into an ambitious figure who ‘now was far more exalted (πολλῷ τότε μᾶλλον ἦρτο) and no longer able to live in the accustomed way’ (Thuc. 1.130.1).6 In Herodotus’ account of the exchange between Lampon and Pausanias, we might, accordingly, see growing concerns about both the power and the place of the hereditary dyarchy in Sparta during the fifth century. While the Spartan kingship was constitutionally based, the Lacedaemonians’ hereditary dyarchs enjoyed a range of advantages that set them far apart from their fellow Spartiates.7 In addition to enjoying a preponderance of religious authority in Sparta both on and off the field (cf. Arist. Pol. 1285a6–7), the kings also claimed descent from the semi-divine Heracles and, hence, from Zeus. Their Heraclid lineage made the kings the natural arbiters of the Spartans’ relations with the gods (cf. Xen. Lac. 15.2).8 While they were not the only descendants of Heracles in Sparta (cf. e.g. Hdt. 8.114.2; Plut. Lys. 2.1, 24.3–6), Plutarch claims that the Agiads and Eurypontids were the only Heraclid families that participated in the royal succession (Plut. Lys. 24.3; cf. 2.1). Thanks to their semi-divine lineage, Sparta’s dyarchs enjoyed supra-mortal status that accounts for their exemption from a number of the rituals and regulations that circumscribed the lives of Sparta’s Homoioi. In addition to avoiding the state’s comprehensive system of education (cf. Plut. Ages. 1.2, 4), they likewise enjoyed an exemption from the austere funeral rites mandated for their fellow Spartiates (cf. Plut. Lyc. 27.1–2; Mor. 238d). Sparta’s kings, in fact, received elaborate funerary rites that reified and preserved their superlative status vis-à-vis all other Spartiates (cf. Hdt. 6.58; Xen. Hell. 3.3.1). Xenophon, moreover, suggests that the kings received ongoing heroic cult after death (Xen. Lac. 15.8–9).9 Given the heroic status that Sparta’s kings thus possessed in both life and death, it might have been a small step for them to welcome – and even to seek – the kind of exaltation that Lampon offered to Pausanias. In his account of this exchange between the Aeginetan and the Spartan regent, Herodotus also seems to allude to the threat that any ambitious and talented king posed to the stability of the Spartan politeia. Pausanias’ half-uncle, Cleomenes I, had only recently dominated Spartan foreign policy throughout his reign from c. 520 to c. 490 bce . Cleomenes overshadowed and then helped to depose his Eurypontid colleague, Demaratus, who tried to oppose his hawkish policies (cf. Hdt. 5.70–6, 90; 6.49–82).10 As Herodotus demonstrates in his detailed account of the reign of Cleomenes I, determined and enterprising dyarchs could enjoy great power and extend the purview of their functions by taking full advantage of the resources at their disposal, the important role that personal leadership played in Spartan society and, most importantly, their hereditary position as Sparta’s military leaders.11 Successful military leaders like Cleomenes I and the regent Pausanias, as Paul Cartledge argues, found that the ‘prescriptive right to the supreme command of citizen and allied armies in a militarized state like Sparta 75

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was potentially a passport to undying fame abroad and enormous political influence at home’.12 The careers of both of these leaders likewise attest to the dangers that such royal military success posed to the political and social structures that underpinned Spartan society. Cleomenes I surely threatened his polis’ political stability with his aggressive foreign policy, let alone his ostensible madness, arrest and violent suicide (Hdt. 6.75, 84). Pausanias, if we are to believe the ancient sources, presented even greater peril to the Spartan system with his reputed hubris, medism and unsuccessful bid for tyranny. Such behaviour would certainly help to explain the regent’s eventual starvation at the hands of the ephors (Hdt. 5.32, 8.3; Thuc. 1.128.3–135.1; cf. 1.95.3, 1.182.3). Success in conflicts of such scope and magnitude as that of the Persian Wars could only have magnified both the power of and corresponding threat posed by the successful royal general. War, in fact, inevitably created unique opportunities for any successful Spartan commander to acquire influence and wealth, as we shall see below in the case of both Brasidas’ extraordinary career during the first stage of the Peloponnesian War and Lysander’s activities at that conflict’s conclusion. Whatever its source and veracity, it seems more than reasonable to see in Pausanias’ reported response to Lampon a glimmer of anxiety concerning the destabilizing effects of large-scale conflict and unprecedented victory in battle – as well as the booty that success in war entailed – on Sparta’s socio-political structures and hierarchy. Further signs of unease about the fruits of victory appear in Herodotus’ ensuing account of the regent Pausanias’ handling of the rich spoils from the Greeks’ victory at Plataea (Hdt. 9.80): Then Pausanias, after he made a proclamation that no one was to lay a hand on the booty, ordered the helots to gather all the stuff together. Dispersing through the camp, they found tents adorned with gold and silver, and couches overlaid with gold and silver, and golden bowls, goblets, and drinking vessels; and on wagons they found sacks which were seen to contain gold and silver cauldrons. And they stripped from the dead who lay there armlets and chains and golden-hilted scimitars, not to mention embroidered clothing of which no one took any account. Much of this the helots showed, as much as they could not conceal; but much they stole and sold afterwards to the Aeginetans. As a result, the Aeginetans laid the foundation of their future great fortunes by buying gold from the helots as if it were actually bronze. This passage is immediately striking in terms of its wealth of description, as Herodotus lists each gold and silver item that the helots recovered from the enemy – from tents, couches and drinking vessels to sacks of cauldrons, body ornaments and swords. The sheer amount of gold and silver, Herodotus informs us, led the helots to make no account of the sumptuously embroidered clothing that they stripped from the dead. Such detail about the spoils of war, notably, occurs only in Herodotus’ account of the Spartans’ victory at Plataea. Through this itemized list, Herodotus turns the gathering of booty – a 76

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seemingly normal aspect of battle – into a highly stylized spectacle of Persian luxury performed by the helots for an audience likely composed of their Spartiate masters. Particularly noteworthy is the detail about Pausanias’ insistence that no one besides the helots, the Lacedaemonians’ servile population, was allowed to gather everything of value that fell into the Spartans’ hands after the battle (Hdt. 9.80.1). In both a previous study and a forthcoming publication on dedications of arms and armour, Alastar Jackson links the regent’s prohibition against the Spartiates themselves collecting enemy spoils with their already unusual relationship with war booty. Through a judicious examination of the available textual and archaeological evidence, Jackson persuasively argues that Sparta, unlike most Greek poleis, did not dedicate captured enemy arms and armour to the gods.13 He argues that the Spartans’ primary concern to maintain battle formation, even in the midst of victory (cf. e.g. Thuc. 5.70, 73.4), incited them to adopt strategies, including the ban on the dedication of spoils, in order to prevent their soldiers from premature and disorderly pursuit of the enemy and plunder.14 According to Jackson, the regent Pausanias’ decision to leave the collection of booty to the helots constituted yet another precaution that the Spartans adopted when collecting valuable spoils of war after a battle against such dangerous enemies.15 While Jackson’s argument is persuasive, Pausanias’ mandate ostensibly took place well after the conclusion of the battle of Plataea. More attractive, in my opinion, is Jackson’s discussion of the Spartans’ awareness of the potentially destabilizing and corrupting effects of war spoils on their citizens. As he rightly notes, restraint in the pursuit of booty not only would have aided the cohesion of their hoplites in the field but also would have served to tamp down the jealousy, envy and disharmony among the Homoioi that valuable spoils easily could have engendered.16 As Herodotus’ detailed description of the helots’ handling of the booty makes clear, the spoils on offer after the Greeks’ victory at Plataea were, indeed, even more tempting than the usual loot collected after battle. How one is to make sense of the detail about the helots’ collection of spoils, of course, depends on how one understands the relationship between the Spartiates and their helots. While a number of studies have posited a brutal class struggle at Sparta, scholars like Richard Talbert have increasingly problematized this traditional view of Spartan– helot relations.17 Stephen Hodkinson, for example, has persuasively argued for economic interdependence as a key feature of Spartan–helot relations.18 Peter Hunt has likewise emphasized the cooperative nature of Spartiate–helot relations in his analysis of the helots’ participation in Spartan military activity, such as their role at Plataea as attendants and perhaps even as light-armed soldiers (cf. Hdt. 9.10, 28–9).19 One might conceivably argue that the collection of booty was simply another wartime task assigned to the helots. Pausanias’ ostensible ban on Spartiate participation in this activity and assignment of this task to the helots, instead of to the Lacedaemonian perioeci or Sparta’s allies, suggests that another reading of this scene is in order. While the Spartans might have militarily depended upon and made good use of helot labour, they simultaneously institutionalized a series of practices that were designed to frighten, humiliate and demoralize the helots. As a number of scholars have argued, the Spartiates utilized these same practices to delineate and to reinforce the social divide between themselves and their helots. In 77

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Herodotus’ account of the battle of Plataea, we see the physical instantiation of this demarcation in the separate burials for Spartiates and helots mandated after the Greeks’ victory (Hdt. 9.85.1). The Spartans bolstered this distinction by crafting what Nino Luraghi has aptly described as a ‘despicable collective identity for the helots, which was a mirror image of the Spartiates’ image of themselves’.20 Plutarch, for example, claims that the Spartans forced helots to drink large quantities of unmixed wine and would then bring them into the syssitia in order to show young Spartiates the meaning and dangers of drunkenness (Plut. Lyc. 28.4).21 The Spartans also apparently forced the helots to perform ludicrous songs and dances (Plut. Lyc. 28.9). Perhaps it was in this context that the Spartans forced the helots to wear the degrading animal-skin caps and coverings described by Myron (FGrH 106 F 2). The helots, in other words, performed a vital ideological role in Sparta by providing lessons on behaviour considered inappropriate for Spartiates. At the same time, such ritualized displays of helot inferiority promoted communality among the audience members of the syssitia and provided for them a terrifying spectacle of the consequences that awaited those citizens who failed to live up to the Spartiate code.22 In Herodotus’ account of the aftermath of the battle of Plataea, we find yet another performance of helot humiliation that simultaneously created and encoded two mutually exclusive codes of conduct for the helot actors and their Spartan spectators. Here, however, the spectacle focuses on the disposition of spoils, an activity deemed unsuitable for Spartan males and dangerous even for the helots. As the narrative suggests, the process of collecting booty further corrupted the already degraded helots. After stealing the objects that they were able to conceal from their masters, they sold their plunder to the Aeginetans, who cheated and further humiliated them. Every element of Herodotus’ account – from the helots’ macabre stripping of the corpses to their ignorant sale of stolen loot below market value to the Aeginetans – portrays the acquisition and disposition of plunder as wholly dishonourable activities. In its display of helot venality, corruption and disgrace, this logos provides a powerful lesson to the Spartans on the dangers entailed by the profits of war. Herodotus’ account of the helots’ transaction with the Aeginetans, in turn, furnishes early evidence of the Spartans’ predilection for selling their booty in the field and on the spot.23 Although it is true that mercenary armies commonly sold their booty while on campaign, the Spartan state’s preference for this disposition of spoils, in contradistinction to other Greek states like Athens, points to an institutionalized concern about bringing such plunder home. To facilitate the immediate sale of war booty, at least by the fourth century bce , the Spartans had officials responsible for oversight of the sale of booty known as laphyropōlai or ‘plunder sellers’. In the Lacedaemoniōn Politeia’s account of the dyarchs’ powers and privileges in the field, Xenophon records that the king would send anyone who brought in booty to a laphyrοpōlēs (Xen. Lac. 13.11). As I shall discuss in greater detail below, Xenophon in his Agesilaus also recounts the Eurypontid dyarch’s order to the plunder sellers to facilitate his friends’ purchase of booty at remarkably low prices (Xen. Ages. 1.18). While neither account illuminates the status of these figures, W. K. Pritchett has suggested that Agesilaus II’s treatment of these purveyors of plunder 78

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points to their subordinate status.24 Here again we might see helots performing tasks linked with booty, which the Spartans considered unworthy of full citizens. After recounting the sordid spectacle of helots despoiling the Persian war dead following the battle of Plataea, Herodotus describes the Greeks’ final disposition of plunder. He claims that the Greeks first set aside a tithe for Apollo, from which they constructed and dedicated a golden tripod set on top of a three-headed bronze serpent. Once they set aside portions for Olympian Zeus and Isthmian Poseidon, Herodotus states that they divided the rest of the booty, and ‘each (ἕκαστοι) received, according to their deserts, Persian concubines and gold and silver and other valuables and also beasts of burden’ (Hdt. 9.81.1). While Herodotus does not specify whether the ἕκαστοι in question were individual soldiers or individual states, Pritchett persuasively argues that the division took place among states.25 Herodotus also claims to lack knowledge concerning the proportion of the plunder that was set aside for and given to those who had fought the best at Plataea. He asserts, however, that ten of every kind of spoil – women, horses, talents, camels and everything else that the helots had gathered – was not granted to the Spartans collectively. Instead, this booty became the property of Pausanias alone, the man who had earlier refused to involve his fellow Spartiates in the act of collection (Hdt. 9.81.2; cf. 9.80.1). Given the Spartans’ famed prioritization of the collective over individual interests and needs, the proportion of booty that came to their commander must have been striking, if not troubling and possibly destabilizing. This grant of booty to Pausanias might have been extraordinary in degree and kind, given the identity of the enemy and the scope of the conflict. As Pritchett rightly notes, however, ‘since the honors of victory were bestowed on the general in Greek warfare, it would come as no surprise if he was given a special allotment of the booty’.26 The ancient evidence, indeed, suggests that Spartan commanders usually received a healthy proportion of spoils after successful campaigns.27 Xenophon, for example, reports that the Eurypontid King Agis II in 400 bce gave to Apollo at Delphi a tithe of the booty he had won in his campaign against Elis (Xen. Hell. 3.3.1; cf. 3.2.26). At several points in the Hellenica (3.4.12) and the Agesilaus (1.16, 4.6), Xenophon also records that Agis’ halfbrother, Agesilaus II, similarly acquired a vast quantity of booty through his two years of campaigns in Asia in the early fourth century. As Xenophon (Hell. 4.3.21) and Plutarch (Ages. 19.3) attest, it was the fruits of this expedition against the Persians that enabled Agesilaus to give a portion of his own spoils to Apollo: a tithe that this time amounted to not less than 100 talents.28 Herodotus, however, does not report any such dedication on the part of Pausanias. Instead, one cannot help but wonder if the Agiad regent’s gifts encouraged and enabled his reported betrothal to the Persian Megabates’ daughter (cf. Hdt. 5.32). If we are to believe Thucydides (1.130.1), Pausanias appears to have made good use of these spoils to adopt Median fashion, to acquire a bodyguard and to have his table set according to the Persian fashion in his own bid for despotic power. The Delphic tripod, which the Hellenes made and dedicated from the first-fruits of the spoils collected at Plataea (cf. Hdt. 9.81.1), likewise attracted Pausanias’ attention. According to Thucydides, the Spartan regent had the tripod inscribed with an elegiac couplet (attributed to Simonides) that honoured 79

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him – rather than the Spartans as a whole – as responsible for the defeat of the Persians (Thuc. 1.132.2–3).29 The spoils of war, it would seem, proved too attractive and ultimately destructive for this regent. Granted, Herodotus, at best, only hints at such corruption. Nevertheless, his ensuing account of Pausanias’ direct encounter with Persian luxury after the Greeks’ victory at Plataea further underlines the unsavoury and even dangerous nature of the spoils of war (Hdt. 9.82): (It is said that) when Pausanias saw the tent of Mardonius decorated with gold and silver and embroidered hangings, he ordered the bakers and cooks to prepare a meal of the same sort that they were accustomed to prepare for Mardonius. And they did as they were bidden; and when Pausanias saw gold and silver couches beautifully draped and gold and silver tables and the magnificent preparation of the feast, he was astonished at the good things set before him and, for a joke, commanded his own servants to prepare a Spartan dinner. And when the meal, which was so different from the other, was made, Pausanias laughed and sent for the Greek generals. And when these had assembled, Pausanias pointed to the preparation of each supper and said, ‘Men of Greece, I gathered you together in order to show you the folly of the leader of the Medes, who, although he enjoyed such a way of life, came here to rob us of our poverty’. This account is immediately noteworthy in terms of its close similarity to Herodotus’ earlier description of the helots’ collection of war booty (Hdt. 9.80). Here again Herodotus notes the sumptuousness of the recovered tent, tables and couches all adorned with gold and silver. Now, however, the one in charge of the disposition of spoils is no longer a helot but a Spartiate, and a Spartan regent at that. One could, of course, argue that Pausanias here is providing yet another edifying spectacle of Greekness for his audience of Greek generals (and perhaps his fellow Spartiates) – this time a visual lesson in what not to want, rather than in how not to behave. Pausanias’ behaviour throughout the passage, however, belies the sincerity of this gesture and thus recalls his less than convincing rebuke of the fawning Lampon (Hdt. 9.79). After demonstrating his amazement at the display of Persian opulence that he himself has orchestrated, Pausanias orders a Spartan meal as a joke and then laughs – an act that usually signals coming destruction in the Histories.30 Pausanias’ laughter appears to signal his ignorance of his own vulnerability to fortune and his insolent confidence in his own power. More significantly, such laughter, according to Donald Lateiner, ‘signals men’s immoderation . . . because on the occasions worthy of Herodotus’ historical record, it reflects a spirit too much at ease for human circumstances’.31 The Spartan regent’s inappropriate laughter, accordingly, situates him among the many Eastern autocrats who populate the Histories and perhaps hints at his later embrace of barbarian customs.32 After this problematic laugh that signals at once excess, hubris and autocracy, Pausanias concludes his display by deriding the folly of the Persians’ interest in the impoverished Greeks. This ambiguous statement reveals far more about the regent’s 80

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fascination with Persian luxury than about his attachment to Spartan austerity.33 Indeed, Herodotus’ repeated emphasis on the allure of the spoils suggests that the regent – not surprisingly – preferred the sumptuous Persian feast to the austere Laconian repast (Hdt. 9.82.2: Λακωνικὸν δεῖπνον), which likely included the infamous ‘black broth’ that was served in the common messes as well as unleavened barley-meal cakes.34 At the same time, Pausanias’ elaborate orchestration of the Persian feast cannot help but remind the reader of the Persian table that, according to Thucydides, the regent began to keep after his successful correspondence with Xerxes (Thuc. 1.130.1). Herodotus’ account of Pausanias’ duelling banquets thus parallels, albeit indirectly, Thucydides’ report that the Spartan regent had gained the taste for barbarian luxury and splendour that led to his downfall as a medizer and would-be tyrant. We must, of course, approach with care both Herodotus’ and Thucydides’ portraits of Pausanias’ complex relationship with Persian spoils. As I have argued elsewhere, their accounts reflect the stereotype of the venal Spartan prone to bribery and corruption that runs throughout a number of works during this period.35 Nevertheless, Herodotus’ description of the aftermath of Plataea and Thucydides’ narrative of Pausanias’ fall from grace together suggest that success in war – especially in a war of this magnitude and length – provided opportunities for Spartan commanders to gain wealth that could turn the head of even the staunchest of Spartan leaders. Such wealth, especially when combined with the socio-political influence that it often fostered, necessarily threatened the stability of the Lacedaemonian politeia. The aforementioned couplet that Pausanias reputedly had inscribed on the tripod dedicated by the victorious Greeks at Delphi demonstrates his inflated sense of his position vis-à-vis both his fellow Spartiates and the other Greeks who helped to defeat the Persians (Thuc. 1.132.2; cf. Hdt. 9.81.1):36 ‘Leader (ἀρχηγὸς) of the Hellenes, when he destroyed the army of the Medes, / Pasusanias dedicated this memorial to Phoebus’. One can immediately see the parallels between this act of self-aggrandizement and the Aeginetan Lampon’s obsequious exaltation of Pausanias as solely responsible for the preservation of Hellas (Hdt. 9.78.2). The third-century historian, Nymphis of Heraclea in Bithynia (FGrH 432 F 9), cited by Athenaeus (Ath. 12.536a–b), provides further evidence of Pausanias’ appreciation of his elevation in status and consequent self-promotion. On this occasion, the regent’s exaltation of his achievements occurred in Byzantium via an inscription on a bronze krater. This epigram, if anything, even more clearly attempts to glorify Pausanias, while it also recognizes his Spartan identity:37 μνᾶμ᾽ ἀρετᾶς ἀνέθηκε Ποσειδάωνι ἄνακτι Παυσανίας, ἄρχων Ἑλλάδος εὐρυχόρου, πόντου ἐπ᾽ Εὐξείνου, Λακεδαιμόνιος γένος, υἱός Κλεομβρότου, ἀρχαίας Ἡερακλέος γενεᾶς. To Lord Poseidon Pausanias, the leader of spacious Hellas, dedicated this memorial of his courage, at the edge of the Euxine Sea, Spartan by race, the son of Cleombrotus, of the ancient stock of Heracles. 81

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What is particularly striking here is not just Pausanias’ reference to his royal roots but also, more importantly, to his – and to all Spartan dyarchs’ – reputed lineal descent from the semi-divine Heracles, and, hence, from Zeus. The veracity of this inscription, of course, invites the same scrutiny as the reported couplet on the tripod at Delphi, Herodotus’ narrative concerning Pausanias, and Thucydides’ account of the regent’s megalomania. Nevertheless, the accretion of evidence is worthy of consideration. At the very least, all of these sources suggest that the Greeks’ victory at Plataea augmented the regent’s already exceptional status as a member of one of Sparta’s two hereditary royal houses and thereby widened the gulf that existed between him and the Homoioi. More significantly, Simonides’ elegy on Plataea, likely composed in the early 470s, suggests that Pausanias’ leadership at this battle earned the regent heroic status.38 While this elegy at several points has a distinctly Spartan emphasis (cf. esp. Simon. fr. 11.25–34 West), it singles out Pausanias for praise.39 The Spartan regent has a couplet to himself that begins with his patronymic, includes the adjective ἄριστος and emphasizes his name by placing it in the final position of the pentameter at the conclusion of a section.40 The whole first section of the elegy, moreover, clearly forges a link between Pausanias and the Homeric Achilles (Simon. fr. 11.1–34, esp. 33–4 West).41 If we follow those scholars who argue that Pausanias himself commissioned Simonides’ elegy, we have yet another example of the self-aggrandizement that ostensibly characterized the regent’s behaviour after his command at Plataea.42 Whether or not Pausanias ever truly became a medizer, Thucydides reports that his fellow Spartans considered the regent dangerous enough to put an end not only to his activities in Byzantium, but also to his life (Thuc. 1.95, 129–34).

Agesilaus II and the political benefits (or dangers?) of booty Given the destabilizing influence of the Persian Wars on Sparta’s politeia, one must wonder at the corrosive effects of the prizes on offer during the Peloponnesian War, which was unprecedented in terms of its scope, length and severity. It seems probable that similar threats attended the spate of military activity that occurred during Sparta’s brief hegemony, beginning with the Eurypontid king Agesilaus II’s campaigns in Asia in the mid-390s. The challenges that war-fuelled wealth posed to Sparta’s internal stability are obvious. As scholars have long demonstrated, the intertwined values of egalitarianism and communality, together with the ‘deep-rooted ethic of co-operative sociability’, produced the civic concord (homonoia) that shaped the Lacedaemonians’ political and social structures.43 Their politeia’s homonoia, in turn, underpinned Sparta’s famed eunomia, which Cartledge has defined as ‘orderly obedience to the agreed rules’.44 The ancient sources, granted, reveal that Spartan homonoia and eunomia in no way quelled either the aristocratic values of wealth and birth or the profound influence that patronage exerted on all levels of Spartan society.45 The prized values of egalitarianism and communality, indeed, coexisted with great variations in wealth among the Homoioi, as the ancient sources of this period make clear.46 Herodotus, for example, describes the 82

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famed Sperthias and Bulis as ‘Spartiates of good birth and in wealth among the first’ (Hdt. 7.134.2: ἄνδρες Σπαρτιῆται φύσι τε γεγονότες εὖ καὶ χρήμασι ἀνήκοντες ἐς τὰ πρῶτα). Early in his History, Thucydides likewise notes the existence of a Spartan nobility, which he describes as ‘those who had greater possessions’ (Thuc. 1.6.4: οἱ τὰ μείζω κεκτημένοι). These sources suggest that such variations in economic status were just as endemic to fifth-century Sparta as they were before the mid-seventh-century ‘Lycurgan’ reforms (cf. Plut. Lyc., esp. 8–11). Fourth-century sources, however, reveal that the Spartans’ successful prosecution of the Peloponnesian War and subsequent hegemony exacerbated the divide among the haves and the have-nots.47 Perhaps reflecting growing inequalities in economic status, Xenophon notes not only the wealthy men who supplied wheat bread to the Spartan syssitia (Xen. Lac. 5.3: πλούσιοι) but also the very wealthy Spartans who kept horses (Xen. Hell. 6.4.11: πλουσιώτατοι). Most striking is his remark near the end of the Lacedaemoniōn Politeia that in his day some Spartans even prided themselves on their possession of wealth (Xen. Lac. 14.3: νῦν ἔστιν οὓς καὶ καλλωπιζομένους ἐπὶ τῷ κεκτῆσθαι). Both the Pseudo-Platonic Socrates ([Pl.], Alc. I 122c–123b) and Aristotle at several points in his Politics even more clearly attest to the increasingly uneven distribution of wealth amongst Sparta’s Homoioi.48 The wealth generated by the Spartans’ long struggle with Athens and ensuing activities both in Asia and on the mainland flowed not only into the hands of elite Spartiates but also into the coffers of the Agiad and Eurypontid royal houses. The profits of success in war thereby increased the wealth that Sparta’s hereditary dyarchs already enjoyed from a variety of sources that included their royal estates (cf. Xen. Lac. 15.3) and the tribute that they received from the perioeci (cf. [Pl.] Alc. I 123a–b).49 One particularly wealthy king was the Eurypontid Agesilaus II, who both presided over and hastened the demise of the hegemony that the Lacedaemonians acquired after their successful conclusion of the Peloponnesian War.50 Xenophon (Ages. 4.5) and Plutarch (Ages. 4.1) report that Agesilaus acquired so much wealth from the inheritance of his half-brother Agis II’s property that he donated half of it to his mother’s kinfolk. As we have seen above, Agesilaus’ wealth also resulted from the immense amount of booty that he had acquired through his campaigns in Asia in the mid-390s as well as the profits from the Peloponnesian War that he would have inherited from his brother, Agis II.51 Agesilaus and his troops likewise took possession of a great deal of booty from various campaigns on the Greek mainland (cf. e.g. Xen. Hell. 4.5.5, 4.6.6).52 Agesilaus’ famed austerity (cf. e.g. Xen. Ages. 8.6–8) suggests that he was less interested in exploiting his wealth than the elite Spartiates who deployed their wealth to gain prestige and power through a number of routes that included equestrian competition.53 While Agesilaus might have been a relatively conservative supporter of the Lycurgan regimen, he still made very effective use of the spoils that both he and his brother had acquired during their various expeditions. Through his strategic deployment of his wealth, Agesilaus exercised an unprecedented degree of personal patronage that enabled him to dominate Spartan politics both at home and abroad during his long reign from 400 bce to c. 360 bce .54 Hodkinson has noted how the Eurypontid king’s utilization of 83

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gifts to create a pool of supporters at home paralleled his employment of monetary incentives to build his army in Asia.55 As he rightly concludes, Agesilaus ‘applied the politics of commanding a mercenary army to the politics of leading his fellow citizens’.56 Plutarch reveals how Agesilaus’ riches enabled him to gain leverage over his fellow Spartiates in his account of the gifts of a cloak and an ox that the Eurypontid king sent to all newly elected members of the Gerousia (Plut. Ages. 4.3; Mor. 482d).57 While his gift-giving ostensibly honoured the recipients and exalted the dignity of their office, Plutarch claims that Agesilaus ‘was unawares increasing his own power and adding to the kingship a greatness that was conceded out of good-will toward him’ (Plut. Ages. 4.4; cf. Mor. 482d). Xenophon likewise notes, albeit more positively, the extensive patronage that simultaneously augmented Agesilaus’ influence and put numerous men into his debt (Xen. Ages. 4.4, 11.8; cf. 8.1, 9.2). One such Spartiate was Sphodrias, the governor of Thespiae, who was on trial in 378 for his unprovoked and unsanctioned attempt to seize Piraeus, Athens’ port (Xen. Hell. 5.4.20–4; Plut. Ages. 24.3–6). As Xenophon (Hell. 5.4.24– 33) and Plutarch (Ages. 25–26.1) show, Agesilaus skilfully exploited the traditional channels of Spartan political patronage to sway the trial in Sphodrias’ favour. By means of this acquittal, Agesilaus effectively put both his royal rival, Cleombrotus I, and Sphodrias into his debt and ensured their support for his foreign policy agenda.58 The spoils of war, as noted above, constituted only one source of the wealth that allowed this Eurypontid king to have a profound influence on Sparta’s political order and foreign policy. Nevertheless, Xenophon suggests in his Agesilaus that war profits had the same corrupting effect on Agesilaus’ kingship as Herodotus suggests they had on both the helots and the Agiad regent, Pausanias. The passage in question occurs in Xenophon’s account of the Eurypontid king’s dealings with the Persian satrap, Tissaphernes, at the beginning of his campaign in Asia (Xen. Ages. 1.10–35). He reports that Agesilaus diverted his troops from their planned march to Caria and instead led them to Phrygia, where he reduced the cities and acquired a vast amount of wealth (Xen. Ages. 1.16: παμπληθῆ χρήματα ἔλαβε). According to Xenophon, it was believed that Agesilaus sensibly exploited this situation to enrich his friends as well (Xen. Ages. 1.17: φρονίμως δὲ καὶ τοὺς φίλους ἐνταῦθα ἔδοξε πλουτίσαι). He then proceeds to explain how Agesilaus capitalized on his victories in Phrygia (Xen. Ages. 1.18): When everything was selling for next to nothing because so much wealth had been carried off as booty, Agesilaus forewarned his friends to buy, saying that he was shortly leading his army down to the coast. He ordered the plunder sellers to record the prices obtained for the purchases and to deliver the goods. Thus, without paying anything beforehand or harming the public treasury, all his friends acquired a vast amount of wealth (παμπληθῆ χρήματα ἔλαβον). In his description of the events, Xenophon appears to praise the Eurypontid king, as we might expect in this encomiastic work.59 A close reading of this account, however, suggests that Xenophon had qualms concerning Agesilaus’ relationship with the spoils of war.60 As scholars have long demonstrated, Xenophon provides a relatively balanced portrait of the 84

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Eurypontid king in his corpus and actually offers a good deal of criticism of his reign – even in his eulogistic Agesilaus.61 Through his use of the verb δοκέω in his assessment of Agesilaus’ use of spoils (Xen. Ages. 1.17: φρονίμως δὲ καὶ τοὺς φίλους ἐνταῦθα ἔδοξε πλουτίσαι), Xenophon offers, at best, indirect praise for this activity. He also seems to signal his view of Agesilaus’ war profiteering as one of the less savoury aspects of this king’s career. Indeed, while the Eurypontid dyarch’s deceit might not have harmed the public treasury, he at the very least circumvented the state’s rules regarding the distribution of booty, which appear to have applied to all Spartiates alike.62 More importantly, his enrichment of his friends clearly ran counter to Lycurgus’ arrangements, which ostensibly attempted to curb the love, influence and accumulation of wealth (cf. Xen. Lac. 7).63 The encomium’s account of Agesilaus’ exploitation of war profits, however, suggests that it was not simply Agesilaus’ flouting of rules or undermining of the Lycurgan system that was the problem. Equally troubling was the king’s use of spoils to benefit his friends and himself instead of the state. After recounting Agesilaus’ ruse, Xenophon adds the detail that whenever deserters provided information about possible plunder, Agesilaus ensured that his own friends had the chance to acquire it in order to enrich themselves and to increase their prestige (Xen. Ages. 1.19). At the conclusion of this account, Xenophon reveals that this arrangement ultimately aided Agesilaus even more than his friends in Asia who, like so many others both at home and abroad, received a myriad of benefits from the king (cf. esp. Xen. Ages. 4.1–5). As a result of his shrewd deployment of plunder, Agesilaus created for himself many suitors of his friendship (Xen. Ages. 1.19: διὰ μὲν δὴ ταῦτα εὐθὺς πολλούς ἐραστὰς τῆς αὑτοῦ φιλίας ἐποιήσατο). Particularly noteworthy here is Xenophon’s description of the beneficiaries of plunder as lovers or suitors (ἐραστάς) of Agesilaus’ friendship. Xenophon’s use of the Greek word ἐραστής and related terms is, granted, complex even in the Agesilaus itself. Xenophon talks about Agesilaus’ erōs for all that was honourable (Xen. Ages. 3.1), glory (Xen. Ages. 10.4) and good repute (Xen. Ages. 11.9). At the same time, Xenophon recognized the power and possible danger of erōs in his description of Agesilaus’ ardent feelings toward the Persian Megabates (Xen. Ages. 5.4–6).64 While Xenophon’s Socrates, in the Symposium, differentiates between the carnal form of eros and the ‘heavenly’ (Οὐρανία) erōs for friendship and noble conduct (Xen. Symp. 8.10), we should note the link that the Memorabilia’s Socrates makes between erōs and madness – as two forms of excess (Xen. Mem. 3.9.7). Readers of the Agesilaus should also keep in mind the less than heavenly impetus behind the erōs that Agesilaus’ ‘friends’ demonstrated toward their patron. What, then, should we make of Xenophon’s use of ἐραστής and related terms not only to portray the beneficiaries of Agesilaus’ low-cost plunder (Xen. Ages. 1.19) but also to describe Agesilaus II as most greatly beloved by all men (Xen. Ages. 6.8: πολυεραστότατος)?65 Given the complex valence of such terminology in the Xenophontic corpus, one at the very least must wonder if Xenophon’s pointed language indicates his concern with both the Eurypontid king’s use of war booty to increase his already considerable pool of clients, and the kind of friendships that the king’s patronage promoted (cf. Plut. Ages. 5.1). The imbalance in such relationships, which his terminology reflects, points to the greater attachment of Agesilaus’ ‘friends’ – both those abroad and 85

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those at home, like Sphodrias – to the dyarch than to the polis. As Xenophon appears to have recognized, such attachments directly countered and undermined the Spartans’ promotion of ties to the state over all other bonds. Agesilaus’ adept use of his wealth to create a pool of dependent supporters, in addition, could only have increased the already marked differentiation in rank between the dyarchs and all other Spartiates.66 More importantly, Agesilaus, through such deployment of his considerable economic resources, perhaps unwittingly upped the ante in the elite competition that increased in intensity in the early fourth century and came to threaten his own position, as we shall see below. The wealth that this Eurypontid king gained in part from the spoils of war, in other words, exacerbated several of the inherent fractures in the Spartan system that belied the homogeneity, uniformity and prioritization of the collective over the individual that underpinned Sparta’s community of Homoioi.67 Perhaps it is Xenophon’s concern with Agesilaus’ exploitation of his wealth – including the riches coming into Sparta in the form of booty – that explains his repeated defence of the Eurypontid king’s generosity vis-à-vis his friends (cf. Xen. Ages. 4; 8.4, 6, 8; 11.8, 9).

Brasidas, Gylippus and Lysander: The hazards of victory and hegemony As several ancient sources demonstrate, such destabilizing profits of war were not solely at the disposal of members of Sparta’s two hereditary royal houses. Successful non-royal generals likewise exploited such funds to attain influence that was hitherto inaccessible to Sparta’s Homoioi. Thucydides provides an example of this phenomenon in his account of the Spartiate Brasidas’ unprecedented success as both a soldier and commander in the field.68 Brasidas’ self-directed expedition in the Thraceward region from 424 to 422 could not have depended simply on contributions from allies. Although early in this expedition the Macedonian Perdiccas claimed to be supporting half of Brasidas’ army (Thuc. 4.83.5), his anger at the Spartan commander led him to finance a third, rather than half, of the force (Thuc. 4.83.6). Financial troubles also likely explain Brasidas’ rather sudden decision to go on an expedition with Perdiccas into Macedonia, thereby leaving two newly revolted cities in Pallene – Scione and Mende – in the lurch (Thuc. 4.124).69 Thucydides also reports that the Spartans at one point refused to support Brasidas’ call for more forces out of a combination of resentment at his success and their other priorities (4.108.6–7). Brasidas, accordingly, must have depended at least in part on a continuous stream of war profits – likely from the sale of booty acquired throughout his campaign (cf. Thuc. 4.103.5, 4.104.2, 4.109.5).70 Only the steady acquisition of such funds would have enabled Brasidas to pay for his force of seventeen hundred hoplites, which he quickly marched through Thessaly (Thuc. 4.78–9) and which grew in size and complexity over the course of his expedition. While explaining the rationale behind this expedition, Thucydides reports that Brasidas’ force initially included seven hundred helots and Peloponnesians ‘persuaded by pay’ (Thuc. 4.80.5: μισθῷ πείσας). In his account of Brasidas’ activities in the north, Thucydides suggests that the Spartan force at some point had been reinforced by light-armed soldiers 86

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who might have been mercenaries or allied soldiers (Thuc. 4.110.2–111.2, 123.4). Eventually, at the Battle of Amphipolis in 422, where he fell in battle, Brasidas commanded a force that included 1,500 Thracian mercenaries, Edonian cavalry and peltasts, and one thousand Myrcinian and Chalcidian peltasts (Thuc. 5.6.4).71 Brasidas’ deployment of plunder allowed him, moreover, to sustain a campaign that was unparalleled in its length and scope, and to create a force of soldiers who were so attached to him that they came to be known unofficially as the ‘Brasideioi’ (Thuc. 5.67.1, 71.3, 72.3).72 This Spartan commander, more importantly, enjoyed an unusual degree of independence in the field, had the opportunity to craft Spartan foreign policy, and was the most successful Spartan commander in the first part of the Peloponnesian War. Brasidas’ accomplishments in the Thraceward region, especially his capture of Amphipolis in the winter of 424/3 bce (Thuc. 4.102–6), gave the Spartans their only major victories in the first phase of the Peloponnesian War. More importantly, his expedition dealt a serious blow to Athens’ control of that region and clearly contributed to the armistice between the Lacedaemonians and the Athenians in 423 bce (Thuc. 4.108, 117–19). As Thucydides reveals, such independence and power ultimately proved dangerous to Sparta both abroad and at home. Even if we question the traditional view of Brasidas as a kind of ‘lone wolf ’ who was ignored or actively opposed by the authorities back home, Thucydides’ account repeatedly suggests that the Spartan commander pursued policies that were not always aligned with those of his fellow Spartiates.73 Brasidas’ continued encouragement of the revolts of Scione and Mende from Athens (Thuc. 4.119–23), for example, threatened the combatants’ fragile truce. By pursuing this policy, he likewise demonstrated open defiance of the commissioner, Aristonymus, whom the Spartans sent to oversee the implementation of the armistice with Athens (Thuc. 4.122–3). In addition, both the deputation that the Lacedaemonians sent to Brasidas to check on the state of affairs in the Thraceward region and their dispatch of several young men to serve as governors of cities in the region (Thuc. 4.132.3) point to the Spartan authorities’ concerns about Brasidas’ activities.74 In his concluding remarks on the Spartan general, Thucydides further suggests that Brasidas had different priorities than his fellow Spartiates, who were concerned with making a durable peace with Athens and recovering the men they had lost on the island of Sphacteria in 425 (Thuc. 5.16.1; cf. 4.108.7, 117.2; 5.13.2, 14.3–15). According to Thucydides, Brasidas’ activities in the Thraceward region likewise created problems back home among the leading Spartiates. Their jealousy, as we have seen above, ostensibly factored in the Lacedaemonians’ refusal to send the reinforcements that he requested (Thuc. 4.108.7).75 Even if the Spartans actually gave more support to Brasidas than Thucydides suggests, the Spartan commander’s acquisition of unprecedented honours and personal glorification would undoubtedly have given rise to envy among the Homoioi. His potentially destabilizing elevation in status began in 423, when the people of Scione, excited by his persuasive oratory, publicly decorated him with a golden crown as the liberator of Hellas and also privately adorned him with garlands, as if he were an athlete (Thuc. 4.121).76 However great these honours were, they paled in comparison to the dramatic elevation in status that Brasidas enjoyed after his demise at 87

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the second battle of Amphipolis in 422. According to Thucydides, the grateful people of Amphipolis expressed their recognition of Brasidas’ role in their successful revolt from Athens by heroizing the Spartiate leader soon after his death (Thuc. 5.11.1):77 After this all the allies, following his body in full armour, buried Brasidas at the public expense in the city, just in front of what is now the market-place. And since that time the Amphipolitans, who enclosed his tomb, sacrifice to him as a hero and have given to him as honours athletic contests and yearly sacrifices, and they attribute the colony to him, as founder. They tore down the Hagnonian structures and obliterated whatever was likely, if it survived, to serve as a memorial of his founding of the colony, since they considered Brasidas to have been their saviour . . . The act of posthumous heroization, while uncommon, was certainly not unprecedented – even among Sparta’s Homoioi.78 Nevertheless, as Manuela Mari has argued, the combination of the various honours given to Brasidas, including the removal of all reminders of the Athenian Hagnon’s foundation, ‘appears utterly original and innovative in the history of the cult of human beings in ancient Greece’.79 As Thucydides’ account suggests, the Amphipolitans showered this unprecedented set of honours on the Spartan commander not only to demonstrate their gratitude but also to validate in perpetuity their polis’ change in identity.80 Matthew Simonton has postulated that the newly ascendant oligarchic government in Amphipolis likewise attempted to use Brasidas’ burial and heroization as a means to quell opposition.81 Whatever the case might be concerning the impetus behind this act of heroization, the Amphipolitans’ honouring of Brasidas reflects the association that they and other Greeks, like Thucydides, were making between the Spartan commander and the Homeric Achilles.82 As J. Gordon Howie notes, the funeral obsequies for Brasidas are reminiscent of both Patroclus’ funeral in the Iliad (23.166–257) and the report of Achilles’ funeral in the Odyssey (23.43–84).83 This link between the newly heroized Brasidas and Achilles would not have been lost on the commander’s fellow Lacedaemonians both in the Thraceward region and back at home. Like other Greeks, the Spartans knew their Homer and may also have been familiar with Simonides’ earlier comparison of the regent Pausanias to the Homeric hero (Simon. fr. 11.1–34 West).84 If we are to believe Plutarch, the equally grateful Acanthians offered Brasidas an even more striking posthumous award in the form of a treasury at Delphi known as either the Treasury of the Acanthians or the Treasury of Brasidas and the Acanthians (Plut. Lys. 1.1; Mor. 400f, 401c). The Acanthians’ treatment of Brasidas must have been striking to this general’s fellow Spartiates, given that he had fought alongside the Acanthians from 424 to 422 not as an individual, but as a representative of Sparta.85 As Matthew Sears has argued, this distinction must have seemed remarkable to all Greeks in general, for it was a lavish honour that no individual had received since the Corinthian tyrant Cypselus’ dedication of a treasury under his own name in the seventh century.86 Brasidas’ name on this treasury, his replacement of the Athenian Hagnon as the herofounder of Amphipolis, and the honours that he received from the people of Scione were 88

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all posthumous awards granted outside of Sparta. Nevertheless, this accretion of honours would have been extraordinary by typical Greek standards, and even more so among Sparta’s Homoioi. The second-century ce geographer Pausanias reports that Brasidas also received unprecedented distinction at home in the form of a cenotaph located to the west of the agora (Paus. 3.14.1).87 Brasidas’ remarkable elevation in status, in other words, might have occurred outside of Sparta and beyond the control of the Lacedaemonian authorities, but its reverberations were clearly felt back home. His exaltation necessarily aggravated the inherent inequalities in the Spartan system that belied the myth of the Homoioi, whether in terms of wealth or as a result of the various forms of competition that were integral to the Spartans’ famed upbringing.88 By proving attractive to his fellow Spartiates, Brasidas’ accretion of rewards and honours could only have further eroded the cooperative sociability that underpinned the Spartan politeia.89 While one might argue that Brasidas was an exceptional Spartan, Sears has persuasively demonstrated the need to adopt caution regarding both Thucydides’ (cf. esp., 4.81, 84.2) and modern scholars’ treatment of the Spartan commander as unique.90 There are certainly parallels between Brasidas and the regent Pausanias, discussed above, even though Thucydides deliberately contrasts these figures.91 Both men enjoyed great success in warfare, benefitted tremendously from the spoils and other rewards that followed from their victories, and experienced a marked change in status.92 Pausanias, granted, was a member of the Agiad dynasty and apparently handled the fruits of the Greeks’ victory against the Persians poorly. As the careers of both men demonstrate, however, continuous warfare, along with its attendant riches and rewards, posed serious challenges to the Spartan system. One can only wonder if and how Brasidas would have gone off the rails if he had not suffered an untimely death at Amphipolis in 422 bce . We receive a glimpse of what might have become of Brasidas in the career of Gylippus, the general that the Spartans sent to Sicily to aid the Syracusans against the Athenians in 414 bce (Thuc. 6.93).93 Like Brasidas, Gylippus demonstrated great talent and energy in the field, whether he was recruiting allies to join the fight against Athens (Thuc. 7.1, 7, 21), breaking the Athenians’ attempted siege of Syracuse (Thuc. 7.2–6), or basically outmanoeuvring and destroying the Athenian forces under Nicias and Demosthenes (Thuc. 7.74–86). As Thucydides demonstrates, Gylippus’ arrival in Sicily was the turningpoint in the fight over Syracuse (Thuc. 7.2.4). His leadership was, indeed, instrumental in the victory that Thucydides describes as the greatest achievement of the Greeks during the Peloponnesian War and perhaps of all Greek actions ever recorded (Thuc. 7.87.5). Since he helped the Spartans to win this key victory against the Athenians, scholars have viewed Gylippus as Brasidas’ successor in the Peloponnesian War.94 Despite his pivotal role in the destruction of Athens’ forces in Sicily, the sources do not record Gylippus’ award of honours or change in status. While Thucydides allows Gylippus to disappear from his narrative with no fanfare (cf. Thuc. 7.86, 8.13), the later sources suggest that the Spartan’s behaviour had made him unpopular among the Syracusans.95 Plutarch claims that the Syracusans had increasingly found it difficult to endure Gylippus’ harsh and Spartan style of command. He then adds Timaeus’ report that the Syracusans likewise resented Gylippus’ avarice (Plut. Nic. 28.3–4 = FGrH 566 F 100b–c). Timaeus also 89

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claims that the Syracusans sent Gylippus away without glory and honour (FGrH 566 F 100c: ἀκλεῶς καὶ ἀτίμως). Timaeus’ version might reflect a desire to represent the victory over Athens as a wholly Sicilian achievement. Nevertheless, his report of the victorious Gylippus’ unpopular behaviour cannot help but recall aspects of both Herodotus’ and Thucydides’ accounts of the regent Pausanias’ activities following his victory at Plataea.96 Whatever might have happened in Sicily, Gylippus disappears from history until he re-emerges in the accounts of Plutarch, Diodorus and Athenaeus. In these sources we meet Gylippus after the end of the Peloponnesian War, when he reputedly became a victim of that conflict’s dangerous profits in his capacity as one of the Spartan Lysander’s subordinates. According to Plutarch (Lys. 16), Gylippus was in charge of transporting back to Sparta what remained of the public money, together with all of the gifts and crowns that Lysander had received because of his new status as the master of Hellas. Gylippus, however, ostensibly tore open the sacks that he was transporting, took a large amount of silver from each, and then sewed them up again before he hid the stolen loot under the tiles of his house. Plutarch elsewhere records that the Spartan commander had purloined thirty talents from the thousand that Lysander had sent to Sparta and hid them in the roof of his house (Plut. Nic. 28.4 = Timaeus FGrH 566 F 100b). In both accounts, Plutarch claims that the ephors discovered his theft, thanks to the written accounts included in each bag and the testimony of one of Gylippus’ attendants. The erstwhile victor at Syracuse, now disgraced, either took himself into exile (Plut. Lys. 17.1) or was banished (Plut. Nic. 28.4 = Timaeus FGrH 566 F 100b). Diodorus’ version increases the crime and the punishment. Here Gylippus, after stealing three hundred talents from the booty and the fifteen hundred talents of silver sent back to Sparta, is condemned to death by the ephors after his flight from Lacedaemon (Diod. Sic. 13.106.9–10). Athenaeus’ Deipnosophistae, citing the Hellenistic philosopher Poseidonius, reports that Gylippus starved himself to death after the Spartan ephors convicted him of embezzling some of the funds sent home by Lysander (Ath. 233e–234e = FGrH 87 F 48c). While these sources are late and merit caution, their accounts of Gylippus’ attraction to the spoils of war and consequent corruption deserve careful consideration. When one recalls the pernicious effects of the Persian Wars and concomitant booty on the regent, Pausanias, one can only wonder at the dangers entailed by the Spartans’ – and particularly Lysander’s – acquisition of a tremendous amount of wealth following their victory over Athens in 404 bce . Indeed, the career of Lysander fully demonstrated the destabilizing effects of war and its profits that Pausanias’ downfall, Brasidas’ unprecedented rise in power, and Gylippus’ reputed disgrace had increasingly revealed.97 The Spartan general responsible for the defeat of Athens might have died poor (Plut. Lys. 30.2), but the sources make it clear that after Aegospotami, he personally received a host of gifts that included golden crowns (Xen. Hell. 2.3.8; Diod. Sic. 13.106.8; Plut. Lys. 16.1).98 Plutarch also records a gold and ivory model of a trireme, a gift from the Persian prince, Cyrus, which Lysander stored in the treasury of Brasidas and the Acanthians (Plut. Lys. 18.1; cf. 1.1). Lysander deployed the vast resources at his disposal in his quest for pre-eminence and perhaps even the Spartan kingship, if we believe Plutarch’s account (Plut. Lys. 13.6).99 90

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Even if we dismiss this charge, the ancient evidence suggests that Lysander sought influence at home and abroad through a variety of means. The Spartiate commander, among other things, used his position and wealth to create a vast network of supporters among the elite in the Greek East. This network created the foundation for the unpopular decarchies that later owed allegiance to Lysander alone. It also, more importantly, rivalled the hereditary clienteles of the two Spartan royal houses.100 In his account of the arrival of King Agesilaus II in Asia in the spring of 396 bce , Plutarch demonstrates the extent of Lysander’s influence among the Greeks in this region and the danger that it posed to the dyarchy’s authority (Plut. Ages. 7.1–4; cf. Lys. 23.3–6): As soon as he came to Ephesus, the great reputation and influence that Lysander enjoyed were burdensome and grievous to him, since a throng continuously frequented Lysander’s doors, and all followed in his train and paid him court, as if Agesilaus had the command in name and appearance in accordance with the law, while in fact Lysander was master of all, had all the power, and did everything. Indeed, none of the generals sent out to Asia was more powerful or feared than he; no other man performed greater favours for his friends or inflicted such great injuries on his enemies. Agesilaus quickly learned that his royal status counted for little among the crowds of followers that waited upon Lysander – and presumably upon Lysander’s wealth. Plutarch likewise reports that Lysander’s supporters remained so loyal and cohesive that Agesilaus still considered them a threat after the commander’s death at Haliartus in 395 bce (Plut. Ages. 20.2–3; Mor. 212c–d).101 Even more dangerous, perhaps, was Lysander’s unprecedented programme of selfcommemoration that brought the profits of war directly into the centre of Spartan public life.102 According to the second-century ce geographer Pausanias’ guide to Laconia (3.17.4), Lysander dedicated two eagles bearing figures of Nike in the western stoa on the Spartan acropolis to celebrate his naval victories at Notium in late 407/early 406 and at Aigospotami in 405 bce . At the Amyclaeum, Lysander also dedicated from the spoils of Aegospotami two bronze tripods supported by statues of Sparta and Aphrodite (Paus. 3.18.7–8). While Lysander’s dedications in Sparta were relatively modest, he was still the first Spartiate to commemorate in his lifetime his own, rather than Sparta’s, victories.103 Further tangible reminders of Lysander’s glory came in the form of the crowns of victory and other personal gifts from various poleis that he sent back to Sparta, along with an immense amount of money – as reported by Xenophon (Hell. 2.3.8), Diodorus (13.106.8), and Plutarch (Lys. 16.1). As we have seen above, it was this influx of money that supposedly corrupted and spelled ruin for the Spartan general Gylippus (Plut. Lys. 16–17; Nic. 28.4; Diod. Sic. 13.106.9–10). According to Plutarch, Lysander’s silver likewise corrupted his fellow-general and friend, Thorax. This time, however, the ephors put the offending Spartiate to death (Plut. Lys. 19.4).104 Even if there are questions surrounding the late accounts of these leading Spartans’ disgrace and punishment, there is little reason to doubt Plutarch’s claim that the Spartan authorities were concerned about the 91

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corrupting influence that the profits of war had on both influential and ordinary citizens (Plut. Lys. 17.1).105 Outside of Sparta, Lysander celebrated his victories on a far grander scale that rendered the regent Pausanias’ earlier inscription on the Delphic tripod a mere trifle and highlighted the threat that the profits of war now posed to the Spartan politeia. In his dedication of the grandiose Navarchs’ Monument at Delphi in 405 bce , Lysander cast the Spartans’ victory at Aegospotami as his own personal achievement. Even more hubristic is this monument’s attribution of the Spartan commander’s victory over the Athenians to the divine favour that he ostensibly enjoyed. Situated near the entrance to the sanctuary of Apollo, this spectacle of self-glorification comprised approximately forty statues set in two rows, each of which rested on a huge oblong base. In the foreground the monument depicted Poseidon’s crowning of the victorious Lysander, as five other divinities (the Dioscuri, Zeus, Apollo and Artemis), Lysander’s seer (Agias), and his steersman (Hermon) witnessed this recognition of the Spartan leader’s supra-human status. Behind this tableau stood twenty-nine or thirty statues of those commanders who had assisted Lysander at Aegospotami.106 In addition to these statues, the monument sported an inscribed epigram that Ion of Samos had composed in honour of Lysander’s victory. The total cost of this spectacle, around twenty talents, offers the clearest testimony to Lysander’s enrichment and calculated use of his funds to effect his remarkable change in status.107 Lysander, however, did not simply pursue the heroic status that Brasidas had acquired in 422.108 According to the Samian historian Duris, who was active in the fourth and third centuries, Lysander was the first Greek to whom the cities erected altars and made sacrifices as to a god, and the first to whom paeans were sung (Plut. Lys. 18.3 = FGrH 76 F 71). Plutarch states that the Samians also voted to rename their festival of Hera the Lysandreia (Plut. Lys. 18.4). This latter claim received support from an inscription on a statue-base discovered at the Samian Heraeum in 1965. The base shows that at some point in the fourth century, the Samians renamed their most important religious festival the Lysandreia.109 The information that Duris and the inscription provide has led a number of scholars to conclude that in 404/3 bce , Lysander was the first mortal Greek to have received divine, as opposed to heroic, worship during his lifetime.110 Lysander’s career, in other words, realized the myriad dangers that material success in war had long posed for the Spartans, who now found themselves having to adjust to both the demands of hegemony and the changing economics of Greek warfare. The spoils of war that had long enhanced the dyarchs’ already full coffers grew exponentially during the Peloponnesian War – along with the increased opportunities for desirable posts, service abroad, independence and prestige that the war likewise created. No longer were war profits primarily at the disposal of kings like Agesilaus II, who demonstrated the corrupting influence that such plunder had on the already wealthy dyarchs (Xen. Ages. 1.17–19). Booty now enabled militarily talented Spartiates to acquire the wealth, political influence and supra-mortal status that had previously been monopolized by the dyarchs. Possessing such resources, Spartiates like Lysander posed a serious challenge to the dyarchy’s charismatic authority and the political hierarchy that it supported.111 According 92

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to Plutarch (Lys. 17.1), the profits of war also contributed to an increasing valuation of wealth among Lysander’s fellow Spartiates that threatened Sparta’s unique constitutional and social arrangements. It is thus not surprising to see this attitude toward wealth at the top of the list of societal changes that Xenophon viewed as responsible for Sparta’s decline in his Lacedaemoniōn Politeia (Xen. Lac. 14.1–3): Should anyone ask me whether I think that the laws of Lycurgus even now still remain unchanged, I certainly could no longer say that with confidence. For I know that formerly the Lacedaemonians preferred to live with one another at home with moderate possessions rather than to be corrupted by flattery as harmosts in foreign states. And I know that formerly they were afraid to appear to have money, while now there are some who even pride themselves on its possession. In this still much debated chapter, Xenophon recognizes the inequities in wealth that had long existed in Sparta (cf. Xen. Lac. 5.3; Hell. 6.4.10–11). At the same time, however, he emphasizes the rapid and unprecedented influx of wealth into Sparta during the late fifth and early fourth centuries. His critique reveals his awareness that this situation exacerbated the economic inequities that had long threatened both the ideology of the Homoioi and the communal solidarity that underpinned the Spartan politeia.112 Xenophon’s rebuke of the Spartans’ interest in becoming harmosts open to corruption, while oblique, also points to the growing interest in political posts and military activities that offered opportunities for material gain (Xen. Lac. 14.4).113 As Xenophon clearly understood, Sparta’s success in war was a two-edged sword. In his own description of the battle of Nemea in 394, he demonstrates how Spartiates on the field performed and bolstered the cooperative ideology that underpinned their society (Xen. Hell. 4.2.19– 22).114 In his account of Agesilaus’ enrichment of his friends (Xen. Ages. 1.17–19), however, Xenophon likewise reveals that the profits that came with such victories helped to erode the communal sensibility that made the Spartans such successful practitioners of hoplite warfare in the first place (cf. Xen. Lac. 11–13).

Notes * This chapter initially grew out of two talks that I gave in connection with panels run by my dear friend and colleague, Matthew Trundle. The first was part of a panel on ‘The Profits and Losses in Ancient Greek Warfare’ that Matthew Trundle and Michael Leese co-organized for the 2015 meeting of the Society for Classical Studies. The second talk was part of a panel that Matthew and I co-organized on ‘Greek Responses to Victory and Defeat’ for the 2017 meeting of the Society for Classical Studies. My work greatly benefitted from Matthew’s feedback and extensive research on Greek warfare, and he was the best of collaborators. This paper is a small tribute to his memory. 1. Cf. Hartog (1988), 142–3, 155.

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Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World 2. See Millender (forthcoming c), where I discuss this scene as an example of what I have deemed the ‘spectacular’ nature of Spartan austerity. 3. For an overview of the scholarship on Pausanias’ supposed medism, see Schieber (1980). In addition to the works listed there, see Balcer (1970); Evans (1988); Millender (2021), 101–4; Powell (2021), 228–31. 4. On the pernicious effects of foreign warfare and empire on Spartan society, see Hodkinson (1993); (2000), esp. 423–31. 5. This and all subsequent translations of the Greek are my own unless otherwise noted. 6. Cf. Munson (2001), 69, who argues that Pausanias’ ‘contemptuous distinction between what a barbarian and a Greek would do contradicts the ideological thrust of Herodotus’ text and sounds excessively self-assured’. 7. On the factors that contributed to the gulf in status between the dyarchs and their fellow Spartiates, see Thomas (1974); Carlier (1977); (1984); Cartledge (1987); Millender (2009), 14–15; (2018), esp. 464–73. 8. On the kings’ preponderance of religious authority, see Carlier (1984), 256–69; Parker (1989), 143, 152–60; Richer (2007), 239–41; Millender (2018), 469; (2019), 47–8. For ancient references to the Spartan kings’ claims to a Heraclid lineage, see Hdt. 6.52.1; 7.204, 208.1, 220.4; 8.131.2; 9.33.3; Thuc. 5.16.2; Xen. Ages. 1.2; Hell. 3.3.3; Lac. 15.2. On the kings’ heroic lineage and exceptional status, see Millender (2018), 469–73; (2019), 48–53. 9. On the royal obsequies’ function of reifying and preserving the differentiation in rank between the dyarchs and their fellow Spartiates, see Cartledge (1987), 340; Millender (2002a), 7–11; (2009), 4; (2018), 472–3; (2019), 51–3. On the heroic cult that Sparta’s dyarchs enjoyed posthumously, see Cartledge (1987), 335–6; (1988); Currie (2005), 244–5; contra Parker (1988). 10. On Cleomenes I and his domination of Spartan foreign policy, see Carlier (1977), 70–84; Cawkwell (1993); Thommen (1996), 87–90, 92–6; Cartledge (2001b), 64–5; Millender (2002a), 11–12; (2009), 13–14; (2018), 464–5. 11. See, supra, n.7. 12. Cartledge (1987), 205–6. 13. Jackson (1993), 231–2. I would like to thank the author for generously sharing with me his work on the Spartans’ treatment of captured arms and armour. This study is part of his forthcoming volume on arms and armour dedications at Isthmia in the American School of Classical Studies at Athens’ series on the excavations at Isthmia. For the archaeological evidence, see also Baitinger (2011), 156–7. On the handling of booty and war profits in the Greek world, see Pritchett (1991), 363–541. 14. Jackson (1993), 232. Many thanks to A. H. Jackson for his insight on these points, based on his work at Isthmia. 15. Ibid. 16. Ibid. 17. Talbert (1989). For the traditional belief in a class struggle between the Spartiates and their helots, see Cartledge (1987), 13, 160–79; (1991); (2001a), 146–52; (2002), 151–3; (2003). See also de Ste. Croix (1972), 90–4; Ducat (1974); (1990), 107–53. 18. Hodkinson (1997), esp. 45–53; (2000), 113–49. For studies that have argued against such interdependence, see, e.g. Roobaert (1977); Whitby (1994); Birgalias (2002). Paradiso (2004) attempts a middle course between these views. 19. Hunt (1997); (1998). 94

The Perils of Victory 20. Luraghi (2002), 234; cf. 239. On this ideological objective and a detailed study of the practices and rituals that bolstered this social divide, see also Ducat (1974); (1990), 108–18; 179; David (1989), 5–10; Millender (2016b), 139–44. Trundle (2016) provides a detailed study of the infamous krypteia. 21. Cf. Plut. Demetr. 1.5; Mor. 239a, 455e, 1067e. 22. On the humiliation of the helots and promotion of an esprit de corps among the Spartiates, see David (1989), 7; Millender (2016b), 140–1. For these rituals’ role in bolstering the Spartiate code, see Millender (2016b), 141–4. 23. Pritchett (1991), 403–16. 24. Ibid., 403. 25. Ibid., 369–70. Pritchett argues against Diodorus’ understanding of the division of spoils (Diod. Sic. 11.33) and suggests that the division after Plataea would have paralleled the division of booty following the Greeks’ victory at Salamis (Hdt. 8.121–2). 26. Pritchett (1991), 399. 27. See Millender (2018), 467. 28. Cf. Pritchett (1991), 412. 29. Cf. Meiggs and Lewis (1988), no. 27. 30. Lateiner (1977). Cf. Munson (2001), 70. 31. Lateiner (1977), 177. 32. As Lateiner (1977, 177), argues, in the Histories ‘laughter is almost a royal prerogative (cf. 1.99.1), or perhaps a royal disease’. For the parallels between the Spartan royal figures that Herodotus describes and the barbarian autocrats featured in the Histories, see Millender (2002a); (2009), 4–5. For the ‘barbarian’ qualities of Thucydides’ Pausanias, see Millender (2009), 6–7; (2021), 101–4. On the role that laughter played more generally in Sparta, see David (1989). 33. On Pausanias’ problematic fascination with the spoils at Hdt. 9.80.1 and 9.82, see Fornara (1971), 62–3; Munson (2001), 69–70. 34. See Millender (forthcoming c). 35. Millender (2002b). 36. Meiggs and Lewis (1988), no. 27: Ἑλλήνων ἀρχηγὸς ἐπεὶ στρατὸν ὤλεσε Μήδων / Παυσανίας Φοίβῳ μνῆμ᾽ ἀνέθηκε τόδε. 37. For this inscription, see Schachter (1998), 29; Rawles (2018), 85–6. 38. For this dating of the ‘Plataea Elegy’, see Rawles (2018), 82, whose treatment of this poem (77–129, 269–80) provides a full discussion of the major debates as well as previous bibliography. 39. On the various terms and images that have a Spartan ‘flavour’, see Rawles (2018), 84–5. 40. See Rawles (2018), 84–5. 41. Ibid., 98. On Achilles’ centrality to this elegy, see Schachter (1998); Rawles (2018), esp. 97–106. 42. For the theory that Pausanias commissioned this elegy, see Schachter (1998), esp. 29–30. See also Aloni (1994), esp. 102–3, and Rawles (2018), 85–6, who believe that either Pausanias or the Spartans commissioned the elegy. For contrary readings, see, e.g. Boedeker (1995), 225, who admits the Spartans’ prominence in the elegy but argues against their commission – and perhaps any commission – of the elegy. 43. For this quote and reading of the Spartan politeia, see Hodkinson (2006), 128–9, at 128. See also Hodkinson (2005), 258–63; Millender (2016a). On Sparta’s homonoia, which shaped the

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Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World politeia’s social and political arrangements, see, e.g. Xen. Lac. 5.3, 6.3–4; Arist. Pol. 1263a26– 40, 1270b21–6, 1294b19–29. 44. Cartledge (2001a), 162. On Spartan eunomia, see Hdt. 1.65; Thuc. 1.18–19; Plut. Lyc. 2.3, 3.5, 5–13. 45. See Hodkinson (1993); (1994); (2000); (2002). 46. On inequalities in Spartiate wealth, see de Ste. Croix (1972), 137–8 and Appendix XVI; Hodkinson (1993); (1994); (2000), esp. 209–445; (2002). 47. See Hodkinson (1993); (1996); (2000), esp. 423–32. 48. For Aristotle’s comments, see, e.g. Pol. 1270a15–34; 1270b7–13, 32–5; 1271a3–5, 14–18, 26–37; 1271b7–17; 1294b22–9; 1307a34–8. 49. On the wealth that the hereditary royal families possessed, see Millender (2018), 467. 50. Cartledge (1987) remains the definitive study of Agesilaus II’s reign. See also Millender (2009), 18–26; (2018), 465–7; (2019). 51. For booty from his campaigns in Asia, see Xen. Hell. 3.4.12, 4.3.21; Ages. 1.16, 33; 4.6; Plut. Ages. 19.3. For the profits of war that he inherited from Agis II, see Xen. Hell. 3.2.26, 3.3.1. 52. On Agesilaus’ acquisition and disposal of booty in both Asia and the Greek mainland, see Pritchett (1991), 410–14. 53. For Agesilaus’ austerity, see also Xen. Ages. 9.3–7; 11.7, 11; Plut. Ages.14.1–2, 36.5–6. See Millender (2019), 40–2; (forthcoming c). For elite Spartans’ deployment of resources to gain power and prestige, see, e.g. Xen. Ages. 9.6; Plut. Ages. 20.1; Mor 212b, along with Hodkinson (2000), 303–33. 54. On the roots and extent of Agesilaus II’s power, see Cartledge (1987). On Agesilaus’ adept exercise of patronage, see Cartledge (1987), esp. 136–59; Hodkinson (1993), 170; (2000), 358, 361–5; (2002), 128–9; Millender (2018), 465–6. 55. The dyarch’s acquisition of plunder likely enabled him to provide prizes, pay and abundant supplies to his soldiers. See Xen. Ages. 1.25; Hell. 3.4.16, 4.2.5–8. 56. Hodkinson (1993), 170. 57. On these valuable gifts, see Cartledge (1987), 154–5. 58. Ibid., 136–59; cf. (2001b), 66. 59. Cf. Pritchett (1991), 410–11. On the degree to which Xenophon’s Agesilaus conforms to the expectations of the encomiastic genre, see Humble (2020); (2022), esp. 221–37; (forthcoming); Due (forthcoming); Millender (forthcoming d). 60. For the negative undertones of this account, see Hodkinson (1993), 151–2; Humble (2022), 143 n.45; Too (2022), 142; Millender (forthcoming d). 61. On Xenophon’s complex portrayal of the king in the Agesilaus, see Humble (2020); (2022), 221–37; (forthcoming); Millender (2009), 18–22; (forthcoming b, c, d, and e). For more general discussions of Xenophon’s treatment of Agesilaus, see Cartledge (1987), 55–73; Dillery (1995), esp. 6, 107–18, 211–37; Millender (2009), 18–22. 62. Pritchett (1991), 411. Cf. Hodkinson (2000), 427. 63. Cf. Hodkinson (1993), 151–2; Humble (2022), 143. 64. Cf. Hindley (1999), 77; (2004), 125–6. 65. Compare the terminology that Xenophon uses when he claims that among all Greeks and barbarians, no man was ever loved by more people than the Persian prince Cyrus (Xen. An. 1.9.28: πεφιλῆσθαι). 96

The Perils of Victory 66. On this gap between the dyarchs and all other Spartiates, see, supra, n.7. 67. Cf. Hodkinson (1993), 170–1. On the many factors that countered the Spartans’ inculcation of uniformity, conformity and the prioritization of collective interests over private ones, see Hodkinson (2002). 68. On Brasidas’ career, see Sears (2020–2021), who provides a full bibliography. See also Millender (2019), 54–5; (forthcoming a). 69. See Westlake (1968), 156; Wylie (1992), 86. 70. Cf. Pritchett (1991), 407. On Brasidas’ ‘mercenary’ army and his need to provide for it, see Daverio Rocchi (1985), 73–4. 71. On the Spartans’ increasing reliance on mercenaries, see Millender (2006); (2016a), 183–6. On the Athenians’ increasing reliance on mercenaries in the fifth-century navy, see Rosenbloom’s chapter in this volume. For mercenaries in the Gothic forces that occasionally provided service to the Roman emperor in Constantinople in the fifth century ce , see Knox’s chapter in this volume. 72. See Millender (2006), 237. 73. For the traditional view that Brasidas’ expedition did not reflect official Spartan foreign policy, see, e.g. Brunt (1965), 275–6; Westlake (1968), 148; (1980), 333–4, 336; Kallet-Marx (1993), 171. See also Daverio Rocchi (1985), who argues (73) that Brasidas’ independent initiative really began with his expedition on Acte. Contra Hornblower (1991–2008), 2.47–61, 268–70, who cautions against following Thucydides’ treatment of Brasidas as a ‘lone wolf ’ in pursuit of policies at variance with the authorities back home. See also Lazenby (2004), 91, who argues that the authorities approved of Brasidas’ plans. 74. Cf. Westlake (1968), 159–61; (1980), 334. 75. For the other Spartiates’ resentment of Brasidas, see Westlake (1968), 153, who argues that this information came from Brasidas or someone serving under his command. See also Howie (2005), 275–6. 76. On these exceptional honours, see Cartledge (1987), 85. On Brasidas’ reception at Scione, see also Currie (2005), 141–2, 168, 181, 194. For a different reading of this scene in the History, see Hornblower (1991-2008), 2.49–50, 380–5. Hornblower argues that Thucydides used the imperfect of the verb προσέρχομαι rather than a form of the verb προσάρχομαι and that the people of Scione did not offer the Spartan first-fruits but rather went out to greet Brasidas as a victorious athlete. 77. On this passage, see, esp. Malkin (1987), 228–32. On Brasidas’ hero cult, see Hoffmann (2000). On the link between Brasidas’ treatment at Scione and his heroization at Amphipolis, see Habicht (1970), 206 n.51. 78. For Greek hero cults in general, see Ekroth (2002); Currie (2005). On Spartan hero cults, see Christesen (2010); Salapata (2014); Millender (2019). 79. Mari (2012), 333. 80. Ibid., esp. 351. 81. Simonton (2018). For other explanations of Brasidas’ heroization, see Hoffmann (2000); Mari (2012). 82. Howie (2005), esp. 207–8, 272–3. 83. Ibid., 272. 84. Early in the fourth century, Plato’s Alcibiades certainly recognized the parallels between Achilles and the Spartan Brasidas (Pl. Symp. 221c). See Howie (2005), 272–3; cf. 209. For later references to Brasidas’ unusual status in the Greek world, see Arist. Eth. Nic. 1134b23; Diod. Sic. 12.74.3–4; Plut. Lyc. 25.5; Mor. 207f. 97

Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World 85. Cf. Cartledge (1987), 85. 86. Sears (2020–1), 195. On this treasury, see Sears (2019). On the exceptional naming of a treasury for an individual, see also Currie (2005), 169, 190, who suggests that Brasidas might have received this honour while he was alive. On the relationship between money and Greek religion, see Trundle’s chapter in this volume. 87. On this cenotaph and the possibility that it was a post-classical structure, see Hodkinson (2000), 257, 269 n.61. 88. See, supra, n.67. On the various forms of competition that the education of boys entailed, see Hodkinson (1983), esp. 244, 248–9; Ducat (2006), 102–3, 171–5, 217–18; Davies (2018), 482–6. 89. See Millender (2019), 54–5. 90. Sears (2021–2). For the traditional view of Brasidas as an ‘unSpartan’ Spartan, see, e.g. Westlake (1968), 148; Mari (2012), 330 n.9. 91. For this contrast, see Connor (1984), 130 n.52, 139 n.70. Cf. Bearzot (2004), who sees a marked difference between Brasidas, on the one hand, and ‘bad’ Spartans like Pausanias and Lysander, on the other. 92. Cf. Sears (2020–1), 181–2. See also Evans (1988), 7, who notes that Pausanias’ mission in Thrace might have been analogous to Brasidas’ later expedition. 93. On Gylippus, see Westlake (1968), 277–89; Hodkinson (2000), 155–7, 172, 427; Sears (2020–1), 182, 189–90, 192–3. 94. See, e.g. Westlake (1968), 278; Sears (2020–1), 182. 95. On the possible reasons for Gylippus’ developing unpopularity, see Westlake (1968), 285–8. 96. For Timaeus’ likely bias, see Westlake (1968), 285–6. 97. For the progression from Brasidas to Lysander, see Daverio Rocchi (1985), 78–9; Sears (2020–1), 182; Millender (2019), 54–5; (forthcoming a). Contra Bearzot (2004), who rather notes the parallels between Lysander and the Agiad regent. 98. For the possibility that Lysander’s conspicuous abstention from personal enrichment was a calculated political manoeuvre, see Hodkinson (2000), 429. 99. On Lysander’s acquisition and use of a vast amount of wealth after the Peloponnesian War, see Hodkinson (2000), 427–30. 100. For the evidence of such relationships, see, e.g. Xen. Hell. 1.6.4–6, 2.3.7, 3.4.7–9; Diod. Sic. 13.70.4; Nep. Lys. 1.5; Plut. Ages. 7, 20.2; Lys. 5.5–8, 8.1, 13.5–9, 19.1–4, 21.1, 23. On Lysander’s creation of a powerful collection of supporters, see Cavaignac (1924); Bommelaer (1981), 117–71; Cartledge (1987), 81, 90–4. 101. See Hodkinson (1993), 170; (2000), 431. 102. For a detailed catalogue of Lysander’s known monuments and dedications, see Bommelaer (1981), 7–23. See also Cartledge (1987), 82–3; Millender (2019), 43–4. 103. See Cartledge (1987), 82–3. 104. On Thorax’s downfall, see Hodkinson (2000), 172, 427, who argues that Thorax had likely acquired the silver that led to his death from his foreign commands between 406 and 403 bce . 105. On this passage, see Hodkinson (2000), 429; cf. 27–8, 155–6. 106. Lysander’s dedication at Delphi: Paus. 10.9.7–10; Meiggs and Lewis (1988), no. 95; Plut. Lys. 18.1. See Bommelaer (1981), 14–16 no. 15; Cartledge (1987), 34–6, 82–3, 85–6, 96;

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The Perils of Victory Hodkinson (2000), 286, 294, 428–9. On the role that such dedications played in the political competition among elite Spartiates, see Hodkinson (2000), 319–23, 428–30; Millender (2019), 44. 107. Hodkinson (2000), 428. 108. See Millender (2019), 53–7. 109. It is, however, not clear if the festival was celebrated in Lysander’s lifetime. See Habicht (1970), 243, 271; Badian (1981), 34; Cartledge (1987), 83; Currie (2005), 160. 110. See Flower (1988). See also Currie (2005), 159–67, 191, who argues that Euthymus of Locri was the first Greek to be awarded cultic honours in his own lifetime, in his case heroic rather than divine honours. 111. Millender (2019). 112. On Xenophon’s recognition in this passage of the Spartans’ long valuation of wealth, see Hodkinson (2000), 25; Humble (2022), 189; cf. 137–44. 113. Hodkinson (2000), 427; Humble (2022), 190–7. 114. Millender (2016a), esp. 169, 175–6, 189.

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Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World Cartledge, P. (2001b), ‘Spartan Kingship: Doubly Odd?’, in P. Cartledge, Spartan Reflections, 55–67, 201–2, Berkeley: University of California Press. Cartledge, P. (2002), Sparta and Lakonia: A Regional History 1300–362 b.c., 2nd edn, London: Routledge. Cartledge, P. (2003), ‘Raising Hell? The Helot Mirage – a Personal Re-View’, in N. Luraghi and S. Alcock (eds), Helots and Their Masters in Laconia and Messenia: Histories, Ideologies, Structures, 12–30, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Cavaignac, E. (1924), ‘Les dékarchies de Lysandre’, Revue des études historiques 90: 285–316. Cawkwell, G. L. (1993), ‘Cleomenes’, Mnemosyne 46: 506–27. Christesen, P. (2010), ‘Kings Playing Politics: The Heroization of Chionis of Sparta’, Historia 59: 26–73. Connor, W. R. (1984), Thucydides, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Currie, B. (2005), Pindar and the Cult of Heroes, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Daverio Rocchi, G. (1985), ‘Brasida nella tradizione storiografica: Aspetti del rapport tra ritratto letterario e figura storica’, Acme 38: 63–81. David, E. (1989), ‘Laughter in Spartan Society’, in A. Powell (ed.), Classical Sparta: Techniques Behind Her Success, 1–25, London: Routledge. Davies, P. (2018), ‘Equality and Distinction within the Spartiate Community’, in A. Powell (ed.), A Companion to Sparta, 480–99, Hoboken, NJ: Wiley Blackwell. de Ste. Croix, G. E. M. (1972), The Origins of the Peloponnesian War, London: Duckworth. Dillery, J. (1995), Xenophon and the History of His Times, London: Routledge. Ducat, J. (1974), ‘Le Mépris des Hilotes’, Annales. Économies, Sociétés, Civilisations 29: 1451–64. Ducat, J. (1990), Les Hilotes (Bulletin de Correspondance Hellénique Supplement 20), Paris: Diff. de Boccard. Ducat, J. (2006), Spartan Education, trans. E. Stafford, P.-J. Shaw and A. Powell, Swansea: Classical Press of Wales. Due, B. (forthcoming), ‘Xenophon’s Agesilaus’, in C. J. Tuplin, F. Hobden and A. V. Zadorozhny (eds), Leadership and Authority in Xenophon. Ekroth, G. (2002), The Sacrificial Rituals of Greek Hero Cults in the Archaic to the Early Hellenistic Periods, Liège: Kernos Suppléments. Evans, J. A. S. (1988), ‘The Medism of Pausanias: Two Versions’, Antichthon 22: 1–11. Flower, M. (1988), ‘Agesilaus of Sparta and the Origins of the Ruler Cult’, CQ 38: 123–34. Fornara, C. W. (1971), Herodotus: An Interpretive Essay, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Habicht, C. (1970), Gottmenschentum und griechische Städte, 2nd edn, München: Beck. Hartog, F. (1988), The Mirror of Herodotus: The Representation of the Other in the Writing of History, trans. J. Lloyd, Berkeley: University of California Press. [New French ed. 1991.] Hindley, C. (1999), ‘Xenophon on Male Love’, Classical Quarterly 49: 74–99. Hindley, C. (2004), ‘Sophron Eros: Xenophon’s Ethical Erotics’, in C. Tuplin (ed.), Xenophon and His World: Papers from a Conference Held in Liverpool in July 1999, 125–46, Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag. Hodkinson, S. (1983), ‘Social Order and the Conflict of Values in Classical Sparta’, Chiron 13: 239–81. Hodkinson, S. (1993), ‘Warfare, Wealth, and the Crisis of Spartiate Society’, in G. Shipley and J. Rich (eds), War and Society in the Greek World, 146–76, London: Routledge. Hodkinson, S. (1994), ‘ “Blind Ploutos”?: Contemporary Images of the Role of Wealth in Classical Sparta’, in A. Powell and S. Hodkinson (eds), The Shadow of Sparta, 183–222, London: Routledge. Hodkinson, S. (1996), ‘Spartan Society in the Fourth Century: Crisis and Continuity’, in P. Carlier (ed.), Le IVe siècle av. J.-C.: Approches historiographiques, 85–101, Paris: A.D.R.A. Hodkinson, S. (1997), ‘Servile and Free Dependants of the Classical Spartan Oikos’, in M. Moggi and G. Cordiano (eds), Schiavi e Dipendenti nell’ Ambito dell’ Oikos e della Familia: XXII colloquio GIREA, 45–71, Pisa: Edizioni ETS. 100

The Perils of Victory Hodkinson, S. (2000), Property and Wealth in Classical Sparta, Swansea: Classical Press of Wales. Hodkinson, S. (2002), ‘Social Order and the Conflict of Values in Classical Sparta’, in M. Whitby (ed.), Sparta, 104–30, New York: Routledge. Hodkinson, S. (2005), ‘The Imaginary Spartan Politeia’, in M. H. Hansen (ed.), The Imaginary Polis: Symposium, January 7–10 2004, Acts of the Copenhagen Polis Centre vol. 7 (Historiskfilosofiske Meddelelser 91), 221–81, Copenhagen: Royal Danish Academy of Sciences and Letters. Hodkinson, S. (2006), ‘Was Classical Sparta a Military Society?’, in S. Hodkinson and A. Powell (eds), Sparta & War, 111–62, Swansea: Classical Press of Wales. Hoffmann, G. (2000), ‘Brasidas ou le fait d’armes comme source d’héroïsation dans la Grèce classique’, in V. Pirenne-Delforge and E. Suárez de la Torre (eds), Héros et héroïnes dans les mythes et les cultes grecs: Actes du Colloque organisé à l’Université de Valladolid du 26 au 29 mai 1999, 365–75, Liège: Kernos Suppléments. Hornblower, S. (1991–2008), A Commentary on Thucydides, 3 vols, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Howie, J. G. (2005), ‘The Aristeia of Brasidas: Thucydides’ Presentation of Events at Pylos and Amphipolis’, Papers of the Langford Latin Seminar 12: 207–84. Humble, N. (2020), ‘True History: Xenophon’s Agesilaus and the Encomiastic Genre’, in A. Powell and N. Richer (eds), Sparta and Xenophon, 291–317, Swansea: Classical Press of Wales. Humble, N. (2022), Xenophon of Athens: A Socratic on Sparta, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Humble, N. (forthcoming), ‘Xenophon’s Agesilaus: Expedient Rhetoric or Ethical Paradigm’, in C. Marsico et al. (eds), Xenophon Philosopher: Argumentation and Ethics. Hunt, P. (1997), ‘Helots at the Battle of Plataea’, Historia 46: 129–44. Hunt, P. (1998), Slaves, Warfare, and Ideology in the Greek Historians, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Jackson, A. H. (1993), ‘Hoplites and the Gods: The Dedication of Captured Arms and Armour’, in V. D. Hanson (ed.), Hoplites: The Classical Greek Battle Experience, 22–49, London: Routledge. Kallet-Marx, L. (1993), Money, Expense and Naval Power in Thucydides’ History 1-5.24, Berkeley: University of California Press. Lateiner, D. (1977), ‘No Laughing Matter: A Literary Tactic in Herodotus’, Transactions of the American Philological Association 107: 173–82. Lazenby, J. F. (2004), The Peloponnesian War: A Military Study, London: Routledge. Luraghi, N. (2002), ‘Helotic Slavery Reconsidered’, in A. Powell and S. Hodkinson (eds), Sparta: Beyond the Mirage, 227–48, Swansea: Classical Press of Wales. Malkin, I. (1987), Religion and Colonization in Ancient Greece, Leiden: Brill. Mari, M. (2012), ‘Amphipolis between Athens and Sparta: A Philological and Historical Commentary on Thuc. V 11,1’, Mediterraneo Antico 15: 327–53. Meiggs, R. and Lewis, D. M. (1988), A Selection of Greek Historical Inscriptions to the End of the Fifth Century bc, 2nd edn, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Millender, E. G. (2002a), ‘Herodotus and Spartan Despotism’, in A. Powell and S. Hodkinson (eds), Sparta: Beyond the Mirage, 1–61, Swansea: Classical Press of Wales. Millender, E. G. (2002b), ‘Νόμος Δεσπότης: Spartan Obedience and Athenian Lawfulness in Fifth-Century Thought’, in V. B. Gorman and E. W. Robinson (eds), Oikistes: Studies in Constitutions, Colonies, and Military Power in the Ancient World Offered in Honor of A. J. Graham, 33–59, Leiden: Brill. Millender, E. G. (2006), ‘The Politics of Spartan Mercenary Warfare’, in S. Hodkinson and A. Powell (eds), Sparta & War, 235–66, Swansea: Classical Press of Wales. Millender, E. G. (2009), ‘The Spartan Dyarchy: A Comparative Perspective’, in S. Hodkinson (ed.), Sparta: Comparative Approaches, 1–67, Swansea: Classical Press of Wales. 101

Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World Millender, E. G. (2016a), ‘The Greek Battlefield: Classical Sparta and the Spectacle of Hoplite Warfare’, in W. Riess and G. Fagan (eds), The Topography of Violence in the Greco-Roman World, 162–94, Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Millender, E. G. (2016b), ‘Spartan State Terror: Violence, Humiliation and the Reinforcement of Social Boundaries in Classical Sparta’, in T. Howe and L. L. Brice (eds), Brill’s Companion to Insurgency and Terrorism in the Ancient Mediterranean, 117–50, Leiden: Brill. Millender, E. G. (2018), ‘Kingship: The History, Power, and Prerogatives of Sparta’s “Divine” Dyarchy’, in A. Powell (ed.), A Companion to Sparta, 452–79, Hoboken, NJ: Wiley-Blackwell. Millender, E. G. (2019), ‘A Contest in Charisma: Cynisca’s Heroization, Spartan Royal Authority, and the Threat of Non-Royal Glorification’, in E. Koulakiotis and C. Dunn (eds), Political Religions in the Greco-Roman World: Discourses, Practices, and Images, 34–63, Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars Publishing. Millender, E. G. (2021), ‘Νόμιμα ἀρχαιότροπα καὶ ἄμεικτα: Thucydides’ Conceptual Alienation of Sparta’, in A. Powell and P. Debnar (eds), Thucydides and Sparta, 85–117, Swansea: Classical Press of Wales. Millender, E. G. (forthcoming a), ‘Arms Do Not Necessarily Make the Man: The Complex Forging of Leaders in Ancient Sparta’, in S. B. Ferrario (ed.), A Companion to Leadership in the Greco-Roman World, Hoboken, NJ: Wiley-Blackwell. Millender, E. G. (forthcoming b), ‘The Spartans’ Performance of Emotions’, in G. Danzig, T. A. Van Berkel and D. Konstan (eds), Xenophon and the Emotions. Millender, E. G. (forthcoming c), ‘The Spectacular Nature of Spartan Austerity: An Oxymoron?’, in S. Hodkinson (ed.), Herodotos and Sparta, Swansea: Classical Press of Wales. Millender, E. G. (forthcoming d), ‘Xenophon and the Spectacle of Sparta’, in C. J. Tuplin, F. Hobden and A. V. Zadorozhny (eds), Xenophon the Historian: Historiography and the Uses of History. Millender, E. G. (forthcoming e), ‘Xenophon on Spartan Obedience: Virtue or Vice?’, in G. Danzig, D. M. Johnson and D. Konstan (eds), Xenophon and the Virtues. Munson, R. V. (2001), Telling Wonders: Ethnographic and Political Discourse in the Work of Herodotus, Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Paradiso, A. (2004), ‘The Logic of Terror: Thucydides, Spartan Duplicity, and an Improbable Massacre’, in T. J. Figueira and P. Brulé (eds), Spartan Society, 179–98, Swansea: Classical Press of Wales. Parker, R. (1988), ‘Were Spartan Kings Heroized’, Liverpool Classical Monthly 13: 9–10. Parker, R. (1989), ‘Spartan Religion’, in A. Powell (ed.), Sparta: Techniques Behind Her Success, 142–72, London: Routledge. Powell, A. (2021) ‘Information from Sparta: A Trap for Thucydides?’, in A. Powell and P. Debnar (eds), Thucydides and Sparta, 221–73, Swansea: Classical Press of Wales. Pritchett, W. K. (1991), The Greek State at War, vol. V, Berkeley: The University of California Press. Rawles, R. (2018), Simonides the Poet: Intertextuality and Reception, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Richer, N. (2007), ‘The Religious System at Sparta’, in D. Ogden (ed.), A Companion to Greek Religion, 236–52, Malden, MA: Wiley Blackwell. Roobaert, A. (1977), ‘Le danger hilote?’, Ktema 2: 141–55. Salapata, G. (2014), Heroic Offerings: The Terracotta Plaques from the Spartan Sanctuary of Agamemnon and Kassandra, Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Schachter, A. (1998), ‘Simonides’ Elegy on Plataea: The Occasion of Its Performance’, Zeitschrift fur Papyrologie und Epigraphik 123: 25–30. Schieber, A. S. (1980), ‘Thucydides and Pausanias’, Athenaeum 58: 396–405. Sears, M. A. (2019), ‘The Tyrant as Liberator: The Treasury of Brasidas and the Acanthians at Delphi’, Classical Philology 114: 265–78. Sears, M. A. (2020–1), ‘Brasidas and the Un-Spartan Spartan’, Classical Journal 116: 173–98. 102

The Perils of Victory Simonton, M. (2018), ‘The Burial of Brasidas and the Politics of Commemoration in the Classical Period’, American Journal of Philology 139: 1–30. Talbert, R. (1989), ‘The Role of the Helots in the Class Struggle at Sparta’, Historia 38: 22–40. Thomas, C. G. (1974), ‘On the Role of the Spartan Kings’, Historia 23: 257–70. Thommen, L. (1996), Lakedaimonion Politeia: Die Entstehung der spartanischen Verfassung, Stuttgart: Steiner. Too, Y. L. (2022), Xenophon’s Other Voice: Irony as Social Criticism in the 4th Century bce, London: Bloomsbury Academic. Trundle, M. (2016), ‘The Spartan Krypteia’, in W. Riess and G. Fagan (eds), The Topography of Violence in the Greco-Roman World, 60–76, Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Westlake, H. D. (1968), Individuals in Thucydides, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Westlake, H. D. (1980), ‘Thucydides, Brasidas, and Clearidas’, Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies 21: 333–9. Whitby, M. (1994), ‘Two Shadows: Images of Spartans and Helots’, in A. Powell and S. Hodkinson (eds), The Shadow of Sparta, 87–126, London: Routledge. Wylie, G. (1992), ‘Brasidas – Great Commander or Whiz-Kid?’, Quaderni urbinati di cultura classica 41: 75–95.

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CHAPTER 6 PEGASI AND WAR: PATTERNS OF MINTING AT CORINTH IN THE LATER FOURTH CENTURY bce Lee L. Brice

Matthew Trundle noted in a 2020 chapter on warfare and logistics in sixth and fifth century bce Greece that coinage greased the wheels of conflict and transformed warfare: The introduction of a means of exchange, like coinage, gave military organization flexibility . . . The army became a focal point of exchange. In the past, as Thucydides said, in a world before coinage, men had to spend their time in the countryside gathering food, now the food came to them. In short, money enabled the efficient centralization of economic exchange for armies and navies in the field. Hence wars became greater and campaigns longer in the Classical period.1 Coins, he observed, not only provided cities and commanders the means to keep armies in the field, but also to pay their own soldiers and rowers standard wages in a compact form. As well as this, coinage also contributed to cities’ ability to attract and maintain additional military men (mercenaries) from other polities and regions. Not every city struck coinage (e.g. Sparta) but as Matthew makes clear, even those poleis could take advantage of turning plunder into coin during a campaign, which could then be spent on food (or food money) and fodder so soldiers could stay in the field. There is also no denying that while warfare had grown in scale by the end of the fifth century, coinage was only one aspect of conflict, not a singular cause.2 The scale of conflict did not diminish after the Peloponnesian War as a series of conflicts large and small erupted in the Greek world. There were wars for hegemony in Greece, Sicily and South Italy, campaigns in Anatolia against Persia, and various smaller inter-city conflicts. The second half of the fourth century into the early Hellenistic period was a time of significant military activity in Greece, the Aegean and Asia as the Macedonian kings Philip II, Alexander III and the successors fought for dominance. Although not every Greek region and city-state experienced fighting, most were affected by it directly and indirectly. Coins continued to grease the wheels of war in the fourth century bce much the same way as in the fifth century. By this time, cities and individuals were more accustomed to using it. Coinage was particularly in evidence during and after the campaigns of Alexander when so much stored wealth was released from Persian treasuries and minted as coin to pay for all manner of war-related expenses.3 The close relationship between

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war and coinage would seem to have been well established. And yet, this relationship may not have been as certain or as universal in the Greek world as it appears. Coinage may have contributed to enlarging warfare, but did warfare increase efforts to adopt and mint coin as some scholars insist? Athens, Persia and the various Macedonian kings after 359 all struck immense quantities of coinage during their wars, as did other cities,4 but was warfare the reason they struck coin? Matthew had, after all, pointed out that coinage was a contributing factor, but no more than that. Furthermore, in terms of the volume and regularity of minting, as well as the attention they have received from numismatists, these apex mints (e.g. Athens, Macedon and Persia) dominate our perception of minting patterns in fourth-century Greece. Most Greek city-states were not minting on the same scale as these apex mints; scholars’ focus on these larger mints may skew our perceptions of the impact of warfare on minting. We tend to overlook all the other (smaller) cities that were also minting. If there is a close connection between choosing to mint coin and military activity, we should be able to identify a pattern between minting and military activity at one of these smaller cities. The fourth century in particular should be a fruitful period for investigation, given the amount of conflict and the more than a century and a half of familiarity with coins in some poleis. A mint chosen for such an examination should be one that participated directly in some of the conflicts of the fourth century. It should also be one for which there is data on which to base our analysis. There are not many cities that meet these criteria, but Corinth provides a good case for studying the impact of warfare on minting. It was an active participant in some of the larger conflicts of the fourth century in Greece and Sicily. The city mint was active throughout the century. Even after the Battle of Chaeronea in 338, when it had a Macedonian garrison for the rest of the fourth century and changed hands several times, it still minted its own coins throughout the fourth and third centuries, and even into the second century. And there is currently a detailed study of the coinage minted after 360. This examination of the Corinthian mint in the second half of the fourth century will reveal whether there is a discernible pattern that connects military expenditures and minting. In this way, it will test the assumption that military needs were the primary reason states (i.e. cities, kings, territorial states, empires etc.) active in the Greek world minted coins.5 I have divided this chapter into four parts. Following this introduction, the next section of this chapter will focus on how numismatists and historians have treated the topic of whether military expenditures are the primary reason ancient states chose to strike coin. After reviewing the historiography, section three will consider Corinth and its mint. The final section provides the conclusions to be drawn from the study.

Why strike coins? Although it seems from the literature and the previous discussion as if scholars have long recognized a connection between coinage and warfare, that has not always been the case. As a point of investigation and debate, the question of why ancient states struck coins is 106

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one of the oldest topics with which numismatists and historians engage. It is, in the words of Peter van Alfen, ‘a task that numismatists rarely shy away from’.6 There is a need for specificity in such investigations, because each minting authority may have had its own reason or reasons for choosing to mint coins at any particular point. However, what interests me in this section is the more general consideration of the reasons for striking coin and how those reasons have changed over time. Scholars and antiquarians did not originally include military needs among the reasons states minted coins. From our earliest sources, trade is highlighted as the reason cities chose to mint coins. Much of the early analysis on coinage drew on Aristotle’s explanations of coins’ role in the city (Arist. Pol. 1 9.7–8 [1257a31–41]), For when, by importing things that they needed and exporting things of which they had too much, people became dependent upon more distant places, the use of money was invented out of necessity. For not all of the things that are required by nature are easy to transport; and so, for use in exchanges, they agreed among themselves to give and take something of a sort that, being itself one of the useful items, was easy to handle for the needs of life, such as iron or silver or anything else like that. At first it was simply defined by size and weight, but finally they also added an impressed stamp, to free them from measuring it, since the stamp was put on as a sign of the amount.7 and (Arist. Eth. Nic. 5 5.8–10 [1133a8–24]), So the builder has to get the shoemaker’s product from the shoemaker, and he has to give him some of his own. Now if there is an analogous equality and then each gives what he gets, then what we have spoken of will come about. But if not, the bargain is not equal, nor does it hold, for nothing prevents one person’s product from being worth more than the other’s; so they have to be equalized . . . So all things that are exchanged have to be somehow comparable. For that purpose, coinage came about, and it becomes a sort of medium, for it measures all things, so that it also measures the excess and the deficit, how many sandals are equal to a house or to food. For the number of sandals for a house or for food has to be just like the proportion of the builder to the shoemaker, because if that is not the case, there will be neither exchange nor community.8 In addition to Aristotle, Plato and Herodotus also suggest coins were tools for retail trade.9 Based on these citations, numismatists and historians argued (and some still argue) that coins were struck as economic tools for trade, either retail or long distance. This view was particularly strong in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, though after 1958 it began to come under more scrutiny from several quarters, discussed below. Difficulties identified with this commercial interpretation include the fact that eastern economies had been and would continue to function without coinage, therefore, trade does not require coinage, and the observation, best summed up by Colin Kraay, 107

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that most local coins, even from some known trading centres, are not found far from their place of origin and are, therefore, not intended for long-distance trade.10 However, we do find some coins, such as those of Athens and Macedon, traded to the east, while coins of Corinth and Athens sometimes appear in large numbers in the West.11 Some cities’ coinage was actively employed in long-distance trade. An additional reason for the trade argument being rejected was down to small denominations. Earlier studies suggested the lack of small denominations was a hindrance to trade. Kraay and others also pointed out that some small denominations remain still too valuable even in their smallest fractions for daily exchange.12 This notion of few fractional coinages has also proven false as it has been shown there were small fractions being minted in some cities, but because of their small size and the nature of excavations many of these have been overlooked or lost.13 Additionally, authors have pointed out that some states created closed currency zones by adjusting their weight standards, restricting transactions to their own coinage or by reforming their currency, all of which would seem, on the part of the state, to have been based on the expectation that coins have a role to play in local or retail trade.14 The view that some states may have at times minted coin for trade remains active, though it has lost much of its vigour and popularity since the mid-twentieth century. Another economic explanation for why some states issued coinage was for profit. A reason we do not find most coins far removed from their place of issue is that the minting authority gave their coins a value within their territory that was greater than the bullion value of the metals within them, especially silver.15 Greek poleis found in coins a compact, easy to manage way for people to pay taxes, duties, liturgies and the like.16 The city required payment of these fees and taxes in the city’s own coinage, but charged users more for the coins than it cost to process them. This measure ensured the silver coins stayed near ‘home’ where it was more valuable, and also may have provided some profit for the mint, called seigniorage. The profit margin is difficult to quantify and the only evidence for it is an Hellenistic inscription from Sestos that explicitly identifies profit as a benefit of minting, ‘ . . . the people (dēmos) decided to use its own bronze coinage, so that the city’s coin type (tēs poleōs charactēr’) should be used as a current type (nomeiteuesthai) and the people should receive the profit resulting from this source of revenue’.17 A second way that states could make a profit was through coinage reform, wherein old coins were recalled and melted or overstruck for reissue at a premium that the state could absorb. This was not common, but did occur in fifth-century Athens, Rome, and probably elsewhere.18 The limitations of evidence, particularly for quantification, have led to attacks on the profit motive as an explanation.19 Despite the attacks, profit remains a potential contributing factor to the economic side of explaining why some states struck coins. Politics and political culture (including ‘pride’) as reasons for Greek minting, as opposed to strictly financial considerations, have a long history of having been suggested as a reason to mint. M. I. Finley, who in 1962 put forward the political position for minting, was not the first scholar to do so, but his insistence on this position was impactful. He argued that, since the evidence for a relationship between trade and 108

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coinage was lacking, we should see in Greek coinages a political expression of the citystates. While Finley certainly exaggerated the lack of evidence for coins and trade, even as it was understood in 1962, his suggestion struck a chord that continues to reverberate.20 Price, in his 1983 examination of why states struck coins, used the concept of gift exchange to suggest that early coins served as a sort of gift or bonus to remind the recipient of the issuer and confirm loyalty, a strategy which Van Alfen has recently drawn on to persuasively argue for why the Persians minted a unique coinage programme.21 Using a wide-ranging argument connected with the way poleis functioned internally, Martin proposed that cities, or at least Athens and a few others, minted coinage for political, not economic reasons.22 Of the various suggestions for why states minted coins, the political case has not had as great an impact as more economically oriented explanations. However, as long as it is not treated in isolation, it may help explain why some states chose at times to issue coins. Since the 1960s, an argument has emerged around the observation that every state would have had expenses it needed to pay, therefore, these collectively made up the most likely reason states chose to issue coins. These expenses included importing or subsidizing food supplies, supporting public monuments and infrastructure, paying salaries to certain state personnel, sharing out largesse, building ships, paying soldiers and rowers, and a variety of other items as the need arose. Even cities like Athens that funded projects through extractions from the wealthy (liturgies) had additional expenses to meet. Put forward initially by Kraay and Michael Crawford in separate, unrelated 1964 articles, Crawford took the argument further in 1970 and pushed for historians and numismatists to recognize that public expenditures were the primary reason states struck coins.23 Public expenditures of various types gradually became the predominant way in which scholars tried to explain why states issued coins. It is effective as an explanation not only because it makes sense out of how states work, but because it also captures different strands of the evidence and the process of administration, while also acknowledging that coins must be economically viable. One particular subsection of public expenses has gradually come to dominate explanations of why states struck coins – military expenditures. Scholars working on this aspect of the topic have come to emphasize that military expenses of all kinds, but especially paying soldiers and rowers, were the most significant reason states minted coins, both in volume of coins and number of series issued. We may call this the ‘military thesis’ of minting. This pattern started in 1958 with an article by R. M. Cook in which he concluded that paying mercenaries had been the reason coins were first struck in Anatolia.24 Colin Kraay, working on Greek coinage, and Michael Crawford, working on Roman coinage, pushed this explanation further along in various publications.25 Military necessity has also long been an assumed reason for Alexander III’s minting during his campaign against Persia.26 Despite reservations from some authors (see below), the military explanation gained adherents, but one scholar has done more to press this thesis than anyone else. Beginning in 2000 and continuing to the present, François de Callataÿ has, in a series of publications, argued vigorously that states issued coinage primarily, if not exclusively, in order to pay military expenses.27 His work has been persuasive and 109

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attracted other scholars to investigate this approach. The emphasis on military expenditures is now visible in many books and articles on numismatics, which now cite military expenses as the primary reason states issue coinage.28 The result of this numismatichistoriographic swing is a tendency toward, at times, a mono-causal explanation of why states minted coin. Recently, however, the historiographical pendulum has begun to swing back toward a more moderate position as some scholars have pushed back against the dominance of the ‘military thesis’. In 1989, T. V. Buttrey attacked Crawford’s methodology and pointed out that the relationships he had identified between coinage and military activity were no more than illusions due to poor methodology. He pointed out diverse reasons the Romans issued coins.29 Although he was not concerned with Crawford’s emphasis on a military explanation, Buttrey’s critique undermined Crawford’s argument – though it seemed to have little long-term impact. The following year Christopher Howgego published a response to the ‘military thesis’, arguing there were many reasons in addition to paying expenditures that states chose to issue coins. He did not deny that paying military expenditures was a reason for striking coin, but that it was merely one among many possible reasons we can locate in our evidence. More recently, the ‘military thesis’ has lost some of its dominance. In a 2018 volume on infrastructure, several of the chapters demonstrate that military expenses are not the dominant reason for states to strike coins.30 In his chapter, Bresson even turns away from aspects of his 2005 publication and argues in favour of trade as opposed to the ‘military thesis’.31 Two of the chapters, on Parthia and the Sassanid Empire respectively, demonstrate that military expenditures do not explain minting patterns in those states either.32 In his 2019 publication, de Callataÿ has eased somewhat in his position, conceding that in some cases other public expenditures may better explain certain issues.33 Most recently, in a 2021 publication, Andrew Burnett took the ‘military thesis’ to task on multiple accounts, pointing out that it is not necessary to reject it entirely, but that as an explanation it has become more dominant than is justified by the evidence.34 It is clear that in terms of its historiography the drive to understand why states minted coin remains an active topic.

Corinth: A case study As noted previously, if there is a close connection between military activity and minting, then we should be able to observe it among smaller Greek cities too. There are numerous Greek silver coinages from which we might choose. The city chosen for this case study is Corinth and the coinage issue selected is Oscar Ravel’s Period Five, which covered the second half of the fourth century. Corinth struck a voluminous coinage in this period, examples of which have been recovered from Sicily and South Italy as well as in Greece and some from later hoards in Anatolia.35 The second half of the fourth century is also a good period to examine because there was a great deal of military activity, though it was not constant. Corinth was an active participant in some of these wars. The military activity was not limited to the Greek mainland either, but also occurred in Sicily and 110

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Asia. Corinth is also the subject of a die-study that has already established an evidencebased relative chronology and suggested reforms to the absolute chronology for the coinage of the mid-fourth and third centuries.36 This information allows us to use the mint for comparison. Corinthian military activity Corinth, with two notable exceptions, was not especially active militarily during the later fourth century down to 285, and even in those two cases their participation had an outsized impact on the city. After 387 it did not flex any military muscle for the next thirty-four years. The city was weak after the wars of the prior fifty-five years. The first conflict in which we know Corinth was active occurred in 344. They sent Timoleon with ten ships (seven of which Corinth provided) and 700 mercenaries out to Sicily with no public funding to see if he could ‘settle’ political matters there favourably. It certainly has the appearance of an anaemic effort despite Plutarch’s best efforts to polish Timoleon’s reputation.37 Through a series of efforts characterized by genuine luck and good manoeuvring, he initially overcame military and political troubles in Syracuse and several other Greek cities. This led to Corinth and its allies sending a few more soldiers (2000), cavalry (200) and some money with which to pay them. Despite this expenditure by Corinth, Timoleon continued to have trouble paying his army. The additional soldiers Timoleon assembled from Corinth, Syracuse and other Greek communities contributed significantly to his success in defeating a larger Carthaginian force at the Battle of the Crimisus River. In the aftermath, Timoleon apparently sent some spoils of his victory to Corinth and initiated a revitalization of Syracuse and the other Greek communities in Eastern Sicily.38 Thus ends the city’s military component of the events in Sicily. Corinth’s military activity is more subdued after Timoleon’s surprising success. The city appears again in the military record as a participant at the Battle of Chaeronea in 338, but the size of its contribution is uncertain.39 After the battle, Philip II of Macedon installed a garrison on Acrocorinth and he made Corinth the seat of the so-called Corinthian League the following year.40 As a member of the League it was expected to supply men for the campaign, but at no point do we have a sense of how many men participated. During Agis’ revolt in 331/30 and the Lamian War in 323–322, the garrison on Acrocorinth assisted in the Macedonian victory by holding the Isthmus, but it is unclear if Corinthian troops took the field with the Macedonians.41 During the period following the Lamian War, Corinth remained garrisoned as different Diadochoi controlled the region. There is no evidence that Corinth fielded an army or contributed units to any of the wars through the end of the fourth century other than perhaps in defence of the city’s territory. Undoubtedly some citizens found employment as soldiers in the various armies.42 Corinthian coinage Corinth was one of the earliest mainland Greek mints, first striking silver coins c. 540. It minted staters on its own weight standard of 8.6g which divided into three drachms of 111

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about 2.8g. The coin types (obverse and reverse) selected for the range of Corinthian coins use elements from the myth of Bellerophon to express Corinthian identity. Pegasus as an obverse type appears on every coin, including fractions, thus the nickname of the staters, pegasi. When reverse types were added these included Athena on the staters and the nymph Peirene on the drachms.43 The Corinthian types were distinct. Like most mints, Corinth did not have access to its own silver mines so it minted as needed and as it had the silver to do so. Despite this, it issued a plentiful coinage over the life of the mint. Corinth’s coins have been the subject of several studies. Corinthian coinage received attention in the late nineteenth century, but it was not until Ravel published his two volumes in 1936 and 1948 that a study of the staters from its inception down to their termination was completed. Ravel set up a framework for the mint upon which others have built.44 Focusing exclusively on the staters and drawing on a die-study and stylistic analysis, supplemented with some hoard data, Ravel organized the coinage into six periods. Although his chronology of the mint has been adjusted, his six periods remain the way that scholars analyse and discuss the coinage. Since the focus of this chapter is the second half of the fourth century, I am using Ravel’s Period Five material only. Ravel characterized Period Five as staters of ‘good style’ with Athena on the reverse accompanied by symbols and letters. He concluded, as had everyone else, that the letters must be the initials of the mint magistrate and the symbols, which sometimes repeated with different letters, were some other control mark.45 Work since then has not been able to ascertain what the letters and symbols mean more specifically than functioning as control marks. The fact that there are over sixty known symbols, sometimes repeated among letter series, has not made the task of analysis an easy one. It is certain given the number of control mark symbols and the reuse of them at Corinth that they do not indicate years, months, days, or dies. Nor can the fourteen letter groups, spread unevenly over about seventy-five years, be linked to magistrates. Mint marks are common on Greek coins and they seldom reveal their secrets.46 Using the letters on staters, Ravel attempted to set out the chronology of Period Five by putting the letters in the order in which they were minted (i.e. the relative chronology). Because of the number of apparent dies, symbols and extant staters, he abandoned an attempt to complete a die-study of this period and instead relied on style and some hoard data. In doing so he identified thirteen series.47 Ten years later G. K. Jenkins, drawing on his extensive experience working with hoards and overstrikes, revised Ravel’s chronology. New hoard data led him to update it in 1986.48 But Jenkins’s analysis was also not based on a die-study; therefore, the relative chronology for Corinthian coins in the second half of the fourth century was still anchored in educated guessing and hoards. A recent die-study of Period Five coinage makes it possible to draw some concrete conclusions about Corinthian minting patterns, because it establishes a relative chronology anchored on the manufacturing relationships of the coins.49 Since the number of extant staters is still too great (over 20,000 examples) I used the fractional coins – drachms – which share all the same letters and some of the symbols as appear on the staters. But the drachms, while sufficiently numerous for a study (n=3000), are not overwhelming. The new die-study has revealed that the appropriate relative chronology of Period Five is E, N, 112

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Δ, ΔΙ-AΛ-A-AΡ, Γ, I-ΔI2-Δ2-AΥ, ΔO, NO, in which the dashes are series linked by dies. In addition to putting the series in their correct order, the study revealed that two alphabetic control marks are repeated and there is a letter series unknown to Ravel and Jenkins which belongs in Period Five.50 Knowing the appropriate order of the series is important for dating and allows us to get a better sense of the scale of minting. Another outcome of this study is a suggested revised absolute chronology for these coins. Ravel had suggested Period Five ran from 387–307. Jenkins later down-dated Period Five to 350–306/4.51 Based on overstrikes at Tarentum and Metapontum and the flood of pegasi into the west in the second quarter of the fourth century due to drought in Greece and the need for grain, it seems the early series, E and N, reached South Italy and Sicily earlier than traditionally expected.52 The end of the series is provided by the NO series. The NO series includes posthumous Alexander tetradrachms struck by Demetrius Poliorcetes in preparation for his invasion of Asia. This coin series must have stopped by 285 when Demetrius was captured by Seleukos or soon afterwards. The drachms in the NO series end, and Ravel’s period Six starts, after 285 but before 275, based on hoard data.53 With these dates as suggested bookends we can consider whether the pattern of minting supports the thesis that Corinth is an example of a mint that issued coin primarily to pay for military expenditures. Minting patterns The die-study has helped confirm that some patterns in the Period Five coinage reflect changes in Corinth’s activities, which is important for providing some chronological signposts for this analysis. The first signpost comes from the end of this minting period.54 An examination of the extant pegasi staters and drachms revealed that the number of staters tapers off in the last four series beginning with a decline from series Δ2 to ΑΥ to ΔΟ and then cessation of any pegasi staters in series NO. Yet at the same time the drachm issues continue to be struck at a fairly consistent, but lower, rate within each series. The Macedonian kings did not keep the mint apparatus from striking.55 Beginning with series eleven, Δ2, the mint was issuing Alexander tetradrachms in silver and a few gold issues as well, at least in the ΑΥ series.56 Tetradrachms are numerous in the last two series, mostly struck under Ptolemy and Demetrius, clearly obviating the need for pegasi staters. There is no evidence for tetradrachms connected with earlier series. The appearance of posthumous tetradrachms suggests the Δ2 series began no earlier than 323, perhaps a little afterwards. The only other possible evidence for internal mint chronology appears with the coin series ΑΡ. In this series we find that the staters started with a helmeted Athena reverse type much like the previous series of staters (A), but at some point a wreath attribute was added to the reverse type helmet of Athena. This wreath must be a later addition because it is missing from staters with obverse dies linked with the A series but appears on staters with obverse dies associated with the series that follows it (Γ).57 It is not clear whether the dies were recut to add the wreath or whether these are new dies. There is no indication on the wreathed staters (e.g. mint marks) indicating why the wreath was added. The 113

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wreath does not appear on the series ΑΡ drachms. This issue may suggest a second signpost with which to seek a connection between minting and historical events. Examining Corinth’s history in the second half of the fourth century suggests there are a couple events that might make sense as worthy of celebration on staters – Timoleon’s victory at Crimisus in 341 or the creation of the Hellenic League in 337. The iconography of the wreath in a military context is usually a mark of a victory or valour. The creation of the so-called League was not exactly a victory, although it would seem to have been a positive event for the city and was connected with an intended war. But Corinth had, the previous year, participated in the loss at Chaeronea and suffered the ignominy of a Macedonian garrison installed on Acrocorinth. That event may not seem likely to have resulted in a wreathed Athena, but as the centre of the League, the mint or die engravers may have seized on the news. The accession of Alexander III in 336 was not the event that led to wreathed issues since it was neither a victory nor a Corinthian achievement. Victories in the revolt of Agis III and the Lamian war did not inspire the wreathed issues both because their later dates do not fit within the relative chronology and because they were Macedonian victories.58 On the other hand, the unexpected victory of Timoleon at Crimisus was worthy of official celebration in this way. If Ravel Period Five began in c. 360,59 it is entirely possible – given the smaller earlier issues (E, Δ, ΔΙ, AΛ) in the period and the need for grain in the 360s and early 350s – that the ΑΡ series began without the wreaths in the 340s and then engravers added the attribute after news of the victory reached Corinth. Despite the obvious allure of Timoleon’s victory as the impetus for the wreath attribute, we cannot be certain why the wreath was added to AP series.60 Corinthian minting activity throughout the period from c. 360 to 285 is inconsistent, as it would have been for most cities that lacked their own internal sources for silver. Corinth seems only to have minted as needed. One way this appears in the die-study is the number of series in this period. There are fourteen series spread across roughly seventy-five years and they were clearly minted at different rates (see Table 6.1). Since a die-study of the staters is not possible (see above) another way to compare the amount of minting is to compare the number of mint marks (not including the series letters) employed in each series.61 Series Δ, ΑΛ and Γ, were smaller stater issues than the rest of those struck before series eleven (Δ2). The reason for series eleven to fourteen having declined in size relates to the presence of tetradrachms as already discussed. Series N, ΔΙ and ΑΡ are the three largest Corinthian issues of silver staters. There are clear differences over the course of Period Five in the rate of minting staters, which is also the case with drachms, but in different ways. The production of drachms does not follow the pattern of the stater minting, which is not unexpected, but the die-study has thus far revealed several series with surprising rates of minting. The first series (E) of drachms, for example, is the smallest series of fractions in the study with only two examples. They even share a single obverse and a reverse die. Other small issues of drachms include series Δ, ΔΙ, ΑΛ, AP, Γ, ΑΥ, ΔΟ and ΝΟ. The remaining drachm series are more numerous in terms of die numbers with series A and Δ2 being the largest emissions. The minting volume of most drachms in the series is not surprising. However, the smaller volume of AP drachms is a surprise given the large number of staters struck during this series, as is the large number of Δ2 drachms 114

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Table 6.1 Number of control marks in each series of Ravel Period Five staters Series

Stater control marks

Tetradrachm control marks

Ε

8

—

Ν

10

—

Δ

7 (both Δ series)

—

ΔΙ

12 (both ΔI series)

—

ΑΛ

5

—

Α

7

—

ΑΡ

11

—

Γ

4

—

6

—

ΔΙ

12 (both ΔI series)

—

Δ2

7 (both Δ series)

4

ΑΥ

5

1?

ΔΟ

1 (staters)

6

ΝΟ

0 (staters)

5

Ι 2

as compared with the smaller number of staters in that series. The fact that the pattern of issuing drachms and other fractions differs from the pattern for staters probably reflects local needs for striking coins, whether for commerce or paying public expenses. Minting chronology Having established the minting patterns of staters and drachms, we can move on to how the patterns fit in the chronology, starting with the part of the mint activity that is easier to explain. I have already shown that due to the arrival of posthumous Alexander tetradrachms, the minting of pegasi staters declines after 323 and stops completely at some point after 303. It does appear that after 303 Demetrius was increasing his minting of tetradrachms in order to pay for his various activities, which included not only military expenditure, but also, among other things, moving Sicyon, paying for monumental architecture and largesse in multiple communities and cities.62 Yet, at the same time that the several Diadochoi masters of the region were having the mint in Corinth issue tetradrachms on the Attic standard, the mint is ‘independently’ continuing to produce coinage on the Corinthian standard, especially its fractions. The incongruity of these two minting streams suggests much about reasons for minting. Now we must return to the earlier silver issues and consider the pattern of minting pre-323. That the first several series in Period Five may have reached Italy much earlier 115

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than traditionally believed is important. The volume of pegasi appearing in western hoards and overstrikes rises significantly and suddenly, much more so in fact than in hoards in mainland Greece. Additionally, almost no drachms from these early series of silver appear in South Italy and Sicilian hoards or overstrikes. Corinth was not engaged in any mainland military activity in this period, much less overseas. We must, therefore, accept long-distance trade as the impetus for this transfer of silver coin. David MacDonald has suggested on the basis of overstrikes that this trade was in grain. There is literary evidence for grain shortages in various parts of Greece in the 360s. Given Corinth’s connections with Syracuse and trade in the west it would not be surprising to find the city or its merchants arranging the importation of grain.63 It is possible that Corinthian colonies and associated cities may also have participated either on their own initiative to feed their people or by loaning silver to Corinth in the form of pegasi minted for the occasion. Regardless of the allies, the evidence for series E and N staters in Italy before 350 is present. The early appearance of series Δ, ΔΙ and ΑΛ staters in Sicily, where they appear in early hoards (with an infinitesimal number of drachms), follows from the earlier series’ movement and must trace back to a similar cause – trade.64 While this explanation is a compelling resolution to the appearance of early Period Five pegasi in the West before 345, readers may be inclined to wonder about Timoleon’s role in causing the exportation of staters from Corinth and its allies to Sicily. The notion that Timoleon must be the cause of hoards brimming over with pegasi is now firmly fixed in the historiography. Even scholars who have perceived other patterns of coin movement have tried to fit their explanations within the context of Timoleon’s expedition.65 The A series of staters and drachms is a large issue and much of what is extant has been recovered in Sicilian hoards, though not so many drachms. But we know from our primary sources that Corinth had no funds to send with Timoleon in 344 so it appears that series A may have been depleted by 344, or there was a lull in production.66 We also know that Corinth did send money later with reinforcements, indicating that it must have started striking again.67 The coins sent out to Sicily with the reinforcements may have included staters of the AP series. However, the pay for 2,000 mercenaries and 200 cavalry does not account for the wreaths or the extraordinary volume of coinage issued in the AP series. It seems most likely that the part of the booty recovered from Sicily, some of which was sent back to Corinth, may account for the wreaths. It is interesting that despite the large volume of staters there are fewer AP series drachms. Corinth did not send these coins to Sicily out of generosity. It was for trade at a time when parts of Greece were again experiencing shortages of grain. The grain shortages did not end in 345, but continued down to the 320s semi-continuously in parts of Greece.68 The Corinthians and their colonies and allies could take advantage of the demand and their location to exploit the reinvigoration of Eastern Sicilian agriculture. Minting for trade continued intermittently. There would be several more series before 323, but none of these seem to have been as large as AP. There may have been a brief additional demand for silver in 338 when Corinth sent men to fight at Chaeronea. It was probably a small force of no more than 2,000 men, but we also know that droughts and famine continued in the 330s.69 The AP 116

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series is large enough to have funded this trade. The close similarity in obverse dies between series AP, Γ and I suggests there was not a large space of time between when each of these series started and ended.70 It is possible, if the AP coinage had all been used up in trade, that the city struck silver staters in series Γ, a small issue in terms of staters and drachms. Series I and ΔI2 followed with numerous staters and drachms, probably struck during the period when Alexander controlled Corinth and perhaps beyond. The rest of the mint’s output I have already covered.

Conclusions Why do states choose to strike coin? That was a question with which we started. Seeking an answer to that question took us down an historiographical path. Historiography was not our goal, but it was necessary to dive into it. An additional consideration is the problem of apex mints – those mints (e.g. Athens, Persia, Macedon) that appear to have struck coin continuously for a long period and which dominate our thinking about ancient coins. We need to ensure we are drawing conclusions based on diverse mint sizes and practices. The common recent answer to the question of ‘why mint coins’ is that states strike coins to pay public expenses, but in the last twenty years this view has come to mean predominantly military expenditures. Some numismatists have even suggested that military needs are not just the primary, but the only reason that states struck coin. Although the dominance of this military-centric approach has recently been challenged, it remains dominant. This position seems a bit extreme, narrow and based on an assumption or two, but there it is. That being the state of the question, my goal was to test this assumption by trying to determine if there is correlation between minting in Corinth and the city’s military expenditures during the second half of the fourth century. The most interesting results of this investigation came out of the analysis made possible by the preliminary die-study. Based on a new relative chronology and a suggested absolute chronology it is practicable to compare minting patterns against the historical record. The fact that Ravel Period Five coinage must have arrived in South Italy earlier than previously believed will lead to a re-examination of aspects of the period, since historians have treated numerous other events in this period based on an acceptance that this coinage did not travel west before 344. This early appearance of numerous Corinthian coins in the west cannot be tied to military activity. It must be due to long-distance trade, probably for grain. Similarly, Timoleon’s campaign in Sicily was not responsible for much new minting as the city lacked coinage when they sent him on campaign. Indeed, it is likely that the AP series was not initiated until he was already in Sicily and only later might it have begun to commemorate the victory at the Crimisus river. After Timoleon’s victory Corinth was definitely not striking that enormous series for military needs since it was not further engaged in supporting Timoleon’s military activities. Rather, trade is strongly indicated by the numerous Corinthian pegasi staters in the west simultaneous with grain shortages in Greece and the Aegean during the late 340s and 330s. This 117

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economic conclusion is further strengthened by the steady minting of drachms and other fractions, which did not travel west in more than miniscule numbers and seem to have mostly remained in Corinthia. Finally, it is clear that minting in the Hellenistic Age is undoubtedly heavily impacted by military requirements. But there are still other public expenses that also need to be addressed and additional reasons to strike coins. Minting tetradrachms was economically expedient because of their wide acceptance and standardization in the decades after Alexander’s death. It was also obviously a political decision to tap into the reputation of Alexander and the Argead dynasty by minting these types. It was not just about military expenditures. Trade and local public expenditures did not cease just because of the Diadochic wars. Corinth remained well-placed to take advantage of trade with the Western Mediterranean, even if that seems less important at the end of the century than it had been earlier. Another interesting observation to emerge from the Hellenistic phase of this study regards the dual operations of the Corinthian mint. Under the Macedonian rulers, each of whom was minting Alexander tetradrachms in Corinth on the Attic standard, the mint continued to strike silver staters and fractions on the traditional Corinthian standard with the same coin types. Even when the mint gradually ceased minting staters at the end of the fourth century it continued minting the fractions. The mint did not need to strike staters to meet any expenditures it might have had since tetradrachms were available. After the Period Five minting ceased, the mint again struck a few series of staters in what Ravel had called period Six. If coin was minted primarily to meet military expenditures then there was perhaps no need to devote the mint’s activity to producing traditional Corinthian coinage. However, by the mid-fourth century some local economies were accustomed to using coins in transactions, even if the economy was not fully monetized in the sense that we think of in the present.71 Localized coinage was patently necessary. There can hardly be a better test of the ‘military thesis’. It is an expression of the continuing connection between Corinthian pegasi and local, public needs, including trade. This study has demonstrated that there is no absolute correlation between minting in Corinth and military expenditures. From the beginning of Ravel Period Five in c. 360 until c. 323 Corinth chose to strike coins to meet trade demands and local, public needs other than the military. After 323 when Alexander tetradrachms were minted increasingly, the local coinages continued to be struck. This study reminds us of the need to continue testing assumptions and to be open to multi-causality in explaining numismatic and historical processes. Explanations for minting that are open to multiple possible causes and flexible enough to blend forces like political, trade, military, or other public expenditure hold much promise.

Notes * I am thankful to the editors for inviting me to honour Matthew with this chapter; we miss him greatly. An early version of this material was presented at University of Auckland at the ‘Money and the Military’ Conference, which Matthew had organized. Thanks also go to 118

Pegasi and War colleagues who read and commented on various drafts of this chapter: Mike Ierardi, Sophia Kremydi, Selene Psoma, Ken Sheedy, David MacDonald, Wolfgang Fischer-Bossert, and Will Bubelis and his students as well as the anonymous reviewers whose comments and suggestions improved the chapter. 1. Trundle (2020), 25. All dates in this chapter are bce unless otherwise indicated. 2. Trundle (2016 and 2020) never suggested that coinage was the only cause of expansion in conflicts, merely that it contributed in specific ways. On Sparta and money see the chapter by Millender in this volume. On Macedon and coinage see the chapter by Matthew in this volume. 3. For discussion, historiography and numbers see Holt (2016); Briant (2018). 4. For examples, see Athens: Pritchard (2007), Van Wees (2013), Trundle (2016), and Kallett and Kroll (2020); Persia: Le Rider (2001); Alexander: Holt (2016); Hellenistic World: Meadows (2014), Thonemann (2015), and Glenn, Duyrat and Meadows (2018), each with citations of additional works. 5. Throughout this chapter I will use ‘states’ to refer collectively to these official minting authorities including poleis, kings, territorial states, empires, etc. The question of whether poleis can be called states in the modern sense is beyond the scope of the present discussion. 6. Van Alfen (forthcoming). This question of the reason for striking coins is a separate issue from considering why coins were invented, which is beyond the scope of this discussion; on which see most recently Van Alfen and Wartenberg (2020). 7. Arist. Pol.. 1 9.7–8 (1257a31–41), translation by Schaps (2004) 5. Cf. Arist. Pol. 1.3.12–17 (1257a–b). 8. Arist. Eth. Nic. 5 5.8–10 (1133a8–24), translation by Schaps (2004), 6–7. See also Eth. Nic. 5 5.14–16 (1133b 16–28). 9. Hdt. 1.94; Plato: Rep. 2.371b, Laws 11.918b. On the ancient sources see the cogent treatment by Thomas Martin (1995), 258–65, who observed (262), ‘I suspect that Plato and Aristotle, much like us (though perhaps for different reasons), relied on their historical imaginations in constructing their views on the connection between coinage and the polis’. 10. For discussion of the difficulties with the commercial interpretation for coinage, see Schaps (2004), esp. 12–15, 97–8, 104–10; Bresson (2005), 49–50. On early use of uncoined metals as money see Schaps (2004), 34–79. See Kallett and Kroll (2020) for bullion use in Greece and Rowan (2013) on bullion use in the western Mediterranean. On early observations that most Greek coins are not involved in long-distance trade, see for example Kraay (1964). Although Kraay (1976), 323–4, modulated this criticism later, he did not concede this issue. 11. Kraay (1976), 323–4; Howgego (1990), 3–4; Bresson (2018), 68. 12. Kraay (1964) and (1976), 317–20. 13. Kim (2001) and (2002); Peacock (2006), 642–3. Velde (2020) addresses some aspects of the high-value fractions. 14. Kroll (2011); Psoma (2018); see also contributions to Glenn, Duyrat, and Meadows (2018). 15. Grierson (1970), 10; Howgego (1990), 17–19. 16. Note, however, Schaps’s (2004), 98, observation: ‘If coinage was not a medium for retail trade, state payments are not likely to have made it acceptable’. 17. IK 19, Sestos, 1, l. 43–6 = OGIS 339, translation by Austin (1981), no. 215. Martin (1995), 265–6; Le Rider (2001), 242–7. 18. [Arist.] Oec. book 2; Garraffo (1984); Howgego (1990), 15–18; Kroll (2011).

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Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World 19. Schaps (2004), 98–9; de Callataÿ (2000), 344–7, who has also argued (2019), 51–2, that this profit is insignificant in ancient economies. 20. Finley (1965), 19–28, with citations of earlier work. 21. Price (1983); Van Alfen (forthcoming). 22. Martin (1996). 23. Kraay (1964); Crawford (1964) and (1970); contra Buttrey (1989) and Howgego (1990), 1–3. 24. Cook (1958), 201. 25. Kraay (1976) and (1984); contra MacDonald (2002). Crawford (1964), (1970) and much of his later work. 26. Holt (2016) and Briant (2018) each with citations of earlier work. See also the chapter by C. Matthew in this volume. 27. de Callataÿ (2000), (2011), (2016) and (2019), the last of which is a particularly good expression of his position, though he has softened his view slightly to accept that there are some other reasons states might have issued coin. 28. A diverse sample includes Bresson (2005), 48–50; Schaps (2007); Van Wees (2013); Meadows (2014); and Trundle (2016). 29. Buttrey (1989). Methodology was a theme he returned to in later publications, but without necessarily targeting the ‘military thesis’. 30. Woytek (2018). 31. Bresson (2005) and (2018). 32. See Schindel (2018) and Sinisi (2018) in Woytek (2018). 33. de Callataÿ (2019). 34. Burnett (2021). 35. On Corinthian coins in Sicily see also the chapter by de Lisle, in this volume. 36. Brice (2022). 37. Plut. Tim. 3.1–11.5; Diod. Sic. 16.65–66.2; Talbert (1974), 55–7; Smarczyk (2003), 33–51. 38. Plut. Tim. 12.4–26; Diod. Sic. 16.66.3–68, 69.3–7, 70, 73, 77.4–81; Talbert (1974), 57–75; Smarczyk (2003), 51–69; Salmon (1984), 390–2; Dixon (2014), 10–12. Talbert (1974), 163–4, has demonstrated the spoils were not returned to be minted into coin to be sent back to Syracuse. 39. Chaeronea: Strab. 414; Dem. 18.237; Plut. Dem. 17.5, Mor. 851B; Dixon (2014), 16–19. Talbert (1974), 58 n.2, suggests in the context of the reinforcements for Sicily, that Corinth is unlikely in the mid-fourth century to have sent a force larger than 3,000 men into the field at any point and probably fewer, given that at the Battle of Nemea the city only supplied about 3,000 men to the allied force. 2,000 soldiers seems more reasonable given what they eventually sent to Timoleon. Corinth’s strength was usually its navy, but as Timoleon’s initial support demonstrates, even this was not as strong, nor perhaps as well-funded, as had been the case in the past. 40. On events in Corinth the year after 338, see Dixon (2014), 19–25. 41. Dixon (2014), 26–30, 47–9. 42. Ibid., 49–67, 75–8. 43. Brice and Ziskowski (2021). For images see plates 1–3 of this chapter. 44. Ravel (1936) and (1948). Later studies include Jenkins (1958) and (1993); and Coupar (2000).

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Pegasi and War 45. For examples of the letters and mint marks see Ravel (1948), pl. 59–69. 46. Ravel (1948), 50–7; Calciati (1990), 244–71. See the several papers in de Callataÿ and Van Heesch (2012), esp. Flament (2012), for recent efforts to address control marks. 47. Ravel (1948), 26–9. He pointed out there were too many staters to compare, and as for a die study, he observed 300 different dies for one letter-symbol combination, which was too great a task. His relative chronology is: E, Δ, AΡ, Γ, I, A, AΛ, N, ΔI, Δ-I, AΥ, ΔO, and dated it 387–308. Ravel treated the ΔΙ and Δ-Ι series as two separate series because some coin die engravers placed the letters on either side of the head. 48. Jenkins (1958) and (1993). His final relative chronology is E, N, Δ, AΛ, A, Γ, I, AΡ, ΔI, AU ΔO. He also downdated the beginning of Period Five to 350/40 based on the hoards and overstrikes of Corinthian staters by mints in South Italy. 49. In a die-study we identify different dies used for striking the coins and look for the patterns of use. Because every coin retains the impressions of the two dies used to make it, a die-study can reveal the relationship between different coins – like DNA analysis – by examining which coins come from the same dies and which do not. Linkage exists between two issues when they share a common die such as two coins with different reverses sharing the same obverse die. What makes the relationship possible to trace is that the two dies usually wear out at different rates. Because reverse dies wear out much quicker than obverse dies, there should be more reverse dies per series. Usually, mints used dies until they wore out completely. In the best situation, by examining the amount of wear on the obverse dies (for example) of two linked coins it is possible to determine which obverse (and thus which coin) was struck earlier. The reason a die-study matters is that it is the only way to be certain of the relationship of the different series to each other. And it is because of the lack of a die-study we have not previously had a trustworthy relative chronology for the Corinthian mint in the second half of the fourth century. On various aspects of die linkage see Ravel (1948), 8–15; Kraay (1976), 17–19; and Esty (1990). 50. Brice (2018). 51. Ravel (1948), 26; Jenkins (1958) and (1993). 52. MacDonald (2002) and (2009), 6–7. 53. Brice (2018); Brice (2022). 54. Brice (2018): E, N, Δ, ΔΙ-AΛ-A-AΡ, Γ, I-ΔI2-Δ2-AΥ, ΔO, NO. 55. Martin (1985). 56. Troxell (1971) and (1997), 124–5; Price (1991), 156, coin 667; Brice (2018). These are all post-323 issues. 57. Images can be found in Ravel (1948), pl. 62 #1019, 1024 (ΑΡ), 1025 (Γ), pl. 64 #1036 (Α). The wreath does not appear on any AP series fractional issues as either attribute or mint mark. 58. There is no evidence that Corinth responded so directly to Macedonian events. For example, if the wreaths were added to celebrate Philip II being named as hēgemōn of the League, then there should have been a different wreathed series for Alexander’s accession. 59. This is my dating – Brice (2018) and Brice (2022) – for the beginning of period V and differs from previous chronology. Jenkins (1958) dated Period Five start to 350. MacDonald (2002), 57, and (2009), 6–7 dated it to 365. See also Psoma (2021), 1.100–1, nn. 96–7. MacDonald bases much of his chronology on Fischer-Bossert’s (1999) analysis of Taras overstrikes on pegasi staters. Fischer-Bossert (1999), 220–4, 253–4, based his dating of several series of Taras’ overstruck coinage on Jenkins’s (1958) redating of the Corinthian period V issues. Therefore, a chronology that redates Corinth based primarily on Fischer-Bossert’s chronology or on

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Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World MacDonald’s discussion of overstrikes alone risks circularity; however, the revised chronology here is based on the observation that Jenkins’s redating of the series to 350 was too conservative. MacDonald (2002), 56–8, demonstrated that the flood of pegasi staters to the west was not tied to Timoleon’s campaign, but to agricultural trade earlier in the century. Fischer-Bossert has more recently (2013), 21–2, drawn attention to the chronological problems the lack of a Corinthian die-study has caused, a gap which my die-study has corrected. 60. Victory issues are notoriously difficult to date with certainty. Personal comment from Wolfgang Fischer-Bossert, September 28, 2022. 61. Based on Calciati (1990), 245–71 and Price (1991), 156–8. The control marks for all the known silver tetradrachms struck in Corinth has not been undertaken and remains available for a patient individual. The table gives no more than a rough sense of scale for comparison. 62. Wheatley and Dunn (2020), 203–405. 63. MacDonald (2002) and Intrieri (2015), 108; Psoma (2021), 1.100–4. 64. See also the chapter by de Lisle, in this volume. 65. For example, Talbert (1974), 162–4; Kraay (1976) and (1984); Jenkins (1993). MacDonald (2002), 55–9, collects additional historiography. 66. Diod. Sic. 16.66.2, 78.5; Plut. Tim. 7.3, 8.1, 30.8; Talbert (1974), 161–6. 67. Diod. Sic. 16.69.4. 68. MacDonald (2002), 59–62. 69. Talbert (1974), 58 n.2. 70. Noted by Jenkins (1958), 373–4. 71. Schaps (2004), 111–213, considers this issue at length.

Bibliography Austin, M. M. (1981), The Hellenistic World from Alexander to the Roman Conquest: A Selection of Ancient Sources in Translation, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bresson, A. (2005), ‘Coinage and Money Supply in the Hellenistic Age’, in Z. H. Archibald, J. K. Davies and V. Gabrielsen (eds), Making, Moving and Managing: The New World of Ancient Economies, 323–31 bc, 44–72, Oxford: Oxbow Books. Bresson, A. (2018), ‘Coins and Trade in Hellenistic Asia Minor: the Pamphylian Hub’, in B. Woytek (ed.), Infrastructure and Distribution in Ancient Economies: Proceedings of a conference held at the Austrian Academy of Sciences, 28–31 October 2014, 67–143, Vienna: Austrian Academy of Sciences. Briant, P. (2018), ‘The Debate about the Spread of Alexander’s Coinage and Its Economic Impact: Engaging with the Historiographical Longue Dureé’, in S. Glenn, F. Duyrat and A. Meadows (eds), Alexander the Great: A Linked Open World, 235–47, Bordeaux: Ausonius. Brice, L. L. (2018), ‘The Later Colts of Corinth Revisited’, Elizabeth A. Whitehead Lecture, delivered at the American School for Classical Studies at Athens, April 19, 2018. http://www. ascsa.edu.gr/index.php/News/newsDetails/videocast-the-later-colts-of-corinth-revisitedcurrent-status-of-a-numismat. Brice, L. L. (2022), ‘New Relative and Absolute Chronologies for 4th–2nd Corinthian Coinage’, paper presented at the XXI International Numismatic Congress, University of Warsaw, September 15, 2022.

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Pegasi and War Brice, L. L. and A. Ziskowski (2021), ‘Athena, Peirene and Pegasi: Myth and Identity in Corinthian Numismatics’, Numismatic Chronicle 181: 1–16 and plates 1–3. Burnett, A. (2021), ‘Overview and Some Methodological Points’, in R. Ashton and N. Badoud (eds), Graecia capta?: Rome et les monnayages du monde égéen (IIe-Ier s. av. J.-C.), 17–33, Basel: Schwabe Verlag, 2022. Buttrey, T. V. (1989), ‘Review of Coinage and Money under the Roman Republic: Italy and the Mediterranean Economy by Michael H. Crawford’, Classical Philology 84 (1): 68–76. Calciati, R. (1990), Pegasi, 2 vols, Mortara: Edizioni I.P. Cook, R. M. (1958), ‘Speculations on the Origins of Coinage’, Historia 7 (3): 257–62. Coupar, S. A. (2000), ‘The Chronology and Development of the Coinage of Corinth to the Peloponnesian War’, PhD diss., Glasgow University, Glasgow. Crawford, M. H. (1964), ‘War and Finance’, Journal of Roman Studies 54: 29–32. Crawford, M. H. (1970), ‘Money and Exchange in the Roman World’, Journal of Roman Studies 60: 40–8. de Callataÿ, F. (2000), ‘Guerre et monnayage à l’époque hellénistique: Essai de mise en perspective suivi d’une annexe sur le monnayage de Mithridate VI Eupator’, in J. Andreau, P. Briant and R. Descat (eds), Économie antique: La guerre dans les économies antiques. Entretiens d’Archéologie et d’Histoire 5, 337–64, Saint-Bertrand-de-Comminges: Conseil général de Haute Garonne. de Callataÿ, F. (2011), ‘Quantifying Monetary Production in Greco-Roman Times: A General Frame’, in de Callataÿ (ed.), Quantifying Monetary Supplies in Greco-Roman Times: Proceedings of the Third Francqui Conference Held at the Academia Belgica, Rome, 29–30 Sept 2008, 7–29, Bari: Edipuglia. de Callataÿ, F. (2016), ‘Monnaies, guerres et mercenaires en grèce ancienne: un bilan actualisé’, in J. Baechler and G.-H. Sautou (eds), Guerre, Économie et Fiscalité, 41–54, Paris: Hermann. de Callataÿ, F. (2019), ‘Money and its Ideas: State Control and Military Expenses’, in S. Krmnicek (ed.), A Cultural History of Money in Antiquity, 43–62, London: Bloomsbury Academic. de Callataÿ, F. and J. Van Heesh, eds (2012), ‘Marking Coin Issues: Mint Administration and Mint Archives in Antiquity (Brussels, 13/5/2011) – Conference Papers’, Revue Belge de Numismatique et de Sigilligraphie 158. Dixon, M. D. (2014), Late Classical and Hellenistic Corinth 338–196 bc, London: Routledge. Esty, W. (1990), ‘The Theory of Linkage’, Numismatic Chronicle 150: 205–21. Finley, M. I. (1965), ‘Classical Greece’, in M. I. Finley (ed.), Second International Conference on Economic History, vol. 1: Trade and Politics in the Ancient World, 11–35, Paris: Mouton. Flament, C. (2012), ‘Les marques de contrôle sur les monnaies argiennes au loup, de l’époque archaïque à l’époque hellénistique: essais d’interprétation’, Revue Belge de Numismatique et de Sigilligraphie 158: 3–20. Fischer-Bossert, W. (1999), Chronologie der Didrachmenprägung von Tarent 510–280 v. Chr., Antike Münzen und Geschnittene Steine XIV, Berlin: De Gruyter. Fischer-Bossert, W. (2013), ‘Alcuni aggiornamenti alla cronologia dei didrammi di Taranto’, in G. Colucci (ed.), La monetazione di Taranto: Atti del 4o Congresso Nazionale di Numismatica, Bari 16–17 novembre 2012, 13–30, Eos V, Bari: Circolo Numismatico Pugliese. Garraffo, S. (1984), Le riconiazioni in Magna Grecia e in Sicilia: emissioni argentee dal VI al IV secolo a.C., Catania: Università di Catania Glenn, S., F. Duyrat and A. Meadows, eds (2018), Alexander the Great: A Linked Open World, Bordeux: Ausonius. Grierson, P. (1970), The Origin of Money [Creighton Lectures in History], London: Athlone Press. Holt, F. L. (2016), The Treasures of Alexander the Great, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Howgego, C. J. (1990), ‘Why Did Ancient States Strike Coins?’, The Numismatic Chronicle 150: 1–25.

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Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World Intrieri, M. (2015), ‘Atene, Corcira, e le isole dello Ionio (415–344 a.C.)’, in C. Antonetti and E. Cavalli (eds), Prospettive corciresi, 53–117, Diabaseis 5, Pisa: ETS. Jenkins, G. K. (1958), ‘A Note on Corinthian Coins in the West’, in H. Ingolt (ed.), American Numismatic Society Centennial Publication, 367–79, New York: American Numismatic Society. Jenkins G. K. (1993), ‘Notes on the Mint of Corinth’, in A. Stazio, M. T. Mensitieri and R. Vitale (eds), La monetazione corinzia in Occidente: atti del IX Convegno del Centro internazionale di studi numismatici – Napoli 27–28 maggio 1986, 21–34, Rome: Istituto Italiano di Numismatica. Kallett, L. and Kroll, J. H. (2020), The Athenian Empire: Coins as Sources, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kim, H. S. (2001), ‘Archaic Coinage as Evidence for the Use of Money’, in A. Meadows and K. Shipton (eds), Money and Its Uses in the Ancient Greek World, 7–21, Oxford: University of Oxford Press. Kim, H. S. (2002), ‘Small Change and the Moneyed Economy’, in P. Cartledge, E. E. Cohen and L. Foxhall (eds), Money, Labour and Land: Approaches to the Economies of Ancient Greece, 44–51, London: Routledge. Kraay, C. (1964), ‘Hoards, Small Change, and the Origin of Coinage’, Journal of Hellenic Studies 84: 76–91. Kraay, C. (1976), Archaic and Classical Greek Coinage, London: Methuen. Kraay, C. (1984), ‘Greek Coinage and War’, in W. Heckel and R. Sullivan (eds), Ancient Coins of the Graeco-Roman World: The Nickle Numismatic Papers, 3–18, Waterloo: Wilfred Laurier University Press. Kroll, J. H. (2011), ‘The Reminting of Athenian Silver Coinage, 353 bc ’, Hesperia 80: 229–56. Le Rider, G. (2001), La naissance de la monnaie: pratiques monétaires de l’orient ancien, Paris: Presses Universitaires de France. MacDonald, D. (2002), ‘Sicilian and Southern Italian Overstrikes on Pegasoi’, Nomismatika Chronika 21: 55–71. MacDonald, D. (2009), Overstruck Greek Coins, Atlanta: Whitman. Martin, T. (1985), Sovereignty and Coinage in Classical Greece, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Martin, T. (1995), ‘Coins, Mints, and the Polis’, in M. H. Hansen (ed.), Sources for the Ancient Greek City-State: Symposium August, 24–27 1994, Acts of the Copenhagen Polis Centre 2, 257–91, Copenhagen: Royal Danish Academy of Sciences and Letters. Martin, T. (1996), ‘Why Did the Greek “Polis” Originally Need Coins?’, Historia 45 (3): 257–83. Meadows, A. (2014), ‘The Spread of Coins in the Hellenistic World’, in P. Bernholz and R. Vaubel (eds), Explaining Monetary and Financial Innovation: A Historical Analysis, 169–95, New York: Springer. Peacock, M. S. (2006), ‘The Origins of Money in Ancient Greece: The Political Economy of Coinage and Exchange’, Cambridge Journal of Economics 30: 637–50. Price, M. J. (1983), ‘Thoughts on the beginnings of coinage’, in C. N. L. Brooke, B. H. I. H. Stewart, J. G. Pollard and T. R. Volk (eds), Studies in Numismatic Method Presented to Philip Grierson, 1–10, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Price, M. J. (1991), The Coinage in the Name of Alexander the Great and Philip Arrhidaeus, 2 vols, London: Trustees of the British Museum Pritchard, D. M. (2007), ‘Costing the Armed Forces of Athens during the Peloponnesian War’, Ancient History 37 (2): 125–35. Psoma, S. (2018), ‘Choosing and Changing Monetary Standards in the Greek World during the Archaic and the Classical Periods’, in E. M. Harris, D. M. Lewis and E. Woolmer (eds), The Ancient Greek Economy: Markets, Households and City-states, 90–115, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Psoma, S. (2021), Corcyra: A City at the Edge of Two Worlds, 2 vols, Athens: Institute of Hellenic Research, National Hellenic Research Foundation. 124

Pegasi and War Ravel, O. (1936 and 1948), Le ‘poulains’ de Corinthe, 2 vols, Basel: Munzhandlung and London: Spink, reprinted as one volume, Chicago: Obol, 1979. Rowan, C. (2013), ‘Coinage as Commodity and Bullion in the Western Mediterranean, ca. 550–100 bce ’, Mediterranean Historical Review 28 (2): 105–27. Salmon, J. (1984), Wealthy Corinth: A History of the City to 338 bc, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Schaps, D. (2004), The Invention of Coinage and the Monetization of Ancient Greece, Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press. Schaps, D. (2007), ‘The Invention of Coinage in Lydia, in India, and in China (Parts I and II)’, Bulletin du Cercle d’Etudes Numismatiques 44: 281–300, 313–22. Schindel, N. (2018), ‘Sasanian Mints – Where and Why?’, in B. Woytek (ed.), Infrastructure and Distribution in Ancient Economies. Proceedings of a Conference Held at the Austrian Academy of Sciences, 28–31 October 2014, 497–518, Vienna: Austrian Academy of Sciences. Sinisi, F. (2018), ‘Some Remarks on the Patterns of Coin Production in the Parthian Empire’, in B. Woytek (ed.), Infrastructure and Distribution in Ancient Economies. Proceedings of a Conference Held at the Austrian Academy of Sciences, 28–31 October 2014, 473–96, Vienna: Austrian Academy of Sciences. Smarczyk, B. (2003), Timoleon und die Neugründung von Syrakus, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Talbert, R. J. A. (1974), Timoleon and the Revival of Greek Sicily, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Thonemann, P. (2015), The Hellenistic World: Using Coins as Sources, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Troxell, H. A. (1971), ‘The Peloponnesian Alexanders’, Museum Notes: American Numismatic Society 17: 41–94. Troxell, H. A. (1997), Studies in the Macedonian Coinage of Alexander the Great, New York: The American Numismatic Society. Trundle, M. (2016), ‘Coinage and the Economics of the Athenian Empire’, in J. Armstrong (ed.), Circum Mare: Themes in Ancient Warfare, 65–79, Leiden: Brill. Trundle, M. (2020), ‘Wealth and the Logistics of Greek Warfare: Food, Pay, and Plunder’, in L. L. Brice (ed.), New Approaches to Greek and Roman Warfare, 17–27, Hoboken, NJ: Wiley-Blackwell. Van Alfen, P. G. (forthcoming), ‘Payment, Profit, or Prestige? The Political Economy of Achaemenid Coin Production’, in J. Bodzek and A. Meadows (eds), Coinage in Imperial Space: Continuity or Change from Achaemenid to Hellenistic Kingdoms?, Phoenix Supplementary Volume, Toronto: Phoenix. Van Alfen, P. G. and U. Wartenberg (2020), ‘White Gold and the Beginnings of Coinage: An Introduction to the Current State of Research’, in P. G. van Alfen and U. Wartenberg (eds), White Gold: Studies in Early Electrum Coinage, 1–16, Jerusalem: The American Numismatic Society and The Israel Museum. Van Wees, H. (2013), Ships and Silver, Taxes and Tribute: A Fiscal History of Archaic Athens, London: I.B. Tauris. Velde, F. (2020), ‘A Quantitative Approach to the Beginnings of Coinage’, in P. G. van Alfen and U. Wartenberg (eds), White Gold: Studies in Early Electrum Coinage, 497–516, Jerusalem: The American Numismatic Society and The Israel Museum. Wheatley, P. and C. Dunn (2020), Demetrius the Besieger, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Woytek, B., ed. (2018), Infrastructure and Distribution in Ancient Economies: Proceedings of a conference held at the Austrian Academy of Sciences, 28–31 October 2014, 11–22, Vienna: Austrian Academy of Sciences.

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CHAPTER 7 THE WAGE COST OF ALEXANDER’S PIKEPHALANX Christopher Matthew

The question of how much money the phalangites (pikemen) in the army of Alexander the Great were paid, or if they were paid at all, has been a topic of scholarly contention. Fuelling this uncertainty are the scattered references to monetary payments within the accounts of Alexander’s campaigns and the often-confusing references to troop types and numbers. However, a critical analysis of the available evidence for the fourth century bce ,1 and assessment of the historical background to soldierly pay in the fifth century, show that not only were the men in Alexander’s pike-phalanx paid a ‘wage’, but that how much they were paid varied depending upon their rank and position within the units of the phalanx. Many scholars have proposed varying hypotheses on whether Alexander’s army was paid or not and, if so, how much they received. Some scholars, for example, suggest that the regular soldiers in Alexander’s army received no pay at all, instead receiving only their rations and equipment, while some officers received a regular, calculated, wage.2 Other scholars suggest that the Macedonian infantry received payment – possibly from as early as the reign of Philip II.3 Contrary to some of these theories, a military institution as professional as the Macedonian army created by Alexander II and Philip, and then commanded by Alexander the Great, must have been paid. Unlike the part-time militia of (most of) the city-states of classical Greece, members of the Macedonian army had no other vocations or means of earning a livelihood. Even if everything for the Macedonian army was supplied by the state, the only way that a member of the military could survive in such a society would have been through the receipt of regular compensation. It seems highly unlikely, for example, that a Macedonian farmer, who may have once been part of an annual levy, would willingly give up his vocation and livelihood and join an unpaid standing army. Throughout the history of warfare, no professional standing army has operated solely on volunteers acting out of a love for their ruler/state and the prospect of spoils – all such armies have received remuneration of some kind. Based upon the professional nature of the institution, all members of the Macedonian military must have been paid. Theopompus (FGrH 115F 225a) implies that payment in the Macedonian army may have begun under Philip II, and that the Companions (hetairoi) of Philip II should more correctly be called ‘prostitutes’ (hetairai) because ‘even though they were slayers of men by nature, they were whores of men in their ways’ [i.e. receiving money for their services]. Other sources contain a number of passages which confirm that Alexander’s troops were also paid – and from the very beginning of his campaign in 334. These references come 127

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in a variety of forms. Plutarch (Alex. 15), for example, citing Aristobulus, states that when Alexander crossed the Hellespont with his army in 334, he had with him ‘no more than 70 talents for the soldiers’ pay’. However, the interpretation of this passage is problematic when attempting to tie it to the notion of regular pay for Alexander’s troops. The term ephodion (ἐφόδιον) used by Plutarch has several meanings. Xenophon (Hell. 1.6.12), for example, uses the term in a clear reference to money and remuneration. Herodotus (4.203), on the other hand, uses it to describe something tangible obtained by an army, which would suggest supplies – although money cannot be entirely ruled out as an alternative interpretation.4 Thus Plutarch’s statement could be read as Alexander having ‘no more than 70 talents for the soldiers’ provisions’. Both Xenophon and Thucydides also use the term to mean ‘attack’ or ‘campaign’, and this can also not be ruled out as a way of interpreting Plutarch’s text.5 However, if the passage is meant to be read as ‘no more than 70 talents [to pay] for the campaign’, this still leaves the uncertainty as to what aspect of the campaign this money was to be used to pay for. The regular payment of troops was not something new to warfare in the ancient world. Soldiers in the classical world had been receiving regular remuneration long before the rise of the professional Macedonian military. Rome, for example, was paying its troops as early as 406 – fifty years before the rise of the professional armies of Macedon.6 Athens began the regular payment of troops even earlier.7 Thus it seems that regular pay for the part-time armies of the state was a standard occurrence in much of the Graeco-Roman world (or the Athenian world at the very least) prior to the rise of Macedon in the 350s.8 Work has also examined the payment of troops in later Hellenistic armies.9 While much of this work has focused on the payment of mercenaries, it is difficult to imagine that only certain contingents within these large and permanent armies were paid while the regular rank-and-file soldiers were not. It is also difficult to accept that the concept of regular pay for military service, at least for the Macedonians, began after the death of Alexander in 323. Andreas Furtwängler, using examples of small bronze Macedonian coinage, suggests that this process began with Philip II – which would then correlate with the passage of Theopompus (quoted above).10 Catherine Grandjean, however, argues that that there is little evidence to support this hypothesis and suggests that bronze coinage was used for commercial transactions while troop payments were made in silver.11 However, it should be noted that the issuing of bronze coinage to troops for use in local markets would conform to the principles of both military pay and commercial use. Regardless of the coinage that troops were actually paid with, it would seem that the Macedonian military followed the practice of some Greek city-states and instituted the regular payment of troops as part of its moves towards professionalization. The generals of some classical Greek armies had ‘expense accounts’ for obtaining provisions, maintaining fleets, offering bribes and paying troops and officers.12 Jakob Larsen argues that high-ranking officers (such as taxiarchs) received triple the rate of lower ranks, while a mid-ranking lochagos received a double amount.13 This seems based upon a line in a play by Aristophanes (Ach. 602) which states that Athenian taxiarchs fighting in Thrace received three drachma per day – or about 90 drachmae per month 128

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– which is three to four times greater than the pay received by the average soldier at the time. Similarly, Xenophon (Anab. 7.3.10, 7.6.1; Hell 4.5.1) states that mercenary generals received four times the wage of the rank-and-file. Everett Wheeler suggests that both stratēgoi and hipparchs received a per diem wage.14 Money was such a fundamental element of the workings of the ancient Greek citystate that Aristotle believed that democracy could only work if people were paid for their services – military, political or otherwise.15 Wheeler states that a scaled level of pay in ancient Greek armies ‘undercuts the notion of the hoplite phalanx as an anonymous mass of equals sacrificing themselves for the glory of the polis . . .’.16 In other words, what many of these men were fighting for (at least in part) was not out of a sense of duty, but because they were being paid to do so – and at a rate commensurate with their position within the phalanx. This foreshadows the organizational practices for the payment of the later professional Macedonian armies. The main difference between the soldiers of Greece and Rome, and the soldiers of Macedon, was that places like Athens and Rome (at least at this time) employed a short-term citizen militia. Macedon, on the other hand, employed the first full-time, state-funded, standing army in Europe. It seems unlikely that such a professional military institution as the Macedonian army of the fourth century would not have been paid while the part-time militias of poleis like Athens had been. The payment of soldiers in the fourth century could come in a variety of forms. There was a full payment in cash – misthos entelēs (μισθὸς ἐντελής) – and the so-called ‘grain money’ – sitēresion (σιτηρέσιον) – first mentioned by Xenophon (Anab. 1.2.19, 1.3.14, 1.5.6, 6.2.4). According to Demosthenes, the sitēresion was used to sustain mercenary troops in the field (i.e. to buy food) while any plunder was to be used to provide them with an income.17 In another passage, Demosthenes similarly outlines how Apollodorus, as trierarch, was expected to pay the wages of the crew of his ship, while the Athenian stratēgoi provided the sitēresion to keep them provisioned.18 Demosthenes clearly separates money (chrēmata) from the sitēresion and further from uncoined silver (argyrion). This suggests that coinage was synonymous with pay, while the ‘grain money’ was associated with provisions and supplies, which were again separate from plunder.19 As Grandjean points out, payments could also be made in the form of allotments of land or payment in uncoined silver.20 Many of these forms of remuneration would still require a monetary outlay by the military institution that the soldier belonged to. In Alexander’s case, whether his cash reserves were dispersed as a cash ‘wage’ to his troops, were paid as a ‘grain pay’ allowance, or a combination of both, is something of a moot point. Alexander clearly had to dispense monies, either regularly or on an ad hoc basis, to his troops in some capacity. Even if this money was used to secure provisions which were then distributed to the troops, this ‘payment in goods’ would have been based upon each person receiving goods of a set value at regular intervals. Whether these payments are called ‘wages’ or ‘allowances’ is a matter of semantics. What is important is understanding that Alexander would have been responsible for large, and possibly regular, outlays of money for pay, provisions or both (hereafter just called ‘wages’). 129

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The amount of available funds at the start of Alexander’s campaign would have covered the army’s ‘wages’ for fewer than two weeks (see following). Georges Le Rider suggests that Alexander would not have needed to provide wages for his men immediately.21 This would suggest that the men of Alexander’s army were paid by ‘accruing’ a certain wage in credit, based upon receiving a certain amount of money per day – the balance of which would be dispensed when sufficient funds were at hand. The collection of funds through the capture of enemy cities and baggage would have supplemented Alexander’s low cash reserves in order to meet the wage costs of the army and other expenditures. Access to cash appears to have been limited during the first months of Alexander’s campaign. In addition to Plutarch’s statement about the limited cash reserves of the army, in 334 Alexander dismissed most of his fleet.22 Arrian (Anab. 1.20.1) states that one of the reasons for disbanding the fleet was that Alexander did not have the funds to maintain it. The Greek mercenaries who accompanied Alexander’s army would have also expected to be paid for their services (probably on a regular basis) and it can only be assumed that a similar arrangement was in place for the payment of upkeep and wages for the ships and their crews (and probably for the units of allied infantry and cavalry as well) that many of these states had contributed to the war effort. The numismatic record additionally suggests that the men of Alexander’s army were paid and that the army’s cash reserves were quite low in the early parts of the campaign. In the first years of the conflict in Asia Minor, Alexander had small denomination bronze coinage minted by some of the larger cities that he had recently captured. The purpose of this coinage can only have been for distribution amongst, and use by, the army.23 The issue of these small bronze coins only occurred in the earlier parts of the campaign, before the siege of Tyre in 332, when the army had not taken a lot of plunder from Persian cities as they later would from locations such as Arbela, Susa and Persepolis.24 The place of issue of these coins (Sardis, Miletus, Tarsus and Salamis), and the short-lived and sporadic nature of their issues, suggests that the men of Alexander’s army were paid what they were owed sometime after the capture of each of these cities but before the army moved on.25 When they did so, the men of the army would have simply begun accruing the balance of their forthcoming pay until the army’s cash reserves were sufficiently abundant that they could be paid again. Although Sardis was a wealthy city, if Plutarch’s statement about Alexander having low cash reserves at the start of the campaign is correct, the majority of the wealth taken from Sardis would have been used to buy supplies and pay the men what they were already owed. This would explain why the process of issuing small denomination coinage continued following the fall of Sardis as any plunder taken would have been depleted almost instantly by meeting costs that had already accumulated. Another example of Alexander’s soldiers receiving a wage is found in passages that refer to the use of money to recruit more men. Following the battle of Gaugamela in 331, Alexander appointed Apollodorus of Amphipolis and Menes of Pella as governors of Babylon and all of the other regions as far as Cilicia – assigning to them one thousand talents of silver for the raising of troops.26 These funds would have needed to cover both 130

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the procurement of equipment for the new levies as well as some form of payment for their services (i.e. wages). Other passages found in the ancient texts refer to the payment of bonuses based upon the pay grade or rate of those that received them. From the money seized after the battle of Gaugamela, for example, Alexander awarded 600 drachmae to each member of the Macedonian cavalry, 500 drachmae to the members of all of the other cavalry units, 200 drachmae to the members of the Macedonian infantry, and gave all other troops an amount equal to two months’ pay (τοὺς δὲ ξένους διμήνου μισθοφοραῖς ἐτίμησε πάντας).27 This confirms that at least some of his army had their pay calculated (but not necessarily paid) on a monthly basis. As another form of bonus, as part of the celebrations to commemorate his wedding to Barsine at Susa in 324, Alexander declared a general cancellation of debts. Arrian tells us that, at first, only a few men stepped forward to put their name on the roster to have their debts paid by the treasury, as many of the soldiers believed that the ‘cancellation’ was actually a ruse of Alexander’s to find out ‘who was spending beyond their army wage’.28 Not only does this passage indicate a regular wage for the men of Alexander’s army, but the fact that some of the men within the army had debts raises a number of interesting questions: who were these men indebted to? What were they indebted for? And how was such a debt guaranteed? Peter Green suggests that Alexander’s troops were indebted to a ‘horde of traders, merchants, horse-copers and brothel-keepers who accompanied the expedition’.29 The practice of traders accompanying a marching army, or coming to an encamped one, goes back as far as the Iliad.30 It is also likely that soldiers obtained supplies from markets that were established within cities in any region the army was operating in.31 Any plunder acquired by troops on campaign could additionally be sold to the so-called ‘plundersellers’ (λαφυροπῶλαι) – merchants who bought plundered goods and items – who regularly followed a large army to convert their spoils into cash, which could then be used in markets.32 The prices charged in such markets could be exorbitant as demand was high, competition was low, and the supply limited. Xenophon (Anab. 1.5.6, 3.2.21), for example, tells of traders charging the equivalent of 30 obols for two choinikes (about 2.2 litres) of grain to his band of mercenaries – 25 times the price charged for a similar measure in Greece. Pseudo-Aristotle states that when the city of Lampsacus was threatened by a naval blockade the price of wheat rose to 4 drachmae for a medimnos and a half (about 79 litres) of grain.33 A medimnos was equal to 48 choinikes – giving a rate of about 2/3 of an obol per choinix which, even in a time of crisis, is considerably less than what Xenophon’s troops were paying to the traders accompanying his army. If such inflated prices were also put into effect by the traders dealing with Alexander’s troops, it is hardly surprising that many soldiers went into debt. However, a merchant from a settlement along Alexander’s line of march would presumably have been reluctant to extend lines of credit directly to individual soldiers who would have been either moving on in a few days, ran the risk of being killed, or simply could not pay the funds back in the foreseeable future because they had no ready cash at hand. At these times, the army itself must have guaranteed a fluid and stable local 131

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economy by paying the market debts of the common soldiery. These debts were then recorded and carried by the army until either the soldier paid it back out of spoils he had taken and/or from his wage the next time he was paid – unless the debts were cancelled during a special event like the celebration for Alexander’s marriage. Merchants travelling with the army, on the other hand, may have been more open to issuing credit to individual soldiers as the only major risk was the death of the borrower who, if he lived, would eventually obtain pay and/or spoils with which the debt could be repaid. Importantly, it is unlikely that such lines of credit were issued to soldiers who were not receiving any pay at all. This fact alone suggests the receipt of an income by the men in Alexander’s army. At other times Alexander requisitioned supplies from settlements ahead of the army’s line of march.34 In such instances the army would have had to initially bear the costs of obtaining these supplies if they were purchased and not plundered. The carrying of some debts by the army on behalf of the troops would then correlate with the trepidation that some of Alexander’s soldiers felt about placing their name on a list for Alexander’s ‘cancellation’ in 324 and the regular receipt of soldierly pay. What the episode of 324 also highlights is the fact that the army did not know, at least in this instance, the identity of every soldier who was indebted, or for how much the debt was, and possibly to whom they were indebted, as these troops had to place their names on a roll. This suggests that some troops had individually incurred debts with the merchants travelling with the army. Thus, it becomes clear from the available evidence that the troops in Alexander’s army had to be in a position where merchants would feel comfortable extending lines of credit to them. This could only have occurred if the general rank-and-file were paid a ‘wage’ that could have either been received regularly or on an ad hoc basis. But how much did each soldier receive? Were all members of the army paid a flat rate, regardless of whether they were mercenary or volunteer, cavalryman, or infantryman? Helmut Berve suggests that the base rate of pay was equal across soldiers within the same units of the army (e.g. units of pikemen, etc.), but that the actual rate of pay was also dependent upon the rank of the individual within that unit.35 Clearly the passages referring to different amounts of bonuses paid depending upon troop type following the battle of Gaugamela suggests that different soldiers received different amounts – if only in this situation at the very least. However, further information relating to a varying payscale among Alexander’s troops is found in other passages which refer to specific rates of pay within the military organization of the army. For example, a fragmentary inscription found on the Athenian acropolis in 1897 states that a member of the hypaspists in the period of Alexander’s reign received 1 drachma per day (or 30 drachmae/month) while a subsequent line of the inscription refers to the daily pay of another type of soldier. However, the text is, unfortunately, too fragmented to make out any details of whom this line is referring to or how much their rate of pay was.36 All that can be confirmed from this inscription is that there are two, separately listed, references to soldierly pay. This inscription records the pay and conditions for the hypaspists and other troops, should their services be required, either in the Macedonian army or in service with another state, at some point in time following Philip’s victory at Chaeronea in 338. Such a rate of 132

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pay is unlikely to have changed once Alexander’s campaign against Persia began only a few years later. At Malli, in the last years of the campaign, one of the men who rushed to Alexander’s rescue was Abreas, whom Arrian calls a dimoiritēs (διμοιρίτης).37 A note written in the margin next to line 28 of a papyrus fragment of Menander’s Kolax (P.Oxy. III.409) provides a definition for a dimoiritēs as a ‘soldier on double pay’.38 Unfortunately, the double of which lower pay grade the dimoiritēs received is not specified in the annotation. However, what is clear is that there are at least two different pay levels in operation; that of the dimoiritēs and that of another grade who received half of what the dimoiritēs earned. Another officer within the unit was called a dekastatēros (δεκαστάτηρος) or ‘ten-stater man’; a name which almost certainly has to do with his pay grade.39 Arrian’s (Anab. 7.23.3–4) description of the manning of integrated Perso-Macedonian units in 324 sheds some light on this matter. According to Arrian, Alexander: . . . enlisted them [i.e. the Persians] into the Macedonian ranks, with a Macedonian dekadarchos leading each dekas and, following him, a Macedonian dimoiritēs and a ‘ten-stater man’ [dekastatēros] – so named after his pay – which was less than that of the dimoiritēs, but greater than that of the soldiers with no supplement. Added to this were twelve Persians and, last in the dekas, a Macedonian who was also a ‘ten-stater man’; so within the dekas there were four Macedonians, three of whom were on increased pay, the commander of the dekas, and twelve Persians. This is an important passage for understanding the internal structure of the Hellenistic phalanx and the wages of the men within it. Not only does the passage confirm that the regular soldier in the army received some form of wage (but without a supplement), but it also provides confirmation of the names and number of officers found within each file of the formation, and demonstrates their rank, in relation to each other, based upon their respective pay grades. Although this is an isolated reference to many of the pay grades within the Macedonian army in 324, it cannot be automatically assumed that these levels of pay grade did not exist before 324 and were only created as part of the ‘mixed phalanx’ that incorporated the Persians into the Macedonian army. References to figures such as Abreas the dimoiritēs certainly suggests that such pay grades existed before the creation of these units in 324. Furthermore, the authors of Hellenistic military manuals, some of which claim to be writing about the army of Alexander, all refer to the same officers within Hellenistic armies, which suggests that this was something of a standard organizational arrangement. According to military writers such as Asclepiodotus, the structure of the Macedonian infantry was based upon a series of ever-increasing units which simply combined two of the preceding smaller units together (Table 7.1).40 Within the structure of the smallest unit, Arrian outlines the presence of a file commander (dekadarchos), three subordinate officers (1 x dimoiritēs and 2 x dekastatēroi) and twelve regular infantrymen (making a base unit of sixteen men – the same as in the improvised units of Alexander). Aelian, in his examination of the Hellenistic phalanx, 133

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Table 7.1 The sub-units of the pike-phalanx Name of unit

Number of files

Number of men

lochos, dekas or enōmotia

1

16

dilochia (διλοχία)

2

32

tetrarchia (τετραρχία)

4

64

taxis (τάξις)

8

128

syntagma (σύνταγμα) / xenagia (ξεναγία)

16

256

pentakosiarchia (πεντακοσιαρχία)

32

512

chiliarchia (χιλιαρχία)

64

1,024

merarchia (μεραρχία) / telos (τέλος)

128

2,048

phalangarchia (φαλαγγαρχία) / stratēgia (στρατηγία)

256

4,096

diphalangarchia (διφαλαγγαρχία) / meros (μέρος)

512

8,192

tetraphalangarchia (τετραφαλαγγαρχία)

1,024

16,384

similarly refers to files of sixteen heavy infantry arranged in half-files with the four corresponding officers as outlined in the works of the other tactical writers.41 According to Arrian, the dekadarchos was located at the head of each file with the dimoiritēs as the leader of a half-file.42 Thus the dimoiritēs must have been positioned in the ninth rank (of a sixteen-deep file) in command of the last half of the unit. Arrian, Asclepiodotus and Aelian also refer to a ‘file-closer’ (ouragos) who can be associated with one of the dekastatēroi.43 As both half-files would require a file-closer, each of the two dekastatēroi described by Arrian would be located in the rearward position of each half-file (i.e. in the eighth and sixteenth positions when deployed sixteen deep). Between the file/half-file leaders and the file/half-file closers, would have been positioned an equal number of regular infantry (six to each half-file) thus giving the half-file a strength of eight men, and a full file a strength of sixteen (and both half-files would have an officer at their front and rear). As such, the configuration of a sixteen-deep file of Alexander’s pike-phalanx would have been as shown in Table 7.2.44 Prior to 324, standard Macedonian infantry would have taken the places of the Persian conscripts in positions 2–7 and 10–15.45 What is more problematic is the amount that each of these soldiers was paid and in what denomination: we are only told that the dekastatēros earned less than the dimoiritēs but more than those without increased pay. Johann Droysen suggests that the dekastatēros was paid at a monthly rate in gold staters – each equivalent to 24 drachmae based upon a conversion rate of gold to silver of 1:12 – and, as such, they were paid a wage of 240 drachmae per month.46 John Melville Jones, on the other hand, suggests that the wages for these officers were calculated upon an annual pay-rate measured in gold staters (i.e. gold didrachms).47 He calculates, based upon a conversion rate of gold to silver of 1:10, that the wage of the dekastatēros, receiving 10 gold staters, was therefore equivalent 134

The Wage Cost of Alexander’s Pike-Phalanx

Table 7.2 The structure of a file of the pike-phalanx Position in file

Rank

Role

1

Dekadarchos

File leader

2–7

6 x pikemen

Regular infantry

8

Dekastatēros

Half-file closer

9

Dimoiritēs

Half-file leader

10–15

6 x pikemen

Regular infantry

16

Dekastatēros

File closer

to 200 Attic drachmae per year (around 16 drachmae/month).48 Alternatively, Aubrey de Sélincourt and Le Rider suggest that the pay-rate was based upon a monthly wage in silver staters, equivalent to Athenian tetradrachms, which would give the ‘ten-stater’ men a wage of 40 drachmae per month (480 drachmae/year).49 Guy Griffith, R. D. Milns, and Marcus Tod suggest that the average infantryman received a wage of 30 drachmae/month (360 drachmae/year).50 De Sélincourt and Griffith estimate that the ‘double pay’ dimoiritēs therefore earned twice that of the normal soldier – 60 drachmae/month (720 drachmae/year) – which would correlate with Arrian’s description of the dekastatēros earning less than the dimoiritēs but more than the average soldier.51 Similarly, J. R. Ellis suggests that the basic infantryman earned 25 drachmae/month, a hypaspist 30 drachmae/ month, and a dimoiritēs 50 drachmae/month.52 Contrary to such calculations, Andrew Heisserer states that the pay rate of the hypaspist given in the inscription found in Athens cannot be used in any way to calculate the rates of pay for other troops operating years later as mentioned by Arrian.53 However, the pay rate of the hypaspist can be worked into a pay scale for the soldiers of Alexander’s army even though most of the figures provided by previous scholars appear to be either too high or too low (see following). As noted, a fragmentary inscription outlines the pay-rate for a member of hypaspists as 1 drachma per day (30 drachmae/month).54 Despite the fact that the hypaspists were something of an elite unit within Alexander’s army, part of which formed the Royal Guard, a member of the hypaspists would not have been paid more than an officer of the pikeinfantry regardless of how junior the officer’s position was.55 This suggests that Melville Jones’s figure of 16 drachmae/month for the pay of a dekastatēros is too low.56 Additionally, the hypaspists are likely to have been paid more than the average infantryman (due to their elite status); which suggests that Tod’s, Milns’ and De Sélincourt’s estimated wages for the regular infantry may be too high. Regardless, the pay of the dekastatēros had to be more than the 30 drachmae/month of the hypaspist and Marcel Launey’s, De Sélincourt’s, and Le Rider’s figure of 40 drachmae/month seems likely. However, rather than receiving double the amount of an average soldier as has been suggested, it is more likely that the ‘double pay’ dimoiritēs received was actually double the amount received by the next lowest pay grade: that of the dekastatēros.57 This would give the dimoiritēs an income of 80 drachmae/month (960 drachmae/year), the 135

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dekastatēros an income of 40 drachmae/month (480 drachmae/year), and would place the wage of a hypaspist (30 drachmae/month – 360 drachmae/year) at just under that of a junior infantry officer. As noted, passages in the ancient texts make it relatively clear that the average foot soldier in Alexander’s army received a wage of some kind. Importantly, these regular troops must have been paid less than the 30 drachmae/month of the elite hypaspist. Droysen offers a rate of only 10 drachmae/month for the phalangites.58 Le Rider suggests that 10 drachmae/month ‘seems completely normal’ for the pay of the average foot soldier, but this seems too low (see below).59 Milns, alternatively, suggests that a drachma per day (30 drachmae/month) is a ‘conservative estimate’ for the pay of the regular phalangite.60 Tod similarly suggests that the pay of the hypaspist was also the rate of the common soldier.61 However, parity of pay for a regular soldier with an elite hypaspist seems unlikely. Due to the likely two-fold difference between the pay of the dekastatēros and the dimoiritēs, an average soldier may have been paid half the wage of a ‘ten-stater man’ – the lowest ranking officer in the file – 5 staters (20 drachmae) per month – halfway between the estimates provided by Droysen/Le Rider and Milns/Tod. A rate of 20 drachmae per month was quite common for soldiers in classical Greece. Thucydides (Thuc. 5.47) states that, during the Peloponnesian War, the standard rate of pay for soldiers, as stipulated in a treaty between Athens and Argos, was 3 Aeginetan obols per day. This converts, based upon a rate of 7:10 with the Attic standard, to a pay rate of around 4 Attic obols per day (or 120 obols/20 drachmae per month). Xenophon (Xen. Hell. 5.2.21) refers to a later treaty where members of the Peloponnesian League could contribute money instead of manpower at a similar daily rate of 4 obols per hoplite. Pseudo-Aristotle (Ath. Pol. 42.3) additionally states that Athenian ephebes in the fourth century also received 4 obols per day; an amount recounted by Menander (Olynthia fr. 357). Demosthenes (4.28) claimed that he could have hired mercenaries for a war against Philip of Macedon for only 2 obols per day (10 drachmae/month).62 However, Demosthenes seems to be using the low costs of his claim as an exaggeration – suggesting that the standard pay rate for Athenian troops was higher – possibly the same 4-obol amount set out by the other writers of the Classical period. Aristophanes (Ach. 160) refers to light troops who could have been hired for 2 drachmae per day, which seems to have been a considerable sum to be paid for mercenaries. There is something of a lacuna in our sources, with no references to soldierly pay between the times of Thucydides and Xenophon and those of Aristotle and Demosthenes. However, the similarities in the rates of pay in the accounts that we do have suggest that the rate of pay for soldiers did not change too much from the fifth century to the fourth. This seems to confirm a pay rate of around 20 drachmae/month for the regular fighting man from the fifth century up to the time of Alexander. A rate of 20 drachmae/month for members of the Macedonian infantry would then place the average soldier at the bottom of the pay scale (where they should be), below the pay level of their officers and the elite hypaspists. This pay level indicates that the ‘double pay’ dimoiritēs did not receive twice the amount of the common soldier as De Sélincourt and Griffith suggest. If the dimoiritēs only earned 40 drachmae/month (twice that of the basic infantryman), this would have 136

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placed the second most senior officer of the file (and the leader of a half-file) on the same pay as the file closing dekastatēros. As the dimoiritēs earned more than the dekastatēros (as per Arrian), it is most likely that the dimoiritēs earned twice as much as the dekastatēros, and therefore received 80 drachmae/month. The file-leader is most likely to have earned more than any other officer in the file (possibly 25 staters = 100 drachmae/month) although an actual wage for this officer is not detailed.63 Based upon this pay scale, and the structure of the units of pike-infantry outlined by Arrian, the annual wage cost of a single file of phalangites in Alexander’s army would have been a single talent (Table 7.3). Undoubtedly, the officers of larger units within the phalanx, with a rank senior than that of the dekadarchos, would have received even greater levels of pay.64 Unfortunately, there is no reference in the extant literature to the wage of any of these officers. Consequently, any calculation of the overall pay for Alexander’s pike-phalanx, as a whole, can only be based upon the figures given in the ancient texts for the smallest unit of the phalanx, and the soldiers and junior officers therein. This allows for the calculation of only an ‘approximate wage cost’ for the maintenance of the rank-and-file pike-infantry in the smallest sub-unit of the phalanx. Such determinations allow further examination of some of the events of Alexander’s campaign. For example, based upon the above calculations, Waldemar Heckel and Ryan Jones’s theory that the 200 drachmae given as a bonus to the members of the Macedonian infantry following the battle of Gaugamela was the equivalent of two or three months’ pay appears incorrect.65 As all of the members of the file earned a different wage depending upon their position, 200 drachmae does not equally divide amongst the monthly pay rates for the different troops, regardless of whether the amount is seen as being representative of two months or three (except for the file-leading dekadarchos for whom 200 drachmae would be equal to two months’ pay). It can only be concluded that Alexander’s ‘bonus’ was exactly that: a payment of an extra amount of cash based upon an even division of allocated funds, on a pro rata basis, based upon the reward that Alexander perceived that each contingent in the army deserved. This would account for

Table 7.3 The monthly and annual wages of a file of the pike-phalanx Position in file

Rank

Monthly pay

Annual pay

1

Dekadarchos

100 dr.

1,200 dr.

2–7

6 x Persians

120 dr. (total)

1,440 dr. (total)

8

Dekastatēros

40 dr.

480 dr.

9

Dimoiritēs

80 dr.

960 dr.

10–15

6 x Persians

120 dr. (total)

1,440 dr. (total)

16

Dekastatēros

40 dr.

480 dr.

500 dr.

6,000 dr. (1 talent)

Total

137

Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World

why the first listed bonuses are merely given as set amounts – which are then contrasted in the text to the last stated bonus (most likely for the mercenaries), which is in turn given as an amount equal to several months’ pay. When the details of how much Alexander’s hypaspists and phalangites were paid are applied to the number of men within the particular units of Alexander’s army, we begin to understand the costs incurred by Alexander to keep his army operational (at least in terms of the funds required to pay the troops). When Alexander marched into Asia in 334, he was at the head of around 32,000 infantry – 12,000 of which were ‘Macedonian’.66 Of the 12,000 stated Macedonian infantry, 3,000 would have been the contingent of hypaspists. This means that Alexander led roughly 9,000 Macedonian phalangites into Asia. These troops were organized into six three-quarter-strength merarchiai of around 1,500 men each – the remainder of which had been sent ahead as part of an expeditionary force to Asia by Philip II in 336.67 The six merarchiai were commanded by some of Alexander’s most senior officers – Perdiccas, Craterus, Coenus, Amyntas, Meleager and Philip, all of whom led their respective contingents at the battle of Granicus in 334.68 Each of these three-quarter-strength merarchiai, according to the military writers Asclepiodotus, Arrian and Aelian, should have contained three pentakosiarchiai of 512 men each – giving each under-strength merarchia a base strength (at least on paper) of 1,536 men. This would explain why the rounded figure for the pike-infantry (9,000) divides by the six named commanders into units of 1,500. Each pentakosiarchiai was organized into thirty-two files of sixteen men each. Thus, each under-strength merarchia was made up of ninety-six files, and Alexander’s entire pike-phalanx, in 334, contained 576 files. Basing the calculation on the stated wages for the members of each file and omitting any addition to account for the higher wages of more senior officers and commanders, the cost of Alexander’s pike-phalanx in 334 would have been 288,000 drachmae (48 talents) per month or 3,456,000 drachmae (576 talents) annually. When the cost of the wages for the senior officers, cavalry, the mercenaries, and any other expenditure that the campaign might incur is taken into account, it becomes clear that the 70 talents (420,000 drachmae) that Plutarch says Alexander had in his possession when he crossed into Asia in 334 would not have lasted more than six weeks. This accounts for why such emphasis is placed upon Alexander’s cash shortages in the narrative. When Alexander reached Gordium later in 334, he was reinforced by an additional 3,000 Macedonian infantry.69 These troops (arranged in six pentakosiarchiai of 512 men each) were then distributed amongst the six existing (and until that moment understrength) merarchiai to bring them up to full strength. The continued use of six merarchiai in Alexander’s army is attested by the fact that for both the battle of Issus in 333, and the battle of Gaugamela in 331, the ancient sources still list only six senior infantry commanders.70 At full strength, each merarchia of 2,048 men would have been arranged in 128 files of sixteen men when deployed in their standard order. Thus, Alexander’s pike-infantry from late 334 to 331 consisted of 768 files of phalangites. With the addition of the reinforcements came the added financial burden of increased wage costs. The wages for the full pike-infantry of 12,000 men would have cost Alexander 384,000 drachmae (64 talents) per month or 4,608,000 drachmae (768 talents) per year. 138

The Wage Cost of Alexander’s Pike-Phalanx

By the time Alexander’s army reached India, the size of the pike-infantry had grown again to more than 14,000, arranged in seven full merarchiai.71 Consequently, the wage cost for Alexander’s army would have also increased to 448,000 drachmae (74.6 talents) per month or 5,376,000 drachmae (896 talents) per year. Later still in the campaign, Alexander received reinforcements in the form of 30,000 local youths equipped and trained in what is described as ‘the Macedonian manner’.72 This large contingent was most likely two full ‘quadruple-phalanxes’, as the ancient military writers call them, of 16,384 men arranged in 1,024 files of sixteen – or a total of around 32,768, with the figure rounded down.73 If these troops were both armed as phalangites in ‘the Macedonian manner’, and paid the same ‘wage’ as the other pike-infantry units of his army, these additional reinforcements would have cost Alexander a staggering 512,000 drachmae (85.3 talents) per month, or 6,144,000 drachmae (1,024 talents) annually in wages alone. War is a costly business. The operating cost of paying the pike-phalanx of Alexander’s army alone would have been enormous compared to the economies of most Greek citystates of the time-period (which is unsurprising when it is considered that Alexander’s army as a whole was actually larger than many Greek poleis). For example, the building programme of public monuments initiated by Pericles in the mid-fifth century is said to have adorned Athens with temples worth 1,000 talents – an amount that would have paid the wages of Alexander’s pike-phalanx in 334 for less than two years.74 The amount of income that Athens received by way of annual tribute paid into the coffers of the Delian League just after its establishment in 478/7 was only 460 talents per year – less than a year’s wages for Alexander’s pike-infantry at the start of his campaign.75 Athenian cash reserves in 432 are said to have been 9,700 talents – enough to pay Alexander’s phalangites for just under seventeen years.76 By the start of the Peloponnesian War in 431, the amount of tribute paid to Athens had increased to 600 talents – still woefully short of Alexander’s cash requirements for his army as a whole.77 None of these estimates allows for the fact that Alexander had to pay his other troops as well, which, combined with the other costs of campaigning, would have stretched the financial systems of many Greek city-states to breaking point. A critical re-examination of the literary evidence demonstrates that not only were the soldiers of Alexander’s army paid regularly (whether actually or in accrual), but that the amount required to meet these remunerative obligations was substantial and often influenced policy (particularly the issue of Alexander’s bronze ‘shield coins’ prior to 332) and may have even influenced the directions that the campaign was to take. However, once Alexander and his army had moved into the Persian heartland, plundering the wealth of the Empire removed any problems associated with accumulating such vast sums. Serrati goes as far as to state that, following the sack of the Persian heartland, Alexander showed a marked disregard for his finances as covering the costs of his campaign was something he no longer had to worry about.78 For example, when the city of Arbela fell to Alexander in 331, he collected 3,000 talents of silver – enough to cover the wage cost of his pike-phalanx alone for nearly five years.79 When Alexander sacked the city of Susa not long afterwards, he is said to have collected 40,000 talents in gold and silver bullion and 9,000 talents in gold Darics.80 When Alexander captured the Persian 139

Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World

capital, Persepolis, the treasure gathered from the palace alone is said to have been 120,000 talents while his men looted all the wealth from the rest of the city.81 Using Melville Jones’s rate of 1:10 for the conversion of gold to silver, the 9,000 talents of gold Darics from Susa would equate to 90,000 talents of silver drachms – enough to pay the wages of Alexander’s soldiers for about thirty-five years just on its own. At several places later in the campaign, Alexander paid out large sums to bribe enemies and create alliances.82 This suggests that much of the plunder taken from the cities of Persia was melted down and struck as coins for the payment of troops, obtaining supplies and for meeting the other ‘costs’ of the continuing campaign. Another important point is that, once Alexander and his army had moved into the Persian heartland, the surrounding areas would have been openly hostile to the Macedonians. Consequently, there is a distinct shift visible in the ancient texts of the way in which the logistics of the campaign operated after this time. Whereas cities and regions had opened up markets to the advancing Macedonians in the early stages of the campaign, Alexander now had to obtain supplies by mainly subduing regions or forcing their surrender.83 The lack of regular markets in these later stages of the campaign is indicated by the fact that Alexander had no need to issue the small denomination ‘shield coins’ for distribution amongst his soldiers as he had done throughout his conquest of Asia Minor and the Levant (no ‘shield coins’ were issued from mints east of Tarsus), as there would have been few markets for the soldiers to spend this money in. It seems that the army still covered the obligations of soldiers to some providers during the latter course of the campaign (indicating that open markets were occasionally established) as this would account for why some men had accrued debts by the time of Alexander’s ‘cancellation’ in 324. A result of this procurement of supplies through seizure and surrender, rather than commerce, would have been that all of the money taken by Alexander with the fall of cities like Persepolis would have only been needed to meet costs like replacing equipment (which may have been another cause for soldierly debt), diplomatic exchanges, and the paying of the troops. Even if the wage cost for Alexander’s entire army at this time was 3,000 talents per annum (to cover the wages of any reinforcements and additional mercenaries that were received along the way), and even if these were the only monetary considerations that Alexander had to account for, the wealth that he seized from Persia would have kept his army paid for more than two hundred years.

Notes 1. All dates are bce unless otherwise noted. 2. For example, see Launey (1950), 757; Milns (1987), 75; Melville Jones (2007), 18. 3. For example, Droysen (1885), 47; Le Rider (2007), 74; Serrati (2008), 462; Gabriel (2010), 83. 4. See also Trundle (2004), 87. 5. Xen. An. 2.2.18; Thuc. 2.95. 6. Diod. Sic. 14.16.5; Livy 4.58–60.

140

The Wage Cost of Alexander’s Pike-Phalanx 7. Thuc. 1.83, 3.17, 6.24; see also Ar. Ach. 162–3; Ar. Av. 378–80; Ar. Lys. 170–6, 421–3, 488, 496; Ar. Plut. 112; Ar. Ran. 365; Thuc. 1.142–3, 2.13, 2.65; Plut. Per. 12; [Arist.] Ath.Pol. 24, 27.2 8. Loomis (1998), 266–71; Trundle (2004), 80–103. See also Roy (1967), 287–323; Whitehead (1991), 105–13; McKechnie (1994), 297–305. 9. For example, Launey (1950), 724–64; Grandjean, (2000), 315–30; Fischer-Bovet (2014), 49–55, 118–23. 10. Furtwängler (1989), 1143–54. 11. Grandjean (2000), 317. 12. Plut. Per. 23; Ar. Nub. 859. 13. Larson (1946), 91–8; see also Pritchett (1974), 3–29. 14. Wheeler (2004), 143. 15. Arist. Pol. 1317b, 1320a. See also [Arist.] Ath.Pol. 27.3–4; Plut. Per. 9.2–3. 16. Wheeler (2004), 143. 17. Dem. 4.28–29; see also Parke (1933), 232; Pritchett (1991), 68–202; McKechnie, (1994), 89. 18. [Dem.] 50.10; see also Trundle (2004), 88. 19. For a discussion of the monthly pay of Greek soldiers, see Trundle (2004), 90. 20. Grandjean (2000), 316. 21. Le Rider (2007), 76. 22. Arr. Anab. 1.20.1. 23. Matthew (2009/10), 1–25. 24. Matthew (2009/10), 22–5. 25. Matthew (2009/10), 22–5. 26. Diod. Sic. 17.64.5. 27. Diod. Sic. 17.64.6; Curt. 5.1.45 28. Arr. Anab. 7.5.1; See also Curt. 10.2.9–11; Diod. Sic. 17.109.2; Just. Epit. 12.11.1–3; Plut. Alex. 70; Plut. Mor. 339E. 29. Green (1974), 448–9. 30. Hom. Il. 7.467–75, 9.71–2. 31. See Arr. Anab. 6.23.1, 6.23.6; Pl. Symp. 219e 32. For actions of the ‘plunder-sellers’, see Xen. Lac. 13.11; Ag. 1.18. See Millender in this volume. 33. [Arist.] Oec. 1347a32–b1. 34. For example, see Curt. 9.10.5. 35. Berve (1999), 194. 36. IG II² 329 l.9: ‘. . . Alexander . . . to a hypaspist a drachma and to the . . . for each day’; see Tod (1950), no. 183. For discussions on the inscription see Launey (1950), 750–1; Heisserer (1980), 3–26; Harding (1985), n.102; Antela-Bernádez, (2007), 77–8; Worthington (2004), 59-71; Worthington (2007), 114–16. 37. Arr. Anab. 6.9.3. 38. διμοιρίτης ὁ διπλοῦν λαμβάνων τῶν στρατιωτῶν μισθόν – see Grenfell and Hunt (1903), 20. 39. Arr. Anab. 7.23.3–4. 40. Ascl. Tact. 2.7–10; see also Ael. Tact. Tact. 9; Matthew (2015), 255-96.

141

Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World 41. Ael. Tact. Tact. 5; see also Arr. Tact. 5.5; Asclep. Tact. 2.7–8 and Polyb. 12.17–22, 18.30. 42. Arr. Anab. 7.22.3; Arr. Tact. 6.2; see also Diod. Sic. 17.34.1 43. Arr. Tact. 5.4; Ascl. Tact. 2.2; see also Ael. Tact. Tact. 5. 44. See Matthew (2015), 256–73. 45. Matthew (2015), 256–73. 46. Droysen (1885), 45. 47. Melville Jones (2007), 18; see also Le Rider (2007), 75. 48. This is based upon 10 gold staters = 86 grams of gold. 86 grams of gold (converted at a ratio of 10:1) = 860 grams of silver. 860 grams of silver = 200 drachmae. 49. See the notes in the translation of Arrian by De Sélincourt (1971), 388; similarly, Berve (1999), 194, assumes that the dekastatēros was not paid in Macedonian staters, equivalent to 24 drachmae each, but in silver staters equivalent to an Attic tetradrachm. 50. Milns (1987), 76; Griffith (1935), 299. Tod (1950), 241, suggests that a regular soldier received 30 drachmae/month; a dekastatēros 40 drachmae/month and a dimoiritēs 60 drachmae/ month (double that of the ordinary soldier). However, this would place the pay-rate of the elite hypaspist on par with that of the ordinary soldier and seems unlikely. 51. See Griffith (1935), 299; Launey (1950), 751, suggests that there were three pay grades in the pike-phalanx – the common soldier, the dimoiritēs and the dekastatēros – and that the dekastatēros received a wage of 40 drachmae/month while the dimoiritēs received 60 drachmae/month. 52. Ellis (1980), 41. 53. Heisserer (1980), 20–2. 54. IG II² 329 l.9. 55. For the ‘elite’ status and operations of the hypaspists and Royal Guard, see Diod. Sic. 14.6.7, 17.45.6, 17.57.2, 17.61.3, 17.99.4, 17.110.1; Arr. Anab. 1.2, 1.5–8, 1.14, 1.28, 2.4, 2.8, 2.23–24, 2.27, 3.2, 3.11, 3.17–18, 4.26, 4.29–30, 5.13, 5.23, 6.2–3, 7.11. 56. Melville Jones (2007), 18. 57. See Berve (1999), 194. 58. Droysen (1885), 47. 59. Le Rider (2007), 76. 60. Milns (1987), 254. 61. Tod (1950), 241. 62. Dem. 4.28. 63. Aristophanes (Ach. 602) states that some Athenian commanders in the fifth century campaigned in Thrace for a wage of 3 drachmae/day (or 90 drachmae/month), so a pay rate of 100 drachmae/month for the Hellenistic dekadarchos is not improbable. 64. For the number and rank of Alexander’s officers see Matthew (2015), 296–305. 65. Heckel, and Jones (2006), 21. 66. Diod. Sic. 17.17.4; Infantry: 12,000 Macedonians, 7,000 allies, 5,000 mercenaries and 7,000 Odrysians, Triballians and Illyrians; total = 32,000. Arr. Anab. 1.11; Justin 11.6.2 – 32,000 infantry; Plut. Alex. 15, 30,000–43,000 infantry. 67. Some regard these contingents of 1,500 men as complete units which they call a taxis. However, this seems to be incorrect. See Matthew (2015), 280–91.

142

The Wage Cost of Alexander’s Pike-Phalanx 68. Arr. Anab.1.14.2–3. 69. Arr. Anab. 1.29; this figure is also most likely rounded. 70. Issus: Arrian (Anab. 2.8.4): Craterus, Meleager, Ptolemaeus, Amyntas, Perdiccas and Coenus; Gaugamela: Arrian (Anab. 3.11.10): Craterus, Simmias (replacing the absent Amyntas), Polyperchon, Meleager, Perdiccas and Coenus; Diodorus (17.53.7) and Curtius (4.13.28): Craterus, Philip, Polyperchon, Meleager, Perdiccas and Coenus. 71. For Alexander’s pike-phalanx at the Hydaspes, see Matthew (2015), 285–90. 72. Arr. Anab. 7.6.9; Diod. Sic. 17.108.1–2; Plut. Alex. 47; Curt. 8.5.1. 73. Ascl. Tact. 2.7; Ael. Tact. Tact. 8; Arr. Tact. 9, 14. 74. Plut. Per. 12. 75. Thuc. 1.96. 76. Thuc. 2.13. 77. Thuc. 2.13. 78. Serrati (2008), 464. 79. Diod. Sic. 17.64.3; Curtius (5.1.10) says 4,000 talents were collected. 80. Diod. Sic. 17.65.5–17.66.1; see also Just. 11.14.9, Plut. Alex. 36; both Curtius (5.2.11) and Arrian (Anab. 3.16.7) state that 50,000 talents of bullion were seized. 81. Diod. Sic. 17.71.1; Curtius 5.6.9. 82. For example, Curt. 8.12.16; Plut. Alex. 59. 83. For example: the Uxians – Arr. Anab 3.17.1–3; Curt. 5.3.56; Hecatompylos – Curt. 6.2.15; Hyrcania/Parthia – Arr. Anab 3.23.4; India – Arr. Anab 5.21.1–4.

Bibliography Antela-Bernádez, I. B. (2007), ‘IG II² 329: Another View’, ZPE 160: 77–8. Berve, H. (1999), Das Alexanderreich auf prosopographischer Grundlage, Band 1, Munich: Beck. De Sélincourt, A. (1971), The Campaigns of Alexander, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Droysen, H. (1885), Untersuchungen über Alexander des Grossen Heerwesen und Kriegführung, Freiburg: J. C. B. Mohr. Ellis, J. R. (1980), ‘The Unification of Macedonia’, in M. B. Hatzopoulos and L. D. Loukopoulos (eds), Philip of Macedon, 40–79, Athens: Ekdotike Athenon. Fischer-Bovet, C. (2014), Army and Society in Ptolemaic Egypt, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Furtwängler, A. (1989), ‘Zur Geldpolitik Philipps II und der Antigoniden’, Anc.Mac. 5 (1): 1143–54. Gabriel, R. (2010), Philip II of Macedonia: Greater than Alexander, Washington, DC: Potomac. Grandjean, C. (2000), ‘Guerre et monnaie en Grèce ancienne: le cas du koinon achaien’, in J. Andreau et al. (eds), Économie antique: la guerre dans les économies antiques, 315–36, Saint-Bertrand-de-Comminges: Musée archéologique départemental. Green, P. (1974), Alexander of Macedon, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Grenfell, B. P. and A. S. Hunt (1903), The Oxyrhynchus Papyri Vol. III, London: Egypt Exploration Society. Griffith, G. T. (1935), The Mercenaries of the Hellenistic World, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Harding, P. (ed.) (1985), Translated Documents of Greece & Rome Vol 2: From the End of the Peloponnesian War to the Battle of Ipsus, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 143

Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World Heckel, W. and R. Jones (2006), Macedonian Warrior, Oxford: Osprey. Heisserer, A. J. (1980), Alexander the Great and the Greeks: The Epigraphic Evidence, Norman: University of Oklahoma Press. Larsen, J. A. O. (1946), ‘The Acharnians and the Pay of Taxiarchs’, CP 41: 91–8. Launey, M. (1950), Recherches sur les armées hellénistiques, Paris: E. de Boccard. Le Rider, G. (2007), Alexander the Great: Coinage, Finances and Policy, trans. W. E. Higgins, Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society. Loomis, W. T. (1998), Wages, Welfare, Costs and Inflation in Classical Athens, Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press. Matthew, C. A. (2009/10), ‘For Valour: The “Shield Coins” of Alexander and the Successors’, JNAA 20: 1–25. Matthew, C. A. (2015), An Invincible Beast: Understanding the Hellenistic Pike-Phalanx at War, Barnsley: Pen & Sword. McKechnie, P. (1994), ‘Greek Mercenary Troops and Their Equipment’, Historia 43 (3): 297–305. Melville Jones, J. R. (2007), Testimonia Numaria Vol.II, London: Spink & Sons. Milns, R. D. (1987), ‘Army Pay and the Military Budget of Alexander the Great’, in W. Will (ed.), Zu Alexander der Grosse, 233–56, Amsterdam: Verlag Adolf M. Hakkert. Parke, H. W. (1933), Greek Mercenary Soldiers from Earliest Times to the Battle of Ipsus, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Pritchett, W. K. (1974), The Greek State at War – Vol. 1, Berkeley : University of California Press. Pritchett, W. K. (1991), The Greek State at War – Vol. 5, Berkeley : University of California Press. Roy, J. (1967), ‘The Mercenaries of Cyrus’, Historia 16 (3): 287–323. Serrati, J. (2008), ‘Warfare and the State’, in P. Sabin, H. van Wees and M. Whitby (eds), The Cambridge History of Greek and Roman Warfare Vol. I: Greece, the Hellenistic World and the Rise of Rome, 461–97, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Tod, M. N. (1950), A Selection of Greek Historical Inscriptions Vol. II, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Trundle, M. (2004), Greek Mercenaries from the Late Archaic Age to Alexander, New York: Routledge. Wheeler, E. L. (2004), ‘The General as Hoplite’, in V. D. Hanson (ed.), Hoplites – The Classical Greek Battle Experience, 121–72, London: Routledge. Whitehead, D. (1991), ‘Who Equipped Mercenary Troops in Classical Greece?’, Historia 40 (1): 105–13. Worthington, I. (2004), ‘Alexander the Great and the Greeks in 336? Another reading of “IG” II2 329’, ZPE 147: 59–71. Worthington, I. (2007), ‘Encore “IG” II² 329’, ZPE 162: 114–16.

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CHAPTER 8 SICILY IN THE MEDITERRANEAN c . 54031 bce : EVIDENCE FROM COIN CIRCULATION Christopher de Lisle

Sicily played a crucial role in the integration of the Mediterranean that took place in the second half of the last millennium. The standard model of the ancient Sicilian economy is a simple dynamic of grain exports and silver imports. This is not wrong – Sicily has no silver deposits – but is not the whole story.1 The sources, destinations and quantity of silver flows shifted over time. Circulation data show how significant regional variation was; different parts of Sicily had ties with different parts of the Mediterranean. Bronze coinage, usually believed to have been for local use, travelled widely. I have assembled two datasets. One records all non-Sicilian coins found in Sicily, from the beginning of coinage in the mid-sixth century to the end of the Roman Republic in 31 (about 12,000 coins).2 The other contains all Sicilian coins found outside Sicily in the same period (about 3,500). For both datasets, I have recorded the mint, find spot, dates of minting and deposition (where known), material, find type (hoard, excavation, sporadic, overstrike), and bibliographic references.3 The circulation of Sicilian coinage within Sicily is not considered here, not because it was unimportant, but because it would otherwise overwhelm the evidence for extra-Sicilian circulation.4 On the same principle, astronomers occlude the solar disc to study the Sun’s corona. There have been few previous attempts to track Sicilian circulation patterns over such a long period. However, much research has been done on particular phenomena, such as the influx of pegasi in the fourth century, and on circulation at individual sites. The work presented here is a low-resolution picture dependent on those studies, intended to provide context for that higher-resolution work.

Methodological issues and limitations Methodological issues with studying coin circulation, such as the distinction between a coin’s date of minting and date of deposit, the invisibility of onward circulation, and the different preservation biases for coins found in hoards and excavations, as well as those found sporadically, have been discussed elsewhere.5 However, two methodological issues are specific to the material discussed here. Mint attribution is a serious issue for Punic coinage and potentially for Roman coinage. Many issues were minted with the same iconography simultaneously inside and outside Sicily. For example, SNG Copenhagen 144–53, attributed to Carthage or Western Sicily (a revealing uncertainty), and SNG Copenhagen 154–78, attributed to Sardinia, are 145

Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World

distinguishable only by their flan shape and a few iconographic details. Most archaeological reports do not distinguish the two types – often the quality of preservation makes this impossible.6 Individual issues have been assigned to mints partially through circulation evidence, raising the possibility of circular reasoning (ongoing work on the coins’ metrology and metallurgy should alleviate this).7 That this issue exists at all indicates Sicilian coinage’s integration into wider Mediterranean systems. Second, the distribution of finds is partially an artefact of the unevenness of archaeological research and publication. The gaping hole is North Africa, where little excavation of pre-Imperial sites other than Carthage has occurred and many early finds are lost.8 Similar issues apply to a lesser degree for the eastern Adriatic and north-western Greece. Meanwhile, finds from Southern Italy and Greece have been published for centuries. Within Sicily, most ancient centres are still inhabited and therefore are not fully excavated. Thus, the largest assemblages derive from Monte Iato and Morgantina in the interior, where circulation patterns may have differed from coastal cities. Moreover, both sites experienced destruction events which cause clear stratigraphic context and high rates of deposition for the Punic Wars in the third century, which other periods – notably the mid-fourth and second centuries – lack.

Findings Figures 8.8 and 8.9 (near the end of the chapter) map the distribution of Sicilian coins outside Sicily and the sources of non-Sicilian coins found in Sicily, respectively, from c. 540 to 31, divided into broad periods. Deposit dates are often uncertain, and the periods’ boundaries must be fuzzy. Notionally, each period covers around seventy years. In practice, archaeological and numismatic realities do not always allow this. Thus, Period VI covers only forty years (240–200), while VII covers a hundred (200–100). Furthermore, it proved natural to discuss the first two periods and the last two periods together rather than separately. Not every detail of the data is enumerated – you can review the distribution maps and datasets for yourself (see note 3). Rather, I attempt to identify key phenomena in the data, illustrating them with detailed charts and maps. Period I (c. 540–490) and Period II (c. 490–420) Period I runs from the first attestations of coinage in Sicily (and the Aegean) in roughly the last third of the sixth century until the end of the Archaic period. Period II continues down to around 420 and is marked by several historical developments: the first large Carthaginian military intervention in Sicily in 480, the development of autocratic, multi-polis regimes, and then the replacement of those regimes by oligarchies or democracies. There is no source of silver in Sicily, so bullion for Sicilian coinage must have come from elsewhere. In Period I–II, the Aegean was the main source.9 The earliest Sicilian coins, from Selinous, were minted on the Corinthian weight standard, with a similar 146

Sicily c. 540–31 BCE : Evidence from Coinage

fabric to Corinthian coinage and an incuse modelled on Aeginetan coins.10 Some of the earliest Selinuntine and Acragantine coins overstrike Corinthian pegasi.11 In the earliest known Sicilian hoard, CH 8.35, deposited around 490 (Table 8.1), only a quarter of the coins derive from Sicily, nearly half are Aeginetan, and another quarter Corinthian.12 However, the hoard’s bulk by mass is four silver ingots. Lead isotope analysis reveals each ingot contains silver of different provenance: Laureion in Attica, other Aegean mines, Spain, and a combination.13 These ingots are the earliest evidence for Athenian silver in Sicily and the only evidence for Spain as an important silver source. Many of these trends continue in Period II, with variations. Aeginetan coins and ingots are not encountered in Sicily again. Athenian tetradrachms occur in Sicilian hoards from the 480–460s onwards, consistently accompanied by small amounts of coinage from Acanthus in the northern Aegean (IGCH 2065, 2066, 2071). Athenian and northern Aegean coinages are overstruck at Messana and Rhegium, probably in the 440s.14 Pegasi from Corinth and north-western Greece appear in two hoards (CH 5.6, c. 460; IGCH 2098, late fifth century), overstrikes of pegasi at Acragas, Eryx, Himera and Panormos/Segesta.15 Coins from Southern Italy, excepting Rhegium, are absent. This evidence indicates Aegean coinage flowed into Sicily continuously, thus probably due to trade,16 like the contemporaneous flow of Aegean silver into Egypt. Several Aegean poleis produced coinage as a trade commodity in this period.17 The regional variation, whereby Athenian coins concentrate in north-eastern Sicily and Corinthian coins Table 8.1 CH 8.35 (‘Selinunte 1985’) Mint

Type

Date

Number

Percentage of hoard

Aegina

Group I

535–520

6

4%

Group II

525–500

75

43%

Group III

510–490

2

1%

83

48%

Total Corinth

Ravel I

550–515/500

16

9%

Ravel II

515/500–480/475

23

13%

39

22%

Total Abdera

May 1.10

510–505

1

1%

Metaponton

Noe I

540

2

1%

Sybaris

Sybaris I

550–510

5

3%

Poseidonia

Incuse period

525–500

1

1%

South Italy

Total

8

5%

Sicily

42

24%

Total

173

100%

147

Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World

elsewhere, may reflect different political and kinship connections and/or different focuses of Athenian and Corinthian trade links.18 As in all periods, most coinage minted in Sicily in Periods I–II stayed in Sicily, often in the minting city. However, there is more evidence of Sicilian coinage circulating overseas than in later periods. The main destination was Italy. Several South Italian mints overstrike Selinuntine and Acragantine coins in the late sixth century, as well as Syracusan, Geloan and Leontine coins in the fifth century. Few of the undertypes postdate the mid-fifth century. By the end of the fifth century, Sicilian coins had been crowded out by Corinthian pegasi.19 Sicilian coins also appear in Italian hoards at Calabria and Pyrgi (Table 8.2). The coins in the hoards are similar to the undertypes – only Syracuse and Messana occur in large numbers. After Period II, Italian hoards cease to contain Sicilian coins, except at Rhegion (IGCH 1910–1911, 1913). Table 8.2 Sicilian coins in western Mediterranean hoards, Period II Hoard

Location

Deposited

# Sicilian coins

CH 8.24

La Castella, Croton

Early 5th century

1

IGCH 1891

Calabria

c. 460

61 16%

IGCH 1899

Rhegium

460–425

?

?

IGCH 1898

Cotrone, Croton

c. 430

3

2%

IGCH 1905 (= CH 2.22)

Pyrgi, Etruria

Mid–late 5th century

5

55%

IGCH 2310

El Arahal, Spain

Late 5th century

6

100%

IGCH 2312

Mongó, Spain

Late 5th century

4

25%

IGCH 2259

Bizerta, Tunisia

c. 420

?

?

IGCH 2260

Malta

5th century

?

?

11%

Coins from East Sicilian mints are also found in hoards deposited at the end of Period II throughout the Punic sphere – Malta, North Africa and southern Spain – alongside coins of Corinth, Athens and local mints, or on their own. In Egypt and the Near East, early-to-mid-fifth-century hoards consistently contain a few pre-450 Sicilian coins, as do some late-fifth-century hoards (Table 8.3). Messana and Syracuse are again the most common sources. Price and Waggoner explain Sicilian and Italian coinage in the Asyut hoard (IGCH 1644) biographically, as the purse of a single mercenary who had served in Sicily.20 They argue for ‘a process of indirect infiltration’, via the Aegean, not ‘direct contact between Egypt and Magna Graecia’, since links between Sicily and Egypt did not exist in the fifth century.21 Yet Egyptian sculpture and scarabs are found in Sicily in sixth- and fifthcentury contexts, and there is almost no evidence for Sicilian silver in the Aegean in this or subsequent periods.22 The consistent appearance of Sicilian coinage in these Egyptian 148

Sicily c. 540–31 BCE : Evidence from Coinage

Table 8.3 Sicilian coins in eastern Mediterranean hoards, Period II Hoard

Location

Deposited

# Sicilian coins

IGCH 1177

Cilicia

480

1

IGCH 1644

Asyut, Egypt

475

18 3%

IGCH 1645

Zagazig, Egypt

470

1

1%

IGCH 1647

Naukratis, Egypt

450–425

1

7%

CH 8.57

Egypt

450–420

1

6%

IGCH 1482

Bostra, Jordan

c. 445

1

1%

IGCH 1483

Massyaf, Syria

425–420

2

2%

CH 1.15

Black Sea

Late 5th century

1

1%

IGCH 1256 (=CH 9.377)

Cilicia

c. 400

1

11%

IGCH 1259

Cilicia

c. 380

1

1%

IGCH 1790

Malayer, Iran

c. 375

4

1%

3%

hoards suggests it was a consistent part of the silver circulating in Egypt and the Near East, brought by mercenaries and/or traders. The larger-scale circulation of Sicilian coinage in southern Italy could also be explained by movement of mercenaries (or exiles), or by commercial exchange for Italian or trans-shipped Greek goods. Although Aeginetan, Corinthian and Athenian silver were already widespread trading currencies in this period, Sicilian coinage remained acceptable across the Mediterranean world in Period II. However, it completely disappeared from Italy and the western Mediterranean by 400 and from the East in the early fourth century, as all other coinages were crowded out by the commodity coinages of Corinth in the western Mediterranean and of Athens in Egypt and the Near East. Period III (c. 420–350) This period began with invasions of Sicily by Athens (415–413) and Carthage (410–393), both involving large expenditures. The Athenians brought coinage and bullion with them to Sicily (Thuc. 6.31.3–5, 6.94.3, 7.16.2). The first Carthaginian coinages, JenkinsLewis Group I and Jenkins Series I, were issued in Sicily for their expedition’s expenses.23 Afterwards, Sicily solidified into two blocs: the Carthaginian west, where several mints produced precious metal coinage, and the east, controlled by Dionysius I of Syracuse, who minted large gold and silver issues between 413 and c. 400, then minted almost exclusively in bronze, creating a closed currency (‘epichoric’) system based on token bronze coinage.24 Fewer external coins are found in Sicily in this period (Table 8.4). Ten hoards from 420–380 contain Athenian tetradrachms – never exceeding fifteen per cent of the hoard. 149

Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World

Table 8.4 Sicilian hoards containing eastern Mediterranean coins, Period III Hoard

Location

Deposited Athens

Pegasi

Other

IGCH 2109

Segesta

430–400

—

—

S Italy: ?

IGCH 2089

S. Caterina Villarmosa

c. 420

5 (5%)

—

—

IGCH 2092

Selinous

409

4 (8%)

—

—

IGCH 2095

Scornavacche

405–400

3 (11%)

—

—

CH 10.378

Naxos

403

5 (23%)

—

—

IGCH 2103

Falconara

c. 400

?

—

—

IGCH 2116

Gela

390s

—

1 (5%)

—

IGCH 2119

Contessa near Corleone

380s

3 (3%)

2 (2%)

—

IGCH 2120

Catania

380s

5 (2%)

5 (2%)

—

IGCH 2121

Manfria

380s

16 (33%)

—

—

IGCH 2117 (=CH 10.383)

Leontini

390–370

19 (63%)

—

—

IGCH 2122

Avola

c. 370

—

—

Darics: 43 (22%)

IGCH 2123

S. Maria di Licodia

c. 370

2 (2%)

—

—

IGCH 2124

Avola

c. 360

—

—

Darics: 4 (12%) Greek AV: 16 (47%)

IGCH 2121 (Manfria, 380s), which contains eight early fourth-century Athenian tetradrachms, alongside older coins, shows this was a small but continuous influx.25 There are some pegasi from Corinth, Leucas and Ambracia alongside Athenian coins in early fourth-century hoards (IGCH 2116, 2119, 2120). Two hoards contain Persian darics and gold coins from the eastern Aegean (IGCH 2122, 2124). Only one – early – hoard (IGCH 2109) contains coins from southern Italy, aside from Rhegium. Literary evidence refers to convoys sailing from Syracuse to mainland Greece ([Pl.] Ep. 7.345d–347c) and Athenian honours for Dionysius have been connected with the grain trade.26 This explains the presence of Aegean coinage in Sicily, but one would expect more, given the shortfall in local silver production. As discussed below, the lack of local silver led to a flood of Corinthian pegasi in Period IV, associated with the collapse of the Dionysian regime. Before that, the regime apparently prevented the influx of silver. Perhaps it required people bringing silver into Sicily to exchange it for the token bronze and kept the silver for itself, as several closed currency systems did in the Hellenistic period.27 Almost no Sicilian silver from Period III is found outside Sicily.28 The end of silver production in eastern Sicily encouraged remaining local silver to stay local. However,

150

Sicily c. 540–31 BCE : Evidence from Coinage

Dionysius’ bronze coinage is found in Italy, especially Calabria, and the Adriatic, especially Dalmatia (Figure 8.1).29 Greek bronze coinage rarely circulated far from its place of minting, since it had only token value, so Sicilian bronze’s dispersal throughout the central and western Mediterranean beginning in this period is a striking phenomenon.30 Dionysius’ bronze is most common in Calabria – unsurprising, since he campaigned there and annexed it in 387. In Sicily, Dionysius’ bronze coinage is regularly found at fortified centres, indicating that it was used to pay mercenaries; this was probably also the case in Calabria.31 In the rest of Italy and the Adriatic, there is a smattering of evidence for Syracusan military activity – of disputed significance. Literary sources mention a garrison at Lissos on the Illyrian coast and interventions at Issa and in Epirus (Diod. Sic. 15.13–14.2; Strabo 5.4.2; Plin. NH 3.13; Schol. Ad Lycophr. 631), plus expeditions to Pyrgi, Corsica and perhaps Naples (Diod. Sic. 15.14.3–4; Strab. 5.2.3, 5.2.8; Timaios FGrH 566 F 32). Some scholars have interpreted this as a Dionysian ‘empire’ in the Tyrrhenian and Adriatic seas. Gorini argued that the circulation evidence bolsters this interpretation.32 Literary sources also mention Dionysius recruiting Italian mercenaries (Xen. Hell. 7.1.20; Just. 20.5), who might have brought coins back home.

Figure 8.1 Finds of Syracusan coinage minted in Period III. 151

Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World

The numismatic evidence can only support these interpretations if Dionysius’ coins actually circulated in these regions during Dionysius’ reign. They clearly did in Calabria, since stratified finds in the Casa dei Leoni at Locri show they were deposited there in the mid-fourth century.33 Elsewhere, however, most coin finds are sporadic, so their deposition date is unknown. In Italy, the only dated find is tomb 62, Andriuolo Necropolis, Paestum, c. 340–320 (one of those Italian mercenaries?).34 Two hoards contain Dionysius’ bronzes (IGCH 2033, Carife; CH 2.77, Castelfranco Emilia) but were deposited during the First Punic War. In Epirus, excavations at Corcyra, Phoenice and elsewhere have revealed Dionysius’ coinage, but only in contexts from c. 300 or later.35 The contrast between the 289 coins of Dionysius found at Locri in Calabria and the much lower quantities found in Italy outside Calabria (25 examples) and in the Adriatic (17 examples) is striking. While some Sicilian coinage did come to these regions in Period III, its circulation was much more limited than a glance at Figure 8.1 (above) suggests. The main influx of Sicilian bronze northwards did not come until Periods VI–VIII (see Figure 8.7 below). Period IV (c. 350–290) This period saw the collapse of the Syracusan power bloc, then, under Timoleon of Corinth (344–338) and Agathocles (317–289), its reconstitution and violent confrontation with the Carthaginian bloc. Because of this warfare, Syracuse resumed minting silver. Minting in Punic Sicily grew increasingly centralized and reached its highest output, though purity plummeted as production continued.36 The main feature of this period is the massive influx of silver pegasi, whose minting patterns are discussed by Brice in this volume, which begin to appear in hoards in the early 340s (IGCH 2127, 2130–2135, CH 3.20, 5.23). As mentioned above, pegasi were an important component of the coinage entering Sicily in Periods I, II, and – to a lesser degree – Period III. However, the influx in Period IV dwarfed previous periods,37 as Figure 8.6 (below), which graphs the number of coins from outside Sicily deposited in hoards in each period, shows.38 Around 2,000 Corinthian pegasi and 850 pegasi from north-western Greek mints are recorded in Period IV hoards. The flow is monodirectional; pegasi are found around their own mint and further west, but rarely travelled east. The beginning of the influx, once connected with Timoleon’s expedition,39 is increasingly placed under Dionysius II.40 Its peak definitely falls in the 330s and 320s, continuing until the Α-Υ pegasi, which ended in the late fourth century (e.g. IGCH 2151).41 There was high demand for silver in eastern Sicily, because no silver had been minted there since the early fourth century. In mainland Greece there was high demand for Sicilian grain, due to prolonged shortages in the late 330s and 320s. Literary and epigraphic references to Athenian importation of Sicilian grain peak at this time.42 Pegasi were a particularly appropriate means of exchange for this trade because of the political, cultural and commercial ties between Corinth, its north-western Greek colonies and Syracuse, which had probably also driven the smaller-scale flows of pegasi in earlier periods. 152

Sicily c. 540–31 BCE : Evidence from Coinage

Figure 8.2 Hoard finds in Sicily by period deposited. Although pegasi were the largest input in this period, Figure 8.2 shows that other coinages also increased. Previously, Punic coinage in Sicily was produced in western Sicily; in this period, it was augmented by coinage produced in Carthage – over 200 such coins appear in Period IV hoards. At least 270 Macedonian coins of Philip II, Alexander the Great, and the early successors appear in sixteen hoards from Period IV and V (Table 8.5), as well as four hoards from the Second Punic War (IGCH 2230, 2234, 2232 = CH 9.670, CH 8.333). J. H. C. Williams and Andrew Burnett emphasize that these numbers are small compared to the quantities in eastern Mediterranean hoards, but they were a substantial portion of the coinage circulating within Sicily.43 Although Macedonian coinage usually makes up only a small proportion of a given hoard, this is often true of Sicilian coinage in the hoard too (e.g. IGCH 2151 contained 642 coins: 8 Alexanders, 33 Sicilian coins and 601 pegasi). The changes that ended the circulation of the pegasi (see next section) probably also cut short the influx of coinage of Alexander and his successors. There is a strong geographic bias to where these coins were hoarded. As Figure 8.3 illustrates, almost all localized hoards from this period containing non-Sicilian coins derive from eastern Sicily. Excavation evidence from western centres (Cozzo Scavo, Montagna dei Cavalli and Salemi) indicates that almost all coinage there was Punic and minted in western Sicily.44 This parallels the political division of the island, but not economic patterns, since Carthage was also involved in the grain trade in the 330s (IG II3 1 468). Either the volume of grain exported from the west was much smaller, it was not traded for coinage, or received coinage was recoined as Punic electrum and silver. 153

Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World

Table 8.5 Macedonian coins in Sicilian hoards Hoard

Location

Deposited

# Macedonian

CH 3.21

Gela

c. 325

1

IGCH 2143

Gela

c. 320

157 80%

CH 7.58

Camarina

317–289

27

52%

CH 7.59

Camarina

317–289

6+

2%

CH 8.222

Morgantina

317–289

22

23%

IGCH 2159

Aidone (near Morgantina)

c. 300

6+

15%

IGCH 2160

Buccheri (near Akrai)

c. 300

2+

100%

IGCH 2151

Pachino

c. 300

8

1%

IGCH 2154

Cefalù

c. 300

1

1%

IGCH 2180

Megara Hyblaea

300–275

2

0.3%

IGCH 2183

Capo Soprano (Gela)

300–275

1

1%

IGCH 2191

Syracuse

300–275

2

29%

IGCH 2186

Pachino

Early 3rd century

?

?

IGCH 2185c

Camarina

c. 289

1

?

IGCH 2196

Gela

c. 280

20

100%

IGCH 2204

Morgantina

c. 270

15

34%

2%

Figure 8.3 All external coinage in Period IV hoards. Concentric circles indicate multiple hoards from the same location. Hoards shown in the sea are only localized to East, South, or Southeast Sicily.

154

Sicily c. 540–31 BCE : Evidence from Coinage

The difference between the two halves of the island is also reflected in the coinage leaving Sicily in Period IV. Coinage from the east is very rare outside Sicily in Period IV, except in Calabria where hoards containing Syracusan electrum and silver probably derive from Agathocles’ employment of Calabrian mercenaries and his military campaigns there. Syracusan bronzes are found in the Adriatic and Italy, as in Period III, and with the same caveats about deposition date.45 Meanwhile, Punic silver and bronze from western Sicily begins to be found frequently in North Africa, Malta, and, especially, Sardinia between the mid-fourth and early third centuries.46 In the second half of the fourth century, Punic coinage minted in Sicily was the main currency in Sardinia. When Punic bronze began to be produced in Sardinia around 300, bronze coinage flowed between western Sicily and Sardinia in both directions. As mentioned earlier, many of these Sardinian issues are nearly identical to Punic issues of Sicily. They seem designed to intermix.47 Although these regions had long been culturally and commercially linked, the development of this Punic circulation and minting zone indicates a greater institutionalization of those ties – the development of a Carthaginian empire.48 Period V (c. 290–240) The initial part of this period is characterized by the fragmentation of the eastern half of Sicily (again) and further centralization of the western half. In the second half of the period, the First Punic War was mostly fought in Sicily and resulted in the establishment of Roman rule in the west and the unification of much of the east under Hieron II of Syracuse. Period V sees a notable decline in the amount of Sicilian silver and gold found in Calabria, probably because the Syracusans undertook no military campaigns there. However, substantial amounts of Hieron II’s bronze coinage are found in central Italy and especially in the Adriatic. As with the Period III bronzes, overstrikes show some of this was circulating during Period V,49 but most coins derive from sporadic and undated excavation finds, so could have arrived in later. At the start of this period, Sicilian hoards are composed of coins minted in earlier periods, such as pegasi, Alexander coinage, and local issues (e.g. IGCH 2196–2198 from the destruction of Gela in 282), but in smaller quantities. The last hoards of pegasi come around 280 (IGCH 2198, CH 8.296, CH 10.411). The end of the pegasi phenomenon in Sicily is just as striking and sudden as its beginning but has received less discussion. At first sight it is explained by the decline in production of Corinthian pegasi at the end of the fourth century.50 But why did no other coinage fill the gap? The coin supply in the eastern Mediterranean had reached unprecedented heights in the years following Alexander’s conquests.51 The Hellenistic period saw greater economic integration of the Mediterranean generally and between Sicily and the eastern Mediterranean in particular; the Sicilian grain trade boomed under Hieron. Literary references and the Morgantina treasure show that non-monetary forms of precious metal entered Sicily.52 The answer is probably the weight reductions of Syracusan silver in 306 and 276.53 The initial weight reduction in 306 may have been a response to a shortage of silver, resulting from 155

Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World

Agathocles’ war with Carthage, disruption to the grain trade caused by the Carthaginian naval blockade (Diod. Sic. 19.103, 20.5.2–3, 20.32.3).54 Once it had taken place, eastern Sicily became a self-sustaining closed currency system, as Gresham’s Law drove Atticweight pegasi and Alexander coinage out of circulation and any incoming coinage was recoined on the lower local weight standard. Destruction layers associated with the First Punic War provide clearly dated evidence for what circulated within Sicily in this period. The major sites are Morgantina in the east;55 and in the west, Monte Iato,56 Montagna dei Cavalli,57 and the Lilybaeum necropolis.58 In Period V, unlike the previous period, coins are found in greater quantity and at more sites in the west than the east, but this is probably because there are more destruction contexts in the west, not because circulation patterns changed. All these sites show that most bronze in circulation was locally produced. At western sites, there are significant quantities of the Punic bronze coinage, SNG Cop. 147–78, consisting of nearly indistinguishable coins from Carthage and Sardinia. Where it has been possible to make a clear identification, however, coins found in Sicily tend to come from the Sardinian mint rather than the Carthaginian one.59 In the east, most of the bronze is local – from Syracuse or the Mamertine mint at Messana – with very little from southern Italy or further afield. Some Italian issues associated with Rome appear in Sicily during the First Punic War (see the chapters by Sheedy and by Armstrong and Termeer in this volume on the development of coinage at Rome in this period). The Roman bronze issue, RRC 23 (Minerva/Eagle with thunderbolt), is common in Sicily – but it was minted at Messana. Presumably, the Romans decided to mint it in Sicily rather than Rome because the bullion for it came from Sicily. Only three Roman coins of this period that were actually minted in Rome have been found in Sicily: a bronze litra in the Lilybaeum necropolis and two bronze coins at Morgantina.60 However, there are various Campanian issues in silver and bronze produced at Neapolis and other Campanian centres, like Aeserina, Cales, Suessa and Teanum. These are regularly found at excavations in Sicily in reasonable quantities and perhaps represent financial contributions to the war effort by Roman socii (Figure 8.4).61 This is very little numismatic evidence for what Polybius called the ‘most timeconsuming, most unremitting, and largest war we know of ’ (1.63.4). It contrasts with the substantial numismatic impact of the briefer conflict in Sicily during the Second Punic War (see below). Roman expenses for the First War must have been met by a combination of: 1. Payment in Rome, rather than in Sicily (e.g. shipbuilding costs), with or without coinage;62 2. Payment in Sicily with coinage minted in Sicily by the Romans (RRC 23), Mamertines, and Syracusans; 3. Payment in Sicily with coinage minted by other Italians, especially Campanians; 4. Payment in non-monetary forms (Hieron gives the Roman forces supplies in Polybius 1.16.6–10, 1.18.11; given the relatively limited monetization of Central Italy, Rome may have made payments with uncoined bullion).63 156

Sicily c. 540–31 BCE : Evidence from Coinage

Figure 8.4 Findspots of Campanian coinage minted in the First Punic War.

The central Italian coinage of this period that is overstruck on Sicilian bronze coinage (mentioned above), might indicate that some of the bullion for (1) and (3) was itself being drawn from Sicily. The First Punic War did not pump coinage into Sicily; if anything, it sucked it out. Although the Carthaginians minted more coinage than Rome and more of it is found in Sicily, the situation on their side is similar. Payments in Carthage rather than Sicily (1) are indicated by Polybius’ narrative of the outbreak of the Mercenary War in 241, in which the Carthaginians undertake to pay their mercenaries’ salaries in Carthage itself on discharge, rather than in Sicily during the war (Polyb. 1.66). Payment in Sicily using coinage minted in Sicily (2) is also attested: the largest Carthaginian silver coinage of this period, Jenkins Series VI, was minted in Sicily.64 The main precious metal coinage minted at Carthage, Jenkins-Lewis, Group IX, was produced to fund resistance to the Roman invasion of Africa in 256, not for the war effort in Sicily.65 We do not know of allied contributions (3), unless the coinages minted in Sicily and Sardinia count, nor of nonmonetary payment (4), although this seems likely. Thus, the First Punic War did not result in significant influxes of coinage from outside the island; the war over Sicily was largely funded by Sicily itself. Period VI (c. 240–200) This is the shortest period, covering the forty years from the end of the First Punic War until the end of the Second Punic War. Treating it as a distinct period is justified by 157

Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World

the abundance of destruction contexts associated with the Second Punic War and by the important historical changes in this period: the development of Roman provincial administration in the western half of the island and the introduction of the denarius around 211. Large-scale export of North African amphorae to western Sicily only began after the First Punic War.66 We might, therefore, expect to find more Sicilian coinage in Africa, but very little has been found – almost all are coins minted by the Carthaginians during their expedition to Sicily in 213–211 (SNG Cop. 381–383) and brought back to Africa afterwards.67 Many coins in CH  9.685, deposited in Libya during the Mercenary War (241–238), were restruck or recast from bronze coins of Sardinia, but none from Sicilian bronzes.68 Apparently, coinage was not important for this inter-war trade. Bechtold and Docter note that the same period sees a rise in the quantities of Sicilian, South Italian, Campanian and Rhodian amphorae found at Carthage,69 so perhaps the trade was a matter of exchanging amphorae for amphorae. Similarly, although North Africa and Punic Spain had close political and economic links in this period, coinage struck in the one does not tend to circulate in the other.70 Exchange of coinage was just one type of economic interaction and, in the western Mediterranean, far from the most important. The main numismatic event of the period is the introduction of the denarius and victoriatus during the Second Punic War. The exact date was once a point of dispute, but 211 is now widely accepted.71 Denarii and victoriati were minted in Rome, southern Italy, Sardinia, Spain and Sicily. RRC 67–80 are securely attributed to Sicily, RRC 81–82 less certainly. The most common of these Sicilian issues are the denarii with a corn-ear symbol on the reverse (RRC 68) and the victoriati with C on the obverse and M on the reverse (RRC 71, cf. RRC pp. 3–18). Denarii and victoriati were minted in vast quantities during the Second Punic War and deposited in several large hoards in Sicily, but, as Figure 8.5 shows, the majority of these were minted in Sicily itself.72 The entry into circulation of these new coins coincides with the end of circulation of all other silver in Sicily – older coins were probably melted down to strike the new denarii and victoriati.73 Similarly, most of the Roman bronzes found in Sicily were minted there (perhaps at Catania) by overstriking Hieronian bronze.74 On a much smaller scale, the Carthaginians did the same thing, striking the aforementioned SNG Cop. 381–383 in 213–211.75 Much of the expenses of the second war in Sicily, then, were again paid with coinage minted in Sicily. However, Figure 8.5 shows that a substantial minority of coinage in hoards from this period was minted at Rome, perhaps indicating direct financial contributions from the Roman treasury. This difference from the first war is probably due to the greater degree of monetization of the Roman Republic at this point. A smattering of Italian and eastern Mediterranean silver coinage – often older coinage – is found in Sicilian hoards of this period (IGCH 2230, 2232 = CH 9.670, IGCH 2234, CH 8.329, 8.333, 8.329, 9.671). Some of this may be material from Period IV still in circulation, but it probably also includes old Hellenistic coinage imported by the Romans to meet the war’s expenses. Roman importation of eastern Mediterranean coinage is clear with their Sicilian bronze coinage, which often overstrikes coins of Acarnania and Oeniadae in western Greece, that had probably been seized during the First Macedonian War.76 158

Sicily c. 540–31 BCE : Evidence from Coinage

Figure 8.5 Roman coins in Sicilian hoards of Period VI.

Roman coins minted in Sicily occur in hoards from the Second Punic War in Italy and Spain, but only in very small quantities. In Italy, Sicilian coins are usually below five per cent in hoards deposited during the war, declining to one per cent or less in hoards deposited after it ended (see Table 8.6) – roughly the same proportion as Sicilian coins appeared in fifth-century hoards in Egypt. There are usually only one or two Sicilian coins in Spanish hoards.77 As in Sicily, early Hellenistic coins from the eastern Mediterranean and Italy are found in Spanish hoards from the Second Punic War (these are rare, but more common than Sicilian coins). The profile of these eastern Mediterranean coins is similar to that of the ones found in Sicily. It is possible that they came to Spain via Sicily, but in that case one would expect more Sicilian coinage to have come with them. More likely, these Hellenistic coins came to both Sicily and Spain via Roman Italy. Theoretically, Sicily might have become part of a single circulation area encompassing the whole western Mediterranean in this period, since denarii and victoriati minted in Sicily shared their iconography, weight standard and issuing authority with those elsewhere, and there was extensive movement of troops, civilians and goods between different theatres during and after the Second Punic War. But in practice, Sicilian silver rarely made it beyond Italy and remained a minor phenomenon there. If the war in Sicily was again paid for largely with Sicilian money, that money mostly remained in Sicily during and after the war.

159

Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World

Table 8.6 Hoards containing Roman coins minted in Sicily in Period VI Hoard

Location

Deposited

# Sicilian

RRCH 83

Tarentum

Southern Italy

211–208

4

2%

RRCH 86 = IGCH 2015

Canosa

Southern Italy

211–208

9

7%

RRCH 94 = IGCH 2335

Tivisa

Spain

211–208

1

3.5%

RRCH 98

Minturno

Central Italy

211–208

3

5%

RRCH 100 = IGCH 2293

Perdasdefogou

Sardinia

211–208

4

0.5%

RRCH 102

Pisa

Northern Italy

211–208

12

14%

RRCH 103

Paestum

Central Italy

211–208

16

5.5%

RRCH 104 = IGCH 2337

Las Ansias

Spain

211–208

5+ —

RRCH 105

Ornavasso

Northern Italy

211–208

3

75%

RRCH 106

Orzivecchi

Northern Italy

211–208

1

2.5%

RRCH 107 = IGCH 2336

Drieves

Spain

211–208

1

5.5%

RRCH 108

Tarquinia

Northern Italy

211–208

2

16.5%

RRCH 109 = IGCH 2334

Valera

Spain

211–208

2

5%

‘X4 hoard’ *

Ciudad RealCuenca area

Spain

210–200

9

10%

RRCH 115

Boiano

Southern Italy

208–150

1

2.5%

RRCH 116

Capestrano

Central Italy

208–150

3

1.5%

RRCH 117

Fano

Central Italy

170

1

1%

RRCH 118

Numantia

Spain

170

1

1%

RRCH 126

Ostia

Central Italy

154

9

1.5–2%

RRCH 129

Citta san Angelo Central Italy

147

26

1%

RRCH 130

Giulianova

Central Italy

147

1

1.5%

RRCH 132

Cani islands

North Africa

146

1

0.5%

RRCH 155

Cerreto Sannita Southern Italy

134

1

1.5%

RRCH 161

Riccia

Southern Italy

126

16

0.5%

RRCH 162

Masera

Northern Italy

125

9

0.5%

RRCH 172

Maddaloni

Southern Italy

115

2

0.5 %

* Villaronga (2001–3); Ripollés Alegre (2008).

160

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Period VII (c. 200–100) and Period VIII (c. 100–31) Periods VII and VIII cover the second and first centuries respectively, running down to the end of the Republic. Aside from the First and Second Servile Wars (135–132 and 104–100) and the war between Octavian and Sextus Pompey (38–36), the period was peaceful. Archaeology reveals expanding urban centres and commercial exchange with other parts of the western Mediterranean, especially at sites like Panormos, Solous, Halaisa and Tyndaris, in the north and west of the island.78 The minting of silver within the Roman sphere was concentrated at Rome in this period and no Sicilian mint produced silver coinage. However, bronze coinage was minted throughout the island. The lack of destruction layers means that there are fewer dated coin deposits than for earlier periods. Accordingly, Figure 8.6 graphs non-Sicilian coin finds from major excavations at Morgantina in eastern Sicily and Monte Iato in the west by their minting date.79 This data has limitations: Morgantina and Monte Iato are only two data-points and, as inland sites, they may be unrepresentative (depopulation of inland settlements in favour of coastal settlements was a phenomenon in this period).80 However, preliminary publications at coastal Solous suggest a similar pattern.81 In both halves of the island, the quantity of external coinage declines. There is little importation of silver at either site.82 The influx of bronze coinage held steady in Period VII, but collapsed in Period VIII. Patterns in the production of bronze at Rome, which declined after 146 and ceased altogether in 82,83 are probably responsible. Like the silver, many of the bronze asses found at Monte Iato are ‘forgeries’, probably produced because of insufficient supply of the genuine article.84 The absence of silver is puzzling, since archaeological evidence shows that Mediterranean networks of exchange continued to bring fine pottery and amphorae from central Italy to western Sicily, including inland sites like Monte Iato.85 Moreover, the general situation was similar to that which sparked

Figure 8.6 Non-Sicilian coin finds at Morgantina and Monte Iato by minting date (light grey: silver; dark grey: bronze).

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the pegasi phenomenon in the fourth century: aside from the forgeries, Sicilian mints were producing no silver of their own, while the island was Rome’s main breadbasket until the conquest of Egypt. The archaeological evidence mentioned above shows that wealth flowed into Sicily in this period, but not as coinage. There is some evidence for Sicilian bronze in central Italy in Period VII and VIII, but less than in Period V and VI. This is despite archaeological evidence for increasing exchange of goods between Sicily and Italy and the aforementioned decline in the bronze production in Italy, which meant that Italian demand for small change had to be met entirely by import. Some Italian centres responded to this shortfall by importing consignments of coinage – but from Epirus, the Aegean and Cyrenaica, not Sicily. Other Italian centres produced their own coinage. One of these, probably Minturnae, produced a large issue of bronze coins imitating a series of bronzes from Panormos.86 This might indicate that the prototype had been circulating in central Italy, but there is no other evidence for that. Despite the demand for bronze coinage in Italy at this time, and Sicily’s close commercial links with Italy, Sicily did not become a source of bronze coinage for Italy. As mentioned above, the decline of bronze production at Rome also resulted in a shortfall in bronze in Sicily; perhaps this left insufficient excess Sicilian bronze to meet Italy’s demand. Old Sicilian bronze is found in southern Gaul and the western Balkans. These finds are mapped in Figure 8.7, by minting date (at top) and deposition date (at bottom). Many of these coins were sporadic finds or found in undatable contexts, so fewer coins are marked on the deposition-date maps. Although the finds in both regions were mostly minted in Periods III–VI, they were mostly deposited in Periods VI–VIII. In southern Gaul, there is no evidence at all for the deposition of Sicilian coinage before the Second

Figure 8.7 Sicilian coin finds in Gaul and Illyria, by date of minting (top) and deposit (bottom). 162

Sicily c. 540–31 BCE : Evidence from Coinage

Punic War. In the western Balkans, some Sicilian bronzes were deposited at Issa in Period III and V, as discussed above, but dated findspots on the mainland belong to Periods VII–VIII and undated finds are mostly coins of Hieron II (Period V). There was a general influx of bronze into the western Balkans in the second and first centuries, mainly composed of late second-century Numidian coins. Given the distance of Numidia from Illyria, this influx was probably a consignment to meet local bronze shortages as monetization of the region increased.87 Most of the Sicilian coins found in the region are probably a subsidiary component, whether brought directly from Sicily, or from somewhere else where they had previously been circulating.88 Similarly, in Gaul, the Sicilian coinage is found alongside Punic and Roman coinage, which might have come over from western Sicily or Sardinia, whether as a consignment or as part of ongoing trade patterns.89 Perhaps, the supply of old Sicilian bronze, insufficient for Italian demand, was scooped up in the smaller consignments needed in the Adriatic and Gaul.

Conclusions Four general points emerge from this survey of long-term patterns in coin circulation. First, Sicily was predominantly a silver sink. All Sicilian silver was imported or recycled. In Periods II and VI a little bit sloshed over the edges, but the circulation of Sicilian coinage outside Sicily was always a minor phenomenon. This makes the dwindling of importation in Periods VII–VIII all the more striking. Second, coin circulation illustrates the impact of Sicily’s east–west political divide. Early on, mainland Greek coinage appeared in the west and east in similar amounts. But the circulation patterns of the west and east diverged in the fourth and third centuries as the political divide between them became entrenched, with mainland Greek coinage – especially pegasi – dominating the east, while the west formed part of a Punic circulation zone. These differences only faded after the whole island came under Roman rule. Third, the Sicilian and eastern Mediterranean coinage systems gradually detached. Sicilian silver ceased travelling east by the end of the fifth century, and eastern Mediterranean silver stopped flowing into Sicily at the beginning of the Hellenistic period. The currency systems of Sicily and Magna Graecia were closely connected from the adoption of coinage, and from the fourth century, Sicilian bronze coinage begins appearing in the Adriatic and northern Italy, but its quantity can be exaggerated and, despite the Roman expansion into Sicily in the third century. Despite Sicily’s close commercial connections with central Italy under Roman rule, currency exchange between Sicily and Italy never assumed the same scale. Fourth, intense circulation links were sometimes correlated with other types of connection – the pegasi reflect cultural and economic links between eastern Sicily and Corinth, for example. But they were often distinct – the detachment from the coinage system of the Hellenistic East coexisted with close ties in art and architecture, trade, politics and human migration. Coinage was only one type of wealth in the ancient world and coin circulation only one type of interaction. Finally, apparently similar situations led 163

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to different circulation patterns. Sicilian exportation of grain and agricultural products is connected to influxes of silver in the fifth century and especially with the late fourthcentury pegasi. In the Hellenistic and Republican periods, Sicily exported grain and prospered, but no influx of silver occurred. The failure of denarii to replicate the pegasi shows that the detachment from the east in favour of Italy was a shift in the nature of exchange, not just its direction. Apparently, Sicily no longer needed coinage to be wealthy. Figure 8.8 Distribution of Sicilian coinage abroad by period minted (left) and deposited (right).

Period I (540–490)

Period II (490–420)

Period III (415–355)

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Sicily c. 540–31 BCE : Evidence from Coinage

Period IV (350–290)

Period V (290–240)

Period VI (240–200)

Period VII-VIII (200–31)

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Figure 8.9 Sources of coinage deposited in Sicily, by period of deposition.

Period I–II (540–420, left) and Period III (415–355, right)

Period IV (350–290, left) and Period V (290–240, right)

Period VI (240–200, left) and Period VII–VIII (200–31, right)

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Notes * This research was supported by the British Academy. I thank Jonathan Prag, Jack Kroll, and an audience of OUNS for comments. Matthew Trundle was a splendid teacher, scholar, mentor and friend; thanks for everything. 1. De Angelis (2016). 2. All dates are bce . 3. Both datasets available online at https://tinyurl.com/Siciliancoins. You are welcome to use and improve them. 4. Puglisi (2009). 5. Howgego (1995), 88–110. 6. Frey-Kupper and Barrandon (2003), 515–16. 7. Frey-Kupper and Barrandon (2003), 515–16; Manfredi (2006). 8. Visonà (2016), 111–13. 9. Rowan (2013), 106–7. 10. Rutter (1997), 103–4. 11. Garraffo (1984), 133, 138; Westermark (1983–7); Garraffo (2003), 354. 12. Arnold-Biucchi, Beer-Tobey and Waggoner (1988). 13. Beer-Tobey, Gale, Kim and Stos-Gale (1998). 14. Garraffo (1984), 134–7; Rutter (1989), 249–51; Garraffo (2003), 354–6. Add Numismatica Ars Classica, Auction 4, 27 February 1991, no. 46. 15. Garraffo (1984), 134–7; Garraffo (2003), 354–6. 16. Garraffo (1984), 126; Rowan (2013), 107–8. 17. Kroll (2011a), ‘minting for export’; Rowan (2013), 105-6, ‘commodity currency’. On the relationship between coining and trade, see Brice in this volume. 18. Rowan (2013), 113. 19. Garraffo (1984), 36–82, 94–113, 128–30; Westermark (1983–7); Garraffo (2003). 20. Price and Waggoner (1975), 27–8. 21. Price and Waggoner (1975), 27–8. 22. Hölbl (2001). Three ‘archaic’ coins at Olympia (Hackens, 1968, 121), some Leontine bronze on Euboia (IGCH 26). 23. Jenkins and Lewis (1963), 16–17; Jenkins (1974), 24–6. 24. Boehringer (1993). 25. Kroll (2011b). 26. Moreno (2007), 303. 27. Mele (1993); Caccamo Caltabiano (2002). 28. The only hoards are from the beginning of the period: IGCH 1910 (= CH 10.389) and IGCH 1911 (= CH 10.388), deposited during Dionysius’ sack of Rhegium in 387 and two finds at Bizerta in North Africa (spoils from the Carthaginian invasion of 410–404): IGCH 2259; Visonà (2016), 117. 29. Calabria: Visonà (1990); Gorini (1992). Italy beyond Calabria: Visonà (1990). Adriatic: Gorini (1976, 1993, 1999, 2002, 2006); Visonà (1982, 1995); Bonačić Mandinić and Visonà (2002), 167

Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World 319–30; Gjongecaj (2007), 133–9; Camillieri (2008), 97–8. The few Period III bronze coins found in mainland Greece are single coins in very large assemblages like finds from the Athenian Agora and not significant. 30. Mørkholm (1991), 6. Cf. Sheedy in this volume. 31. Caccamo Caltabiano (2002), 38–40; Puglisi (2009), 360–7, 383–5. 32. Gorini (2002); Sordi (2002). 33. Barello (1992). Cf. Visonà (1990), 92 at Locri; Visonà (2012), 233, 239, 252 at Monte Palazzi. 34. Sallusto (1971–2), 58–9. 35. Camillieri (2008), 97–8. Early coinage of Issa overstrikes Dionysius’ bronzes, indicating these circulated in Dalmatia in the mid-fourth century, before needing to be overstruck (because of Dionysius’ fall?): Gorini (1976), 7; Visonà (1995), 57 n.12, 59 n.22. 36. Visonà (1998), 8. 37. The disparity may be exaggerated. Earlier, pegasi were often restruck as didrachms, then circulated as Sicilian coinage. In the fourth century, no Sicilian mints produced didrachms, so all pegasi entering the island continued to circulate as pegasi. 38. I exclude two massive hoards from these figures, since they are barely known and heavily distort the data: CH 6.21 (‘Southeast Sicily, 1976’) said to contain 2,000 pegasi, 1,200 Alexanders, and 800 Attic tetradrachms; IGCH 2170, discovered and dispersed in 1770, allegedly contained 7,400+ pegasi. 39. Jenkins (1958); Talbert (1971); Kraay (1973). 40. Anello (1974); Holloway (1982); Cutroni Tusa (1987); Calciati (1990) 687; MacDonald (2002); Brice in this volume. 41. For chronology see Brice in this volume. 42. Garnsey (1988), 150–64. Athenian importation of Sicilian grain: [Dem.] 32.19–21 (340s), 56.9 (323/2); IG II3 1, 339 (333/2), 432 (337–325), 468 (c. 330). Shorter crises occurred at Athens (and elsewhere?) when activity at the Hellespont disrupted the Black Sea trade: Xen. Hell. 5.1.28 (387); Demosth. 50.4–6, 61 (362/1–361/0); Demosth. 20.33 (357). MacDonald (2002), 59-60, connects these earlier crises with the influx of pegasi under Dionysius II; endorsed by Brice (this volume). 43. Williams and Burnett (1998). 44. Amata (1997–8); Puglisi (2005), 288–9, 293–4; Frey-Kupper (2013), 310–11, 339, 542–8; Frey-Kupper (2014), 77–80. 45. de Lisle (2021), 102–8. 46. Frey-Kupper (2014). Dated contexts (tombs and hoards) in Carthage (Visonà, 1985), Leptis Magna (De Miro and Fiorentini, 1977, 62), Tunisia (IGCH 2267–2268, 2272), Sardinia (Levi, 1950), Malta (Visonà, 2010; Frey-Kupper, 2015). 47. Manfredi (1999). 48. Manfredi (2006); Bondì (2009); Frey-Kupper (2014), 81–4. 49. Hiketas overstruck by Rome (RRC 17/1a (c. 270), RRC tab. xviii, 13). Hieron by Populonia (HN3 Italy 186), Cales (HN3 Italy 435), Naples (HN3 Italy 589), Issa (Bonačić Mandanić and Visonà, 2002, 327). 50. Mørkholm (1991), 65; see also Brice in this volume. 51. Meadows (2014), 175–83. 52. Panagopoulou (2007), 323–4.

168

Sicily c. 540–31 BCE : Evidence from Coinage 53. Caccamo Caltabiano, Carroccio, and Oteri (1997), 31–3, 46–7; Boehringer (2000), 98–105. 54. de Lisle (2021), 99–107. 55. Buttrey et al. (1989). 56. Frey-Kupper (2013). 57. Ibid. (2013), 542–5. 58. Frey-Kupper (1999). 59. Visonà (1998), 11; Manfredi (1999), 73. 60. Lilybaeum Frey-Kupper (1999), 432, no. 51. Morgantina: Buttrey et al. (1989), 119, no. 488–9. 61. See Armstrong and Termeer in this volume. 62. Crawford (1985), 29, 38–9. 63. Burnett (2012). 64. Jenkins (1978), 36–7. 65. Jenkins and Lewis (1963), 35–6; Visonà (1998), 11–14; Frey-Kupper (2015), 374–5. 66. Bechtold and Docter (2010), 97–9. 67. Visonà (1998), 17–18; Visonà (2016), 120. Morocco: CH 9.689. Algeria: IGCH 2296; Sennequier and Colonna (2003), 134 no. 149; Visonà (2013), 120 n.60. Tunisia: RRCH 132. 68. Carradice and La Niece (1988), 45–7. 69. Bechtold and Docter (2010), 97–9. 70. Visonà (1998), 16. 71. Woytek (2012). 72. Cf. Frey-Kupper (2013), 186. 73. Crawford (1985), 113; Burnett (2000), 102. 74. Hersh (1953), 41–3; Crawford (1974), 112–13; Frey-Kupper (2015), 379. 75. Burnett (1995); Visonà (1998), 18–19. 76. Hersh (1953), 39, cf. Livy 26.24. 77. Ripollés Alegre (1980, 1982); Paz Garcia-Bellido (1990); Villaronga (1993). Non-Roman coinage of Sicily from this period is vanishingly rare in Spain. Punic coinage from Sicily and North Africa is not found in Spain (Visonà 1998, 16). 78. Wilson (2013); Trümper, Adornato and Lappi (2019). 79. Morgantina: Buttrey et al. (1989). Monte Iato: Frey-Kupper (2013). 80. Wilson (2013), 99. 81. Cutroni Tusa (1955, 1956, 1958–9). 82. Slightly more in Period VIII, but at Monte Iato nearly all of these are certainly or probably locally produced ‘forgeries’, see Frey-Kupper (2013), 187, 445–50. 83. Woytek (2012), 321. 84. Frey-Kupper (2013), 273–4. 85. Bechtold (2008), 386–7; Frey-Kupper (2013), 182–3, 296. 86. Stannard and Frey-Kupper (2008). 87. Visonà (2014).

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Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World 88. Hieron’s coinage circulated from Period V in Epirus (see above); it might have circulated in Numidia, but the poor quality of the evidence from North Africa makes this uncertain. 89. Fischer (1978); Py (2006); Feugère and Py (2011). Py (2006), 693–5, finds that distribution patterns of coinage and amphorae match.

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Sicily c. 540–31 BCE : Evidence from Coinage Cutroni Tusa, A. (1958–9), ‘Vita dei Medaglieri’, AIIN 5–6: 306–18. Cutroni Tusa, A. (1987), ‘Nuove considerazioni sul problema della circolazione dei pegasi in Sicilia’, in Studi per Laura Breglia, 69–78, Rome: Ministero per i Beni Culturali e Ambientali. Cutroni Tusa, A. (1993), ‘La circolazione in Sicilia’, in La monetazione dell’età dionigiana, 245–71, Roma: Istituto italiano di numismatica. De Angelis, F. (2016), Archaic and Classical Greek Sicily, Oxford: Oxford University Press. de Lisle, C. (2021), Agathokles of Syracuse, Oxford: Oxford University Press. De Miro, E. and G. Fiorentini (1977), ‘Leptis Magna: La Necropoli greco-punica sotto il teatro’, QAL 9: 5–75. Feugère, M. and M. Py (2011), Dictionnaire des monnaies découvertes en Gaule méditerranéen, Paris: Mergoil. Fischer, B. (1978), Les monnaies antiques d’Afrique du Nord trouvées en Gaule, Paris: CNRS. Frey-Kupper, S. (1999), ‘I ritrovamenti monetali’, in B. Bechtold (ed.), La necropoli di Lilybaeum, 394–454, Rome: L’Erma di Bretschneider. Frey-Kupper, S. (2013), Studia Ietina X, Lausanne: Éditions du Zèbre. Frey-Kupper, S. (2014), ‘Coins and Their Use in the Punic Mediterranean’, in J. Quinn and N. Vella (eds), The Punic Mediterranean, 76–110, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Frey-Kupper, S. (2015), ‘Coins and Contacts’, in A. Bonanno and N. Vella (eds), Tas-Silġ, Marsaxlokk (Malta), 351–400, Leuven: Peeters. Frey-Kupper, S. and J. Barrandon (2003), ‘Analisi metallurgiche di monete antiche in bronzo circolanti nella Sicilia occidentale’, in A. Corretti (ed.), Quarte giornate internazionali di studi sull’area Elima, 507–36, Pisa: SNSP. Garnsey, P. (1988), Famine and Food Supply in the Graeco-Roman World, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Garraffo, S. (1984), Le riconiazioni in Magna Grecia e in Sicilia, Catania: Università di Catania. Garraffo, S. (2003), ‘Nuove riconiazioni in Magna Grecia e in Sicilia’, in G. Fiorentini, M. Caccamo Caltabiano and A. Calderone (eds), Archeologia del Mediterraneo, 351–61, Rome: L’Erma di Bretschneider. Gjongecaj, S. (2007), ‘La circolazione delle monete a Phoinike’, in S. De Maria and S. Gjongecaj (eds), Phoinike IV, 167–76, Bologna: Ante quem. Gorini, G. (1976), ‘La prima fase della monetazione greca di bronzo in Adriatico’, RIN 78: 7–18. Gorini, G. (1992), ‘La presenza greca in Italia settentrionale’, in F. Chaves Tristán (ed.), Griegos en Occidente, 91–114, Sevilla: Universidad de Sevilla. Gorini, G. (1993), ‘La circolazione in ambiente Adriatico’, in La monetazione dell’età dionigiana, 277–311, Roma: Istituto italiano di numismatica. Gorini, G. (1999), ‘Aspetti della presenza di moneta greca in Adriatico’, in L. Braccesi and S. Graciotti (eds), La Dalmazia e l’altra sponda, 165–73, Firenze: Olschki. Gorini, G. (2002), ‘La monetazione Dionigiana in Adriatico’, in N. Bonacasa, L. Braccesi and E. De Miro (eds), La Sicilia dei due Dionisî, 203–16, Roma: L’Erma di Bretschneider. Gorini, G. (2006), ‘Presenza di moneta greca in Istria’, VAMZ 45: 289–98. Hackens, T. (1968), ‘Monnaies d’Italie et de Sicilie circulant en Grèce’, RBN 114: 119–29. Hersh, C. (1953), ‘Overstrikes as Evidence for the History of Roman Republican Coinage’, NC 13: 33–68. Hölbl, G. (2001), ‘I rapporti culturali della Sicilia orientale con l’Egitto in età arcaica’, in C. Basile and A. Di Natale (eds), La Sicilia antica nei rapporti con l’Egitto, 31–47, Siracusa: Istituto internazionale del papiro. Holloway, R. (1982), ‘Il problema dei “Pegasi” in Sicilia’, NAC 11: 129–36. Howgego, C. (1995), Ancient History from Coins, London: Routledge. Jenkins, K. (1958), ‘A Note on Corinthian Coins in the West’, in H. Ingholt (ed.), Centennial Publication of the American Numismatic Society, 367–80, New York: ANS.

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Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World Jenkins, K. (1974), ‘Coins of Punic Sicily II’, SNR 53: 23–41. Jenkins, K. (1978), ‘Coins of Punic Sicily IV’, SNR 57: 5–68. Jenkins, K. and R. Lewis (1963), Carthaginian Gold and Electrum Coins, London: RNS. Kraay, C. (1973), ‘Timoleon and Corinthian Coinage in Sicily’, in 8th International Congress of Numismatics, 99–105, Paris: Association internationale des numismates. Kroll, J. (2011a), ‘Minting for Export’, in O. Picard (ed.), Nomisma, 27–38, Athens: ÉFA. Kroll, J. (2011b), ‘Athenian Tetradrachm Coinage of the First Half of the Fourth Century bc ’, RBN 157: 3–26. Levi, D. (1950), ‘Le necropoli Puniche di Olbia’, Studi Sardi 9: 1–120. MacDonald, D. (2002), ‘Sicilian and Southern Italian Overstrikes on Pegasi’, Νομισματικά Χρονικά 21: 55–77. Manfredi, L. (1999), ‘Note storiche e archeometriche sulle monete puniche di Tharros’, in E. Acquaro (ed.), Tharros Nomen, 181–6, La Spezia: Agorà. Manfredi, L. (2006), ‘Le monete puniche nel Mediterraneo antico’, Mediterranea 3: 257–98. Meadows, A. (2014), ‘The Spread of Coinage in the Hellenistic World’, in P. Bernholz and R. Vaubel (eds), Explaining Monetary and Financial Innovation, 169–95, Berlin: Springer. Mele, A. (1993), ‘Arché e Basileia’, in La monetazione dell’età dionigiana, 1–38, Roma: Istituto italiano di numismatica. Moreno, A. (2007), Feeding the Democracy, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Mørkholm, O. (1991), Early Hellenistic Coinage, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Panagopoulou, K. (2007), ‘Between Necessity and Extravagance’, ABSA 102, 315–43. Paz Garcia-Bellido, M. (1990), El tesoro de Mogente y su entorno monetal, Valencia: Generalitat Valenciana. Price, M. and N. Waggoner (1975), The Asyut Hoard, London: Vecchi. Puglisi, M. (2005), ‘Distribuzione e funzione della moneta bronzea in Sicilia dalla metà del V sec. a.C. all’età ellenistica’, in C. Alfaro Asins, C. Marcos Alonso and P. Otero Morán (eds), Actas XIII Congreso Internacional de Numismática, Madrid: Ministerio de Cultura. Puglisi, M. (2009), La Sicilia da Dionisio I a Sesto Pompeo: circolazione e funzione della moneta, Messina: DiScAM. Py, M. (2006), Les monnaies préaugustéennes de Lattes et la circulation monétaire protohistorique en Gaule méridionale, Lattara, Valbonne: APDCA. Ripollés Alegre, P. (1980), La circulación monetaria en las tierras valencianas durante la antigüedad, Barcelona: Instituto Antonio Agustín. Ripollés Alegre, P. (1982), La circulación monetaria en la Tarraconense mediterránea, Valencia: Servicio de investigación prehistórica. Ripollés Alegre, P. (2008), ‘The X4 Hoard (Spain)’, INJ 3: 51–64. Rowan, C. (2013), ‘Coinage as Commodity and Bullion in the Western Mediterranean, ca. 550–100 bce ’, MHR 28: 105–27. Rutter, K. (1989), ‘Athens and the Western Greeks in the Fifth Century B.C.’, in G. Le Rider, K. Jenkins, N. Waggoner and U. Westermark (eds), Kraay-Mørkholm Essays, 245–57, Louvain-laNeuve: Marcel Hoc. Rutter, K. (1997), The Greek Coinages of Southern Italy and Sicily, London: Spink. Sallusto, F. (1971–2), ‘Il materiale numismatico delle necropoli Pestane di IV e III sec. a.C.’ AIIN 18–19: 57–72. Sennequier, G. and C. Colonna (2003), L’Algérie au temps des royaumes numides, Rouen: Somogy. Sordi, M. (2002), ‘Dionigi e il Tirreno’, in N. Bonacasa, L. Braccesi and E. De Miro (eds), La Sicilia dei due Dionisî, 493–500, Roma: L’Erma di Bretschneider. Stannard, C. and S. Frey-Kupper (2008), ‘ “Pseudomints” and Small Change in Italy and Sicily in the Late Republic’, AJN 20: 351–404. Talbert, R. (1971), ‘Corinthian Silver Coinage and the Sicilian Economy, c. 340 to c. 290 bc ’, NC 11: 53–66. 172

Sicily c. 540–31 BCE : Evidence from Coinage Trümper, M., G. Adornato and T. Lappi, eds (2019), Cityscapes of Hellenistic Sicily, Rome: Edizioni Quasar. Villaronga, L. (1993), Tresors monetaris de la península ibèrica anteriors a August, Barcelona: Asociación Numismática Española. Villaronga, L. (2001–3), ‘El denario romano pesado en los tesoros de la península Ibérica’, Scienze dell’Antichità 11: 55–65. Visonà, P. (1982), ‘Early Greek Bronze Coinage in Dalmatia and the Skudljivac Hoard’, in T. Hackens and R. Weiller (eds), 9th International Congress of Numismatics, 147–55, Louvainla-Neuve: Association internationale des Numismates. Visonà, P. (1985), ‘Punic and Greek Bronze Coins from Carthage’, AJA 89: 671–5. Visonà, P. (1990), ‘Ritrovamenti di monete della tirannide dionigiana in Italia’, VAHD 83: 91–102. Visonà, P. (1995), ‘Colonization and Money Supply at Issa in the Fourth Century bc ’, Chiron 25: 55–9. Visonà, P. (1998), ‘Carthaginian Coinage in Perspective’, AJN 10: 1–27. Visonà, P. (2010), ‘Unusual Carthaginian Billon of the First Punic War and of the Libyan Revolt’, NC 170: 63–71. Visonà, P. (2012), ‘Monte Palazzi (Passo Croceferrata, Comune di Grotteria) 2007–2014’, Not. Scav.: 217–62. Visonà, P. (2013), ‘Out of Africa: The Movement of Coins of Massinissa and his Successors across the Mediterranean. Part I’, RIN 114: 119–49. Visonà, P. (2014), ‘Out of Africa: the Movement of Coins of Massinissa and his Successors across the Mediterranean. Part II,’ RIN 115: 107–37. Visonà, P. (2016), ‘More Greek Coins from Carthage and elsewhere in Tunisia’, NC 176: 111–33. Westermark, U. (1983–7), ‘An overstrike of Akragas on Corinth’, SM 33–7: 85–7. Williams, J. H. C. and A. Burnett (1998), ‘Alexander the Great and the Coinages of Western Greece’, in R. Ashton and S. Hurter (eds), Studies Price, 379–94, London: Spink. Wilson, R. (2013), ‘Hellenistic Sicily, c. 270–100 bc ’, in J. Prag and J. Quinn (eds), The Hellenistic West, 79–119, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Woytek, B. (2012), ‘The Denarius Coinage of the Roman Republic’, in W. Metcalf (ed.), Oxford Handbook of Greek and Roman Coinage, 315–31, Oxford: Oxford University Press.

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174

CHAPTER 9 RRC 1/1: THE FIRST STRUCK COIN FOR THE ROMANS Kenneth A. Sheedy

In 1993 Dr W. L. Gale purchased a small bronze coin said to have been struck in the fourth century bce at Neapolis in central Campania (now ACANS inv. 07GS16; see Figure 9.1).1 The reverse inscription, however, was almost completely off flan. We now know that it was not ΝΕΟΠΟΛΙΤΗΣ, as expected, but rather ΡΩΜΑΙΩΝ, and that this is a rare example of the earliest known struck coins produced for the Romans, RRC 1/1.2 The mystery of the inscription on the Gale coin was recently solved by superimposing an image from another specimen of RRC 1/1 (completing the legend which had survived as dashes along the edge of the flan; see Figure 9.2).3 But how was it possible that the Romans should have been responsible for such a ‘Greek-looking’ coinage, and how are we to understand Michael Crawford’s statement that this issue (and another related bronze) ‘will have ensured the continuation of at least some Roman involvement in the production of coinage’?4 Matthew Trundle was the visiting Gale Lecturer at the Australian Centre for Ancient Numismatic Studies (Macquarie University) in 2012. This was an opportunity to discuss the purported Gale example of the very first entry in Crawford’s (1974) volume Roman Republican Coinage (RRC 1/1) and to consider the remarks of another, earlier visiting

Figure 9.1 ACANS inv. 07GS16. RRC 1/1. Mint: Neapolis. 3.16g. Left panel: Obverse. Right panel: Reverse. Photos: M. Rampe.

175

Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World

fellow at ACANS, Andrew Burnett, who had already published the coin (‘the inscription is difficult to read but whose types are very close to the first Greek-inspired Roman coin’).5 Why was this limited issue of small coins struck? The well-known claim by Thucydides (Thuc. 1.11.1–2), that wars in his own era were greater because of the presence of chrēmata, may offer a clue. As Matthew explained, coined money freed up the soldiers from the time-consuming tasks of ‘gathering provisions, farming the surrounding land, and plundering rather than fighting’.6 Does this help us understand RRC 1/1? Perhaps not, if we hope to explain early Roman coins largely as a social phenomenon.7 In their contribution to the long-running debate around Roman attitudes to coinage, Jeremy Armstrong and Marleen Termeer present, in this volume, a view which places emphasis on Rome’s traditional practices in relation to state-based military expenditure and the consequences of Rome’s engagement with allies and enemies in the Mediterranean of the third century.8 The aim of this chapter is certainly more modest: I simply wish to focus on what can be said about the first struck coin of the Romans and explore something of its role within the larger debate. Armstrong and Termeer are surely correct in urging that the history of early Roman coinage be seen within a Mediterranean context. But I would also suggest that, in this discussion, much more can be made of the better documented Greek experience with bronze coinage during the turbulent period of the fourth century (to which RRC 1/1 belongs).9 My brief exploration of a subject that always interested Matthew is intended as a tribute to a scholar whose enthusiasm for Roman history was boundless. As is well known, a key problem that frustrates the study of early Roman coinage is the evidence that silver and bronze struck in the name of Rome was produced in mints (that remain with one exception unknown) other than Rome itself until c. 265 (RRC 20/1) or c. 250 (RRC 22/1), or even c. 240 (RRC 25/1).10 Bronze currency bars and cast coins (aes grave) were produced at Rome from c. 280 until c. 225, and circulated only in central Italy.11 The sporadic issues of struck silver (at least seven) and bronze in the name of Rome from c. 320, circulating to the south, were collectively identified as RomanoCampanian (a term we owe to Eckhel), not because they imitated Campanian coinage (most of the types were unknown to Campanian cities) but largely because the first known issue (RRC 1/1) was apparently produced at Neapolis.12 Yet RRC 1/1 is something of an outlier within the corpus of Roman Republican coins for it is not quite like any other issue (see Figures 9.1 and 9.3). The types and module, for example, are those of Neapolis, and if it were not for the inscription ΡΩΜΑΙΩΝ (which is not repeated on any other Roman coins) we would never suspect that it was anything other than bronze from the polis of Neapolis. Harold Mattingly argued in 1938 that as this is ‘the only certain ‘Romano-Campanian’ coin, its place should have been central’ to the discussion of these issues.13 He also commented that ‘the absence of any Roman silver to correspond to this bronze is in itself disproof of the “Romano Campanian” theory’.14 A return to RRC 1/1 seems apposite given the recent claim (Russo and Vagi) that all or part of RomanoCampanian was in fact struck at Neapolis.15 The investigation of RRC 1/1 begins with Joseph Eckhel in 1795.16 Given that there is no difference between this coin and those of Neapolis except in the inscription, Eckhel 176

RRC 1/1: First Struck Coin for the Romans

wondered if it had been produced by Neapolis for the sake of honouring the Romans, who had the Greek city within their power, or perhaps because its citizens had come to think of themselves as Roman citizens.17 While Eckhel concluded that the coin must have been struck after Neapolis had fallen to the Romans, it seems François Lenormant was the first to link the issue to the foedus Neapolitanum concluded after 326 when the city capitulated to Q. Publilius Philo and, instead of retribution, was accorded a treaty by Rome.18 Laura Breglia thought the coinage came about as the result of the Roman occupation of Neapolis and was required to meet the needs of the Roman army.19 Crawford concluded there was little that could be said about RRC 1/1 or its later companion RRC 2/1: ‘both issues are presumably isolated forerunners of the Roman Republican coinage proper’.20 But he later added that while these early struck bronze were ‘without impact on practice in Rome’, both ‘must because of their unparalleled nature reflect events of some importance’.21 David Vagi, in a study of the first Roman didrachm (RRC 13/1), argued that it had also been struck at Neapolis; RRC 1/1, 2/1, and 13/1 are described as a ‘close-knit series’ to be ‘associated with events of 327-325: the Roman siege of Neapolis, the foedus Neapolitanum, and the start of the Second Samnite War’.22 According to Vagi, RRC 1/1 ‘was presumably struck by the Neapolitans to express their newfound solidarity with the Romans, or perhaps ordered by the Romans to promote their local interests’.23 We might now turn to the coins themselves (see Figures 9.1 and 9.3). A single pair of types was employed for RRC1/1: obverse: laureate head of Apollo to r.; reverse: forepart of man-headed bull to r.; an eight- or six-rayed star with central hub, or no star (?), over shoulder.24 It is a youthful head of Apollo with an evenly-combed mass of hair beneath a broad laurel wreath; the finer strands at the back are turned up at the end, rather like the flap of a helmet. On the reverse the ‘Acheloos’ has a prominent and projecting up-turned horn, a shaggy beard, and dewlap folds hanging from the lower jaw. The forelegs are set in a ‘running-knee’ pose with the nearer (right) leg tightly bent so that the hoof is close to or overlaps the underbelly. The contour of the animal’s truncation is concave. Above, ΡΩΜΑΙΩΝ.25 The coins adhere to a system of half and quarter units employed at Neapolis (which will be discussed below); while the weights might vary (sometimes as the result of wear), it is noticeable that the diameter of the flan is usually between 16–17.5 mm. The only detailed study of RRC 1/1 was provided by Marina Taliercio Mensitieri, correcting the claims of Arthur Sambon (1903) and others, and providing the first assessment of its relationship to the coinage and history of Neapolis.26 Crawford (1974) knew of six examples, from six obverse and reverse dies.27 Nicholas Molinari and Nicola Sisci (2016) found at least 15, and possibly 18, coins, which they thought came from 8 ‘or possibly as many as 10’ reverse dies.28 I have listed 20 examples (plus one uncertain) in Table 9.1.29 Die identification is difficult with these small, typically worn or corroded coins. They show that the dies were kept in use after they had begun to fragment. The engraving style is very similar. I do not wish to give exact die numbers, but I suspect that at least two thirds of the sample are a unique representation of either an obverse or reverse die. Was this a rather more substantial coinage than might be guessed from their rarity in previous listings? 177

Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World

Table 9.1 RRC 1/1 Cat

Weight Diameter Die axis Location

Eight-rayed star 1

3.54g

16mm

7h

Berlin 18214344

Ex. Friedrich Imhoof-Blumer (1900)

2

3.16g

18mm

2h

ACANS

SNG Australia 1, 16

3

3.11g

18mm

110 degree

Glasgow Neapolis Dr William Hunter (1783 bequest) 151 G. Macdonald (1899), Catalogue of Greek Coins in The Hunterian Collection, University of Glasgow, Volume I, p. 43, no. 151

4

3.03g

17.7mm

1h

Paris

De Luynes

5

4.80g

17.2g

5h

Wien GR1121

Slg. Carelli

6

3.46g

3h

Market

Dix Noonan Webb 29/9/2008, lot 5855; Molinari & Sisci 416

7

4.54g

17mm

Ex. RBW Collection

Sambon 611; Triton IX, lot 1252. Molinari & Sisci 417

8

1.91g

14.2mm

12h

Wien GR1977

Slg. Welzl von Wellenheim

9

2.70g

16mm

3h

Market

Bertolami 8 (2014) 249

R. Russo Collection (Numismatica Ars Classica)

https://www.flickr.com/photos/ ahala_rome/4286356468/ Molinari & Sisci p.253 (reverse image only)

10

11

2.72g

16mm

Ahala collection (A. McCabe)

https://www.flickr.com/photos/ ahala_rome/4286356468/sizes/m/

12

2.22g

17mm

Market

Artemide 19.2E, (21/10/2012) lot. 2003. Inscription not visible.

13?

2.89g

17mm

Market

Noble Numismatics 62 (1999) 2194. Inscription not visible.

14

2.48g

16mm

Musei Capitolini

Bignami Collection.

15

3.70g

17.6mm

Unknown

Molinari & Sisci 415 https://www. forumancientcoins.com/board/ index.php?topic=95156.0

Unknown

Crawford RRC 1/1 plate coin

Naples

Santangello 1150

8

BM 2002,0102.1

Ex Charles Hersch

9h

Berlin 18214343

Molinari & Sisci 415

6h

16 17?

3.13g

Six-rayed star 18

3.07g

19

2.53g

178

15mm

RRC 1/1: First Struck Coin for the Romans

No star (?) 20

2.65g

17mm

9h

London 1948,0106.2

BM Databases says with star; Molinari and Sisci quote BM curator as confirming without star; Molinari & Sisci 414

Unknown

https://www.forumancientcoins. com/board/index.php?topic= 95156.0 (YGH 21[?])

Unknown 21

3.07g

The example in ACANS (inv. 07GS16; Figure 9.1) shares its obverse and reverse dies with the specimen in Glasgow (Table 9.1, row 3; Figure 9.3).30 We have imposed images of the reverse of the two coins (Figure 9.2) which, as noted above, allows us to see that the traces of an inscription on the upper field of the former come from ΡΩΜΑΙΩΝ. There is no evident star over the shoulder of the Glasgow type. Yet the ACANS coin shows that it was present on the die. The surface of the Glasgow coin is quite worn and the star must have simply been eroded. This must place in doubt the claim by Molinari and Sisci that there was a variety of man-headed bull type with no star (known at the moment through one example in the British Museum (Table 9.1, row 20).31

Figure 9.2 Overlay of ACANS inv. 07GS16 and Glasgow, Hunterian Mus. 151. Photos: M. Rampe. 179

Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World

Figure 9.3 Glasgow, Hunterian Mus. 151. RRC 1/1. Mint: Neapolis. 3.11g. Top panel: Obverse. Bottom panel: Reverse. Photos © The Hunterian, University of Glasgow. 180

RRC 1/1: First Struck Coin for the Romans

The similarities between RRC 1/1 and coins of Neapolis were quickly identified, but it was not until Taliercio Mensitieri’s 1986 study of the bronze from this mint that the precise relationship came into focus. This relationship, however, has not received the attention it deserved in subsequent studies of Roman coinage, so it is worth going over some of the salient points. Neapolis began minting silver didrachms c. 450 which depicted the local river god Sebethos on the reverse as the protome of a man-headed bull; the reverse was later changed (c. 420) to a fully formed man-headed bull.32 In the first half of the fourth century Neapolis became the leading mint of Campania, and by the end of the century the didrachms of Neapolis were the ‘generally accepted currency of the area’.33 During the third century Neapolis was the main economic centre of the region and its coinage was the principal currency. Few Campanian mints were operating between 350 and c. 265, and only that of Neapolis was of any importance. Struck bronze coinage was introduced to Campania by Neapolis, probably c. 320. With only a handful of exceptions (notably Cales) it was not until c. 265 that other Campanian cities minted bronze, and then these are limited issues that typically copy the bronze of Neapolis (see Table 9.4 below). The early bronze issues of Neapolis were a novelty for the region. They were also probably the only struck bronze circulating in local Campanian markets for some time. Minted bronze was unknown to any mint in Apulia before 300 (and the coins of Teate); the bronze issues of Taras do not begin before c. 280.34 Further south, mints in Lucania took more of an interest in bronze: Poseidonia, Velia, Metapontum and Thurium struck bronze coins at different times in the second half of the late fifth century. Neapolis, the main mint in Campania, brought minted bronze coins to the region and remained the only producer on any scale for perhaps some fifty years. The typology of Neapolitan bronze coinage established by Taliercio Mensitieri (1986) surveyed some 2,500 coins. Here the first phase of production was dated c. 350–326.35 The types of the first bronze hark back to the very first issue of silver didrachms from the second half of the fifth century: obverse, laureate head of Apollo r., and reverse, forepart of the man-headed bull together with the ethnic (in full).36 Taliercio Mensitieri isolated four different groups among the first bronze (all with the same types but changing symbols): a) no symbol; b) a four-rayed star; c) an eight-rayed star; and d) a dolphin (Table 9.2).37 Group Ia was dated c. 350–325 while groups Ib–d were placed c. 325–320. There are two different modules. The half unit, known from group Ib, has an average weight of 5.14 grams, and the quarter unit, with an average of 3.35 grams for group Ia; 3.06 grams for group Id and 3.1 grams for group Ic. This configuration is puzzling. The average weights of these quarter units are not half that of the one half unit group, and it would appear that the mint had still to standardize the modules. RRC 1/1 fits neatly into this first phase of production at Neapolis. Stylistically, the rendering of Apollo’s head and the man-headed bull are extremely similar. The known examples with the inscription ΡΩΜΑΙΩΝ were thought to all show an eight-rayed star and thus align with group Ic; RRC 1/1 then provided a means of dating group Ic. Taliercio Mensitieri identified five different series within group Ic (a series consists of coins with the same types, control signs and the same legend), which contained some nineteen coins that vary in weight from 1.51–4.46 grams (Table 9.3). It is a bigger group than Ia 181

Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World

Table 9.2 Taliercio Mensitieri (1986) phase I Taliercio phase I groups

Reverse type

Unit

Number of series

Average weight

Dies

Ia

No symbol

¼

6

3.35g

O5/R6

Ib

4-rayed star

½

8

5.14g

O39/R43+

Ic

8-rayed star

¼

5

3.1g

O8/R12

Id

Dolphin

¼

7

3.06g

O8/R9

Table 9.3 Taliercio Mensitieri (1986) phase I, group Ic Taliercio phase I, group Ic, series

Coins

Dies

Inscription

1

6

O1/R5

ΝΕΟΠΟΛΙΤΗΣ

2

2

O1/R1

ΝΕΟΠΟΛΙΤΗΝ (retro)

3

2

O1/R1

ΝΕΟΠΟΛΙΤΗΝ

4

7

O3/R3

ΝΕΟΠΟΛΙΤΗΣ

5

2

O2/R2

ΝΕΟΠΟΛΙΤΩΝ

(ten coins), but much smaller than Ib (150 coins) or Id (thirty-two). While Molinari and Sisci have noted a number of corrections and additions, the typology still stands.38 There are sometimes symbols around the reverse type but these are only found in group Ic, and consist of waves below the bull and a lyre to the left of the protome (sometimes there is only one of these two elements). These symbols are not found on RRC 1/1. The ethnic throughout the first bronze phase from Neapolis varied, but it was mostly ΝΕΟΠΟΛΙΤΗΣ (as found on the more common half units). It is not until phase II, c. 300, that it is resolved as ΝΕΟΠΟΛΙΤΩΝ (with variants). In phase I, the variety ΝΕΟΠΟΛΙΤΩΝ was confined to group Ic and then to series 5. Series 5 was known to Taliercio Mensitieri from only two coins (both in Vienna), each with different sets of dies; it seems far more scarce than RRC 1/1.39 We can see that the first phase of bronze coins at Neapolis very largely consisted of half units (5.14 grams; 15–16 millimetres), bearing the reverse type of a bull protome with four-rayed star and mostly with the ethnic ΝΕΟΠΟΛΙΤΗΣ. The quarter units are much smaller issues, and group Ic, with only nineteen examples known to Taliercio Mensitieri, is dwarfed by the 150 coins of the half unit group Ib. Overall, the variation in symbols, ethnic and even average weight across the four quarter unit groups indicate that the first phase of minting bronze at Neapolis was experimental. Most examples of RRC1/1 echo Neapolis 1c with its eight-rayed star (and lack of reverse line border). The weight average from twenty examples of RRC 1/1 is 2.94 grams (there is a range between 1.91 and 4.80 grams but half the sample is 3.0 grams or more). 182

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The diameter is mostly 16–17.5 millimetres. These are quarter units. As noted above, Molinari and Sisci have now established that some examples of RRC 1/1 have a six-rayed star and propose that others had no star. This indicates an overlap with Neapolis group Ib, and perhaps group 1a (if there is in fact a variety without a star). I think it likely that all groups from phase I were struck within a short period that probably occurred between 320–300 (as suggested by Burnett).40 What, then, emerges from this analysis? The coins of RRC 1/1 were all quarter units. The greater part of bronze production in phase I at Neapolis was given over to a half unit, group Ib (average weight 5.14 grams). In the survey sample of Taliercio Mensitieri, group 1b was represented by 150 coins, while groups Ic (19 coins), group Ia (10 coins), and Id (32 coins) are much smaller.41 The quarter unit bronze, the very smallest of the coins minted at Neapolis, was rarely, if ever, minted by any other Italian mints. In phase I it was a very minor concern to the mint at Neapolis, serving simply to provide change for the half unit. If we were to argue that the quarter units of RRC 1/1 were ‘presumably struck by the Neapolitans to express their newfound solidarity with the Romans, or perhaps ordered by the Romans to promote their local interests’,42 it seems a very odd coin to select for this role. When held in the hand, there was nothing to distinguish it from the bronze of Neapolis except a tiny inscription which was so close to that of Neapolis itself as to require very careful inspection (as Dr Gale found out). They were also minted when Neapolis had just begun to introduce bronze coins to Campanian markets. Why would the Romans or their sympathizers in Neapolis request the striking of a limited issue of small bronze when Rome displayed no interest in coinage? Even in Campania, where Roman armies now found themselves, local bronze was until then unknown. Is it possible that other cities in Campania also struck early bronze in the name of the Romans? A unique coin in Naples (113828), RRC 2/1, is sometimes grouped with RRC 1/1 as a product of the Neapolis mint, but this is far from certain.43 On the obverse is the head of Minerva to r. (or perhaps Roma, as Burnett has argued), wearing a crested Attic helmet, and on the reverse, a man-headed bull walking to r., an eight-rayed star above and, in the exergue, ROMANO.44 It weighs 6.14 grams, and should probably be a unit on the revised weight system introduced at Neapolis in phase II. The mint at Neapolis adopted the reverse type of a full-length man-faced bull (well known from its didrachms) for the bronze unit with the change to Taliercio Mensitieri transitional phase I–II.45 The ethnic, ΝΕΟΠΟΛΙΤΩΝ, is occasionally in the reverse exergue of the unit but most often around the head of Apollo on the obverse.46 The reverse of RRC 2/1, bull with star above, can be matched with units in Neapolis group IIa (Figure 9.4), though here the ethnic is on the obverse. Taliercio Mensitieri dated phase II c. 317–270, but the authors of HNItaly suggest c. 300–275.47 In phase III (Figure 9.5), which begins c. 275, the bronze types of Neapolis are brought into alignment with the didrachms; on the reverse the man-headed bull is crowned by Nike. Only a few mints struck bronze units that seem contemporary with Neapolis phase II.48 The most important was Cales.49 Cales, the first Roman colony in Campania, was established in 334. It was, after Neapolis, arguably the only significant minter of bronze in Campania in the years c. 300–275.50 There are several reasons for believing that 183

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Figure 9.4 ACANS inv. 07GS117. Mint: Neapolis. 6.51g. Left panel: Obverse. Right panel: Reverse. Photos: M. Rampe.

Figure 9.5 ACANS inv. 07GS121. Mint: Neapolis. 3.71g. Left panel: Obverse. Right panel: Reverse. Photos: M. Rampe.

RRC 2/1 could just as easily have been struck at Cales as at Neapolis. Almost all the bronze units copying Neapolis in the first phase of local production at Cales show the bull with an eight-rayed star (Figure 9.6) or lyre above, and the ethnic in the reverse. The bronze of Cales always carry a Latin inscription within the reverse exergue – CALENO. Within the reverse exergue of RRC 2/1 we have ROMANO. In phase II the 184

RRC 1/1: First Struck Coin for the Romans

Figure 9.6 ACANS inv. 07GS36. Mint: Cales. 6.95g. Left panel: Obverse. Right panel: Reverse. Photos: M. Rampe.

ethnic is only occasionally found in the exergue at Neapolis. The mint of Neapolis did not use Latin inscriptions. The obverse type of RRC 2/1, the helmeted female head, is not known to Neapolis. It does occur on the didrachms of Cales, but here the goddess wears a Corinthian helmet. RRC 2/1 shows an Attic helmet. It is at the time of the succeeding stage of coin production in Campania and southern Italy, after c. 275 or 265 and the end of the Pyrrhic War, that the production of Romano Campanian coinage gathers momentum.51 It is with the issues marked ROMANO, or the later ROMA, that historians look to the nature of Roman involvement in the minting of coins, in unknown mints of southern Italy and Sicily, or in Rome, and with Roman attitudes to the role of a Roman coinage. Bernard recently made the proposal to identify early Roman coinage, in all its different forms, as a social phenomenon and to place it ‘within (an) ideology of wealth, value and social mobility’ which was gaining prominence at this time, and to shun ‘budgetary explanations’ linking episodes of coining to specific fiscal needs.52 I am not convinced, however, that these are mutually exclusive perspectives. In a welcome focus on the bronze coinage of Campania, Termeer looked to examine ‘processes of interaction and integration between local communities in the context of Roman expansion in the 3rd century bc ’.53 Her central thesis is that changes to local bronze coin production ‘must – at least in part – be related to the effects of Roman expansion, both at the level of production and at the level of distribution and consumption’.54 On the one hand, Termeer argues that ‘Roman expansion intensified and changed connectivity on the Italian peninsula, affecting patterns of production and exchange’.55 But on the other, admitting that ‘we cannot explain all new developments in coinage production in this period exclusively in reference to Rome’, she seeks to find the role of the ‘local actors’, those who authorized the production of city mints.56 Four groups 185

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of coins sharing common types were isolated: 1–3: obverse head of Apollo and reverse with man-headed bull with star, lyre, or crowning Nike; and 4: obverse head of Athena/ Minerva and reverse with cock.57 The first three reflect a fashion for copying the bronze issues of Neapolis, followed very largely by Campanian mints (see Table 9.4 below). As noted above, the types of Neapolis phase II (man-headed bull with star or lyre above; Termeer groups 1–2) were only copied at a few mints, the most notable being Latin Cales. The other mints largely produced bronze showing the man-headed bull crowned by Nike (Termeer group 3), a type introduced with Neapolis phase III. These copies reflect the success of Neapolitan bronze in Campania, both as a tool for the administration of state finances but also in commerce (and here I include making a profit for the city). The fourth group of coins with shared types (obverse head of Minerva/reverse cock) is known from Aquinum (HNItaly 432), Caiatia (433) Cales (435), Suessa Aurunca (449), Teanum Sidicinum (453) and Telesia (457), all of which are within the smaller region of Northern Campania and Samnium. Cales itself, as well as Suessa Aurunca and Teanum Sidicinum, also minted the types of Neapolis at the same time (Table 9.4). If, then, currency in the wider region of Campania, Samnium and central Italy (at least in terms of struck coin) was dominated by the coinage of Neapolis and almost all cities minting bronze in this region were following (in some part) the Neapolis model, what can we infer if at this time we now have a new set of bronze (and silver) issues struck in the name of Rome with quite different types?58 Termeer has proposed that the adoption of the bronze types of Neapolis (and the Minerva/cock group) as ‘common types’ might be explained by the needs of armies at the time of the first Punic war: ‘(military) officials from different communities were responsible for production, and could order coinages to be produced either at a local mint or at a central/travelling mint’.59 The selection of Neapolitan types might be seen as a practical measure, helping to ensure the acceptance of bronze issues minted in the name of different states. But in the adoption of the common types on bronze struck at the request of the local military, Termeer sees a role in shaping local coinage that was played by the Roman army.60 Common types can be seen as a sign of integration; ‘the common type would heighten the recognisability of these groups of mints, and could arguably result in an association between the producing communities in the minds of the users’.61 There are other explanations. Struck bronze, which was essentially fiduciary, was a means of facilitating low-value transactions, especially the unit (and very small Neapolitan half, third and quarter units) in circulation in Campania. It can be argued that they were typically produced by the administrators of state finance to deal with small scale local monetary exchanges. They had a very limited range of circulation, mostly confined to local markets. Rather than a coordinated effort by the allied military to assist the Roman war effort, or the manifestation of integration behind the Romans (with towns achieving a sense of group membership), perhaps these bronze issues sharing Neapolitan types had a localized function. They may have been a means by which civil officials attempted to deal with demands or opportunities within local economies, arguably now under strain from incessant warfare in the region – and for

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Table 9.4 Bronze unit issues with obverse head of Apollo/ reverse man-headed bull. All show Nike crowning the bull unless marked with * against the catalogue of Molinari and Sisci (2016) to indicate earlier reverse types Samnium, Southern Latium Notes and Northern Campania

HNItaly

Aesernia

431 64–78 (260–240 bce ) (c. 263–240 bce )

Cales

The entry HNItaly 436 (all c. 265–240 436 combines bce ) different groups.

Compulteria Malies (Maleventum?)

80–151 (317–280 bce )* 152–159 (280–272 bce )* 160–170 (272–250 bce )

437 171–178 (272–250 bce ) (c. 265–240 bce ) 179–182 (268–240 bce ) 192–193 (c. 310–270 bce )* This shadowy issue 438 is difficult to date (c. 300–275 bce ) but seems to derive from Neapolis phase II.

Suessa Aurunca Teanum Sidicinum

Molinari and Sisci (2016)

450 419–433 (270–240 bce ) (c. 265–240 bce ) 434–441 (317–272 bce )* HNItaly 454 should 454–455 (c. 265–240 bce ) 442–449 (272–250 bce ) predate HNItaly 455.

Central and Southern Campania 543 183–190 (340–309 bce )* (c. 250–225 bce )

Irnthii

This problematic coinage cannot be dated with any confidence at the moment.

Nola

412–413 (275–250 bce ) The few coins, with 607 (c. 300–250 bce ) Nike crowning bull, should be contemporary with Neapolis phase III and can be dated after c. 275 bce .

Venafrum

2660 (Uncertain mint – poss. Compulteria)

454–455 (c. 265–240 bce )

Continued

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Table 9.4 Continued East Italy Larinum

622 191 (272–250 bce ) (c. 275–250 bce )

Northern Apulia Teate (Tiati)

The few coins seem 698 contemporary with (325–275 bce ) Neapolis phase II and should not be much earlier than c. 300 bce .

450–453 (320–275 bce )*

Note: Termeer (2015) provides a good deal of information about the evidence and problems of chronology.

that many people, not just the Romans, were to blame. Silver may have been reserved for military needs. The bronze types of Neapolis served not simply as a practical convenience, they were an important means to help a local coinage gain acceptance, and it was this imperative that may have encouraged the use of common types. But again, nothing in the iconography of bronze minted at Neapolis (and the cities allied to Rome) is evident on Romano-Campanian issues after RRC 1/1 and 2/1. If there was a shared sense of identity promoted by the mints of Samnium and Campania, it did not embrace the Romans and it was not shared by Rome. In the above, admittedly sketchy, notes on Campanian bronze coinage of the third century and what it may tell us about the relations between the local cities and the Romans, it is evident that the demands of funding military activities dominate much of the discussion. War undoubtedly placed greater pressure on mints, but was it the inevitable cause of typological development or the introduction of new types?62 Crawford and more recently de Callataÿ have emphasized the connection between the minting of ancient coinage and waging war.63 Other authors have signalled the need to think about the role of coinage in terms of a much wider range of financial matters to be dealt with by state officials.64 The most recent challenge to the current orthodoxy that sees military expenditure ‘as the default explanation for coinage’ comes from Burnett.65 He is able to point to examples from the early Empire, at Rome and in the provinces, where good chronological evidence demonstrates that the production of coin was not linked to military needs. The separation between military and civil expenditure is not always straightforward. Consider, for example, roads, granaries, town walls and water storage. We cannot assume that minted bronze coinage (fiduciary, typically with localized circulation) will have had the same intended functions and performance as a contemporary silver or gold coinage.66 At the beginning of this chapter, I noted that students of early Roman coinage have shown little interest in the better documented Greek experience with bronze coinage. 188

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Here there is good evidence for the early production of base metal currency serving purely non-military needs. Athens, for example, began minting bronze in the name of the citizen body c. 330.67 But we know that it probably struck bronze coins in the name of its cleruchy on Salamis in the late fifth century, and then extensive fourth century issues in the name of its sanctuary and festival at Eleusis.68 Nonetheless, there is also literary and numismatic evidence for bronze coins to meet immediate military expenses. In an important 2009 article, Psoma (2009) examined cash payments by Greek rulers and cities to enable soldiers to purchase rations, and the bronze coinages minted to make these payments.69 The misthos (wage) was paid to troops at the end of their service, and the trophē (ration) was paid at the beginning as a means to support them in the field. When the Athenian general Timotheus ran out of silver or chrēmata during his siege of Olynthus in the Chalkidike during 364–362, he had bronze coins struck as a means to purchase rations.70 He enlisted the help of a nearby ally, Acanthus, to strike a limited ‘emergency’ issue of bronze in two denominations (unit and half unit); the obverse type was a helmeted head of Athena known from the local coins of Acanthus, while the reverse showed a modified Athenian type (facing owl) but with the inscription in letters not used by the Athenian mint. The Athenian general’s resort to a bronze currency was made possible by the earlier adoption of a fiduciary bronze coinage by the Macedonian kings and the cities of the Chalkidian peninsula during the late fifth century, and thus a familiarity with bronze in the local markets.71 The Athenian state, as we have noted, had yet to mint bronze coins in the name of the citizen body at this time. This peculiar issue commissioned by Timotheus should probably be seen as a sort of military token; it was inscribed with the name of the Athenians but had it been officially approved by the Athenian state as a legitimate coin? The coins were remembered by ancient sources as an ingenious stratagem by which Timotheus hoped to persuade the local merchants to accept these small bronze coins as if they were silver (and his coins matched silver fractions in weight and size).72 The ‘emergency’ bronze struck for Timotheus brings us back to RRC 1/1. I am not claiming that the Athenian example explains the first bronze to carry the name of the Romans. Rather, it helps broaden the terms under which it can be discussed. As the result of a certain amount of numismatic ‘grubbing in the dirt’ to find new facts, we can see that RRC 1/1, dated c. 320, fits in with the very first experiment in bronze coinage in Campania and within the wider region of central Italy, Samnium and even Apulia. It predates any other minted or cast coins from Rome. There was no mint at Rome. RRC 1/1 was a quarter unit – the smallest bronze denomination, which Neapolis struck in small quantities to facilitate the exchange of its more copious issues of half units. This ‘halfpenny’ was a singularly unlikely vehicle by which to advertise solidarity with the Romans following the conclusion of the foedus Neapolitanum. Nor does it suggest itself as a coin the Romans would request, or not in isolation. If the Romans took no interest in coinage at this stage and saw no value in a local mint, is it possible that RRC 1/1 was not actually produced by demand from the Romans or even with their knowledge? Is it then, in fact, similar to the ‘Athenian’ bronze struck at Acanthus by Timotheus, for which there is little evidence that the coins were sanctioned by the Athenians? 189

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The seven letter inscription ΡΩΜΑΙΩΝ on the reverse of RRC 1/1 is in Greek, and follows mainland Greek practice in naming the authority by which the coin was issued in the genitive plural: ‘[the coinage] of the Romans’. It is the only example of a coin which does not carry the name of the Romans in Latin. The mint at Neapolis did not regularly use the genitive plural until it began minting bronze and then only as a rule with phase II from c. 300. Before then it commonly used ΝΕΟΠΟΛΙΤΗΣ (nominative singular) on its didrachms and for most silver fractions. In phase I of Neapolitan bronze, to which RRC 1/1 is aligned, the variety ΝΕΟΠΟΛΙΤΩΝ was confined to group Ic and then only to a few coins in series 5. It seems unlikely that the inscription ΡΩΜΑΙΩΝ was selected by the Romans (if they had insisted on coins struck in their own name it is reasonable to expect that they would require Latin). As noted above, this tiny inscription is not easy to distinguish from that of ΝΕΟΠΟΛΙΤΗΣ on the early bronze of Neapolis. The evidence of style indicates that the engravers working for the mint at Neapolis did not change the type; ΡΩΜΑΙΩΝ may have been added to uninscribed existing dies for the quarter coin or to new dies. But to what degree were the Romans involved? Is it possible RRC 1/1 was an issue organized by Neapolis to meet the purchase of goods or services intended for the Romans, but not requested as coinage by the Romans? It is very likely that this was a special issue intended for military expenses. It was arguably associated with a very particular payment, not of any great expense, but one that was repetitive (such as the purchase of fodder for horses as part of the funding of rations). Perhaps RRC 1/1, the first coin struck in the name of the Romans, was more precisely a coin of Neapolis, produced at the request of the treasury officials of Neapolis, as a means to facilitate purchases for the benefit of the Romans in Neapolis itself (very likely), but a coinage that the Romans would not have recognized as a Roman coinage. Is this how the Romans became involved in coinage?

Addendum Michael Rampe To help with identification of the coin and especially inspection of small details such as the small bumps denoting the edge of the inscription, a high-resolution 3D model was created using a photogrammetry approach (Figure 9.7). There were several tangible benefits of this approach. First, colour could be removed altogether (column 2) and the model artificially lit to show a clarity of shape not possible with the analogue subject. Second, further image processing effects such as rendering based on surface angle to the camera (columns 3 and 4) could be used to create artificial edge tracings and other high contract relief images. To undertake the matching, first, scale was calibrated using charts in the image photographs. Thankfully, the sister coin (Figures 9.2 and 9.3; Glasgow) had a scale chart as part of the photograph which is essential to correctly calibrate scale at such sub-millimetre resolutions. Once calibrated, general landmarks were scored digitally over both coin images and these were used to assist with alignment. By

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Figure 9.7 ACANS inv.07GS16. 3D model using a photogrammetry approach. Photo: M. Rampe. undertaking this method, it was clear beyond a doubt that a sister coin from the same die was identified and even the very small bumps, which were remnants of the mis-struck inscription, lined up perfectly with the other coin. This approach of microphotogrammetry was relatively quick and mechanical and will now be applied across a wider range of samples moving forward for identification.

Notes * I thank David Rosenbloom, Art Pomeroy and Jeremy Armstrong for inviting me to contribute to this volume. I also wish to thank Mr A. McCabe, Dr M. C. Molinari (Capitoline Mus.) and Dr Jesper Ericsson (Hunterian) for most kindly providing photos and information on examples of RRC 1/1. I thank Andrew Burnett and Jeremy Armstrong for their valuable comments on an earlier draft. 1. The coin is SNG Australia I, 16. In building up his remarkable collection of coinage from the Greek cities of Southern Italy, a collection with which he intended to survey the main issues of all mints, Dr Gale had focused on its abundant silver issues to represent Neapolis, collecting some 59 didrachms, and a small showing of bronze (7 coins). SNG Australia I, 54–125 (Neapolis). The collection was gifted to the Australian Centre for Ancient Numismatic Studies, Macquarie University, in 2007. All dates are bce unless otherwise noted. 2. Taliercio Mensitieri (1998), 58–63. HNItaly 251. 3. This was suggested and accomplished by Mr Michael Rampe. 4. Crawford (1985), 29–30. 5. Burnett (2004), 41–3. 6. Trundle (2016), 67. Now see Armstrong, Pomeroy and Rosenbloom’s introduction to this volume. 7. See, for example, Bernard (2018a) and (2018b). 8. Armstrong and Termeer in this volume. I thank the authors for allowing me to see a draft of this study.

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Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World 9. There is a substantial literature. See, for example, in relation to the military use of bronze coinage, Psoma (2009); Konuk (2011); Sheedy (2015); Sheedy, Gore and Ponting (2015); and Günther (2020). 10. Crawford (1985), 25–51; Mattingly (2004); Burnett (2012), table 16.1. 11. Burnett (2012). 12. See the papers on Romano-Campanian coinage from a 1993 conference edited by Stazio and Taliercio Mensitieri (1998). 13. Mattingly (1938), 202. 14. Ibid., 203. 15. Russo (2009); Vagi (2013). 16. Eckhel (1795), 47. 17. ‘Numus prior ad causam meam insignis. Ejus simillimum spectatis typis, volumine, metallo, fabrica, omnibus ex museo suo edidito cl. Neumannus, quem solum inscriptum ΝΕΟΠΟΛΙΤΩΝ a priore discernit. Ergo Neapolitani Campaniae honoris causa Romanorum nomen, in quorum erant potestate, pro suo inscripserunt, nisi forte, tanquam cives essent Romani, Romanos se vocaverunt.’ Eckhel (1795), 47. 18. Lenormant (1844). 19. Breglia (1952), 25. 20. Crawford (1974), 37, n.5. 21. Crawford (1985), 30. 22. Vagi (2013), 90. Crawford (1985), 29–30 had already considered this possibility. 23. Vagi (2013), 78. 24. Molinari and Sisci (2016), 250, 252, cat. 414–417, were the first to recognize that the star over the shoulder did not inevitably have eight rays. 25. Ibid., cat. 417 identify a ‘sub-variety’ (Sambon [1903] cat 611) from a single coin with slightly erratic lettering but which still attempts to say ΡΩΜΑΙΩΝ and I have included it within the eight-rayed star group. 26. Taliercio Mensitieri (1998), 50–1, 58–63. 27. RRC 131, Cat. 1/1. 28. Molinari and Sisci (2016), 250, n.168. 29. In the study of the known examples, I have benefitted from the catalogues and illustrations in Taliercio Mensitieri (1986), 219–375, Molinari and Sisci (2016), 249–53, and the database Coinage of the Roman Republic Online. 30. MacDonald (1899), 43, Neapolis no. 151. 31. London 1948,0106.2. Molinari and Sisci (2016), 414. 32. HNItaly 545–9. An early fourth-century obol from Neapolis (HNItaly 558) depicts the horned head of a youth on the obverse together with his name, ΣΕΠΕΙ[ΘΟΣ]. The image of the man-headed bull is commonly associated in Greek coinage with Acheloos the Thessalian river god, who appears on fifth-century issues (often as a facing head or a head with neck). The depiction of a river-god as a forepart type, however, first appears at Gela in Sicily where it is employed as the reverse on the first silver coins of the city, c. 500. See Molinari and Sisci (2016) for a detailed study of this iconography. 33. Kraay (1976), 200.

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RRC 1/1: First Struck Coin for the Romans 34. Teate: HNItaly 698 and Molinari and Sisci (2016), cat. 450–3. This small issue is difficult to date but I do not believe it comes before 300. 35. Taliercio Mensitieri (1986), 220, table A. This dating is followed in HNItaly 567 where the first bronze is grouped with the minting of didrachms (HNItaly 565), in which the obverse type is often accompanied by the letter E and the reverse sometimes displays N in the exergue. 36. HNItaly 545. 37. It has now been slightly modified by Molinari and Sisci (2016), 200–10, cat. 195–223, transitional cat. 224–31. 38. Molinari and Sisci (2016), 200–8, cat. 195–223. 39. Taliercio Mensitieri (1986), 266. Vienna 1599 and 1610. 40. Burnett (2012), 306–7, table 16.1. 41. The system was reformed in phase II (a unit, half unit, a third and a quarter), c. 300. 42. Vagi (2013), 78. 43. The most detailed study remains Taliercio Mensitieri (1998), 51–2, 64–70. Crawford (1985), 30 (‘probably’ Neapolis); HNItaly 252 (unknown mint); and Vagi (2013), 79 (as Neapolis). 44. Burnett (1986), 69–70. 45. Taliercio Mensitieri (1986), 226–7. The half unit and quarter unit were to be distinguished by the bull protome. This division of types was continued in phase II when the system of weights was adjusted and a new third of a unit coin added. 46. On the thirds of phase II the ethnic is often above the bull but on the lighter quarter units it is often on the obverse. 47. Taliercio Mensitieri (1986), 220. HNItaly 577–8, 582–5. 48. These issues have been surveyed by Molinari and Sisci (2016). In addition to Cales, the less important Oscan town of Teanum Sidicinum, which lies close to Cales, produced coins as easily inspired by Cales as by Neapolis; Molinari and Sisci (2016), 258–62. Other small issues came from the Irinthii, Malies (poss. Maleventum), and Teate in Apulia; Molinari and Sisci (2016), 191–5, 197–8, 263–4. 49. Molinari and Sisci (2016), 167–83 (Cales). 50. The dating of the first bronze of Cales and Teanum Siculum c. 265–240, as HNItaly 436 and 454, seems unlikely. They should be contemporary with Phase II at Neapolis (Taliercio Mensitieri, 1986, 227–38, HNItaly 582–5) and this has been pointed out by Molinari and Sisci (2016), 167–8. 51. Crawford (1985), 30. 52. Bernard (2018a), 9, 16. Bernard’s thesis, as he himself recognized (2018a, 9), in part develops an earlier proposal of Burnett (2012) that Roman coinage be seen as a result of the progressive ‘Hellenization’ of the Romans. For an expanded view see Bernard (2018b), esp. chapter 5, ‘The Nobilitas and Economic Innovation’, discussing the introduction and use of coin in Rome to facilitate the creation and maintenance of public infrastructure. 53. Termeer (2015), 60. 54. Ibid., 58. 55. Ibid., 58. 56. Ibid., 59. 57. Ibid., 62, table 3.1 58. For a listing of new types from c. 269 see Burnett (2012), 306–7, table 16.1. 193

Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World 59. Termeer (2015), 69. 60. Ibid., 73. 61. Ibid., 73. Carbone (2020), 114, has also argued that the (parallel) minting of silver and bronze coins by Campanian cities was a coordinated programme to support Roman campaigns. 62. The dating of new issues or phases of production in alignment with war, of course, sets up a de facto association between conflict and coinage. 63. Crawford (1970); de Callataÿ (2019). 64. Howgego (1990). 65. Burnett (2021). 66. Ibid., 29, noted, on reviewing examples of the provincial minting of bronze in the early empire, that the ‘different pattern for different metals is very distinctive’ and suggested that it goes back to the earliest period of Roman domination, in the third century. 67. Kroll (1993), 24–7. 68. Sheedy (2019). 69. Psoma (2009). 70. Sheedy (2015); Sheedy, Gore and Ponting (2015). 71. The impact of armies on local markets is well known to numismatists. As Matthew Trundle (2016, 67) recognized, ‘coins . . . enabled commanders not only to centralize supply redistribution, but also to attract suppliers to armies more effectively . . . . The introduction of a widely accepted measure and means of exchange gave military organisation a centralized internal economy that could also engage with the outside world of traders and markets.’ It also gave cities and their markets a means to effectively deal with the economy of an army. See most recently Günther (2020). 72. Sheedy (2015). The best known is [Aristotle] Oec. 2.2.23 (1350a).

Bibliography Bernard, S. (2018a), ‘The Social History of Early Roman Coinage’, JRS 108: 1–26. Bernard, S. (2018b), Building Mid-Republican Rome: Labor, Architecture, and the Urban Economy, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Breglia, L. (1952), La prima fase della coniazione romana dell’argento, vol. 3, Rome: P. & P. Santamaria. Burnett, A. (1986), ‘The Iconography of the Roman Coinage of the Third Century bc ’, NC 146: 67–75. Burnett, A. (2004), ‘Some Interesting Coins at ACANS’, Journal of the Numismatic Association of Australia 15: 41–4. Burnett, A. (2012), ‘Early Roman Coinage and Its Italian Context’, in W. Metcalf (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Greek and Roman Coinage, 297–314. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Burnett, A. (2021), ‘Overview and Some Methodological Points’, in R. Ashton and N. Badoud (eds), Graecia capta? Rome et les monnayages du monde égéen (IIe-Ier s. av. J.-C.), Aegeum, vol. 1: 17–33. Basel: Schwabe Verlag. Carbone, L. F. (2020), ‘Coinage and Literature, Two Complementary Approaches to the Transformative Aftermath of the First Punic War’, Journal of the Numismatic Association of Australia 30: 96–126. Crawford, M. (1970), ‘Money and Exchange in the Roman World’, JRS 60: 40–8. 194

RRC 1/1: First Struck Coin for the Romans Crawford, M. (1974), Roman Republican Coinage, vols 1–2, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Crawford, M. (1985), Coinage and Money under the Roman Republic: Italy and the Mediterranean Economy, vol. 3, Berkeley : University of California Press. de Callataÿ, F. (2019), ‘Money and Its Ideas. State Control and Military Expenses’, in S. Krmnicek (ed.), A Cultural History of Money in Antiquity, 43–61, London: Bloomsbury. Eckhel, J. (1795), Doctrina Numorum Veterum. Pars II: De Moneta Romanorum. Vol. 5: Continens Numos Consulares et Familiarum subiectis Indicibus, Vienna: Sumptibus J. Camesina. Günther, S. (2020), ‘War-Zone Markets: Generals, Military Payment, and the Creation of Market Economies in Warfare Zones during the Fourth Century bc ’, Marburger Beiträge zur Antiken Handels-Wirtschafts- und Sozialgeschichte 38: 179–202. Howgego, C. (1990), ‘Why Did Ancient States Strike Coins?’, NC 150: 1–26. Konuk, K. (2011), ‘ “War Tokens for Silver” ’? Quantifying the Early Bronze Issues of Ionia’, in F. de Callataÿ (ed.), Quantifying Monetary Supplies in Greco-Roman Times 19: 151–61. Bari: Edipuglia. Kraay, C. (1976), Archaic and Classical Greek Coinage, London: Methuen. Kroll, J. N. (1993), The Greek Coins: The Athenian Agora, vol. 26, Princeton, NJ: American School of Classical Studies at Athens. Lenormant, Ch. (1844), ‘Recherches sur les époques et sure les causes d’émission de l’aes grave en Italie’, Revue Numismatique 9: 245–70. MacDonald, G. (1899), Catalogue of Greek Coins in The Hunterian Collection, University of Glasgow, Volume I: Italy, Sicily, Macedon, Thrace and Thessaly, Glasgow: James Maclehose and Sons. Mattingly, H. (1938), ‘The “Romano-Campanian” Coinage: An Old Problem from a New Angle’, Journal of the Warburg Institute 1: 197–203. Mattingly, H. B. (2004), ‘The Roma/Victory Romano Didrachms and the Start of Roman Coinage’, in H. B. Mattingly (ed.), From Coins to History: Selected Numismatic Studies, 100–29, Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Molinari, N. J. and N. Sisci (2016), ΠOTAMIKON. Sinews of Acheloios: A Comprehensive Catalog of the Bronze Coinage of the Man-Faced Bull with Essays on Origin and Identity, Oxford: Archaeopress. Psoma, S. (2009), ‘Tas sitarchias kai tous misthous ([Arist.], Oec. 1351b): Bronze Currencies and Cash-allowances in Mainland Greece, Thrace and the Kingdom of Macedonia’, Revue Belge de Numismatique et de Sigillographie 155: 3–38. Russo, R. (2009), ‘Prima bozza preliminare di uno studio organico sulla monetazione del centro Italia e della Magna Grecia tra il 326 a.C. al 215 a.C.’, in R. Russo and S. Macchi, Numismatica Sottovoce, 7–22, London: Numismatica Art Classica. Sambon, A. (1903), Les Monnaies Antiques de L’Italie, Paris: Bureaux du «Musée». Sheedy, K. A. (2015), ‘The Emergency Coinage of Timotheus (364–362 bc )’, in U. Wartenberg and M. Amandry (eds), ΚΑΙΡΟΣ: Contributions to Numismatics in Honor of Basil Demetriadi, 203–23, New York: The American Numismatic Society. Sheedy, K. A. (2019), ‘Some Notes on Athenian Bronze Tokens and Bronze Coinage in the Fifth and Fourth Centuries bc ’, in A. Crisà, M. Gkikaki and C. Rowan (eds), Tokens: Culture, Connections, Communities, 19–26, London: Royal Numismatic Society. Sheedy, K. A., D. Gore and M. Ponting (2015), ‘The Bronze Issues of the Athenian General Timotheus: Evaluating the Evidence of Polyaenus’s Stratagemata’, American Journal of Numismatics 27: 1–20. Stazio, A. and M. Taliercio Mensitieri, eds (1998), La Monetazione Romano-Campana: Atti del X Convegno del Centro Internazionale di Studi Numismatici – Napoli 18–19 Giugno 1993, 49–140, Rome: Istituto italiano di numismatica. Taliercio Mensitieri, M. (1986), ‘Il bronzo di Neapolis’, in A. Stazio and M. Taliercio Mensitieri (eds), La monetazione di Neapolis nella Campana antica: Atti del VII Convegno del Centro 195

Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World Internazionale di Studi Numismatici – Napoli 20–24 Aprile 1980, 219–373, Naples: Arte tipgrafica. Taliercio Mensitieri, M. (1998), ‘Le emissioni romano-campane di bronzo’, in A. Stazio and M. Taliercio Mensitieri (eds), La Monetazione Romano-Campana: Atti del X Convegno del Centro Internazionale di Studi Numismatici – Napoli 18–19 Giugno 1993, 49–140, Rome: Istituto italiano di numismatica. Termeer, M. K. (2015), ‘Minting Apart Together: Bronze Coinage Production in Campania and Beyond in the Third Century bc ’, in S. T. Roselaar (ed.), Processes of Cultural Change and Integration in the Roman World, 58–77, Leiden: Brill. Trundle, M. (2016), ‘Coinage and the Economics of the Athenian Empire’, in J. Armstrong (ed.), Circum Mare: Themes in Ancient Warfare, 65–79, Leiden: Brill. Vagi, D. (2013), ‘Rome’s First Didrachm in Light of the foedus Neapolitanum and the equus October’, in P. van Alfen and R. Witschonke (eds), Essays in Honour of Roberto Russo, 73–94, Zurich: Numismatica Ars Classica.

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CHAPTER 10 THE MILITARY HISTORY OF EARLY ROMAN COINAGE Jeremy Armstrong and Marleen K. Termeer

Despite over a century of research, the rationale behind Rome’s relatively late adoption of coinage c. 300 bce remains something of a mystery.1 The traditional argument for this development is that it was a direct, and largely cultural, response to Rome’s increased involvement in Magna Graecia. As has been noted by quite a few scholars, it is unlikely to be a coincidence that the advent of coinage in Rome coincided with Rome’s expansion into southern Italy and her increased contact with the Greek communities there.2 The Romans are often seen to have simply integrated themselves into the existing, coinagebased systems present in that region – something arguably supported by the initial issue of Roman coinage being produced at the mint of the Greek city of Neapolis3 – borrowing and adopting/adapting from those they conquered, as they are so often thought to have done.4 The change was therefore a somewhat superficial one, at least initially, although the Romans evidently recognized the utility of the medium and began to deploy it in increasing numbers during the course of the third century. Although it broadly explains the phenomenon, there have always been a series of tensions within this argument. To begin with, given Rome’s importance and evident economic connections going back to at least the sixth century, it is virtually unthinkable that the Romans would have been unaware of coinage from an early date. Coinage was being produced in Italy, and likely passing through Rome, centuries before the first Roman issues. Thus, scholars are often forced into the awkward position of seeking reasons why the Romans would not adopt a technology that both we, and evidently later Romans, viewed as a useful innovation. For instance, it has been suggested that Rome may have always wished to mint coins, but simply lacked the resources. In the year 293, the consuls L. Papirius Cursor and Sp. Carvilius Maximus are reported as returning from Samnium with spoils totalling over two million aes, but only 1,830 Roman pounds of silver. If this ratio represented the norm, it is possible that the Romans simply did not have the silver necessary for large issues of coinage until the second quarter of the third century, which may explain the late introduction. Indeed, Harl has argued that it was not until Rome’s victory over Carthage that the city acquired enough specie to fully monetize its economy,5 while Rutter suggested that it may have been the absence of silver in Italy and Sicily more generally which prompted Greek communities there to start issuing coins in bronze – a phenomenon which is increasingly seen in the third century.6 However, there are problems with this position. First of all, while the evidence for silver is inconclusive, it is clear that the Romans had access to bronze before the late fourth and early third centuries, but still did not seem at all interested in developing coinage in that 197

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metal. Clearly the lack of resources was not the only thing holding them back from adopting the wider medium of exchange. Moreover, the absence of silver coinage produced by Rome before the late fourth century goes hand in hand with a lack of other silver coinages found in Rome and its immediate surroundings in the period before the Second Punic War – not only was it not produced, it simply was not in use in the region.7 This seems to indicate that Rome was not so much incapable of producing silver coinage, but rather was reluctant to engage with it at all. Scholars have therefore looked for a possible economic impetus for the Roman adoption of coinage – with the construction of the Via Appia being the most commonly advanced explanation.8 This sort of construction project would have certainly demanded the mobilization of significant resources, although it must be noted that the lack of coinage had not held the Romans back before. The Romans were able to build significant public works, like the city’s great ‘Servian walls’ and many other civic improvements, often using Greek workmen, without resorting to the issue of coinage.9 So public construction projects alone would not seem to be enough to spark Rome’s adoption of an entirely new medium of exchange. Indeed, as Tan, Bernard and others have recently argued, Rome featured a complex and multifaceted economy since at least the fifth century, and likely much earlier.10 Rome’s lack of coinage was clearly not an indication of a lack of sophistication or power, and it is uncertain whether a project like the Via Appia was enough to push Rome down a new economic path. These tensions are well known, and are the reason that scholars have often relied on a broader cultural argument: that the Romans were aware of coinage, but did not need it,11 and simply adopted it as part of a larger adoption of Greek culture during this period.12 Or, as Coarelli put it, the Roman adoption of coinage was essentially a question of ‘gusto’ or ‘taste’.13 The suggestion is that the Romans ultimately picked up coinage as a superficial and aesthetic nod to Greek culture in this period, as they had supposedly done with so many other facets of Greek culture, and only slowly recognized the benefits associated with it, in terms of ease of exchange and economic control. However, this sort of ‘Hellenizing’ paradigm – whereby the Romans ‘learned’ a new technology from the Greeks as part of their move towards ‘increasing sophistication’ in this period – also comes with its own issues. For one, it surely underestimates the potential role of Carthage. While Carthage itself was late to adopt coinage in comparison to the Greek world, it was an important coin producer throughout the fourth century, and many Italians likely had fought as mercenaries for Carthage in Sicily. More generally, we would argue that an analysis along strictly perceived cultural – or even ethnic – lines obscures a much more dynamic set of relationships which existed between many different players in the region. This was not a dichotomy with Greek and Roman (or Italian, or ‘barbarian’) monoliths, but a complex web of individuals, interactions and influences. More importantly, a key underlying principle of the traditional argument is a sense of Roman distinctiveness and exceptionalism: that ‘the Romans’ represented a clear and identifiable culture, society and political system which was fundamentally different from the ‘Greek’ or Hellenistic models,14 and that, consequently, their reasons to adopt coinage must be explained within this specific ‘Roman’ framework. This conception of Rome and 198

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‘Roman-ness’ obviously goes back to our extant ancient sources, who presented things in this way, and has long formed an important part of our ethnic and pseudo-nationalistic conceptions of ancient identity. However, modern scholarship has increasingly cast this sort of paradigm into doubt. For instance, while our ancient sources often discuss Roman culture in a homogenous manner, we also know that Roman society was constantly in flux, and a definition of what constitutes ‘Roman culture’ is incredibly difficult to give – particularly in this period, when the Romans were extending forms of citizenship across wide swathes of central Italy. If an individual could be ‘Samnite’, ‘Greek’, or ‘Latin’ one day, and ‘Roman’ the next, how uniform or distinct could these cultures really be? The growing corpus of archaeological evidence has also cast doubt on the veracity of these labels, at least as ways to express lived culture.15 A churning, fluid mass of mobile populations has increasingly replaced the stable ethnically defined zones we have long been used to seeing on maps and charts.16 While there are clearly local and regional variations and norms visible in the archaeological record, they do not seem to match up with the labels offered by our sources particularly well.17 Since at least Horden and Purcell (and Braudel before them), our conception of the ancient Mediterranean has been defined more by its connections than its divisions. Consequently, hypothesizing a distinctively ‘Roman’ approach to something like coinage, at least based on culture, is problematic. While at a Mediterranean-wide level, we can clearly identify a range of distinct monetary traditions, within the Italian peninsula, things are not as clear cut. As noted above, the mobility and fluidity of populations in ancient Italy means that distinct cultural groups are difficult to identify with any consistency through material culture.18 While change is certainly visible across time and space, it was almost never delineated by the types of neat, sharp divisions described by our extant literary sources. Further, it must be remembered that monetary culture in Italy was changing rapidly right in the period that Rome started to produce its first coinage. While Rome was clearly engaging with an established system, it was not a static one, just as the Roman state was not static. It would be a mistake, therefore, to limit a discussion of early Roman coinage exclusively to the production of the Roman state. Instead, we will argue that the production within the wider Roman sphere, and especially by Roman allies in Italy, should be considered an integral part of coinage in the early Roman world. As Seth Bernard argued in his 2018 JRS article ‘The Social History of Early Roman Coinage’, the minting of coinage can be understood within the framework of changing social relationships in this developing, and deeply interconnected, world. Bernard focused on the emergence of coinage as a reflection of a broader shift in the way wealth was conceived in mid-Republican Rome. He argued that coinage represented a new, quantifiable form of wealth, which would have been attractive for players that were new in the Roman political scene and could not rely on traditional forms of wealth, well-established relationships, and inherited prestige. This is very likely correct, but it does not address the core function of coinage, the reasons for its production, or the contexts in which it was used. As will be discussed below, coinage initially was not simply ‘quantified wealth’, but a very specific medium typically produced for very specific reasons. Additionally, it must be noted that there are many other ways to quantify wealth, as we see in circulation during this 199

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period – including aes rude and ramo secco bars, slaves, livestock, etc. With a mobile and fluid population, and functioning as an important hub in both regional and Mediterranean trade, communities like Rome would have been used to negotiating wealth with newcomers. A lack of coinage had never held them back before. While Bernard is critical of military explanations for Rome’s earliest coinage, we argue that a broader contextualization of early Roman coinage does point in this direction. It is true that early Roman coin issues are too small and sporadic to have been used as a regular way of meeting military expenses on their own.19 However, the social dynamics that Bernard has pointed out may also apply to Roman players in a military context, where only in exceptional cases, magistrates may have felt the need to commission and use coinage in specific situations.20 Further, the Roman society that Bernard sketches is rather abstract: it remains unclear whether he imagines the social processes that he describes to have taken place in the city of Rome itself, or rather in the broader Italian context in which Rome was active in this period. If it is the latter, then it must be acknowledged that coinage would not have been new at all c. 300, but rather an established part of society and economy. Indeed, coinage must have been well-known in the context of the Roman army, as at least some Roman allies were an integral part of the Mediterranean military economy in which coinage played an important part.

The military context of early Roman coinage If we discard the idea of a distinctively ‘Roman’ approach to coinage, and instead situate the adoption of coinage by the Roman state in the broader Mediterranean context, we must take into account that in the fourth century the minting of coinage was inexorably intertwined with military affairs. It was, almost universally, a product of a ‘state’ and was connected to a state’s ability to wage war. It must be noted that this is not the only reason states minted coinage, as Chris Howgego noted in his 1990 article on ‘Why Did Ancient States Strike Coins?’, although his collection of the exceptions in many ways reinforced the rule.21 While states could theoretically mint coins for any type of expenditure, by far the most common thing that ancient states minted coinage for was warfare.22 Part of this might relate to the fact that, by the fifth and fourth centuries, warfare often represented the largest expense that most states had. However, states had a range of different ways to use their collected wealth and power, for instance through duty/service or encouraging euergetism or benefaction, and chose to issue coinage only in certain instances – with the most consistent being for military contracts. The strong relationship between coinage and warfare, and specifically mercenary service, was regularly commented on by ancient writers (Arist. Pol. 1285a, 1313b; Arist. Ath. Pol. 15.1–3; Hdt. 1.61.3–4; Xen. Hell. 7.1.45–6),23 and Trundle went as far to suggest that, by the fourth century, coinage was effectively a required part of military wages throughout the eastern Mediterranean – a symbolic and ritualized aspect of the military contract which bound the soldier to his leader.24 By the Hellenistic period, coinage, as a medium of exchange, was far more than a simple quantification of wealth issued by the state, but was deeply imbued with the social 200

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and religious associations which bound armies together in this period. While coins obviously circulated after this initial transaction, the iconography and inscriptions they bore often served as a lasting testament of this central function – typically bearing the name of the state that had commissioned the contract and either military motifs or symbols of the gods that may have overseen the transaction. As Trundle noted, ‘The coins paid to mercenaries functioned rather like the coins minted by the polis. They were symbols of power and relationships as well as of economic value.’25 Coins were also specific. As Williams and Meadows noted, following Crawford and many others,26 with regard to the ancient world, [it] is clear that in general coinage was produced to facilitate the making of payments on a large scale by the issuing body. When such payments were not being made, coinage was not produced. There was, in any case, no concept in the ancient world of a “money supply” that needed to be maintained or that could be manipulated to economic effect.27 In the period c. 300, when the first ‘Roman’ coins were issued, coinage would have therefore carried strong military associations and was usually produced for a specific purpose – typically a military contract of some sort. Indeed, the existing Hellenistic model for the production and use of coinage – and particularly silver coinage – is almost impossible to ignore when considering the early Roman issues. Not only does a significant part of early Roman coinage look like contemporary Greek coinage from Magna Graecia, and so would have been clearly identifiable in that symbolic context, but it is often found alongside it.28 Clearly, Roman and Greek/Hellenistic coins circulated at least partly in the same economic systems, and seemingly symbolic systems as well. Early Roman coin issues also seem to align remarkably well with various Roman military ventures during this period,29 hinting at connections to the Hellenistic military economy. However, while this military aspect has been acknowledged, it has also long proved problematic. It has always been accepted that the earliest Roman coin issues are not large and regular enough to have served to pay the stipendium, which was Rome’s largest (and perhaps only consistent) military expense in this period.30 Instead, usually, scholars have tried to connect the first small issues of coinage to smaller, specific expenditures, such as the Via Appia, and the first large issues to the outbreak of the First Punic War and the nominal creation of a large Roman navy.31 However, such connections remain hard to prove. As noted above, the Romans already had a history of constructing large public works without coinage, at least within the city of Rome itself, and it is questionable to what extent the creation of the Roman navy was paid for at public expense.32 Moreover, a potential connection to specific large expenditures cannot, in itself, explain why Rome opted to produce coinage to pay for them, and not simply rely on another existing media of exchange, if this system was fundamentally foreign. Therefore, we propose to explain these issues in relation to the broader Mediterranean/ Hellenistic military context. We would suggest that coinage was not a new or foreign concept in Rome c. 300, and indeed aspects of the Roman army (and wider Roman 201

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economy) may have been supported by coinage in various ways before this date. However, the Roman state had simply never needed to directly mint coinage itself, as any expenses or relationships which might have required it were handled by other parties – most notably the socii, or Rome’s allies. Once the Roman state was required to mint coinage though, it showed an amazing flexibility within this realm, producing a range of different issues for different purposes. We can understand this flexibility as a result of the fluid and federated nature of the Roman state in the late fourth and early third centuries, followed by a process of increased centralization of coin production in the course of the third century as the Roman state situated itself at the centre or a military network which had previously run through its allies.

Early coin production by Rome and the allies An important early monetary tradition in Rome and central Italy was based on bronze. The literary sources clearly envisaged bronze coinage in circulation in Rome from a very early date. This innovation was often attributed to either Numa or Servius Tullius by ancient authors. Numa, seemingly because of the association between his name and the word nummus (an attribution found most commonly in later compilers),33 and Servius Tullius because of his association with the Centuriate system based, supposedly, on coined wealth.34 Although these precise details are unlikely given the quasi-mythical nature of these figures, this basic chronology for the introduction of coinage at Rome did make some sense, as during the seventh and sixth centuries Rome was an important part of the trade network which existed in central Italy between the wealthy communities of Magna Graecia in the south and the resource-rich Etruscans in the north, and as such would have undoubtedly come across coinage through various transactions. Indeed, the literary sources are full of references to bronze coinage in their narratives for the sixth and fifth century, although these mostly occur in discussions of public funerals and fines and are decidedly problematic for a number of reasons, including the anachronistic use of submeasurements of an as.35 In modern scholarship, these references are commonly understood as referring to weighed-out bronze, rather than coins, with the libra being the main weight standard.36 The archaeology, indeed, tells a rather different story. The use of bronze as a form of currency or portable wealth was widespread in central Italy from a very early date, with finds of aes rude (or rough lumps of bronze) present regionally as early as the tenth century, and there is evidence for its presence in Rome in the layer under the Lapis Niger, which places its use in the city firmly in the regal period.37 But the advent of bronze coinage occurred much later. Beginning in the fifth and fourth centuries, bronze began to take on increasingly regular shapes and weights, which has caused some to argue for an evolutionary model.38 This argument usually sees the Central Italians move from aes rude to irregular bronze bars (often found with simple branch motif and dubbed ‘ramo secco’ by scholars), to more regular bronze ingots (usually measuring 160 by 90mm and weighing about 1,500 to 1,600 grams – 5 Roman pounds),39 traditionally (and 202

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confusingly) known as aes signatum.40 However, the creation of all of these bronze types, with the exception of some later bronze bars (largely from the third century), seems to have been highly irregular and there is little evidence to suggest that they represented state initiatives. Additionally, aes rude and cast bronze coins and bars seem to have circulated side by side in the early third century, seemingly forming part of a single currency system based predominantly on the simple weight of specie – suggesting that the form, in cast bars or aes rude, meant little if anything.41 Roman coinage only appears in the late fourth century, first in the form of small struck bronze coins marked ΡΩΜΑΙΩΝ (RRC 1), which were probably produced in Neapolis in the 320s.42 This issue is followed by a similar issue with legend ROMANO (RRC 2). Both these early struck bronze issues were small in size, and the first larger issues in struck bronze (RRC 16 and 17) followed only some decades later. Not long after the first bronze, however, did Rome produce its first silver issue (RRC 13), although scholars have still not reached final agreement on a detailed chronology for its introduction. Most scholars place its advent sometime around 300, give or take a few decades (the two main dates pushed in scholarly debates being 310 and 295 for the first ‘Romano’ didrachm, clearly before the date of 269, when the first Roman silver was produced according to most literary sources).43 Like its successor (RRC 15), this silver issue bears the legend ROMANO, but it should be noted that RRC 13 is found mainly in the southern part of the Italian peninsula.44 So the use of silver as a form of currency seems to have been a reasonably late development for Rome, and as far as we can tell it was always associated with coinage (no rough lumps, etc.). Importantly, the distribution of the finds indicates that the first Roman silver coinage was not produced for use in the city itself or in its direct surroundings.45 Indeed, broadening our view to the rest of Italy, it is clear that by producing struck silver and bronze coinage, Rome, on the one hand, joined an existing tradition, as many of the Greek communities in southern Italy had been producing these kinds of coinages for decades if not centuries. We have already seen that the first Roman bronze was probably produced in Neapolis and, for its earliest silver coins, Rome used the same weight standard as Neapolis (7.2g).46 On the other hand, we should note that Rome was far from being the only community to start the production of struck bronze and silver in this period. Many communities in southern and central Italy produced coinage for the first time in the first half of the third century. In general, these were isolated issues of small size. Importantly, many of the producers were either allies or colonies of Rome. For instance, early in the third century (c. 280–275), the Latin colonies of Alba Fucens, Signia and Norba produced low denominations of silver, while slightly later (c. 265–240), silver coinage was produced by Cales, Suessa Aurunca (colonies), Teanum Sidicunum, Nola and Nuceria (allies).47 Even more Roman colonies and allies produced struck bronze coinage, although the associations of this currency are more variable than the silver and thus more difficult to parse. In addition to these struck silver and bronze coins, Rome also produced cast bronze bars and bronze coins in the first half of the third century. These would have been quite foreign to contemporary Greek traditions, both because of their general shape and size 203

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and because of the absence of a legend on most of them. Indeed, all of the large cast bronze coins (RRC 14, 18, 19; the main unit is the full Roman as of c. 324g) lack a legend or any other markings to indicate the community of origin.48 The same is true for most of the bronze bars, as out of ten known types (RRC 3–12) only two bear the legend ROMANOM (RRC 3 and 4). The cast bars and coins clearly stand in the central Italian tradition of aes rude and bronze bars described above. Indeed, again we should note that Rome was not the only community to produce these kinds of large, cast bronze coins. In central Italy, a range of other communities also produced cast bronze coins in the third century, with a range of different weight standards.49 Some of the producing communities can be identified, either on the basis of the legend (Carseoli, Hadria), or on the basis of the provenance of finds when there is no legend. However, in many cases, it is not clear who exactly is responsible for production. Among the producers we can recognize are both colonies (Carseoli, Hadria, Ariminum) and allies of Rome (Praeneste, Iguvium).50 However, despite emerging out of a pre-existing, indigenous and widespread tradition of using cast bronze as currency, it is intriguing that the cast coins and currency bars (excepting the ramo secco variety) all seem to post-date the initial use of coinage by the Roman state. Together, this varied group of coin issues by Rome, its colonies and its allies shows that the Roman community, in some form, was getting involved in the production and control of coinage in a meaningful way.51 We thus see a range of different players producing coinage, and even in the case of the production by Rome itself, the varied production and approach to silver and bronze currency has led some to remark that it was unlikely to be based on a single initiative – in contrast to the Greek world where monetary systems were centrally curated.52 Only by the second half of the third century was the Roman production of bronze coinage effectively integrated with silver coinage, with more standardized weights and coordinated symbols on issues, along with a move towards struck as opposed to cast issues. At roughly the same time the legend on all the coinage shifted from ROMANO to ROMA, and although the significance of this development is uncertain, it does coincide with the issuing of coins becoming increasingly regular and prevalent.

Rome’s military economy Traditionally, Rome was always thought to have featured a fundamentally different military system to her Hellenistic neighbours and rivals. Most notably, Rome supposedly lacked a navy and eschewed the use of mercenaries – the two main reasons why Hellenistic states seem to have produced coinage.53 How then do we align the advent of coinage in Rome, with her traditionally very different military system, with a wider military environment where coinage functioned as an extension of the state in the military sphere? The economic aspects of Rome’s military in the early and middle Republic are incredibly difficult to decipher given the nature of our sources. Traditionally, Rome’s military system was largely thought to be based on the principles of a civic militia, where 204

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self-supporting citizen soldiers, and allied contingents, fought for the state. Around 400, the Roman state began to subsidize this militia through the introduction of both tributum and the stipendium, but the basics of the system remained intact. Indeed, it is possible that tributum and stipendium generally functioned in a dispersed and devolved manner, managed by a network of tribuni aerarii.54 While some funds, most notably those paraded in triumphs, made their way into the aerarium of Rome, the vast majority of Rome’s military economy was likely managed at the local level. In addition, part of the Roman army was not financed by Rome itself, but by her allies. Complicating this picture, moreover, is the persistent power and military activities of individual Roman gentes. From Coriolanus and the ‘private war’ of the Fabii against Veii in first half of the fifth century down to the actions of men like Camillus and Manlius Capitolinus in the early fourth century, it is increasingly accepted that the Roman state, and central Italian ‘states’ in general, did not have a total monopoly on warfare in Italy in this period.55 Rather, individual gentes regularly operated alongside community-based forces, on seemingly equal footing,56 and some have even suggested that many states, like that at Rome, could be best conceived of as federations of elite families.57 Within this more heterogenous and federated system, it is unclear how coherent and cohesive any ‘state-based’ policy or approach could be. While the fourth-century Mediterranean was full of ‘states’ dominated by families and family politics, most notably those of the Hellenistic kings, the regular, annual rotation of magistracies in the Roman system provided an extra level of dynamism (and, arguably, tumultuous confusion). While Rome seems to have been able to field very effective armies each year – combining the power and authority of individual family heads with the pooled resources and manpower of the community – the shifting balance of power within the relatively large and diverse Roman nobility meant that many measures would have been ad hoc and limited by the annual term of those in charge. Given Rome’s fluid and federated system, coupled with the largely devolved approach to military support and the tributum/stipendium system, the varied and devolved nature of Rome’s early coinage make some sense. The strong differences in both the nature of the different issues (cast bronze / struck bronze / struck silver) and their different areas of distribution suggest that these were separate initiatives, likely introduced by individual magistrates to deal with immediate needs.58 We should arguably not expect a magistrate to put in place a system which extended beyond his own year in charge, except where he might have anticipated that another member of his gens would take control in the next year. While reform clearly occurred during the Roman Republic, the nature of Rome’s annual magistracies might explain why it was not more common – as it required men to either see reforms as benefitting them when they were no longer in power, or to exhibit a remarkably high degree of selflessness or charity. In a context where coinage was only attractive to some members of the Roman elite, this explains the long delay in Rome’s adoption of coinage and the small scale and variety of the initial issues. With a very loose and federated Roman state, where military power was held by annually elected magistrates, coupled with a devolved system of finance and support, there seems to have been little need or appetite to invest in coinage for much of the fourth and early third 205

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centuries. Alternatively, the delay may have also been the result of Rome’s state structure. As noted above, coinage was at least partly symbolic, and by far the most important symbolism – as reflected in the iconography and inscriptions on the item itself – related to the state that commissioned it. However, if the state lacked the cohesion and identity required to legitimize and support a coin issue, it may not have been accepted. Given this issue, and the contested nature of Roman identity during this period,59 it is interesting that the first Roman issues seem to have employed the iconography of other states instead of their own.60 Against this background, the question remains why the Romans ultimately shifted course and did introduce coinage, initially through a few small issues and later through larger issues of bronze and silver. In doing so, we should differentiate between the various components of early Roman coin production. The strongest contrast in the Roman use of coinage is between the cast bronze coins and the silver. Cast bronze coins are mainly found in Roman territory, and their strong presence along the coastal strip north and south of Rome has been related to the creation of a defensive belt on the coast, with the fortification of several sanctuaries and coloniae.61 In contrast, the distribution of Rome’s silver coinage in the southern part of the peninsula points to a different rationale behind its production. The struck bronze travels more widely than the cast bronze, but still seems to be centred on Rome.62 The connection between the cast bronze coins and the coloniae maritimae in particular is intriguing, as it may not only hint at an early function but may provide some clues about likely vectors for introduction. The argument that the early cast bronze coins can be associated with the fortifying of the coast was argued for by Jaia and Molinari over ten years ago.63 While this will likely always remain speculation, the connection between these coastal sites and these issues seems clear from their common find locations – there may even be a relation to the later adoption of the prow iconography. Thus, although cast and existing in a firmly Italian context and weight standard, the decision to mint these coins may indicate the Roman state’s engagement with the wider Hellenistic norm whereby large military expenditures were paid for with metal in this medium. But beyond this simple military association, the connection with coloniae maritimae, as a particular settlement type, is fascinating. These foundations were a new innovation in the period from 338 to 218. Although they made use of existing urban zones, the men who were settled there held full Roman citizenship (the first colonists in Italy to have this), but were exempted from tributum and supervised their own census returns.64 They would have thus had a very special position in the Roman census, which may have created both a need and an opportunity for a new quantification of wealth, and would have had a unique relationship with the censors. Out of all the magistracies of Rome in this period, the censors are the most likely to have been involved in the creation of coinage, both because their office oversaw the taking in and spending of wealth and was one of the few that lasted for more than a single year. In a slightly earlier period (late fourth and early third centuries), the Roman approach to struck bronze and silver shows a somewhat different approach, and possibly a different impetus and vector. Most notably, while the cast bronze coinage seems to have been 206

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based on a libra-based weight, hinting that it was not fiduciary, struck bronze issues were evidently fiduciary and were not part of the same monetary system – at least initially.65 Struck bronze was produced in Rome and southern Italy, in a way which seems to align more with Roman struck silver issues. With struck coinage, therefore, we seem to witness a more direct engagement with the wider Hellenistic military economy, whereby Rome minted (or commissioned) coins for specific expenses in specific contexts – and indeed, this is explored in another chapter (Sheedy) in this volume. In contrast to the censorial engagement we may see with cast bronze coinage, the spread of both struck bronze and silver Roman issues maps more readily onto the activities of Rome’s military magistrates. Again, though, the pattern is irregular and inconsistent, with only a series of small issues being produced down until the start of the First Punic War, when production seems to expand significantly. This can be explained by Rome’s varied use of Hellenistic military infrastructure.

The Mediterranean military economy c. 300 Silver coinage had been produced and used in Italy by the Greek communities of Magna Graecia from as early as the late sixth century, with Sybaris, Metapontum, Croton, Caulonia and Tarentum all issuing coinage during this period.66 Despite the number of mints and issues, even in this early period, the silver coinage in the Greek south shared certain key characteristics including a regular weight standard (c. 8.1g), traditionally known as the ‘Achaean’ or ‘Italo-Achaean’ standard and incuse fabric, where the design which appears in relief on one side of the coin can be found impressed on the reverse.67 Large denominations were also the norm, with fractional coinage and small denominations, including bronze issues, often forming a much smaller subset or being absent altogether in the earliest periods.68 In the fifth and fourth centuries, the number of active mints grew considerably and the incuse coin fabric was no longer in use, but the shared weighed standard remained intact (although it dropped slightly to 7.8–7.9 grams in the fifth century). During the third century the Greek communities started to mint less silver and more bronze coinage, although this is a late development and may have some connection to the rise of Rome in the region. Interestingly then, for long periods of time in Italy, coinage, when it was used at all, was a surprisingly inflexible medium of exchange, with even the smallest denominations representing a significant sum. It has therefore been argued that, although coinage undoubtedly represented a multifaceted system and was likely used in a range of economic activities, particularly after it had been initially distributed, the initial production of coinage in the Greek world (and particularly the Greek communities of Magna Graecia) was likely linked to large expenditures by the state, often related to the military.69 Silver, and occasionally gold, coinage allowed a state to make large payments in an easily transportable medium for specific purposes, which included the hiring of mercenaries, building of triremes and other military vessels, and the creation of military infrastructure, such as roads.70 207

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This fits very well with larger patterns of coin production in the Graeco-Roman world, where large-scale coin issues can practically always be related to military conflicts (see above).The payment of mercenaries is often held to be an important reason for coin production in the Mediterranean military economy at large, especially for precious metal coinage.71 However, other military expenses could also serve as an incentive for coin production, such as the payment of regular troops, the provisioning of soldiers, and expenses related to military infrastructure. In this regard, we should realize that bronze coins could also be used for the cash payment of rations – especially in garrisons – in Hellenistic Greece, and these bronze coins were produced not only by the royal mints, but also by cities and even individual generals or other military leaders.72 Various Italic peoples were involved in this broader Mediterranean military economy from an early period, and southern Italy (especially Campania) was the centre of a thriving mercenary market.73 Most famously perhaps, Diodorus mentions the presence of Campanian mercenaries in the conflict between Syracuse and Athens between 415 and 413: originally fighting on the Athenian side, they were subsequently hired by the Carthaginians.74 More generally, throughout the fifth to the third centuries, several Italic groups are mentioned as mercenaries in Greek and Carthaginian armies, including Etruscans, Campanians, Volscians and Samnites.75 Indeed, if we are to believe Appian, one of the clauses in the treaty that followed the conclusion of the First Punic War was that Carthage was no longer allowed to recruit mercenaries on the Italian peninsula.76 Italic mercenaries also travelled more widely in the Mediterranean: they are quite well attested in Ptolemaic Egypt, appear in inscriptions in Athens and Delphi, and are recorded marching into Babylon in the army of Alexander the Great.77 There are even some attestations of Italic groups and communities using mercenaries themselves.78 For instance we have Dionysius’ reference (Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 15.6.3) to the Samnites offering to serve for Neapolis, one of the major sources for coinage in southern Italy, in the lead up to the Samnite Wars. Southern Italy was therefore firmly enmeshed in the Mediterraneanwide, Hellenistic military economy in which communities primarily minted and utilized coinage, especially silver, for large, state-based, military expenses. From the Greek colonies on the coast to the Oscan-speaking interior, this seems to have been the accepted norm in the region from the fifth century down through the third.79 While the variable, and often quite idiosyncratic, minting of small issues of coinage in northern Italy (especially in bronze) hints at a complicated reception of this medium in Italy in the preceding period,80 as Rome moved into southern Italy in the late fourth century and began to mint and utilize coinage of its own, the Hellenistic context clearly predominated. There was, then, a well-established context within which struck coinage was minted in the ancient Mediterranean, associated with the hiring of mercenaries and the purchasing of ships by states. This is also a context which ancient Italians would have been intimately familiar with, having been on the receiving end of payments for over a century, and producing some coinage in their own right, plausibly – and seemingly, when the evidence is available – for similar purposes. This is not to say that coinage was a prerequisite for the acquisition of either mercenaries or ships, although it may have been expected, but merely that it seems to have occupied an important part of the economic 208

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and military systems associated with them. Struck coinage facilitated exchange in these markets and offered the opportunity, for anyone who could produce it, to engage with and harness existing military systems which had been developed by the great Hellenistic kingdoms to pursue their wars. It was a Mediterranean-wide marketplace, which included Italy, with a remarkably consistent form of currency which was exchanged, at least initially, for a surprisingly limited set of goods and services. From the Roman perspective, however, for much of the fifth and fourth centuries, it was a marketplace which they had no desire to enter. Although individual Roman families and gentes were likely quite active at sea from an early date,81 the Roman state did not directly purchase ships in large numbers until the 260s and is never reported as hiring mercenaries. Thus, there would have been no need for the state to engage directly in this military market by minting its coinage. However, this does not mean that the Romans were disconnected from the wider military or economic system. The main reason why Rome could afford to eschew the use of mercenaries was their system of alliances within Italy – although beneath the superficial cleanliness of that distinctively Roman system likely lay a wealth of complexity which must have overlapped with existing Italic and Hellenistic paradigms. Socii, or ‘allies’, were obliged to provide troops for the Roman army and pay any required associated costs. The socii were recruited from across the Italian peninsula and served as distinct units in the Roman army with their own leadership. There is nothing to suggest that the soldiers supplied by allied communities had to be citizens or residents of those communities, and indeed, for communities which had long relied on the use of mercenaries, this would not have been a useful restriction for the Romans. It is a tantalizing possibility that the Romans may have considered both the economic and military systems of defeated enemies when considering whether to integrate them as cives, cives sine suffragio, or socii. Either way, the Roman army of the fourth and third centuries may have often contained mercenaries, who were serving for pay, but who were directly employed by local communities and serving Rome as socii – their mercenary relationship being with the allied communities which had initially recruited them and continued to pay them, and not the state of Rome. Rome may have therefore been able to effectively outsource the recruitment of mercenaries, which were evidently plentiful in Italy during this period, by leveraging local alliances and elite networks. This may have also benefitted Rome indirectly, as it may have extracted Italians from the wider Hellenistic military economy, as they were no longer available as potential mercenaries for other armies.82 A similar situation likely existed with the early Roman navy. Far from being complete novices at sea, as is traditionally suggested, it is likely that the Roman navy operated in a more federated manner, utilizing allied ships and crews – which may have been paid for using locally produced coinage – under the banner of Rome. This sort of system would have benefitted the devolved and relatively simple bureaucracy of the Roman state during this period. Although the minting of silver coinage by Roman allies generally decreases over time, especially during the course of the third century, many Roman allies – for instance Neapolis (made a socius in 326) and Nuceria (conquered by Rome in 308) – continued 209

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to mint a wide range of silver coinage down into the third century. This suggests that there was a need for silver coinage – presumably for military expenses (including mercenaries and supplies) – in this region, which supported the broader Roman effort. Indeed, the start of coinage production by other Roman allies may also be tentatively linked to military expenses. Such a link between allied coinage production and the Roman military is suggested in the case of Latin colonies and allies that struck bronze coins with similar types, likely as a result of interaction in the context of the Roman army.83 One tantalizing piece of evidence is the existence of silver Celtic imitations of the bronze coinage of Cales, another ally and colony of Rome (captured in 335, colony founded in 334), which may even point at the involvement of Gauls in the Roman army.84 Although we lack direct evidence that Gauls were being hired as mercenaries by Italians, their presence as mercenaries in Hellenistic and Carthaginian armies is well attested,85 and we know that Gauls were present supporting a number of armies in central Italy during the fourth century – for instance supporting Tibur against Rome during the 360s and the Hernici in the 350s (Livy 7.9–12).86 In this general context, it would not be surprising if they also fought in the Roman army, albeit as part of an allied contingent.87 Indeed, given the movement of Gallic elements into Etruria during the course of the fifth and fourth centuries, it may have been difficult to distinguish ‘Gallic’ warriors from ‘Etruscans’ by the end of this period.88 This also draws our attention to an element of similarity and overlap between the Roman system and the wider Hellenistic context. Both the Roman army and many contemporary Hellenistic armies were composed of a wide range of soldiers with different backgrounds. We may imagine that for – say – a group of Campanian soldiers, it would not have made a huge difference whether they served as mercenaries in a Hellenistic army, or as ‘allies’ in the Roman army: they were fighting a war which was not (primarily) theirs and they were being paid for it. Thus, struck coins were likely only produced explicitly for and by Rome when absolutely required, when a Roman magistrate needed to make a purchase to support his army on campaign and was not able to utilize his other social, political, or economic connections in order to acquire what he needed.89 It may be no coincidence that the very first Roman coin was produced in Naples, a hub in coinage production within the military network of southern Italy.90 Even during the First Punic War, Roman coinage production remained at a relatively small scale. When large scale minting did start, however, Rome seems to have been able to do this in a fast and efficient manner, displaying none of the naiveté and amateurism which is often associated with Rome’s efforts in this area. This was not the Roman state stepping into an entirely new arena, but merely finally taking direct control of a facet of her military systems that had previously been handled in a delegated or devolved manner.

Conclusions The Roman approach to coinage has often presented something of an enigma to scholars. Rome was clearly an important part of pan-Mediterranean social networks and economic 210

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systems going back to at least the sixth century, and by the middle of the fourth century was one of the most powerful communities in Italy. This was a thriving community, at the head of an already substantial territorial domain, exerting significant influence across the western Mediterranean – as revealed by the city’s various treaties with Carthage and wide-ranging social and cultural links. However, throughout this period, and despite the community’s growth and importance, the Romans seem to have avoided minting coinage. Bernard’s suggestion that this may be connected with Rome’s previous reliance on a social economy is surely correct, as in the absence of coinage the Romans clearly needed some way to conduct business. And yet this reveals only part of the story. Another key reason why Rome did not mint coinage before the late fourth century is that coinage was generally minted for state-based military expenditure. Although Rome’s early use of coinage in the late fourth century seems to be both highly varied and haphazard, it can be explained through this lens of military expenditure and seems to indicate a knowing and experienced engagement with accepted regional norms in this arena. Indeed, Rome’s irregular deployment of coinage seems not so much a result of a slowly acquired cultural ‘taste’ or adoption, but rather the shifting nature of the Roman state and its more direct control of military logistics. For centuries, Rome’s military system had effectively outsourced its costs – first to the gentes, then its citizen soldiers, and in the fourth century increasingly to its allies. The soldiers in Rome’s armies generally supplied and equipped themselves, and also shared in the spoils acquired. During the regal period and early Republic, the Roman state was more of a nexus of interaction than a fully-fledged, bureaucratic system, and thus avoided the direct, state-based, military payments that required minting coinage. By c. 400, this system had clearly begun to shift, with the introduction of tributum and stipendium, but remained largely devolved. Rome’s military actions only seem to have begun to require direct payments from the state c. 300, likely relating to Rome’s increasingly far-flung actions, investment in military infrastructure, and ships. However, when these payments were required, the Rome state seemed quite willing and able to engage in this system. Although initially somewhat ad hoc, the Romans showed an amazing adeptness and sophistication in their approach to coinage when it was required, easily using a range of existing coinage systems and models, sometimes concurrently, to achieve their desired goals.

Notes * Our thanks must go to Liv Yarrow and Seth Bernard for their generous feedback on early drafts of this chapter. All errors and omissions, of course, remain our own. 1. All dates are bce unless otherwise noted. 2. See Crawford (1985), 28 for discussion. 3. Burnett (1987), 5. See also Sheedy (this volume). 4. This argument is presented most eloquently by Burnett (1989), 55–7. 5. Harl (1996), 27. 211

Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World 6. Rutter (1997), 66. 7. Burnett and Molinari (2015), 92–6. 8. Crawford (1985), 29; Cornell (1995), 396; Laurence (1999), 15–16; etc. 9. Frank (1924). 10. Bernard (2018); Tan (2017). See also Viglietti (2011). 11. Unless, as Mitchell argued ‘Rome could not have extended her influence into these areas [Magna Graecia] without acquiring numismatic sophistication in the process’. Mitchell (1969), 71. 12. See notes 2 and 3. 13. Coarelli (2013), 144. 14. Traditionally, in modern scholarship, see Harris (1979). Although this tradition is initially based on the explicit testimony of Polybius. 15. Isayev (2009), 201–26. 16. On this see particularly Isayev (2017). 17. Cohen and Armstrong (2022), 1–14. 18. Isayev (2017); Cohen and Armstrong (2022). 19. Bernard (2018), 8. 20. See Termeer (2023b). 21. See also von Reden (2007) on the coinage of Ptolemaic Egypt, where a much richer documentary tradition suggests coinage could also be minted to pay for salt and other state needs. 22. See de Callataÿ (2019). 23. See Trundle (2004), 83 for discussion. 24. Trundle (2004), 86. 25. Ibid., 117. 26. Crawford (1970), 40–8. 27. Williams and Meadows (2006), 173. See Howgego (1990), 1–26 for a somewhat contrary position on the various uses, outside of simple economic functions, for coinage within monetized societies in antiquity. 28. Harl (1996), 27. See also Coarelli (1977), 1; Lo Cascio (1982), 93; Crawford (1985), 29; and others. 29. Crawford (1985), ch. 3 passim. There is a risk of circularity here, as Crawford tends to use military activity as an aid to help date coin issues. However, there are other arguments that support a military interpretation of at least some early Roman coin issues, including coin iconography, and the connections between Roman, colonial and allied productions in the first half of the third century (see Termeer [2023b]). 30. Burnett (1987) and (1989). 31. Crawford (1985), 29, 38–9. 32. See Bernard (2018), 8–9. Note that it is also questionable whether the small bronze coins that are usually associated to the construction of the Roman fleet (RRC 17) were the most likely medium to pay for these huge costs. 33. See Thomsen (1974), 1: 27 for a discussion. 34. The main literary source for this, and indeed for early Roman coinage more generally, is Pliny NH 33.13. 212

The Military History of Early Roman Coinage 35. For instance, in 493, the sources refer to coinage in reference to a public funeral (Livy 2.33, Pliny NH 33.138, Val Max. 4.4.2), although the specific measurements are problematic and highly unlikely as they refer to a sextans (1/6 of an as) which was clearly not in use during the period. In his entry for 460 (Livy 3.118) Livy again refers to a public funeral and again uses submeasurements of an as. The same occurs in 456 (Pliny NH 18.15) when Pliny mentions coinage when referring to a funeral, and in 454 (Livy 3.31) Livy uses coinage referring to fines. In 439 (Livy 4.16.2 and Pliny NH 18.15) referring to a distribution of corn priced at one as a bushel. All of that being noted, it is possible that the reference simply refers to 1/6th of the weight of an as, understood as a weight standard. 36. E.g. Crawford (1985), 20; Viglietti (2011), 276. 37. Holloway (1994), 83. 38. Underlying this system are two core principles: the use of bronze by weight as the primary monetary unit in central Italy (see Crawford, 1985, 20–1), and the increasing standardization of the weight standard used for measuring bronze by various markets, communities and states (see Becker, 2022, although see also Yarrow (2023), on how variable this ‘standard’ seems to have been). As the Roman state increased in power, it is assumed that they began to exert increasing influence on the production of bronze currency in the region, regularizing it on a Roman weight standard. Burnett (2012) therefore explicitly argued for the development of the more regular Roman bronze ingots (c. 1.5 kilograms or 5 Roman pounds) out of the more variable ramo secco bars, and the aes grave (c. 324–280 grams, or c. 1 Roman pound) developing out of that. However, see Viglietti (2011), 285–9 for critical remarks about such an evolutionary model and Yarrow (2021b). 39. Burnett (1987), 3; Zehnacker (1973), 199–222. 40. Objections to the term most clearly in Crawford (2009). 41. On coins and aes rude occurring side by side, see Prins and Termeer (2021), 69–71. However, see also Yarrow (2023) on the variable weight of cast issues. 42. The suggestion that Neapolis is the place of the mint is based on the legend in Greek and the Neapolitan types that are copied on this coin. For RRC 1, the suggestion is widely accepted; there is more debate about RRC 2; see Taliercio Mensitieri (1998), 50–2, 58–9, 67 and Sheedy (this volume). 43. Mattingly (2004), 100; see Vitale (2019) for a recent overview of the debate on the dates of the pre-denarius silver. 44. Vitale (1998), tav. VII; not enough find spots are known for RRC 15 to recognize a pattern. See also Yarrow (2021a), map 2 (p. 10). 45. See Burnett and Molinari (2015) on the general absence of silver coinage from Rome in the first half of the third century. 46. See Vagi (2013). 47. Dates as given by HNItaly. For an overview of the colonial coinages: Termeer (2015a), ch. 3; see also Termeer (2019). 48. Yarrow (2023) draws attention to the variability in weights in these issues: we may be better off describing the weight standard as 324g ±12. 49. Further analysis in Termeer (2015a), 210–15. 50. Carseoli: HNItaly 245–6; Hadria: HNItaly 11–17; Ariminum: HNItaly 2–8; Praeneste: HNItaly 249; Iguvium: HNItaly 22–35. 51. Thomsen (1974), 3.172–9. 52. Von Reden (2010), 50. 213

Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World 53. Trundle (2004). 54. See Tan (2020). 55. See Armstrong (2016) for discussion. 56. See, for instance, the famous inscription of Caso Cantouio of Aproficulum from c. 300 (CIL I2 (1986), 859, pl. 2, 1), which proclaimed that he and his ‘socii’ captured the community of Caiontonia(?). 57. Most notably Terrenato (2019). 58. See Termeer (2023b) for more elaborate discussion of this idea. 59. See Roselaar (2012). 60. See Termeer (2023a). 61. Jaia and Molinari (2011). See also Yarrow (2021a), 16, map 5. 62. See Termeer (2023b) section III for an overview of these distribution patterns. 63. Jaia and Molinari (2011). 64. Salmon (1969), 70–81; Mason (1992), 75. 65. Termeer (2015a), 187; Bernard (2018), 5. 66. Rutter (2001), 3. 67. Ibid., 3. 68. Rutter (1997), 65. 69. Ibid., 72. 70. Ibid., 65. 71. Thomsen (1974); Trundle (2004), 82–90; de Callataÿ (2019), 49–51. 72. Psoma (2009). 73. See Tagliamonte (1994) for extensive discussion. His appendix A gives an inventory of the written sources. 74. Diod. Sic. 13.44.2. 75. See Bourdin (2012), 561–2 (table 30) for an overview; he includes a few examples that are even earlier. See also Piel (2008) specifically on Etruscan mercenaries. 76. App. Sic. 5.2.4. 77. Tagliamonte (2013), 222–3. 78. Discussion by Bourdin (2012), 564–5. 79. See Termeer (2016) for discussion of early Samnite coinage and its connection with mercenary activity. 80. See particularly the coins of Vetulonia and Populonia (Maggiani, 2002), and also of Volterra, Tarquinia, etc. (See Maggiani, 2017). 81. Harris (2017). 82. Piel (2008), 75. 83. Termeer (2015b). 84. The Celtic coins imitate the reverse of a bronze issue by Cales (HNItaly 435). It has recently been suggested that they were produced by the Boii in the Middle Danube region: Torbágyi and Vida (2020). Marleen Termeer thanks Clive Stannard for his help on this subject. 85. Baray (2015) and (2016).

214

The Military History of Early Roman Coinage 86. See Alföldi (1963), 342–78; Bourdin (2011), 20–9, argues they were hired as mercenaries. 87. Note that Polyb. 1.77 seems to imply that part of a contingent of Gallic mercenaries deserted to the Roman army during the First Punic War. 88. See Taylor (2020) for a discussion. 89. Yarrow (2021b) has made the intriguing suggestion that later cast coinage, especially that featuring elephants, may have been commissioned to celebrate a triumph (and so perhaps represent the apportioning of donatives) rather than to pay for expenses while on campaign. This sort of explanation is attractive for the early struck material as well, and indeed might explain the small issues, while still keeping the coinage firmly within the military sphere. Indeed, there are ample triumphs in this period which the early issues could be associated with (see Rich, 2014, 247–8, for full listing). However, in the absence of any concrete evidence, this must remain speculative; see also Termeer (2023b). 90. Rutter (1979); Termeer (2016).

Bibliography Alföldi, A. (1963), Early Rome and the Latins, Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Armstrong, J. (2016), War and Society in Ancient Rome: From Warlords to Generals, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Baray, L. (2015), Sociétés celtiques et mercenaires (VIIe-Ier siècle av. J.-C.): la terre, le pouvoir et les hommes, Paris: CNRS Éditions. Baray, L. (2016), Les mercenaires celtes en Méditerranée: Ve-Ier siècles avant J.-C., Chamalières/ Puy-de-Dôme: Lemme. Becker, H. (2022), ‘Etruscan Trading Spaces and the Tools for Regulating Etruscan Markets’, in J. Armstrong and S. Cohen (eds), Production, Trade, and Connectivity in Pre-Roman Italy, 170–204, London: Routledge. Bernard, S. (2018), ‘The Social History of Early Roman Coinage’, JRS 108: 1–26. Bourdin, S. (2011), ‘«Le rôdeur devant le seuil». L’installation de garnisons étrangères sur le territoire des cités d’Italie républicaine (IVe – IIe siècles av. J.-C.)’, in J.-C. Couvenhes, S. Crouzet and S. Péré-Noguès (eds), Pratiques et identités culturelles des armées hellénistiques du monde méditerranéen, 19–34, Bordeaux: De Boccard. Bourdin, S. (2012), Les peuples de l’Italie préromaine: Identités, territoires et relations interethniques en Italie centrale et septentrionale, Rome: École française de Rome. Burnett, A. (1987), Coinage in the Roman World, London: Seaby. Burnett, A. (1989), ‘The Beginnings of Roman Coinage’, AIIN 36: 33–64. Burnett, A. (2012), ‘Early Roman Coinage and Its Italian Context’, in W. Metcalf (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Greek and Roman Coinage, 297–314, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Burnett, A. and M. C. Molinari (2015), ‘The Capitoline Hoard and the Circulation of Silver Coins in Central and Northern Italy in the Third Century bc ’, in P. G. van Alfen, G. Bransbourg and M. Amandry (eds), Fides: Contributions to Numismatics in Honor of Richard B. Witschonke, 21–126, New York: American Numismatic Society. Coarelli, F. (1977), ‘Public Building in Rome between the Second Punic War and Sulla’, PBSR 45: 1–23. Coarelli, F. (2013), Argentum signatum: L’origini della moneta d’argento a Roma, Rome: Istituto Italiano di Numismatica. Cohen, S. and J. Armstrong (2022), ‘Communities and Connectivities in Pre-Roman Italy’, in J. Armstrong and S. Cohen (eds), Production, Trade, and Connectivity in Pre-Roman Italy, 1–14, London: Routledge. 215

Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World Cornell, T. J. (1995), The Beginnings of Rome: Italy and Rome from the Bronze Age to the Punic Wars (c. 1000–264 bc), London: Routledge. Crawford, M. (1970), ‘Money and exchange in the Roman world’, JRS 60: 40–8. Crawford, M. (1985), Coinage and Money under the Roman Republic: Italy and the Mediterranean Economy, London: Methuen. Crawford, M. (2009), ‘From aes signare to aes signatum’, SNR 88: 195–7. de Callataÿ, F. (2019), ‘Money and its Ideas: State Control and Military Expenses’, in S. Krmnicek (ed.), A Cultural History of Money in Antiquity, 43–61, London: Bloomsbury. Frank, T. (1924), ‘The Letters on the Blocks of the Servian Wall’, AJP 45: 68–9. Garucci, R. (1885), Le monete dell’Italia antica, Bologna: Forni Editore. Harl, K. (1996), Coinage in the Roman Economy, 300 bc to ad 700, Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press. Harris, W. (1979), War and Imperialism in Republican Rome 327–70 bc, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Harris, W. (2017), ‘Rome at Sea: The Beginnings of Roman Naval Power’, Greece and Rome 64: 14–26. Holloway, R. (1994), The Archaeology of Early Rome and Latium, London: Routledge. Howgego, C. (1990), ‘Why Did Ancient States Strike Coins?’, Numismatic Chronicle 150: 1–26. Isayev, E. (2009), ‘Unintentionally Being Lucanian: Dynamics Beyond Hybridity’, in S. Hales and T. Hodos (eds), Material Culture and Social Identities in the Ancient World, 201–26, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Isayev, E. (2017), Migration, Mobility and Place in Ancient Italy, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Laurence, R. (1999), The Roads of Roman Italy: Mobility and Cultural Change, London: Routledge. Lo Cascio, E. (1982), ‘Spesa militare, spesa dello stato e volume delle emissioni nella tarda repubblica’, AIIN 29: 75–97. Maggiani, A. (2002), ‘La libbra etrusca: Sistemi ponderali e monetazione’, SE 65–8: 163–99. Maggiani, A. (2017), ‘Weights and Balances’, in A. Naso (ed.), Etruscology, 473–83, Berlin: De Gruyter. Mason, G. (1992), ‘The Agrarian Role of Coloniae Maritimae: 338–241 B.C.’, Historia 41: 75–87. Mattingly, H. B. (2004), From Coins to History: Selected Numismatic Studies, Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Mitchell, R. E. (1969), ‘The Fourth Century Origin of Roman Didrachms’, Museum Notes (American Numismatic Society) 15: 41–71. Piel, T. (2008), ‘Des contingents étrusques en Méditerranée occidentale: mercenaires ou forces d’intervention civiques?’, in T. Piel (ed.), Figures et expressions du pouvoir dans l’Antiquité: Hommage à Jean-René Jannot, 75–91, Rennes: Presses universitaires de Rennes. Psoma, S. (2009), ‘Tas sitarchias kai tous misthous ([Arist.], Oec. 1351b): Bronze Currencies and Cash-allowances in Mainland Greece, Thrace and the Kingdom of Macedonia’, Revue Belge de Numismatique et de Sigillographie 155: 3–38. Prins, J. and M. K. Termeer (2021), ‘Coins and Aes Rude as Votive Gifts: The Coins and Aes Rude from the Hellenistic Votive Deposit at Satricum and the First Coinage in Latium’, Ancient Numismatics 2: 43–91. Rich, J. (2014), ‘The Triumph in the Roman Republic: Frequency, Fluctuation, and Policy’, in C. Lange and F. Vervaet (eds), The Roman Republican Triumph: Beyond the Spectacle, 197–258, Rome: Edizioni Quasar. Roselaar, S. (ed.) (2012), Processes of Integration and Identity Formation in the Roman Republic, Leiden: Brill. Rutter, N. K. (1979), Campanian Coinages 475–380 bc, Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Rutter, N. K. (1997), The Greek Coinages of Southern Italy and Sicily, London: Spink. Rutter, N. K. (2001), Historia Numorum: Italy, London: British Museum Press. 216

The Military History of Early Roman Coinage Salmon, E. T. (1969), Roman Colonization under the Republic, London: Thames and Hudson. Tagliamonte, G. (1994), I Figli di Marte: Mobilità mercenari e mercenariato italici in Magna Grecia e Sicilia, Rome: G. Bretschneider. Tagliamonte, G. (2013), ‘Mobilita e mercenariato italico: alcune considerazioni’ in G. M. Della Fina (ed.) Mobilita geografica e mercenariato nell’Italia preromana (Annali della Fondazione per il Museo ‘Claudio Faina’), 213–32, Rome: Edizioni Quasar. Taliercio Mensitieri, M. (1998), ‘Le emissioni romano-campane di bronzo’, in La Monetazione Romano-Campana: Atti del X Convegno del Centro Internazionale di Studi Numismatici – Napoli 18–19 Giugno 1993, 49–140, Rome: Istituto Italiano di Numismatica. Tan, J. (2017), Power and Public Finance at Rome, 264–49 bce, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Tan, J. (2020), ‘Dilectus-Tributum and The Settlement of the Fourth Century’, in J. Armstrong and M. Fronda (eds), Romans at War: Soldiers, Citizens, and Society in the Roman Republic, 52–75, London: Routledge. Taylor, M. (2020), ‘Panoply and Identity during the Roman Republic’, PBSR 88: 31–65. Termeer, M. K. (2015a), ‘Latin colonization in Italy before the end of the Second Punic War: Colonial communities and cultural change’, PhD thesis, University of Groningen, Groningen. Termeer, M. K. (2015b), ‘Minting Apart Together: Bronze Coinage Production in Campania and beyond in the Third Century bc ’, in S. T. Roselaar (ed.), Processes of Cultural Change and Integration in the Roman World, 58–77, Leiden: Brill. Termeer, M. K. (2016), ‘Roman Colonial Coinages beyond the City-state: A View from the Samnite World’, JAH 4: 158–90. Termeer, M. K. (2019), ‘Coinage Production in the Latin Colonies’, in F. M. Cifarelli, S. Gatti and D. Palombi (eds), Oltre ‘Roma medio repubblicana’: Il Lazio fra i Galli e la Battaglia di Zama (Atti del Convegno Internazionale, Roma, 7-8-9 giugno 2017), 69–78, Rome: Quasar. Termeer, M. K. (2023a), ‘The Political Culture of Coinage: The Introduction and Development of the Denarius System’, in M. Balbo and F. Santangelo (eds), A Community in Transition: Rome between Hannibal and the Gracchi, 86–117, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Termeer, M. K. (2023b), ‘Spoils and the Allies: Roman Warfare and Coinage Production in Italy’, in S. T. Roselaar and M. Helm (eds), Spoils in the Roman Republic: Boon and Bane, 181–98, Stuttgart: Steiner. Terrenato, N. (2019), The Early Roman Expansion into Italy: Elite Negotiation and Family Agendas, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Thomsen, R. (1974), Early Roman Coinage: A Study of the Chronology, vols 1–3, Copenhagen: Nationalmuseet. Torbágyi, M. and I. A. Vida (2020), ‘Pseudo-Cales Silver Coins from the Middle Danubian Region’, NAC 49: 167–80. Trundle, M. (2004), Greek Mercenaries: From the Late Archaic Period to Alexander, London: Routledge. Vagi, D. (2013), ‘Rome’s First Didrachm in Light of the Foedus Neapolitanum and the Equus October’, in P. Van Alfen and R. B. Witschonke (eds), Essays in Honour of Roberto Russo, 73–94, Zurich: Numismatica Ars Classica NAC AG. Viglietti, C. (2011), Il limite del bisogno: Antropologia economica di Roma arcaica, Bologna: Il Mulino. Vitale, R. (1998), ‘Catalogo dei rinvenimenti sporadici, in stipe, in ripostigli’, in La Monetazione Romano-Campana: Atti del X Convegno del Centro Internazionale di Studi Numismatici – Napoli 18–19 Giugno 1993, 217–351, Rome: Istituto Italiano di Numismatica. Vitale, R. (2019), ‘La prima moneta romana in argento: l’apporto dei ripostigli negli studi recenti’, Dialoghi di Numismatica 1: 185–207. Von Reden, S. (2007), Money in Ptolemaic Egypt: From the Macedonian Conquest to the End of the Third Century bc, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Von Reden, S. (2010), Money in Classical Antiquity, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 217

Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World Westner, K. J., F. Kemmers and S. Klein (2020), ‘A Novel Combined Approach for Compositional and Pb Isotope Data of (leaded) Copper-based Alloys: Bronze Coinage in Magna Graecia and Rome (5th to 2nd Centuries bce )’, JAS 121: 105204–14. Williams, J. and A. Meadows (2006), ‘Coinage’, in E. Bispham et al. (eds), The Edinburgh Companion to Ancient Greece and Rome, 173–82, Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Yarrow, L. (2021a), The Roman Republic to 49 bce: Using Coins as Sources, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Yarrow, L. (2021b), ‘Not All Elephants (Are Pyrrhic): Finding a Plausible Context for RRC 9/1’, Ancient Numismatics 2: 9–42. Yarrow, L. (2023), ‘The Strangeness of Rome’s Early Heavy Bronze’ in S. Bernard, D. Padilla-Peralta and L. Mignone (eds), Making the Middle Republic: New Approaches to Rome and Italy ca. 400–200 bce, 103–31, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Zehnacker, H. (1973), Moneta: Recherches sur l’organisation des émissions monétaires de la République romaine, Rome: École française de Rome.

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CHAPTER 11 CORRUPTION, POWER AND AN ORACLE IN THE LATE ROMAN REPUBLIC: THE RESTORATION OF PTOLEMY AULETES John Rich

As a student at the University of Nottingham in 1984–1987, where I first encountered him as his teacher, Matthew Trundle stood out from the start, for his enthusiasm for ancient history, for the keen and sceptical intellect he brought to bear on it, and above all for the wonderfully warm personality with which he energized the social life of the department – in fact, for the same qualities which were to make him so successful and so dearly loved throughout his subsequent career, cruelly cut short. The nexus of money, warfare and power, which so appropriately provides the theme of this volume in Matthew’s memory, was nowhere more potent than in the last years of the Roman Republic, when the opportunities of empire brought unprecedented wealth to leading senators and many others.1 Among the most lucrative sources of enrichment for Roman senators and financiers were Rome’s ‘friendly kings’, most conspicuously exemplified for us by the Egyptian king Ptolemy Auletes, who borrowed vast sums from Roman financiers to bribe leading senators in order to secure recognition and subsequently restoration. These episodes led to an imbroglio that involved both high politics and the religious complication of a Sibylline oracle. We are especially well informed on the matter through the vivid, but intensely partisan, contemporary evidence of Cicero’s letters and speeches and two passages of Cassius Dio’s much later history, which treat the events at some length to illustrate the corruption of the times and, despite some distortions, give a broadly reliable account (39.12–16, 55–63). Most modern discussions of these events have tended to interpret them primarily in terms of Pompey’s supposed ambition for another great command and the resulting opposition. Two important recent papers, by Kit Morrell and Josiah Osgood, have posed an effective challenge to this interpretation.2 In the present chapter I seek to take this further through a detailed examination of the course of events.

Recognition and flight Ptolemy XII, known by his full regnal titles as Theos Philopator Philadelphos Neos Dionysos, but more commonly by his nickname Auletes (‘Fluteplayer’), became king in 80 bce , but did not achieve Roman recognition until 59.3 The main obstacle to his recognition had been the will (of disputed authenticity) of a Ptolemy Alexander (whether 219

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Alexander I or Alexander II is uncertain) bequeathing Egypt to the Roman people.4 The issue had already been discussed in the Senate in the 70s,5 but was given new urgency by the extension of the Mithridatic War into the Syrian hinterland, and Lucullus’ replacement in command by Pompey, who in 64 established northern Syria as a Roman province and took responsibility for the principalities to its south, so bringing Roman power to the Egyptian border. Probably impelled by his longstanding rivalry with Pompey, Crassus as censor in 65 proposed that Ptolemy Alexander’s will be implemented and Egypt annexed as a province, perhaps with support from the young Julius Caesar. However, the scheme was thwarted by the opposition of the other censor, Catulus, and senators including Cicero.6 After the failure of Crassus’ proposal, no further attempt seems to have been made to implement the will: Cicero’s claim that this was one of the purposes of Rullus’ agrarian bill in 63 is one of the many specious exaggerations he deployed against the bill.7 Ptolemy did his best to win Roman support. Senators may already have enjoyed his bribes.8 Prudently, he paid special attention to Pompey during his stay in Syria, sending him troops for his campaign in Judaea, supplies and lavish presents.9 Diodorus (1.83.8), visiting Alexandria in 60, attests the general anxiety to avoid giving the Romans any ground for complaint or war. In 59 Ptolemy at last achieved his goal. Frustrated by the optimates’ opposition to the ratification of his eastern settlement and the grant of land to his troops, Pompey, along with Crassus, had allied with Caesar, who as consul in 59 pushed through numerous measures with their support, including the resolution of Ptolemy’s status. In February or March, at Caesar’s initiative, the Senate acknowledged Ptolemy as king, and as ally and friend (socius et amicus) of the Roman people, and – at this period apparently a rare distinction for a king – by a law passed by the assembly, a treaty was solemnized with him on the Capitol.10 How much had been at stake was made clear by the fate of Auletes’ brother, Ptolemy, king of Cyprus. In 58 Ptolemy Alexander’s alleged bequest served as the pretext for a law passed by the radical tribune Clodius, annexing Cyprus, confiscating the royal treasure and packing the hard-line optimate Marcus Cato off to carry out the assignment.11 Ptolemy paid a high price for recognition. Dio (39.12.1) tells us that he gave substantial sums to various Romans to obtain it, partly from his own resources and partly by borrowing. According to Suetonius (Iul. 54.2), Caesar charged him 6,000 talents (= 36 million denarii) on his own account and Pompey’s, a huge sum which on one report would have been equivalent to a year’s revenue for Ptolemy.12 A Roman embassy was despatched to Alexandria, ostensibly to complete formalities with Rome’s new ally, but in reality according to Cicero ‘to exact money’.13 One of the creditors who advanced Ptolemy money was the eques C. Rabirius Postumus.14 Although a good deal will have been paid upfront, much of what had been promised will have remained as a continuing debt. Worse still, Roman recognition destabilized Ptolemy’s position in Alexandria. According to Dio (39.12.1–2), popular unrest was provoked by the king’s exactions to pay his debts, and matters were brought to a head by the Roman annexation of Cyprus and Ptolemy’s refusal to demand it back and to threaten to renounce Roman friendship. 220

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Some sources speak of Ptolemy being expelled, but the majority imply that he fled of his own accord in response to the turbulence.15 En route, he is said to have encountered Cato in Rhodes.16 In late 58 or early 57, Ptolemy reached Rome, where he requested that a Roman mission be despatched to restore him to his throne.

Lentulus Spinther’s assignment Ptolemy arrived in a Rome whose political life was still dominated by the aftermath of Clodius’ tribunate in 58. His achievements then had included the passage of a law driving Cicero into exile, carried with some assistance from the consuls Piso and Gabinius, and without opposition from Caesar, Pompey or Crassus. However, Clodius had subsequently quarrelled with Pompey, who then began working for Cicero’s recall. Strenuous efforts were made for the recall from January 57, when the consul P. Cornelius Lentulus Spinther had given active support, but were long blocked by Clodius and his associates. The law was finally carried on 4 August, and Cicero arrived back in Rome on 4 September. His return coincided with a grain crisis, and in response Pompey was given – on Cicero’s proposal and by a law carried by Lentulus and his fellow-consul Metellus Nepos – a fiveyear appointment as proconsul to supervise the grain supply. Urban violence, promoted particularly by Clodius and Milo and their respective gangs, had occurred throughout the year.17 Our clearest account of events relating to Ptolemy after his arrival in Rome is given by Dio and can be supplemented from other sources.18 In Alexandria, Ptolemy’s daughter Berenice IV was appointed as ruler in his stead, and a 100-man embassy led by the philosopher Dio was despatched to Rome to oppose Ptolemy’s return. At Rome, meanwhile, Ptolemy was being supported by Pompey. He had taken up residence as Pompey’s guest in his villa in the Alban Hills, where he was busy contracting more loans from Rabirius Postumus and others and dispensing more bribes.19 Consulted on the matter by Lentulus Spinther as consul, the Senate decreed that Ptolemy should be restored to his kingdom and entrusted the task to Lentulus himself in his capacity as proconsul of Cilicia (in SE Asia Minor), a position for which he was due to set out at the end of the year.20 It was evidently envisaged that Lentulus would carry out the restoration by a naval expedition, taking part of the two-legion army stationed in Cilicia.21 Scholars have often dated this decree to September or later, but an earlier dating is more likely, since Dio puts it before the arrival of the Alexandrian embassy, and Cicero never mentions having supported it, as he would surely have done if it had been passed after his return to Rome.22 The decree was probably passed in May or July 57.23 At that time, the need to restore Ptolemy, so recently declared Rome’s friend and ally, probably seemed uncontroversial, and there would have been no need to delay a decision on who should carry it out. Pompey (then still a private citizen) would surely have been present at the meeting, in view of the stake he had taken in Ptolemy’s restoration. As on 1 January, Lentulus probably called on Pompey to speak second, after L. Cotta (cos. 65),24 and it may well have been Pompey who proposed giving the assignment to Lentulus. 221

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Assigning the task to the proconsul of a neighbouring province who could use his existing resources for the purpose was the most economical means of effecting Ptolemy’s restoration. The only other proconsul whose province was near enough was Gabinius, who had been in post since early in the year as proconsul of Syria. How the assignment came to be given to Lentulus rather than Gabinius we can only conjecture. Pompey probably played an important part in the choice, but both men were his close friends. Gabinius may have served under Pompey in Spain; as tribune in 67 he had secured the pirate command for Pompey, and he had been one of his legates in the Mithridatic War; Pompey helped him to secure the consulship in 58 and (through Clodius) the governorship of Syria.25 Lentulus’ association with Pompey will not have been so long, but Atticus had assured Cicero that he ‘was completely under Pompey’s thumb’.26 A possible reason for passing over Gabinius for the Egyptian assignment may have been his other commitments: he was heavily occupied throughout 57 and into 56 with establishing control of his province and the adjacent territories and especially with rebellion in Judaea, and he may already have been planning an invasion of Parthia.27 The fact that Lentulus had also been given responsibility for the newly acquired former Ptolemaic territory of Cyprus may help to explain why he was chosen. However, a key factor in his selection is likely to have been that he was eager to get the appointment and was the presiding consul at the meeting at which it was made. Ptolemy dealt ruthlessly with the Alexandrian ambassadors.28 Forewarned of their approach, he had many of them murdered, some on arrival at Puteoli, others on the way to Rome or in the city, and he ensured by intimidation and bribery that the survivors made no contact with the authorities. Reports of the bribery and the murder of ambassadors (traditionally regarded as sacrosanct) caused outrage in the Senate, led by the relatively junior M. Favonius, standing in, in this respect, for his mentor M. Cato, who, although also only a junior senator, had long been a prominent upholder of propriety, but was then still absent in Cyprus.29 The chief ambassador Dio was summoned to appear before the Senate, but Ptolemy’s bribes ensured that he did not do so, and he was later murdered.30 Late in 57, Ptolemy himself left Rome, leaving his agent Hammonius to look after his interests there. The new tribunes entered office, as normal, on 10 December. One of these, C. Porcius Cato, only a distant relative of M. Cato, took up the Egyptian issue, as we learn from a fragment of the early imperial historian Fenestella: Hence when the tribunes entered office, Gaius Cato, an unruly young man, headstrong and not ill-equipped for speaking, held frequent assemblies in which he began to arouse ill-will at one and the same time against both Ptolemy, who had already left Rome, and the consul Publius Lentulus, who was now preparing to depart – and, what is more, met with roars of popular approval. itaque ut magistratum tribuni inierunt, C. Cato, turbulentus adulescens et audax nec imparatus ad dicendum, contionibus adsiduis invidiam et Ptolomaeo simul, qui iam profectus ex urbe erat, et Publio Lentulo consuli, paranti iam iter, concitare secundo quidem populi rumore coepit.31 222

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C. Cato’s only earlier known action was in 59, when he attempted unsuccessfully to prosecute the incoming consul, Pompey’s protégé Gabinius, for electoral corruption and at a public meeting boldly called Pompey a ‘private dictator’.32 Presumably Cato was now arguing that the mission to restore Ptolemy to his throne should be cancelled because of Ptolemy’s corruption and thuggery, and thus sought to make his mark as tribune by exploiting it. Personal motives may have played a part too: Cato may have been acting in part from hostility to Ptolemy’s supporter Pompey, though apparently not openly criticizing him, and may also have had a grudge against Lentulus Spinther.33 Cato’s direct attack on Lentulus illustrates how heavily committed the latter had become to Ptolemy’s restoration, not only by accepting the assignment, but also by supporting it as manager of the Senate’s business as consul, getting the original resolution through and no doubt keeping the ensuing scandals as far as possible off the Senate’s agenda. Lentulus had probably already profited handsomely from the king’s largesse and stood to gain much more when he had accomplished his restoration. These attacks on Ptolemy were not the only threat to Lentulus’ assignment that he faced before his departure from Rome. Dark hints by Cicero in his letters to Lentulus in January 56, after the publication of the oracle warning against restoring the king with a force, indicate that already in 57 Ptolemy and his agents, abetted by Ptolemy’s creditors and Pompey’s intimates, had been engaging in a covert intrigue to get the conduct of his restoration transferred from Lentulus to Pompey.34 The Roman people, Cicero tells Lentulus, believed that the oracle had been trumped up ‘not so much to hinder you as so that no one should want to go to Alexandria from greed for an army’.35 Such talk later gave rise to the implausible speculations reported by Plutarch, who tells us that some asserted that Pompey’s grain command was devised by Lentulus to ensure that he himself would be sent to restore Ptolemy and that the historian Timagenes claimed that Ptolemy only left Egypt because Pompey’s friend Theophanes persuaded him to do so to get Pompey a new command.36 Plutarch also alleges that pamphlets claiming that Ptolemy wished Pompey to replace Lentulus as the commander were scattered in the Forum and the Senate-house.37 Why Ptolemy and his associates should have wanted this change is unclear. Possibly they opted for it as a defensive manoeuvre in response to the odium provoked by their treatment of the Alexandrian ambassadors. No public move appears to have been made in the Senate or the assembly towards transferring the assignment to Pompey until the publication of the oracle transformed the situation in early 56.38 Very likely nothing would have come of the intrigue if the oracle had not been brought to light. C. Cato’s activities should not be interpreted as primarily directed against this intrigue, as scholars have often supposed. Instead, he was evidently aiming to prevent Ptolemy being restored at all. In 57, as later, Pompey will have avoided giving any open sign of desire for the appointment. Mommsen held that Pompey himself was behind the scheme,39 and this assumption has coloured many subsequent accounts.40 The claim is unpersuasive. The activities of Pompey’s hangers-on should not always be taken as reflecting his own wishes. If Pompey coveted the Egyptian assignment for himself, why did he not oppose 223

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its being given to Lentulus in the first place? If Pompey were to restore Ptolemy with a force, it would have had to be raised in Italy for the purpose, but only a small force would have been needed: this would not be a command comparable to those which Pompey had held in the past or Caesar was then holding. Such an enterprise would have added little to Pompey’s already abundant military glory, would have distracted him from his grain commissionership, and would have taken him away from Rome at a politically crucial time. More probably, Pompey’s chief interest in the matter remained getting Ptolemy restored, to fulfil the patronal responsibility which he had assumed for the king, and to ensure the full payment of the sums which Ptolemy had promised him. For this purpose, there was no need to disturb the original allocation of the task to Lentulus. Despite these threats to his mission, when Lentulus left for his province towards the end of the year, the assignment remained intact, and he himself will have been looking forward to it as a source of both glory and wealth. Early in 56, however, this was to be overthrown by the publication of the Sibylline oracle, the Senate’s resulting decision that an army could not be used for the restoration, and the consequent tabling of conflicting proposals, including the transfer of the assignment to Pompey.

The oracle For the events leading up to the oracle’s publication, we are again dependent on Dio (39.15.1–16.1). Right at the start of the new year, he tells us, lightning struck the statue of Jupiter on the Alban Mount. This led to a consultation of the Sibylline books and the discovery there of an oracle warning against restoring the king of Egypt with a force. When the news got out, the tribune C. Cato, afraid that the warning might be suppressed, summoned the priests responsible for the books to appear before an assembly, at which he used popular pressure to compel them, despite their protests, to make the oracle public. It was then translated from the original Greek into Latin and proclaimed, evidently at a second assembly (contio) summoned by Cato. Dio reports the wording of the oracle as follows: ‘If the king of Egypt arrives seeking some aid, do not withhold your friendship, but also do not help him with a multitude, or you will have troubles and dangers’ (39.15.2: ἂν ὁ τῆς Αἰγύπτου βασιλεὺς βοηθείας τινὸς δεόμενος ἔλθῃ, τὴν μὲν φιλίαν οἱ μὴ ἀπαρνήσασθαι, μὴ μέντοι καὶ πλήθει τινὶ ἐπικουρήσητε· εἰ δὲ μή, καὶ πόνους καὶ κινδύνους ἕξετε). This may be abridged, but is otherwise probably an accurate Greek rendering of the published Latin version. Cicero’s references probably confirm that the Latin version included the words ‘with a multitude’ (cum multitudine).41 Another Ciceronian passage appears to show that it spoke of the king as coming ‘with guileful intent’ (Rab. Post. 4: dolosis consiliis).42 Dio goes on to give a brief account of the Senate’s reaction and the resulting impasse (39.16.1–3), but much more detailed information is supplied in Cicero’s letters to Lentulus Spinther. The first of these, written on the morning of 13 January 56, before the Senate meeting held that day, summarizes the positions taken up at earlier meetings. The 224

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Senate must have met at least three times by then to discuss the issue posed by the oracle, since Cicero (Fam. 1.1(12).2) says that the presiding consul, P. Cornelius Lentulus Marcellinus, had already referred it to the Senate ‘often’ (saepe). These meetings probably took place on 9, 10 and 11 January, since 7, 8 and 12 January were comitial days when the lex Pupia (probably passed in 61) prohibited Senate meetings.43 Dio probably committed a minor error in dating the lightning strike itself to the start of the new year, since this does not allow sufficient time for the subsequent events up to 13 January. More likely, the lightning strike had occurred sometime in December 57, and the new consuls reported this prodigy to the Senate at its meeting on 1 January, the date they entered office, traditionally held in the Capitoline temple. It had formerly been customary for prodigies to be reported to the Senate en bloc at the start of the consular year. In the Late Republic, when the consuls spent the whole year in Rome, prodigies tended to be reported and dealt with soon after their occurrence, but, since the Senate did not normally meet after mid-December, it would still have been natural for prodigies occurring near the end of the year to be reported to the Senate at the start of the new year.44 At that meeting, the Senate will have instructed the quindecimviri sacris faciundis (‘fifteen men for performing rites’), the custodians of the Sibylline Books, to consult the books for guidance on the rituals for expiating the lightning strike. This consultation, the resulting discovery of the oracle, and the two contiones at which C. Cato enforced its publication thus probably occurred over the period 2–8 January, before the Senate began its discussion of the oracle on 9 January. The Alban Mount, 21 km south-east of Rome, was the site of the ancient sanctuary of Jupiter Latiaris, and the Latin Festival, held there early in each consular year, was attended by all the Roman magistrates. Although far fewer prodigies were reported and acted on in the Late Republic than in earlier times, a prodigy at that location could hardly be disregarded.45 Prodigies were deemed to be signs of the gods’ anger. The Senate had responsibility for deciding whether to accept prodigy reports and which expiatory rituals should be performed to restore the gods’ goodwill. It customarily sought and implemented advice from one or more groups of priests: the Etruscan haruspices and two Roman priestly colleges, the pontiffs, and the quindecimviri sacris faciundis (the latter had been increased from ten – decemviri – probably by Sulla). On what basis the Senate decided which group to consult is unknown. The haruspices claimed special expertise in relation to lightning, but this was not the first time that the Sibylline Books had been consulted over lightning strikes.46 The Sibylline Books contained oracles in Greek hexameter verse. Legend said that they had been brought to Rome under the kings, but the collection appears to have accumulated over later centuries. The books were stored in the Capitoline temple and were destroyed when the temple was burnt down in 83 bce . In 76, steps were taken to create a replacement collection from various Sibylline cult sites: a mission to Erythrae in western Asia Minor brought back about a thousand verses and more were brought from other locations in Italy and the Greek world. The consultation in early 56 is the first known to have been made from the replacement collection.47 225

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Only the quindecimviri and their slave assistants could inspect the books, and they were only permitted to do so when so instructed by the Senate. The Senate usually ordered the books to be consulted only in response to prodigies and to get guidance on the appropriate rituals for their expiation. We know nothing about how the priests selected which verses to use for this purpose and derived the required guidance from them.48 Our sources give the impression that the priests’ reports to the Senate following their inspections of the books were mostly limited to the requested ritual guidance. Occasionally, however, although rather less frequently than the haruspices, they informed the Senate of predictions they had found in the books.49 Sometimes these predictions did not relate directly to the prodigies that had prompted the consultation but were reported by the priests because they bore on contemporary concerns, as in the following two instances. In 205, the Senate decided that the cult of Magna Mater should be brought to Rome from Asia Minor in response to a Sibylline oracle that this would enable a foreign invader to be expelled from Italy. According to Livy, the oracle had been discovered when the books were consulted because of frequent showers of stones.50 It has often been thought suspicious that, although there had been several earlier consultations of the Sibylline books during the Second Punic War, the oracle only came to light at this point, when how to achieve the final expulsion of Hannibal was under intense discussion. In 144, the praetor Q. Marcius Rex, on the Senate’s instruction, began work on repairing Rome’s two existing aqueducts and constructing a new aqueduct, the Aqua Marcia. The work continued until 140, but in 143 the decemviri reported to the Senate that, when consulting the Sibylline books on another matter, they had found a warning that it would be a sacrilege to bring water to the Capitol. The Senate, however, decided that the planned extension to the Capitol should go ahead, both then and in 140, when the decemviri again raised the issue.51 Frontinus attributes this outcome to the influence (gratia) of Marcius. This is the only known instance of the books’ advice being disregarded. It may perhaps have been justified by disputing the interpretation of the oracle. Thus, there were precedents for the priests’ discovery in January 56, while consulting the books on another matter, of the warning against helping Ptolemy ‘with a multitude’. However, what happened next was quite unprecedented: instead of waiting for the quindecimviri to report the oracle to the Senate, as in 205 and 143, the tribune C. Cato used popular pressure to force their hand and oblige them to publish the oracle. Cato was evidently concerned, perhaps with good reason, that, if he did not intervene, the quindecimviri would agree to ignore the oracle, making no reference to it in their report to the Senate. The publication of the oracle was clearly welcome to those opposed to Ptolemy’s restoration by force, whether by Lentulus or by Pompey. Many scholars have regarded the discovery of so pertinent an oracle at this point as too suspicious to be entirely coincidental. Some, indeed, dismiss it as a fake.52 Jeffrey Tatum and Kit Morrell have recently conceded that the oracle’s reference to an Egyptian king may have been genuine, but still think that religious manipulation was at work.53 In fact, however, there are good reasons to suppose that the oracle’s wording, as cited by Dio, is authentic.54 226

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Cicero does at one point claim that the Roman people regarded the oracle as an ‘invented religious pretext’ (Fam. 1.4(14).2: nomen inductum fictae religionis). However, when expressing his own opinion to Lentulus, Cicero is more circumspect, impugning the motives of those who were exploiting the oracle without explicitly declaring it a fraud. Thus on 13 January he says that ‘the Senate is approving the religious subterfuge, not for religion’s sake, but out of ill-will and the odium aroused by the royal largesse’,55 and later, proposing a scheme by which Lentulus might restore Ptolemy ‘without a multitude’, he adds, with scathing irony, ‘as religious devotees have said that the Sibyl wishes’.56 In all these passages Cicero was writing to please Lentulus, who was evidently furious that the oracle had been used to subvert his mission. As we shall see, Cicero was later ready to pose as the Sibyl’s champion against his enemy Gabinius. The priests may perhaps have been willing to resort to manipulation or even invention when reporting a prediction to the Senate, and it is thus possible that, as has often been supposed, they deployed such techniques to supply predictions justifying the elite’s wish to import the Magna Mater or even sectional opposition to the aqueduct extension to the Capitol. Such hypotheses may well, however, underestimate the obligation the priests felt to faithful observance of the wording of the books. However, the circumstances in January 56 were different. As with other priestly colleges’ deliberations, all members not unavoidably absent from Rome must have been required to participate in a consultation of the books when one was ordered by the Senate. In their political views, the college will surely have reflected the divisions within the Senate itself. In view of the deep disagreements in the Senate to which the oracle’s publication gave rise, it seems inconceivable that the quindecimviri who took part in consulting the books on this occasion could have formed a consensus to put forward what they knew to be an invented or manipulated oracle warning against Ptolemy’s restoration with a force. Indeed, C. Cato’s intervention makes it likely that the majority of the priests favoured ignoring the oracle in their report to the Senate. However, when he obliged them to make it public, the priests did so, despite their expressed reluctance. It follows that, whatever their disagreements about what to do about it, they must have agreed in believing the oracle to be genuine. Those who regard it as fraudulent must therefore make the surely unlikely assumption that some individuals managed to smuggle the oracle into the collection without being detected by the remaining priests.57 The nature of the oracle’s warning provides a further argument in favour of authenticity: an oracle forged by those opposed to Ptolemy’s restoration would surely have prohibited it outright rather than just warning against the use of a force. It is also plausible that such an oracle should have figured in a collection partly drawn from Erythrae: it may well have dated from the third century, when the Ptolemies had substantial holdings in western and southern Asia Minor. Only five of the quindecimviri in post in 56 can be identified with some confidence: L. Aurelius Cotta (cos. 65, cens. 64), L. Valerius Flaccus (pr. 63), and three more junior senators, namely L. Manlius Torquatus, and the well-known M. Cato and Clodius.58 M. Cato, still in Cyprus, was unable to take part in the consultation. Flaccus was the last survivor of the mission to Erythrae twenty years earlier and was also an enemy of 227

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Pompey. If he was present, it may have been he who drew his colleagues’ attention to the oracle’s warning. However, he was perhaps still in Macedonia, serving as legate to L. Piso.59 According to Dio (39.15.3–4), despite the rule that none of the Sibylline verses should be made public unless authorized by the Senate, the content of the oracle was spread by rumour ‘as usually happens’ and so became known to C. Cato.60 It is unlikely, however, that the quindecimviri would have been so generally indiscreet. More probably, the tribune was tipped off by one of them, and the most likely candidate for this role is Clodius.61 C. Cato had given Clodius political support soon after taking up his tribunate in December 57,62 and they would continue to collaborate during 56. Moreover, Clodius, now hostile to both Pompey and Lentulus Spinther above all because of their support for Cicero’s recall, would have been a natural supporter for C. Cato’s campaign against Ptolemy’s restoration. We do not hear of the quindecimviri recommending rituals to expiate the lightning strike as the Senate had requested. It is possible that the obligation was forgotten in the turmoil after the publication of the oracle, but more likely that the priests made such a report at one of the Senate meetings on 9–11 January, but Cicero did not trouble to mention it when writing to Lentulus. If so, they probably included the already published oracle in their report.63

Impasse Lentulus Spinther left for his province in late 57 or early 56,64 but was still near enough to Rome to learn within days of the publication of the oracle and its immediate sequel, and to quickly send off what appears to have been an indignant letter calling for Cicero’s support. Spinther complained particularly about the new consul P. Cornelius Lentulus Marcellinus, his distant relative, perhaps holding that Marcellinus should have prevented the Senate from discussing the oracle.65 Cicero responded immediately on the thirteenth of January, and then followed up with more letters reporting further developments. Cicero’s tone throughout is fulsome, assuring Spinther of how profound an obligation he owed him for securing his recall from exile and of how hard he was now working on Spinther’s behalf. Cicero’s true feelings towards Spinther were less warm, as a contemporary letter to his brother Quintus reveals (QF 2.2(6).3). In his first letter (Fam. 1.1(12).3), Cicero reports to Spinther the views expressed by the ex-consuls at the Senate meetings held, as we have seen, probably on the ninth, tenth and eleventh of January. When consulted about the oracle by Marcellinus and his colleague L. Marcius Philippus, all appear to have accepted that, in accordance with its warning, a force should not be used to restore Ptolemy. Perhaps to Spinther’s disappointment, there was no move to disregard the Sibyl’s advice, as had happened long before over the aqueduct extension to the Capitol. Beyond that, there was no agreement, with conservative senators – who on many issues were often in accord – now divided between multiple alternatives. Only one former consul, P. Servilius Vatia Isauricus (cos. 228

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79), at this stage opposed Ptolemy’s restoration. Hortensius, Cicero and Lucullus loyally argued that, in accordance with the Senate’s earlier resolution, the restoration should still be conducted by Lentulus Spinther, but now without an army: this, Cicero assured Spinther, was the best that could be achieved. However, M. Calpurnius Bibulus (cos. 59), supported by unnamed others, maintained that the restoration should now be carried out by an embassy of three private citizens, as was the traditional practice for purely diplomatic missions. This, as Cicero later observes (Fam. 1.2(13).2), was the proposal which the consuls themselves preferred. All these speakers will have been opposed to Pompey’s taking over the assignment, but the publication of the oracle also led to an enhanced push for that outcome. It may have been argued that, in view of the notorious turbulence of the Alexandrian crowd, neither an embassy nor Spinther without an accompanying force would be able to achieve the king’s restoration safely, and that only Pompey’s unique authority would be able to bring this off.66 In response, opponents professed concern for Pompey’s own safety or offered his obligations to the grain supply as an objection.67 According to Cicero (Fam. 1.1(12).1–4), Ptolemy’s agent Hammonius was working for Pompey’s appointment with money and through Ptolemy’s creditors, and Pompey’s friends were lobbying for it energetically, although this activity was also arousing strong resentment. In the Senate, Crassus gestured towards the Pompeian camp by proposing that those holding imperium (as Pompey did through his grain commissionership) should be eligible for the embassy, and, when the tribune P. Rutilius Lupus specifically asked senators whether the restoration should be entrusted to Pompey, two former consuls advocated this, namely L. Volcacius Tullus (cos. 66) and L. Afranius (cos. 60), the latter a long-standing follower of Pompey. As he often did, Pompey carefully concealed his own wishes: both in public and in private conversation, he continued to support Lentulus’ retaining the assignment, but the behaviour of his friends seemed to tell a different story.68 Besides the Senate proceedings, moves were under way in the popular assembly. Cicero speaks of both C. Cato and another tribune, L. Caninius Gallus, as promoting laws, and expresses concern that they would use violence and illegality to get them passed.69 Cato’s law will have been part of his campaign for the cancellation of Ptolemy’s restoration: he may already have promulgated a law to that effect soon after entering office on 10 December, but, if not, probably did so at one of the contiones at which he got the oracle published. Caninius’ law prescribed that Pompey should go to Alexandria to reinstate Ptolemy without an army, but accompanied by two lictors, as was probably standard for an ambassador.70 This law, promoting the cause for which Ptolemy’s supporters and Pompey’s friends were agitating, must have been promulgated very soon after the publication of the oracle, perhaps even before Rutilius Lupus had raised the issue in the Senate. Shackleton Bailey and others have dated the law’s promulgation to December, before the discovery of the oracle.71 This cannot be correct, since in that case Caninius would not have proposed sending Pompey without an army.72 In his next two letters to Spinther, Cicero reported on proceedings in the Senate meetings on 13, 14 and 15 January, which he also summarized in a letter to his brother written on 17 January.73 No votes were taken on 13 January. On 14 January, Bibulus’ 229

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motion was divided, and the first part, reported by Cicero (QF 2.2(6).3) as specifying that ‘it appeared dangerous to the commonwealth for the Alexandrian king to be restored with a multitude’, was passed without opposition, but the second part, the proposal for a three-man embassy, was heavily defeated. A decree was also passed restricting Cato’s and Caninius’ scope for passing their laws, but was vetoed by them. Votes were due to be taken on Hortensius’ motion that Lentulus should restore Ptolemy without an army and on Volcacius’ that Pompey should do it, but proceedings were talked out on both 14 and 15 January. This left the Senate unable to take the matter further for the time being, since the rest of January was taken up with comitial days on which the Senate could not meet and in February priority had to be given to embassy business.74 Thereafter Cicero’s surviving letters are less frequent, and our information is correspondingly patchier. Probably later in January, a letter from Ptolemy himself confirming his wish to have Pompey sent with two lictors to restore him was read at a contio by the tribune A. Plautius.75 In early February, C. Cato stepped up his campaign against Lentulus, promulgating a new law which would deprive him of his provincial command, a rare and extreme sanction that had only been enforced against proconsuls guilty of grave offences in their command.76 Presumably Cato justified it on the basis of alleged misconduct by Lentulus in support of Ptolemy during his consulship. At this point the transfer of Ptolemy’s restoration to Pompey was widely expected to go ahead.77 However, the situation was transformed by dramatic developments on and after 7 February. Clodius, now aedile, was prosecuting Milo over his conduct as tribune the previous year, and, at a hearing on that day, Pompey, speaking in Milo’s support, was subjected to barracking from Clodius’ supporters. At one point, Clodius played questionand-answer with his claque and the exchanges included: “‘Who wants to go to Alexandria?” Answer: “Pompey.” “Who do you want to go?” Answer: “Crassus.”’ The session then broke up in rioting. At a Senate meeting on 9 February, a decree was passed that the events of 7 February were contrary to the public interest and C. Cato delivered a bitter attack on Pompey. Cato then promulgated yet another law, this time against Milo, while a furious Pompey claimed to Cicero that Cato and Clodius were being backed by Crassus, Curio, Bibulus and others.78 Cicero now felt, as he told Lentulus (Fam. 1.5b(16)), that Pompey, much shaken by these events, ‘seems to have completely given up the Alexandrian business’, and accordingly hoped that, when Ptolemy realized that he couldn’t get restored by Pompey, he would revert to Lentulus. Subsequent developments are obscure. At some point, perhaps later in February, opinion shifted in the Senate against restoring Ptolemy at all, and a decree to that effect was passed, but vetoed by one or more tribunes, no doubt including Caninius.79 At the end of March, Cicero told his brother (QF 2.5(9).2–4) that C. Cato was still hoping to pass his legislation, but the consul Marcellinus was putting procedural obstacles in his way, while Caninius’ proposal about Pompey had ‘gone cold’ (refrixit). In the courts, individuals suspected of involvement in the murders of the Alexandrian ambassadors were prosecuted for violence: Cicero successfully defended P. Asicius on this charge and on 4 April M. Caelius Rufus on this and other charges.80 At some stage a despondent Ptolemy withdrew to Ephesus (Dio 39.16.3). 230

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Thus, the impasse continued. The only Senate resolution on the matter that had been passed without veto was the decree of 14 January prohibiting the use of a force for Ptolemy’s restoration. As Cicero stressed, the vetoing of the decree cancelling the restoration meant that the previous year’s decree entrusting it to Lentulus remained in force.81 Even if a resolution confirming the instruction to Lentulus or transferring the assignment to Pompey had now been put to the vote and passed, it would certainly have been vetoed: C. Cato would have vetoed such a decree in favour of Pompey, and Caninius would have joined him in vetoing one in favour of Lentulus. Cicero, in his letters, tells Lentulus that among the consulares only Hortensius and Lucullus had stayed loyal to him and repeatedly deplores what he describes as the treachery and spite of other leading senators who should have stayed his friends, sometimes even comparing Lentulus’ situation with Cicero’s own in the period leading up to his exile.82 This is a highly partisan stance. Strong practical objections could be made to Lentulus’ retention of responsibility for Ptolemy’s restoration, since it meant leaving his province and army behind to undertake an unarmed mission which could easily fail and might well risk his own safety. Those who favoured the alternative solutions may have been influenced by these considerations and/or by disapproval of the strong support that Lentulus as consul had given Ptolemy despite his outrageous treatment of the Alexandrian ambassadors. One of Cicero’s letters answers one from Lentulus in which he had complained of opponents’ disloyalty.83 However, Cicero leaves it unclear how Lentulus himself felt about the retention of his mission, which Cicero had tried so hard to achieve. Lentulus had clearly been eager for his original assignment of restoring Ptolemy with part of his army, but he may have felt little enthusiasm for the much riskier prospect of achieving the restoration on his own and unarmed. Pompey’s own carefully concealed feelings may also have been much more ambivalent about his taking over the assignment than is commonly supposed. Ptolemy and his supporters wanted him to do so in the belief that only he would be able to accomplish the unarmed mission successfully. Pompey would, as before, have been keen to see Ptolemy restored, not least to ensure the full payment of the sums Ptolemy had promised him, and may have agreed that, in the changed circumstances to which the oracle had given rise, the most effective way of achieving this would be for him to carry out the restoration himself. However, he may have had misgivings about whether even he could complete it safely. In any case, he may have been reluctant to take over the assignment without broad support, and that was all too evidently lacking.

Restoration and aftermath In April 56 a major realignment took place. Crassus and Pompey both travelled north to meet Caesar in his province of Cisalpine Gaul, with Crassus meeting him at Ravenna and Pompey doing so at Luca.84 Crassus may have been at Luca as well, although hardly as many other senators as later tradition asserts.85 At these meetings the three agreed to 231

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re-establish their friendship and resume working together. As a result, pressure was successfully brought to bear on both Cicero and Clodius to do their bidding: Cicero later ruefully justified his change of course in a long letter to Lentulus Spinther (Fam. 1.9(20)).86 C. Cato too was to co-operate with the allies later in the year.87 The allies may not already at this stage have decided that Pompey and Crassus would take the consulships for 55 followed by major provinces, as the later tradition claimed.88 However, they certainly agreed that in other ways affairs should be adjusted according to their common interest, and this agreement probably extended to the Egyptian issue, in which both Caesar and Pompey had such a stake: Pompey would not need to tackle it in person; suitable provision would be made for the Sibylline ban to be evaded and for Ptolemy to be safely restored. In the summer of 56, Cicero wrote another letter to Lentulus, his first to survive since March, with an ingenious new suggestion as to how he might restore the king ‘without a host’ (Fam. 1.7(18).4–6). Making use of the Senate’s still unrescinded decree authorizing him to restore Ptolemy, Lentulus should, Cicero suggested, install the king in a neighbouring location,89 advance to Alexandria himself with his fleet and army, and, when he had secured it, let Ptolemy return. Cicero claimed that the scheme had Pompey’s approval, but he added the warning that, if it did not succeed, Lentulus could face repercussions. Another passage shows that this project was not just a wild notion of Cicero’s own. In his later defence speech for Rabirius Postumus, Cicero insists, against the charge that Rabirius had put Gabinius up to restoring Ptolemy, that the financier ‘had hurried from Rome . . . not to the authority of Gabinius, whose business this was not, but to that of P. Lentulus . . . which proceeded from the Senate’.90 Despite its intentional obscurity, this allusion must mean that Rabirius had originally set out for the East in connection with the project of summer 56 for Lentulus to carry out the restoration.91 This, then, was Pompey’s first post-Luca plan for effecting Ptolemy’s return. Lentulus, it seems, would have nothing to do with this scheme, sensibly judging the risks too great, if not in Alexandria, then certainly at Rome. He concentrated instead on a campaign in his Cilician province, and Cicero, in his next letter in early 55, was able to congratulate Lentulus on the victory from which he would eventually triumph in 51.92 This left one other nearby commander in a position to effect Ptolemy’s restoration, namely the proconsul of Syria, Pompey’s close associate Gabinius. Gabinius had recently been snubbed by the Senate: following his successful campaigns against rebels in Judaea, he had applied for a supplicatio, a thanksgiving ritual normally followed by a triumph on the commander’s return, but on 15 May 56 the Senate had, most unusually, rejected the request.93 He next planned an invasion of Parthia in support of the new king’s brother’s claim to the throne, but then abandoned the project in favour of restoring Ptolemy to Alexandria. Our sources attribute Gabinius’ decision mainly to a bribe, partly paid and partly promised, from Ptolemy, alleged to total 10,000 talents (= 24 million sesterces).94 This huge sum is no doubt greatly exaggerated, but Gabinius will certainly have got a substantial inducement, despite his later claim to have received funds from Ptolemy only for his troops’ costs.95 232

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Dio (n.94) adds the further information that Gabinius was acting on Pompey’s instructions, conveyed in a letter brought to him by Ptolemy. Dio in this section is hostile to both Pompey and Gabinius, but there is no reason to doubt the existence of the letter. Ptolemy himself may seem an unlikely intermediary, but it was perhaps Rabirius Postumus who acted as the courier.96 Equipped with letters from Pompey (no doubt worded with his characteristic caution), Rabirius may have set out first for Cilicia, but then, after failing with Lentulus, brought Ptolemy from his exile in Ephesus to Gabinius. Thus, as has generally been supposed, Gabinius was acting not only in his own interest, but in response to Pompey’s wishes, and will have been trusting in Pompey to protect him against the attacks he was bound to face on return to Rome. Gabinius may also have believed that he was acting in the public interest, as he was to claim at his trials.97 Queen Berenice was now married to her second husband and coruler, the adventurer Archelaus.98 The son of Mithridates’ same-named general, this man had slipped away from Gabinius’ camp to Alexandria, where he posed as a son of Mithridates himself, and he and Berenice were now ready to resist Gabinius’ intervention. Whether or not Archelaus’ fleet posed a risk of widespread piracy, as Gabinius later claimed, it was certainly now in Rome’s imperial interest for a stable pro-Roman government to be established in Egypt. Probably in early 55, Gabinius advanced to Egypt, defeated the opposing forces both on land and in a naval battle on the Nile, and reinstated Ptolemy in Alexandria by April, with both Berenice and Archelaus losing their lives.99 When the news reached Rome, a leading part in the resulting outcry was played by Cicero, who, bitter at Gabinius’ part in his exile, missed no opportunity to attack him. Cicero’s proposal that the Sibylline books should be consulted for guidance on how those who violated their injunctions should be punished was frustrated by Pompey and Crassus as consuls in 55, but implemented under their successors, only for the quindecimviri to report that their search had yielded nothing to the purpose.100 Gabinius quickly returned from Egypt to his province, where he crushed renewed rebellion in Judaea and campaigned against the Nabataean Arabs.101 He eventually arrived back in Rome on 27 September 54,102 and was rapidly indicted for maiestas (lesemajesty). To Cicero’s disgust he was acquitted on this charge on 23 October, by 38 votes to 32. Cicero attributed the acquittal to the prosecution’s incompetence, Pompey’s keen support, and the jury’s corruption.103 Some jurors may also have been influenced by the defence arguments. As we have seen, Gabinius justified his restoration of Ptolemy as carried out in the public interest (rei publicae causa), and the statutes which prohibited provincial governors from leaving their province or starting a war unless authorized by the Senate and people may have allowed this exemption.104 As for the Sibylline ban on restoring the Alexandrian king with a multitude, the defence simply claimed that the oracle referred to a different occasion and king.105 Gabinius’ acquittal was, however, followed in late 54 or 53 by a second trial, for repetundae (extortion), which appears to have focused on the alleged bribe from Ptolemy. This time, despite the advocacy of Cicero, who had been humiliatingly obliged by Pompey to appear for the defence, the outcome was Gabinius’ conviction and exile, from 233

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which he was later to be brought back by Caesar, following the outbreak of the civil war.106 This trial was followed by the linked prosecution of Rabirius Postumus, for which Cicero’s defence speech is extant. Ptolemy remained secure in his kingdom until his death in 51, with the support of troops left behind by Gabinius, the so-called Gabiniani.107 His creditors’ exactions no doubt hit the king’s subjects hard, but much of his debts and promises nonetheless seem to have remained unpaid. Rabirius Postumus accepted appointment as Ptolemy’s dioecetes (treasurer) in the hope that this would enable him to exact the sums owed to him and others, but during 54 he was imprisoned and fled back to Rome, and Cicero claims that only Caesar’s financial support saved him from bankruptcy.108 In the autumn of 54, Cicero remarked to a correspondent that those who had gone to Alexandria with the king’s contract notes had so far got nothing.109 In 48, Caesar claimed that 17.5 million denarii was still owing to him from the former king.110

Conclusion The detailed examination of the Romans’ dealings with Ptolemy Auletes, and in particular of the crisis over his restoration in 57–55 bce , offered in this chapter has diverged in various respects from the usual interpretations. In particular, in place of the common view of Pompey as seeking a great new assignment in Egypt, it has argued that he was chiefly concerned just to secure Ptolemy’s restoration to his throne, and that opposition to Ptolemy’s restoration was directed as much against Ptolemy himself and Lentulus Spinther as against Pompey. Moreover, the Sibylline oracle, although it was rapidly taken up by opponents of Ptolemy’s restoration, was not, as often supposed, a fraud, but rather a genuine oracle from the reconstituted books, discovered when they were consulted by the priests in response to the Alban Mount lightning strike. As Morrell has stressed, an important part was played by moral indignation at the corruption and thuggery of Ptolemy and his minions, and at Romans (notably Lentulus Spinther) who were perceived as complicit in it – indignation shared by many senators, at one point by a majority of the Senate, and by public opinion more widely. Concern for Rome’s imperial interest may also have played its part, for example in Gabinius’ decision to undertake Ptolemy’s restoration, and perhaps in some of the jurors’ votes for his acquittal. Cicero, however, appears to have been chiefly motivated throughout by his own narrow personal concerns: to prove himself duly grateful for Lentulus’ past services, he continued to support Lentulus’ retention of his commission to restore Ptolemy after it ceased to be a practical solution, and then his hatred of Gabinius led him to denounce his restoration of the king as boldly as he dared – until Pompey forced him into a humiliating volte-face. Corruption throughout played a key role, as Dio rightly emphasized, involving a wide section of Roman society. Roman financiers like Rabirius eagerly pressed their loans on the king and then anxiously sought to recover their debts, with only limited success. Their activities enabled the king to pay or promise huge sums in bribes to numerous 234

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senators, above all to Pompey, Caesar and Gabinius – and (although no source explicitly makes the allegation) surely also to Lentulus Spinther. Notes * I am very grateful to John Ramsey for comments on a draft of this paper. 1. Notable studies of this theme include Badian (1968): 60–92; Shatzman (1975); Rosillo López (2010); Kay (2014). 2. Morrell (2017), stressing the moral concerns felt both in and beyond the Senate; Osgood (2019), focusing on Dio’s treatment. Shatzman (1971) is a valuable earlier discussion concentrating on financial aspects. 3. All dates are bce unless otherwise noted. Discussions of Auletes’ reign include Volkmann (1959); Bloedow (1963); Olshausen (1963), 22–63; Fraser (1972), 1.90–1, 122–7, 2.170–2, 220–7; Sullivan (1990), 91–5, 229–48; Siani-Davies (1997) and (2001), 1–38; Hölbl (2001), 222–30; Huss (2001), 671–702; Christmann (2005); Hekster (2012). 4. Alexander I: e.g. Badian (1967); Manuwald (2018), 118–19. Alexander II: e.g. Braund (1983), 24–8; Siani-Davies (2001), 3–4; Hekster (2012), 192. 5. Cic. Leg. Agr. 2.42, Verr. 2.2.76. 6. Plut. Crass. 13.1–2; Suet. Iul. 11; Schol. Bob. 91–3 Stangl; Crawford (1994), 43–56; Chrustaljow (2018), esp. 254–5. 7. Cic. Leg. Agr. 1.1, 2.41–4; Sumner (1966), 576–7; Drummond (1999), 160–1. 8. Sall. Hist. 4.69.12 M (allegation attributed to Mithridates). 9. Plin. NH 33.136 (citing Varro); Joseph. AJ 14.35; App. Mithr. 114.557. Appian’s claim that Pompey then declined a request from Ptolemy for intervention against unrest in Egypt is surely a confusion with the events of 57–56. Pompey cannot have visited Egypt in 67/6, as Piganiol (1956) inferred from Lucan 2.586–7; see contra Heinen (1966), 166–75. 10. Caes. BC 3.107.2; Cic. Att. 2.16(36).2, Sest. 57, Rab. Post. 6. In citing Cicero’s letters I include Shackleton Bailey’s numeration in brackets. 11. On Cato’s Cyprus mission see now Drogula (2019), 158–71; Calvelli (2020). 12. Diod. 17.52.6. Strabo 17.1.13 cites Cicero as claiming that Ptolemy received 12,500 talents a year. 13. Att. 2.5(25).1, 2.7(27).3. 14. Cic. Rab. Post. 4–5. 15. So Dio 39.12.2–13.1; Livy per. 104; Plut. Pomp. 49. 13, Cat. Min. 35.4; Dio Chrys. 32.70. See further Siani-Davies (2001), 14–20. 16. Plut. Cat. Min. 35. 17. For overviews see Wiseman (1994), 386–91; Tatum (1999), 176–94; Seager (2002), 106–11. 18. Dio 39.12–14; more briefly, Strabo 17.1.11. Dio’s ‘after this’ at 39.12.1 appears to date Ptolemy’s flight to late in 57, but such narrative connections in Dio are often misleading. 19. Cic. Rab. Post. 4–6; Dio 39.14.2–4. 20. Cic. Fam. 1.1(12).3, Pis. 50, Rab. Post. 6; Dio 39.12.3. 21. Cf. Cic. Fam. 1.7(18).4; Brunt (1971), 458. The province no doubt retained some of the ships Pompey had used in his Pirate War.

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Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World 22. Cf. Morrell (2019), 164–5 n.73. The Senate’s suspension of public business after the blocking of Cicero’s recall in January can hardly have continued until August, as Morrell supposes; cf. Kaster (2006), 275, 398–9. Plut. Pomp. 49.9 is not reliable evidence that Lentulus’ appointment followed Pompey’s to the grain commissionership, as supposed by e.g. Tatum (1999), 195, 313 n.119 (see below, at n.36). 23. Consuls normally presided over the Senate in alternate months, and, since Lentulus had presided in January, he held the presidency in the odd months. See, however, Morstein-Marx (2021), 625–7. 24. Cic. Sest. 73–4. Consuls at this period normally called senators in the same sequence throughout the year: Ryan (1998), 259–63. 25. On Gabinius’ relationship with Pompey see Badian (1959); Williams (1978). 26. Cic. Att. 3.22(67).2 totum esse in illius potestate (November 58). 27. See below at n.94. 28. Dio 39.13.2–14.3; Strabo 17.1.11 (attributing responsibility for the murders to Pompey himself); Cic. Cael. 23–4, Har. Resp. 34. 29. Dio 39.14.1. Favonius took a similarly leading role in opposing Pompey’s grain commission (Cic. Att. 4.1 (73).7 consulares duce Favonio fremunt). For Favonius’ close association with Cato see especially Plut. Cat. Min. 32.11, 46.1–8; Dio 38.7.1; Drogula (2019), 225. 30. Dio 39.14.2–3. Dio’s words need not imply that the ambassador Dio was killed after Ptolemy left Rome, contra Wiseman (1985), 61; Morrell (2019), 155 n.24. 31. Cornell et al. (2013), 70 F2 = Non. Marc. 615 L. 32. Cic. QF 1.2(2).15. 33. Pompey’s later suspicions (Cic. QF 2.3(7).4) do not justify classifying C. Cato as a partisan of Crassus; e.g. Taylor (1949), 85, 215; Linderski (1995), 117. 34. Cic. Fam. 1.1(12).1 (res agitur per eosdem creditores per quos, cum tu aderas, agebatur), 4 (rebus multo ante quam profectus es ab ipso rege et ab intimis ac domesticis Pompei clam exulceratis); 1.2(13).3 (totam rem istam iam pridem a certis hominibus non invito rege ipso consiliariisque eius esse corruptam). 35. Fam. 1.4(14).2: non tam ut te impediret quam ut ne quis propter exercitus cupiditatem Alexandream vellet ire. 36. Plut. Pomp. 49.9, 13 (citing Timagenes, FGrH 88 F9). On Timagenes, who flourished at Rome after being brought from Alexandria by Gabinius as a slave in 54, see now McInerney and Roller (2012). 37. Plut. Pomp. 49.12. See now Rosillo-López (2017), 113–16. 38. So rightly Morrell (2017), 126–7; Morrell (2019), 164–7; Osgood (2019), 204–5; below at n.72. 39. Mommsen (1866), 303 = (1867), 305. 40. E.g. Meyer (1922), 126–30; Rice Holmes (1923), 67; Taylor (1949), 85–6; Shackleton Bailey (1977), 293; Ward (1977), 249–53; Brunt (1988), 484–5; Tatum (1999), 195–200; Seager (2002), 111–12. 41. Q. fr. 2.2(6).3; Fam. 1.7(18).4. 42. On the interpretation of Cicero’s words see Morrell (2019), 163–4 n.69. 43. Cf. Stein (1930), 37–8. Lex Pupia: Bonnefond-Coudry (1989), 229–60. I give calendar dates throughout by the Roman civil calendar, which was at this time a few weeks ahead of the Julian calendar introduced in 45 (1 January 56 = 10 December 57 [Julian]). For a table of calendar equivalents see https://tulliana.eu/ephemerides/frames.htm (accessed 15 July 2022). 236

Corruption, Power and Ptolemy Auletes 44. Timing of prodigy reports: Satterfield (2012a). Senate not meeting in late December: Stein (1930), 116–19. 1 January meetings on Capitol: Bonnefond-Coudry (1989), 65–70. Morrell (2019), 165, also adjusts Dio’s chronology, but it is unlikely that the oracle had already been discovered and published in December, as she supposes (see below, n.72). 45. Other prodigy notices for the Alban Mount are listed by MacBain (1982), 35 n.74. 46. MacBain (1982), 118–26 compares the distribution of various types of prodigy consultations between the three priesthoods. There is no reason to suppose that political factors determined the choice of the quindecimviri on this occasion; contra Tatum (1999), 200. In general on prodigies and their procurement under the Republic see MacBain (1982); Rosenberger (1998); Rasmussen (2003); Engels (2007). 47. Discussions of the Sibylline books and their consultation include Radke (1963); Parke (1988), 137–51, 190–215; Potter (1990), 109–14; Orlin (1997), 76–115; Monaca (2005); Satterfield (2008); Keskiaho (2013); Santangelo (2013), 128–48; O’Brien and Vervaet (2020). 48. Scheid (1998) offers a conjectural solution, perhaps exaggerating the priests’ freedom of invention. 49. On predictions reported from the Sibylline Books see especially Mazurek (2004); Satterfield (2008), 62–72, 127–37. 50. Livy 29.10.4; cf. App. Hann. 56.233. On the introduction of Magna Mater see Gruen (1990), 5–33; Burton (1996); Erskine (2001), 205–18; Satterfield (2012b). Berneder (2004), 11–37, is over-sceptical in dismissing the oracle as a later fiction. 51. Frontin. Aq. 1.7; Livy, Oxy. Per. 54. On this episode see Morgan (1978), arguing that the decemviri were opposed to the extension to the Capitol from concern for their college’s property on the Capitol; Rodgers (1982); Rodgers (2004), 163–6; Nice (2018). 52. E.g. Taylor (1949), 86; Lenaghan (1969), 20. 53. Tatum (1999), 200; Morrell (2019), 162 n.58 (‘calculated selection and interpretation, rather than outright invention’). 54. Cf. Osgood (2019), who shows that Dio himself raises no doubts about the oracle’s genuineness. 55. Fam. 1.1(12).1 (trans. Shackleton Bailey): senatus religionis calumniam non religione sed malevolentia et illius regiae largitionis invidia comprobat. For the sense of calumnia here see Oxford Latin Dictionary s.v. calumnia 2b (‘the making of unfounded objections, etc., as a means of obstruction’). 56. Fam. 1.7(18).4: quem ad modum homines religiosi Sibyllae placere dixerunt. 57. So apparently Taylor (1949), 85–6, who conjectures that Crassus himself was a quindecimvir and had the oracle invented. 58. Rüpke (2008), 126; Caerols (2014), 43–9 with a different assessment of the individual priests’ likely contribution than is offered here. 59. Erythrae mission: Fenestella, Cornell et al. (2013), 70 F19a. Pompey’s enemy: Cic. Flacc. 14. Legate to Piso: Cic. Pis. 54. See Münzer (1955); Rüpke (2008), 937. 60. On Dio’s view of oracles and their diffusion see Osgood (2019), 200–2. 61. Clodius as quindecimvir: Cic. Har. Resp. 26; Rüpke (2008), 625. 62. Cic. QF 2.1(5).2; Tatum (1999), 197. 63. Cicero’s reference to responsa sacerdotum (Pis. 48) may relate to this report; cf. Scheid (1998), 13 for the terminology. 64. Cf. Pina Polo (2011), 234–5. 237

Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World 65. The surely correct emendation scis (Fam. 1.1(12).2) confirms that Cicero’s letter replies to one from Spinther: see Watt (1964); Shackleton Bailey (1977), 294–5. Spinther’s relationship to Marcellinus: Sumner (1973), 140–3. 66. Cf. Morrell (2019), 166, 168. The Alexandrian crowd: Mittag (2003). 67. Plut. Pomp. 49.11; Dio 39.16.2. 68. Cic. Fam. 1.1(12).2, 1.2(13).3, 1.4(14).1–2; QF 2.2(6).3. 69. Fam. 1.2(13).1, 4, 1.4(14).1; QF 2.2(6).3. 70. Plut. Pomp. 49.10; cf. Dio 39.16.1. Two lictors for an ambassador: Dio 54.10.2; Mommsen (1887), 1.386. On Caninius see Geiger (1972). 71. Shackleton Bailey (1977), 293, 299; followed by Mitchell (1991), 163; Millar (1998), 160; and Tatum (1999), 197. 72. At the Senate meeting on 15 January, Caninius promised not to carry his law before the aedilician elections (Cic. Fam. 1.4(14).1), so respecting the ban imposed by the leges Aelia et Fufia on legislation in the pre-election period (Schol. Bob. 148 Stangl; Cic. Att. 1.16.13; Dio 36.39.1). This does not show, as Shackleton Bailey held, that the legally required interval of a trinundinum (three market-days: Lintott, 1965) between promulgation and voting would have elapsed for Caninius’ law by 20 January, for which the elections had by then been scheduled (Cic. QF 2.2(6).3). Caninius was clearly promising not to legislate until the elections had been held, even if they were again postponed. There is thus no need to date the discovery of the oracle back to December, as proposed by Morrell (2019), 165 (see above, n.44). 73. Cic. Fam. 1.2(13), 1.4(14); QF 2.2(6).3. 74. Cic. Fam. 1.4(14).1, QF 2.2(6).3; above, n.43. 75. Dio 39.16.2. 76. Cic. QF 2.3(7).1, 4; Fam. 1.5a(15).2; Sest. 144. Precedents: Mommsen (1887), 1.629 n.4; Kunkel and Wittmann (1995), 255–6. 77. Cic. Fam. 1.5a(15).3. 78. Cic. QF 2.3(7).2–4. 79. Cic. Fam. 1.7(18).4. 80. Cic. Cael. 23–4, 51; Alexander (1990), 130, 134. Nothing further is known of the convictions of agents of Ptolemy alleged by Dio 39.14.4. 81. Fam. 1.7(18).4; cf. 1.5a(15).3. Dio 39.15.3, 55.1 is in error on this point. 82. Fam. 1.2(13).4; 1.4(14).3; 1.5a(16).1–2, 4; 1.5b(16).2; 1.7(18).1; 1.7(18).2–4. 83. Fam. 1.5a(15).1. 84. Cic. Fam. 1.9(20).9. 85. Suet. Iul. 24.1; Plut. Pomp. 51.4–5, Caes. 21.5-6, Crass.14.6–7, Cato Min. 41.1; App. BC 2.17.62–3; Ward (1980); Rosillo-López (2022), 62–80. 86. Clodius’ reconciliation with Pompey: Har. Resp. 51–2; Dio 39.29; Tatum (1999), 214–23. 87. Dio 39.27.3–28.5. 88. For the view that these were later decisions see now Drogula (2019), 177–83. 89. Cicero’s suggestion, Ptolemais, must refer to the city in Cyrenaica, not the less known Ptolemais Hormou, far up the Nile (contra Shackleton Bailey, 1977, 304). 90. Rab. Post. 21: nec ad Gabini, cuius id negotium non erat, sed ad P. Lentuli . . . auctoritatem a senatu profectam . . . Roma contenderat.

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Corruption, Power and Ptolemy Auletes 91. Cf. Fantham (1975), 430. 92. Cic. Fam. 1.8(19).7, 1.9(20).2; Att. 5.21.4. 93. Cic. QF 2.7(11).1, Prov. Cons. 14–15, Pis. 41, 45. Judaea: Joseph. AJ 14.82–97, BJ 1.160–74. 94. Cic. Rab. Post. 21, 30, Pis. 48, Planc. 86; Schol. Bob. 168 Stangl; Plut. Ant. 3.4; App. Syr. 51.257; Dio 39.55.3, 56.3. 95. Cic. Rab. Post. 34. 96. Cf. Siani-Davies (2001), 27. 97. Cic. Rab. Post. 20. Cf. Williams (1985), implausibly arguing that this was Gabinius’ sole motive. 98. Strabo 12.3.34, 17.1.11; Dio 39.57. Berenice had rapidly disposed of her first husband, who had claimed to be a Seleucid. 99. Dio 39.58; Siani-Davies (2001), 27–31 – her dating of Gabinius’ departure from Syria to early summer 56 is too early; Huss (2001), 693–5. 100. Dio 39.59–61; cf. Cic. Pis. 48–50. Dio 39.61.1–2 does not imply any link between the consultation of the books and the Tiber flood, which in fact occurred after Gabinius’ return (Cic. QF 3.5.8). 101. Joseph. AJ 14.100–4, BJ 1.176–8. 102. Cic. QF 3.1(21).24. 103. Cic. Att. 4.18(92).2, QF 3.4(24).1; Dio 39.62. On Gabinius’ trials see Gruen (1974), 322–8; Fantham (1975); Crawford (1984), 188–97; Alexander (1990), 145, 148. 104. Lintott (1993), 23–7. 105. Dio 39.62.3. There is no reason to suppose that Gabinius sought to evade the ban by bringing Ptolemy to Alexandria only after he had secured the city, as Cicero had suggested to Lentulus (contra Siani-Davies, 2001, 31–2). 106. Dio 39.63; above, n.103. On the trial date see Morrell (2017), 165–71. 107. Caes. BC 3.4.4, 103.4, 110.2; Dio 42.5.4. 108. Cic. Rab. Post. 22, 25, 28, 39–43; Siani-Davies (2001), 32–5. 109. Att. 7.17(31).1. 110. Plut. Caes. 48.8; Westall (2010); Pelling (2011), 384.

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CHAPTER 12 MONEY AND WEALTH IN TACITUS Arthur J. Pomeroy

Tacitus’ observations on financial matters, either private or public, are rarely given much weight in treatments of the Roman economy. In line with the Roman historiographical practice of not recording the unusual unless it has explanatory value,1 he generally avoids detailed information in favour of generalized comments on economic matters. Food shortages in the capital are mentioned fairly frequently in the Annals, along with governmental efforts to alleviate the problems,2 but details of the amount of grain distributed, for instance, are avoided. Similarly, he suggests that the mutinies of 14 ce3 showed resentment at army pay and retirement benefits, but does not discuss why Tiberius was unable to contemplate the suggested settlement offered to the troops by Germanicus.4 Presumably military costs needed to be balanced against the revenues of the empire (particularly taxation), but the actual figures were known only within the imperial civil service and not directly reported to the Senate.5 Nero’s desires to abolish taxes would initially appear to be a popular move but were successfully opposed by more informed courtiers.6 Unfortunately, we do not have the historian’s account of Nero’s last years where expenditure exceeded income, requiring personal loans to the treasury and the increased taxes that provoked Vindex’s revolt in Gaul. Tacitus can wryly talk of a ‘cargo-cult of wealth that was one of the causes of the state’s impoverishment’ (Ann. 16.3.1: divitiarum expectatio inter causas paupertatis publicae) with regard to the belief that Dido’s treasure was waiting to be found, since no value could be put on the Monte Cristo style riches promised, and civic indebtedness was perceptible but not quantifiable. Confiscations are often mentioned, but their value is not indicated and probably unknown (would Tacitus have repeated Pliny the Elder’s assertion that six landowners possessed half of the province of Africa at the time they were executed by Nero?).7 Individuals are reported as being rich (locuples), but this generic term offers little guidance and is presumably based on public displays, for instance in the magnificence of their residences in Rome or the number of slaves therein, as in the famous case of the urban prefect, Pedanius.8 The notorious accuser Suillius is depicted as defending his past activities under Claudius as a way to gain a modicum of wealth by his own hard work (Ann. 13.42.4: sibi labore quaesitam et modicam pecuniam esse). By contrast, Seneca had acquired three hundred million sesterces within four years of becoming Nero’s tutor and was now (in 58) sucking the lifeblood out of Italy and the provinces by the money he had lent at interest (Italiam et provincias immenso faenore hauriri). There is nothing wrong with being rich, but increasing one’s wealth too rapidly as a faenerator is hardly the mark of a gentleman.9 One passage has, however, attracted substantial interest from historians investigating Rome’s economy. In 33, the pressure of dealing with a slew of denunciations against 245

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those who were earning interest contrary to Julius Caesar’s law on investment and holdings in Italy led the praetor in charge of the aerarium to refer the matter to the Senate. In view of the gravity of the situation, the senators asked the emperor for a special dispensation and Tiberius agreed to an amnesty of eighteen months for offenders to bring their finances into conformity with the law. However, the requirement that twothirds of money open for loan should be invested in land in Italy led to a financial crisis. Debts were called in rather than renewed, the price of land crashed, and many were faced with bankruptcy. Finally, the emperor made available a hundred million sesterces in interest free loans for the next three years if secured by a mortgage of twice their value in property. Private lenders gradually reappeared and the Senate’s decree on investment in land was tacitly allowed to slip into abeyance. There are three sources for these events: Suetonius (Tib. 48.1), Cassius Dio (58.21.5) and Tacitus (Ann. 6.16–17). The first two reports are brief, while Tacitus inserts into his account a history of past attempts to set rates of loans at Rome (Ann. 6.16.1–2). This digression10 illustrates the serious political consequences of indebtedness in the Roman economy but may be tangential to the particular conditions of 33. Still, before examining the evidence systematically, it will be helpful to set the three reports in context. The passage from Suetonius is from a section (Tib. 41–67) describing in negative terms Tiberius’ actions after his retirement to Capri in 27. While Tiberius’ generosity in 33 is noted, it is in the context of two rare exceptions to his close-fisted nature and greed. First listed is the emperor compensating owners of apartment buildings (insulae), that were burnt in a fire on the Caelian in 37, for their loss. Tacitus, who notes that owners of houses (domi) were also included in the scheme, more generously describes this as turning a public loss into an improvement in the emperor’s reputation (Ann. 6.45.1: quod damnum Caesar ad gloriam vertit). The other example is his making available a hundred million sesterces interest free for a three-year term (proposito milies sestertium gratuito in trienni tempus). This offer was wrung out of him by public demands for assistance amid great financial stress (magna difficultate nummaria populo auxilum flagitante coactus est facere) after he had passed a ruling, through a senatorial decree, that moneylenders (faeneratores) should put two-thirds of their personal wealth in property (duas patrimonii partes in solo collocarent),11 while their debtors should immediately repay an equivalent amount of their loans (totidem aeris alieni statim solverent). Unfortunately, the accounts could not be settled (nec res expediretur). To put it briefly: Tiberius had himself caused the financial crisis and so it was he who was forced by public opinion to try to rectify matters. In Cassius Dio (58.21.4–5), the financial crisis is linked to the denunciations and convictions that had followed the demise of Sejanus in 31. In this atmosphere, (Cocceius) Nerva who could no longer stand the presence of the emperor starved himself to death for various reasons (ἀπεκαρτερήσε διά τε τἄλλα), in particular because Tiberius had re-enacted (ἀνενεώσατο) Caesar’s laws about contracts (περὶ τῶν συμβολαίων) which would result in a loss of confidence and general chaos (καὶ ἀπιστία καὶ ταραχὴ πολλὴ γενήσεσθαι ἔμελλεν). 246

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Since Nerva would not offer him any explanation, Tiberius took a more moderate position on the matter of loans (τό τε πρᾶγμα τὸ κατὰ τὰ δανείσματα ἐμετρίασε), giving 25 million drachmas [i.e. HS 100,000,000] to the public treasury [the aerarium] for it to be taken in loan by the senators for their needs interest free for three years (ὥστ᾿ αὐτὰς ὑπ᾿ ἀνδρῶν βουλευτῶν ἀτοκεὶ τοῖς δεομένοις ἐς τρία ἔτη ἐκδανεισθῆναι).12 Furthermore, Tiberius ‘on one day ordered the execution of the most notorious of the accusers [i.e. delators]’. Dio’s account is clearly a jumble of information, some of it involving the practice of delation, as shown by the statement that follows, that Tiberius banned anyone who had served in the army from laying a complaint against anyone, ‘although allowing equites and senators to do so’.13 The linking of the suicide of Nerva with the consequences of the senatus consultum (SC) on loans and land-holding is absent in Tacitus, who, in Ann. 6.26.1–2, recounts Nerva’s end among the obituaries for 33 and places it sometime after October 18, the date of the death of Agrippina the Elder (Ann. 6.25.3). Since Nerva himself would not offer any explanation for his actions, Dio is clearly speculating when he links his death to the SC.14 In Tacitus, instead, there is the report, attributed to ‘sources close to Nerva’ (ferebant gnari cogitationum eius), that close observation of the evils visited on the state had led him to choose to die while he could keep his integrity. Thus, his death is but another confirmation of the sorry state of Rome in the last years of Tiberius’ reign. Dio’s report, however problematic it may be in blaming the crisis of 33 on Tiberius, nevertheless should remind us that the events described in Annals 6.16–17 are likely to have taken place over a wider space of time than the annalistic treatment suggests. Tacitus begins his account with Interea (‘In the meantime’), which suggests that matters may have been building to a head before 33, but it was in that year (sed tum Gracchus praetor) that Gracchus brought his concerns before the Senate; a grace period was sought from the emperor and approved; and a senatorial decree was passed that caused financial panic by late autumn. Tiberius’ intervention, then, is likely to have occurred late in the year or even in 34, with its effects gradually being felt in 34–36.15 Turning to Tacitus, it is clear that his account of the crisis, even if not explicitly critical of Tiberius and his relations with the Senate, is set against a background of deterioration in civil life following the fall of Sejanus and the imprisonment and deaths of Germanicus’ children Nero and Drusus and, finally, their mother (Ann. 6.25) in this same year. In his well-known preface to the rise of Sejanus in Book 4 of the Annals, Tacitus stated that, excepting the treason laws, the legal system had operated well in the early years of Tiberius’ reign (Ann. 4.6.2: legesque, si maiestatis quaestio eximeretur, bono in usu). Corporal punishment was not inflicted on citizens nor were there illegal confiscations (Ann. 4.6.4: corporum verbera, ademptiones bonorum aberant) and the emperor was not a major landowner in Italy (4.6.5: rari per Italiam Caesaris agri). Matters change in 24 with the prosecution of C. Silius under the treason (maiestas) law: although the defendant 247

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had committed suicide before a verdict had been reached, whatever had been given to him by the imperial generosity of Augustus was now confiscated to the imperial treasury (fiscus) rather than made part of the public funds in the aerarium. Tacitus views this as Tiberius’ first use of the letter of the law against private resources (Ann. 4.20.1: ea prima Tiberio erga pecuniam alienam diligentia fuit). The emperor is depicted as inflexible and probably avaricious as well. After the death of Tiberius’ mother, Livia, in 29 (Ann. 5.1), the tyranny of the emperor and Sejanus fell on Rome in full force (Ann. 5.3.1: praerupta iam et urgens dominatio), while the execution of Sejanus in 31 had simply removed the last restraints on the ruler, who could now act as he felt fit (Ann. 6.51.3). If the absence of Tacitus’ coverage of much of the years 29 to 31 makes it harder to trace the deterioration in imperial rule, clearly Sejanus’ estate and perhaps those of some of his followers had been confiscated to the fiscus.16 Tacitus tells us that, after the string of condemnations and subsequent public sale of their property, a substantial amount of coinage had been amassed in either the public treasury or the fiscus (Ann. 6.17.1: tot damnatis bonisque eorum divenditis signatum argentum fisco vel aerario attinebatur). Forfeitures to the imperial treasury were a sign of a shift from public to imperial control, as illustrated by the case of Sextus Marius in 33: his gold and copper mines were confiscated (publicarentur), but Tiberius kept them for himself (sibimet Tiberius seposuit).17 Such actions are viewed in our sources as indicating the deterioration in civil life at Rome for which the emperor as ruler must take responsibility. This is most obvious in Dio’s account of events of 33 and is also visible in Suetonius’ brief report, which by the nature of biography focuses attention on the emperor, while reducing all others to the generic ‘the people’. The tendency to create a chain of causation can be perceived in Tacitus’ view that the credit crisis (inopia rei nummariae) was not merely the result of the calling in of debts, but because the confiscations had increased the amount of money held back by the treasury. The lack of coin in circulation would consequently be strongly deflationary.18 However, as Michael Crawford has noted,19 if it was merely a case of deflation, the financial crisis should have recurred three years later when the assistance came to an end. Tacitus’ mention of coined silver (signatum argentum), placing at least partial blame for the crisis on contemporary confiscations and so following the typical criticism of Tiberius’ regime, may well be misleading. Although the treasury would have held a considerable amount of both silver and gold which could be turned into coinage as required, there is nothing to suggest that higher denomination coinage was in short supply at this time.20 Rather, the effect of confiscations and the auction of property by the aerarium would have been to create a temporary increase in debt held by bankers who would customarily lend to buyers the sums required to complete auctions.21 If the bankers, acting on behalf of investors who had provided the funds necessary for the purchases, had cleared their debts with the aerarium and thereafter no longer extended credit to purchasers, the treasury would have acquired substantial funds that were not simply long-term loans to the bankers. Senatorial faeneratores who were operating through bankers would no longer have substantial funds out on loan and so would have their exposure to the rules of the SC reduced.22 The crisis would be the result of the 248

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actions of the bankers who were no longer extending credit, although, since the funds (whether in coinage or promissory notes) were lodged with the treasury and no longer in circulation, the aerarium might seem most immediately responsible. Only after having taken the historiographical background into account is it now possible to examine Tacitus’ account in detail. He begins by indicating that the farthest cause of the crisis was a substantial rise in accusations levelled against those ‘who increased their wealth by lending in contravention of the law passed by Julius Caesar that set limits on lending and property ownership within Italy’ (Ann. 6.16.1: interea magna vis accusatorum in eos inrupit, qui pecunias faenore auctitabant adversum legem dictatoris Caesaris, qua de modo credendi possidendi intra Italiam cavetur). Tacitus suggests that the law had long been in abeyance ‘because private expedience trumped public good’ (omissa olim, quia privato usui bonum publicum postponitur). Why was this law once again being enforced? Tiberius’ insistence that statutes should be acted upon (Ann. 1.72.3: exercendas leges esse; cf. 4.19.2) is surely part of the answer. Amid the bloodletting that followed the fall of Sejanus, few would risk second-guessing the emperor when they could fall back on this legal principle. I would also suggest that the lex Iulia de modo credendi possidendi intra Italiam was sufficiently clear that violations of its provisions would be reasonably easy to prove and the penalties sufficiently large to encourage delators with an eye to the rewards from their litigation. Previous explanations of the crisis have often focused on the terms of loan contracts, since Tacitus speaks of the long-term illness of usury at Rome (vetus urbi faenebre malum) and notes attempts from the time of the Twelve Tables onwards to regulate interest rates.23 However, there are difficulties with the theory that the accusations were targeting fraus (dishonest practices) through interest rates higher than those permitted by Caesar.24 First, we know that interest rates fluctuated in the Roman world, and so the Julian law would have had to have placed an upper limit that was now being universally violated. This, in turn, would require the loan contracts to be available for public scrutiny. While it appears that contracts were regularly lodged with the aerarium, these were sealed (as were wills at the Temple of Vesta) and so could not be easily accessed by the employees of the public treasury to query their legal validity.25 If the rates were known only to the participants via a sealed contract, it would make little sense for the recipient of a loan to bring a case against their creditor. If they succeeded there would be a slight gain, but it is unlikely that in the future they would be granted loans by anyone. The solution surely lies in the actions of the Senate after the praetor, Gracchus, raised the matter in the Senate because the treasury was now being overwhelmed with cases. As the senators were almost universally guilty of violating Caesar’s law (Ann. 6.16.1: neque enim quisquam tali culpa vacuus), they asked Tiberius to approve an amnesty of eighteen months for all to put their domestic accounts in order (rationes familiares quisque componerent). The result (hinc) was a shortage of loan capital (inopia rei nummariae), not because capital holdings were in themselves in violation of the law, but because the reordering of accounts was necessary for compliance. An additional factor (ad hoc)26 was that the Senate had required everyone to invest two-thirds of their loan money in land throughout Italy.27 It is hard to imagine that this was a second senatorial decree as some 249

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have done:28 rather, the permission to set affairs in order was based on every senator investing two-thirds of their free capital in land (Ann. 6.17.1: duas quisque faenoris partes in agris per Italiam conlocaret). Given Tiberius’ later offer of mortgages against twice the value in property, it is tempting to think that a land to investible funds ratio of two to one was desired. This requirement was renewed under Trajan, but at a reverse ratio of one to two, when he required all candidates for senatorial office to have at least a third of their wealth (patrimonium) in land and chattels (ea quae solo continentur) in Italy (Plin. Ep. 6.19.4).29 Following the decree that two-thirds of investments should be placed in land, Karl Nipperdey indicated a lacuna in the Tacitean text which he supplemented by pulling from Suetonius (Tib. 48.1: debitores totidem aeris alieni statim solverent).30 A lacuna is certainly possible, but the Suetonian text cannot be used as a supplement. The debtors were not expected to repay immediately (this would surely occur as loan repayments came due, usually on an annual basis, which would fall within the eighteen-month grace period granted) and it would be difficult to assess how much debt needed to be repaid in each case by the debtor to achieve the balance of two-thirds land to one-third in interestbearing funds demanded of the creditor. Tacitus may have indicated some general expectation that lenders should each only recall enough in loans to satisfy the landholding requirement and this has fallen out of the rather mutilated text of Annals 6. More likely, perhaps because the stipulation was complex, he left it to the reader to understand the implications through his mention of reduced payment below. Whatever the case, the lenders now started to demand complete payment of any loans (Ann. 6.17.1: creditores in solidum appellabant), while those who had their loans recalled could not in good faith make a lesser payment (nec decorum appellatis minuere fidem). Obviously if most lenders were recalling their loans, there would have been great difficulty in negotiating credit with other banks or individual investors. If, as is likely, many loans were set for the repayment of interest after the harvest, there would have been a particular panic in late autumn of 33 (hence, Dio’s association of events with the contemporaneous suicide of Nerva).31 Debtors first tried standing up to their creditors or began pleading for terms (primo concursatio et preces).32 However as they were legally obliged to settle their debts, they now appealed in large numbers to the urban praetor’s court (strepere praetoris tribunal) to be given time to sell their property and so avoid immediate bankruptcy.33 The legal provision for settling a contract by auctioning off chattels (venditio et emptio), however, was ineffectual in this case because, as usually translated, the lenders had (already) taken their money out of circulation by buying land (omnem pecuniam mercandis agris condiderant). This scenario is problematic. The demand for land, as Pliny was later to note (Ep. 6.19.5–6), should have driven up prices, while the need to sell should have worked to equalize the market.34 Either the lenders collared the market early and so when the debtors came to sell there was no credit for those who might wish to buy (a scenario which requires the funds that had just been spent on purchasing land to now be unavailable), or Tacitus’ expression means credit was now being withheld that could be used for buying land,35 without indicating that the lenders had actually purchased land 250

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themselves. Presumably, if they simply ‘banked’ their funds, this would have caused a real credit crisis.36 The opportunity to sell (copiam vendendi)37 that the praetor’s court normally offered (presumably by resolving titles that could be associated with inheritances, bequests, and even dowries) would thus, in the absence of many willing buyers, have depressed the price of land. As Tacitus notes, the more indebted one was, the greater the losses suffered in this fire sale (quanto quis obaeratio, aegrius distrahebant).38 Consequently, as Anthony Woodman translates,39 ‘many were toppled from their fortunes (multi . . . fortunis provolvebantur)’. Tacitus is clearly suggesting that, although this need not have been thanks to any personal fault, the financial crisis resulted in a loss of status and reputation (dignitatem ac famam praeceps dabat).40 I would, however, note that the use of the imperfect in these passages suggests that these were imminent threats, but need not have actually occurred. Perhaps, we should translate instead: ‘the more indebted one was, the more desperately they tried to sell anything and many were in danger of crashing out of the rich list’. The disaster to one’s status (dignitatem) and reputation (fama) would be particularly acute for senators who could not endure legal bankruptcy because it would result in automatic expulsion from the order. Thus, the destruction of their wealth was threatening to undermine their position and reputations – ‘until the emperor came to the rescue (donec tulit opem Caesarem)’.41 Tiberius on his white horse makes available per mensas a hundred thousand sesterces with the opportunity of taking an interest free loan for three years, if the debtor offered a guarantee of twice the value in land (Ann. 6.17.3: si debitor populo in duplum praediis cavisset). This was hardly unprecedented: Augustus had previously made surplus funds in the aerarium available for loans.42 Tacitus’ mention above of the proceeds from the sale of the property being held in the treasury and contributing to the crisis would suggest an opinion that Tiberius should have taken this step earlier. That the mortgage of property was made to the populus clarifies that the loan was being provided by the aerarium, not the emperor’s fiscus. Less clear is the statement that this was achieved per mensas, which should mean ‘via the banks/banking system’. William Harris insists that this is the straightforward interpretation of the phrase, noting that imperial freedmen are known to have acted as bankers.43 If such loans were being made by imperial servants in a double capacity as officials of the treasury and as intermediary bankers, a cautious translation of ‘on normal banking terms’ may be best here. Sic refecta fides: thus faith in the banking system was restored. Those being dunned for settlement of loans could now repay via a treasury loan that was based on a mortgage set according to a fixed value for land, rather than depressed market rates.44 Hence the debtors’ properties need not be sold and so they would not only avoid substantial monetary losses but also the danger that the value of their remaining assets would now be below the threshold for membership in the Senate. With the panic over, gradually private individuals resumed their money-lending activities (et paulatim privati quoque creditores reperti). In part, Tacitus aphoristically comments, the senatus consultum was now mainly disregarded: such rules are usually strictly applied at the beginning, but by the end nobody pays any attention (acribus, ut ferme talia, initiis, incurioso fine).45 251

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A good deal of ink has been spilled over the crisis of 33. The most sceptical viewpoint is that stated by Woodman (2017: 154): ‘Whether T. has described accurately the series of events which took place eighty years previously, and, if he has, whether he understood fully what he has described, must be uncertain.’ He also observes (2017: 155) that ‘T. does not make it clear whether lenders were lending too much or at too high a rate or both’. However, Tacitus as an experienced senator possessed knowledge of the financial ideology of the Roman government and the workings of the treasury that we lack. Trajan’s requirement that candidates for office hold land in Italy to the value of a third of their estates (Plin. Ep. 6.19.4) is likely during its development to have encouraged investigation of earlier schemes. Tacitus could also learn from the experiences of his friend, Pliny the Younger, who was keen to advertise his tenure as prefect in charge of the aerarium (Pan. 91.1: nondum biennium compleveramus in officio laborioso et maximo [‘I had not yet completed my two-year stint in this important and exhausting position’]).46 Pliny’s view that under a good emperor the aerarium would be peaceful (Pan. 36.1: ‘how pleasant to see the aerarium silent, undisturbed, and as it was before the informers’), suggests that the large number of delations around 33 in Tacitus’ account should reflect badly on Tiberius. In reality, delation was essential for the aerarium to proceed with its legal duties, as shown by Pliny’s remark (Ep. 2.16.3–4) that an unclaimed legacy needs to be reported in order for it to be claimed by the state. Part of the difficulty in sorting out what happened in 33 is that we do not have Julius Caesar’s lex de modo credendi et possidendi intra Italiam. If there were only restrictions on the rate of interest, they could have been resolved by renegotiation of the terms of loan agreements. Thus, many now believe that the Caesarian modus credendi was a limit on the amount of one’s patrimonium that could be loaned out, fixed by a specification that twice as much must be held in property in Italy.47 In this way, Caesar was combatting the rush to turn assets into convertible cash in the circumstances of civil war. The crisis of 33 has drawn much attention as commentators seek to find classical parallels for modern economic problems. From selective quotation of our sources, a variety of contradictory explanations have been deduced. Likewise, our primary sources tend to suggest that at least some blame should be placed on the emperor, Tiberius, without clearly indicating what this fault might be. However, I believe that a process of induction offers the best opportunity to understand what occurred. The concluding intervention by the treasury to provide mortgages to senators and the absence of private lenders shows that this was a credit crisis of a special type. It especially affected senators because their status was based on wealth and a loss of value for landholdings was a greater threat to them in the short term than it would be to others. To be brief, as the wealthiest members of the Roman community, they had the most to lose as well as to gain.48 The senatorial decree that the funds available for investment should be supported by double that amount in Italian lands had resulted in the cancellation of most loans, which correspondingly required the widespread sale of assets by the debtors. This, in return, was the result of the Senate reviving the Caesarian law on loans and credit through having the emperor agree to an amnesty allowing everyone, both creditors and debtors, eighteen months to set their affairs in legal compliance. The ultimate solution, 252

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based on initial credit from the aerarium (which did not need to underpin its loans through land holdings), and then general disregard for the terms of the revived law, indicates that a reversion to the status quo ante was sufficient to end what was, in reality, an artificial crisis. It had not arisen from the actions of the wider Roman community and is likely to have had few major ramifications outside the ruling class. Tacitus rightly notes the potential for a chaotic outcome if unaddressed, the obvious parallel being the Catilinarian Conspiracy, but also depicts the anticlimactic conclusion.

Notes 1. Most commonly cited is a statement from Cato (FRHist5 F80 = Aul. Gell. 2.28.4–7) in his Origines, Book IV: ‘I refuse to record whatever is on the board at the residence of the Pontifex Maximus, such as the number of times that grain was expensive or darkness or something else blocked the light of the moon or sun’ (non lubet scribere quod in tabula apud pontificem maximum est, quotiens annona cara, quotiens lunae aut solis lumine caligo aut quid obstiterit). On the Annals of the Pontifex Maximus and their relationship to early Roman historiography, see Rich (2018), 15–65. The material Cato avoids bears some resemblance to what today would be considered ‘click-bait’. Tacitus records a lunar eclipse in Ann. 1.28 as indicative of the superstitiousness of mutineers in the Danube legions which can be turned to his advantage by Drusus, and a solar eclipse in Ann. 14.12.2 as one of the many prodigies to no effect noted after the death of Agrippina. Portents are a different matter, e.g. Ann. 13.58 on the Ruminal fig tree. 2. Ann. 2.87 (19 ce ); 4.6.4 (23 ce ); 6.13 (32 ce ); 11.4 (47 ce ); 15.18 (62 ce ); 15.39 (64 ce ); 15.72 (65 ce ). The first three instances under Tiberius are illustrative of the emperor’s conception of his role as princeps; the Claudian example shows how a private citizen’s prediction of a grain shortfall could be taken as a threat to public stability, while Nero has grain spoiled in storage dumped in the Tiber in order to anticipate concerns over the security of supply; reducing the price of grain for the public after the Great Fire of 64 should bring some relief to the population and improved popularity for the emperor, unfortunately undermined by the rumour of the emperor putting on a performance of the Sack of Troy while the fire was still raging; lastly, the decision to give the Praetorian Guard a free grain allowance indicates a concern to ensure their loyalty in the wake of the Pisonian Conspiracy. 3. All dates are ce unless otherwise noted. 4. Pay rates and retirement benefits: Ann. 1.17.3–4; suggested terms of service: Ann. 1.17.5. Tiberius’ rejection of improved conditions: Ann. 1.52.1. 5. This is suggested by Sallustius Crispus’ advice that under the principate ‘the accounts will not tally unless they are reported to one man only’ (Ann. 1.6.3: eam condicionem esse imperandi ut non aliter ratio constet quam si uni reddatur). Augustus left a personal account of expenses and revenues of the empire (Ann. 1.11.4), but there is nothing to suggest that this was regular practice. For instance, Tacitus’ account of the status of the empire in 68 (Hist. 1.4–11) appears to be based on some sort of report of military dispositions in Italy and the provinces (Damon, 2003, 99) but gives no indication of taxation and costs. 6. Ann. 13.50. Apparently, the main focus was on shipping taxes (portoria) collected by public companies: the publicani should be restrained from increasing their fees, but outright abolition would lead to calls for removal of all taxes (tributa) with disastrous consequences.

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Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World 7. Bona publicare: Ann. 3.17.4, 23.2; 4.20.1; 6.19.1, 29.1; 12.22.2; 14.48.4. Six landowners: Pliny NH 18.35. Only in Ann. 6.17.1 (discussed below) are confiscations considered substantial enough to have an economic effect when associated with other financial concerns. 8. Locuples – Hist. 1.46: locupletissimus quisque miles (‘the wealthiest of the soldiers’); 2.84: locupletissimus quisque in praedam correpti (the delators ‘fell on the wealthiest as a source of plunder’); Ann. 2.48 Tiberius gives the estate of Aemilia Musa, a wealthy woman who died intestate (locupletis intestatae) to a distant relative, despite the fiscus (= the aerarium?) claiming her property; 6.16 before the Twelve Tables set a limit on interest rates, the wealthy (locupletes) set the rate according to their whims (antea ex libidine locupletiorum agitaretur). Pedanius: possessed four hundred slaves at Rome (Ann. 14.43). 9. Dio 62.2.1 suggests that one of the main causes of the revolt of the Iceni in 61 was Seneca’s sudden recall of forty million sesterces in loans that he had forced upon the British. Whether true or not (Tacitus makes no mention of this event), the anecdote indicates both the frequent disdain for ‘making money off of money’ and the likelihood that this was common practice. 10. So Woodman (2017) on 16.3 Sed tum; he also describes 16.1 sane vetus . . . malum as introducing a ‘flashback’. 11. Mrozek (2001), 35, argues that this indicates a general rule of two-thirds of one’s total wealth should be placed in land, a ruling that would obviously affect all senators. This view, however, does not explain why the faeneratores should be explicitly named in the regulation. 12. Cary translates in the Loeb edition (similarly Mallan, 2020) ‘this money should be lent out by the senators for three years without interest to such as asked for it’. Tenney Frank suggests (1935), 336–7, that, if senators were responsible for choosing the recipients of the loans, this indicates a special collegium was instituted, such as a board of five. Does this contradict Tacitus’ report that the loans were made ‘through the banking system’ (per mensas)? Perhaps not, but the mortgages attached to the loans and the selection panel of senators suggests that the recipients were most likely other senators. The amount of credit advanced would be unlikely to cover needs if the whole Roman populace was faced with a credit crisis. 13. That the original refusal of delation involved an ex-centurion suggests that the particular target of the restriction was the status group below the senators and equites, the decurions. 14. Mallan (2020) is readier to accept Dio’s statement: ‘given that Nerva was perhaps the most noteworthy jurist of the age, the rejection of his advice may have contributed to the man’s desire for death’. 15. Tacitus reports a number of attacks on accusers in 34 (Ann. 6.30.1), which may be linked to the report of Tiberius’ punishment of delators in Dio. Mallan (2020), 331, associates the mass execution with the destruction of Sejanus’ supporters in 33 (Ann. 6.19). For narratives drifting across a longer period being explicitly reported in one year in the annalistic framework, see Ginsburg (1981), 2–3; on the structuring of events in 33, Ginsburg: 73–6. 16. In 32 ce ‘Sejanus’ assets were removed from the control of the aerarium to be amassed by the fiscus, as if that made any difference to anybody’ (Ann. 6.2: bona Seiani ablata aerario ut in fiscum cogerentur, tamquam referret). In an atmosphere of suspicion, the senators were trying to ingratiate themselves with emperor, setting a precedent for the imperial fiscus receiving at least a proportion of confiscations. 17. The case of Sextus Marius is the first clear example of confiscation to the imperial treasury and is taken by our sources as evidence that his wealth was the main reason for his conviction. Presumably receiving the annual return on the mine leases was considered more profitable than selling the mines themselves. In the reign of Gaius, Philo Judaeus remarks on the unusual nature of the outcome of the case against Flaccus (Flacc. 150–1): Flaccus alone of 254

Money and Wealth in Tacitus those found guilty had his property confiscated by emperor (i.e. to the fiscus) with a small section going to aerarium to conform with legal requirements. 18. So Frank (1935), 338–40. Mrozsek (2001), 28–40, believes coinage in circulation under Tiberius was insufficient to support an increase in loans as part of the economic development under the principate and this disconnect was exposed in 33. However, see Harris (2006), 2–8, on pecunia meaning both coined money and credit. Maiuro (2012), 110–11, suggests that the sale of land confiscated from Sejanus and his followers caused a drop in prices that would have created a threat to levels of interest that were generally fixed according to land values. The reintroduction of the Caesarian law on land holdings was then an attempt to artificially increase interest rates. However, this does not explain the role of the delators and how this led to Gracchus raising his concerns in the Senate. Temin (2013), 141–2, argues that the delators in Tacitus were one group of senatorial investors attacking others for charging above the legal rates of interest and that it was the attempt by all to regularize their financial position that led to the financial crisis when land prices fell. The solution (as for Frank) was a Keynesian intervention by the emperor. This approach, however, ignores the importance of the level of land investment required by the Caesarian law and is subject to the same criticisms for introducing modern macroeconomics without strong evidence of their relevance that have been levelled against Frank (1935) and Thornton and Thornton (1990). 19. Crawford (1970), 46. His report of the crisis as ‘the money-lenders of Rome, accused of irregularities, tried to turn the tables on their accusers and attempted to call in all their debts’ omits the decisive intervention of the Senate through the Senatus Consultum that required landed surety for loans. 20. This is the major finding of Cosmo Rodewald in his study of Money in the Age of Tiberius (1976). Whatever the investment patterns of the Romans, there is no evidence of massive, short-term loans in minted currency such as temporarily crippled Venice in 1464 and Seville a century later: Braudel (1972), 378. 21. On banking and auctions, see Andreau (1999), 75–7. 22. On the faeneratores (a pejorative term) as specialist lenders for interest, not only loaning their own funds but acting as agents in the placing of loans for others, see Andreau (1999), 14–16. 23. See, for instance, Lo Cascio’s review of Rodewald, (1978), 201–2. Lo Cascio argues that the Senate sought by its senatus consultum to increase the amount of money available for loan and so reduce the rate of interest. However, this does not explain the rise in delation to the aerarium that was the basis of the crisis. 24. This is tempting given Tacitus’ remarks that there had been many measures passed by the tribunes against attempts to thwart the laws – which, ‘however often foiled, always reappeared by remarkable sleight of hand’ (Ann. 6. 16. 5: multis plebi scitis obviam itum fraudibus, quae totiens repressae miras per artes rursum oriebantur). 25. On the operations of the aerarium, see Díaz Fernández and Pina Polo (2021), 43–59. 26. For this Sallustian usage, see Woodman (2017) on 16.1. 27. Woodman (2004) offers, ‘In response to this’. However, in his commentary he notes that the meaning ‘in addition to this’ is Sallustian. I would argue that this is preferable for the reasons given above. 28. Caesar’s law involved both loans and securities (traditionally in land) and I find it unlikely that a concerned Senate would now create a new provision. Such is also R. Wolters’ argument (1987), 28–32. Andreau (1999), 104, posits a potential credit crisis being headed off by a new measure on holdings that in turn escalated difficulties – an attractive scenario for those who are suspicious of government intervention in the economy, but one which is generally 255

Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World unparalleled in the Graeco-Roman world. See also Elliott (2015), 272, for the ‘two provision’ argument. 29. The letter is likely to be from 106 or 107: Sherwin-White (1966), 36. 30. Nipperdey (1852) on 16.2. 31. Loans and interest payments could, of course, be arranged for any time of year. Digest 14.3.20 (Scaevola) indicates a date of 30 April for payment, probably of interest rather than the full capital. July 1 is the traditional date for fixing housing leases: Petron. 38.9, Suet. Tib. 35.2; Dig. 19.2.60 (Labeo). 32. Furneaux (1896) on 17.2 translates ‘first men ran from one money-lender to another with entreaties for money’, but concursatio can also indicate a violent clash. 33. Sale of land might be complicated by the amount of property that was dowry and thus not normally able to be alienated, or by cross-mortgages that would need to be untangled. 34. Elliott (2015), 268, suggests that the SC ‘required debtors and creditors to sell their real estate assets quickly and simultaneously – a situation which prompted a full-scale real estate bust’. I find it hard to understand why creditors should sell their land-holdings (rather, in order to come into compliance with the law, they should have been seeking to increase their real estate portfolios). Elliott (272) also believes that there were two laws revived, one on the rate of interest that could be charged on loans and the other that ‘required property owners to hold some portion, perhaps as much as two-thirds, of their real estate portfolio in Italy’. However, our sources suggest a single piece of legislation and the two-thirds rule applies not to a real estate portfolio, but to money available for loan (Tac. Ann. 6.17.1: duas quisque faenoris partes in agris per Italiam conlocaret). For all my disagreements with Elliott, his article is an excellent response to treatments of the crisis that rely on parallels with modern financial concerns. 35. Taking mercandis agris as a dative of purpose construction (Woodcock, 1959, 165), rather than ablative of means. So Woodman (2017) on 17.2: ‘the purpose for which the money was stored up is expressed by the dat. gerundive’, contrary to his translation (2004), 174: ‘the usurers had sunk all their money in buying land’. 36. Koestermann (1965) on 6.17.2, suggests that the lenders held on to their money as long as possible in order to profit from the expected crash in land prices. This is possible, since loans would likely have expired some considerable time before the eighteen-month amnesty ended. However, Tacitus’ report that private investors only gradually returned to the market is hard to reconcile with the view that lenders would have reappeared en masse after a little over a year. 37. See Woodman (2017) on the meaning of copia + gerund. 38. distrahebant is usually taken as used absolutely (‘they sold off ’), but the sense of OLD 1 is also possible (‘they [the faeneratores] tortured/ turned the screws). 39. Woodman (2004), 174. 40. On infamia, see Bur (2018), emphasizing how infamia is interlocked with Roman ideas of existimatio and fides. Greenidge (1894), esp. 135–8, discusses the lex Julia municipalis on bankruptcy and notes the later possibility of avoiding infamia by cessio of property, even if these goods were not actually sold (Iust. Cod. 2.11.2, Severus Alexander). The mention of venditio et emptio in Ann. 6.17.2 suggests a standard legal settlement under these terms. That Papinian (Dig. 46.3.97) indicates that money paid in general response to a set of debts should be first of all attributed to any debt that threatened infamy, then to the others in a fixed pattern of responsibility, shows the paramount concern with preserving one’s status in the Roman world. 41. For the vivid nature of this construction, see Woodman (2017) on 17.3, citing ChausserieLaprie (1969), 632–3. 256

Money and Wealth in Tacitus 42. ‘Whenever there was an abundance of money from the possessions of the condemned, he made this available at no interest for a fixed period to those who could offer double value in mortgage’ (Suet. Aug. 41: quotiens ex damnatorum bonis pecunia superflueret, usum eius gratuitum iis, qui cavere in duplum possent, ad certum tempus indulsit). Tacitus notes that Tiberius was always keen to follow Augustan precedent: e.g. 4.16.3 (Augustus had also made changes in priestly custom); 4.37.3 (Augustan precedent of temple to emperor and Rome). 43. Harris (2006), 12. 44. A simple scheme of setting a fixed value on property according to its fertility (e.g. arable, forest, or grazing), similar to that which would be used much later under the Diocletianic tax reforms, would provide a rough estimate of the value of the land mortgaged against the loans. Actual land value would be far too complex to establish, relying as it would on detailed information on the land and sales throughout Italy over a significant period of time. Maiuro (2012), 110 n.205, recognizing the problem of setting land value in a depreciating market, suggests that for normal loans the mortgage value of property was set at what it was before the loan was accepted, not at the sale value if it needed to be redeemed. However, if this were the case, it would have been the creditors who lost out under venditio et emptio, since in a buyer’s market they would have received significantly less than their original investment. Tacitus, however, makes clear that the burden fell on the debtors (quanto quis obaeratior, aegrius distrahebant). It would appear that Julius Caesar was faced with a similar problem in 49 bce (Dio 41.37.3) when he ordered securities be given a value according to their actual worth (i.e. a value above the market rate at the time). 45. It is tempting to connect this relaxation in enforcement with Dio’s report of a crackdown on informers around this time. The praetors in charge of the aerarium may now have been emboldened to refuse to accept charges based on non-compliance with Julius Caesar’s law. 46. 98–99 ce : Sherwin-White (1966), 76–7. On the Trajanic law, see Tchernia (2016), 187, a study that should be consulted for many of the points I have outlined. For the complexities of the tasks that involved the aerarium, see Brunt (1966), 75–91 = (1990), 134–62, especially 142–3 for various attempts to circumvent the laws on inheritance and also the possibility of self-delation as a way of avoiding losing the full amount involved. For the rights of the treasury, see Digest 49.14, including 49.14.13 on self-denunciation. If a complaint was judged valid, the treasury next had to examine the financial accounts of those whose property had been confiscated (Dig. 49.14.15.3–6). See also Pliny Ep. 1.10.9–10; 2.11.19, 7, 33.4; 6.31.6 on the collection of fines and sureties for penalties – no wonder that Pliny describes the treasury, with some regret for his loss of personal time, a constant hive of activity. Whether Pliny was alive to comment directly on Tacitus’ account (he certainly had wished to help the historian with his narrative of the eruption of Pompeii) depends on the complex questions of when the Annals were composed and the date of Pliny’s death. 47. See Andreau (1999), 104 n.12. The only relevant legislation of Caesar as dictator is in 48 bce , where he is said to have assisted the indebted by removing interest (Plutarch, Caesar 37.2: σεισαχθείᾳ τινὶ τόκων ἐκούφιζε τοὺς χρεωφειλέτας). This is expanded by Appian (B.C. 2.48) where Caesar sets assessors to revalue the prices of goods (especially lands) that had been depressed by the civil war and so assist debtors to pay off their capital at a higher value. 48. It is noticeable that Tacitus and Dio focus entirely on the Senate, with no indication of an effect on others, such as the equites. That groups such as the publicani were not able to take advantage of the circumstances and advance loans suggests that they relied heavily on indirect investment from senators which was now unavailable. Only Suetonius suggests an appeal from the wider community (Tib. 48.1: populo auxilium flagitante), but this seems to be a generic description of the appellants in a clearly abridged account.

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Bibliography Andreau, J. (1999), Banking and Business in the Roman World, trans. K. Lloyd, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Braudel, F. (1972), The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in the Age of Philip II, 2 vols, London: Collins. Brunt, P. (1966), ‘The Fiscus and its Development’, JRS 56: 75–91 = Roman Imperial Themes (1990), 134–62, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Bur, C. (2018), La citoyenneté dégradée: une histoire de l’infamie à Rome (312 av. J.-C. - 96 apr. J.-C.), Rome: École française de Rome. Crawford, M. (1970), ‘Money and Exchange in the Roman World’, JRS 60: 40–8. Damon, C. (2003), Tacitus Histories Book I, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Díaz Fernández, A. and F. Pina Polo (2021), ‘Managing Economic Public Information in Rome: the Aerarium as Central Archive of the Roman Republic’, in C. Rosillo-López and M. García Morcillo (eds), Managing Information in the Roman Economy, 43–59, Cham: Palgrave Macmillan. Elliott, C. P. (2015), ‘The Crisis of A.D. 33: Past and Present’, Journal of Ancient History 3: 267–81. Frank, T. (1935), ‘The Financial Crisis of 33 A.D.’, AJP. 56: 336–41. Furneaux, H. (1896), Tacitus, Annals, 2nd edn, 2 vols, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Ginsburg, J. (1981), Tradition and Theme in the Annals of Tacitus, New York: Arno Press. Greenidge, A. H. J. (1894), Infamia: Its Place in Roman Public and Private Law, Oxford, Clarendon Press. Harris, W. V. (2006), ‘A Revisionist View of Roman Money’, JRS 96: 1–24. Koestermann, E. (1965), Cornelius Tacitus, Annalen, vol. 2, Heidelberg: Carl Winter. Lo Cascio, E. (1978), ‘Review of C. Rodewald, Money in the Age of Tiberius’, JRS 68: 201–2. Maiuro, M. (2012), Res Caesaris. Ricerche sulla proprietà imperial nel principato, Bari: Edipuglia. Mallan, C. T. (2020), Cassius Dio: Roman History. Books 57 and 58, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Mrozek, S. (2001), Faenus: Studien zu Zinsproblemen zur Zeit des Prinzipats, Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag. Nipperdey, K. (1852), Cornelius Tacitus, Leipzig: Weidmannsche Buchhandlung. Rich, J. (2018), ‘Fabius Pictor, Ennius and the Origins of Roman Annalistic Historiography’, in K. Sandberg and C. Smith (eds), Omnium Annalium Monumenta: Historical Writing and Historical Evidence in Republican Rome, 15–65, Leiden: Brill. Rodewald, C. (1976), Money in the Age of Tiberius, Manchester: Manchester University Press. Sherwin-White, A. N. (1966), The Letters of Pliny: A Historical and Social Commentary, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Tchernia, A. (2016), ‘The Crisis of 33’, in A. Tchernia, The Romans and Trade, 174–87, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Temin, P. (2013), The Roman Market Economy, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Thornton, M. E. K. and R. L. Thornton (1990), ‘The Financial Crisis of A.D. 33: A Keynesian Depression?’, Journal of Economic History 50: 655–62. Wolters, R. (1987), ‘Die Kreditkrise des Jahres 33 n. Chr.’, Litterae Numismaticae Vindobonenses 3: 23–58. Woodcock, E. C. (1959), A New Latin Syntax, London: Methuen. Woodman, A. J. (2004), Tacitus: The Annals, Cambridge: Hackett. Woodman, A. J. (2017), The Annals of Tacitus. Books 5 and 6, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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CHAPTER 13 GOTHIC MERCENARIES Daniel K. Knox

There’s a breathless hush in the Close to-night – Ten to make and the match to win – A bumping pitch and a blinding light, An hour to play and the last man in. And it’s not for the sake of a ribboned coat, Or the selfish hope of a season’s fame, But his Captain’s hand on his shoulder smote – ‘Play up! play up! and play the game!’ Sir Henry Newbolt, Vitaï Lampada, 1.1–8. What is a mercenary?1 A simple definition might be that they are individuals who fight for money. However, this definition does not uniquely apply to mercenaries given the professionalization of state troops, both in antiquity and today. Mercenaries share both their function and motivations with other professional soldiers, meaning that these factors cannot be used to define them. In the idealized public-school fraternity of Newbolt’s Vitaï Lampada, the schoolboy protagonist does not play for spoils and prizes, but for the sake of his relationship with his captain. The mercenary too is bound by networks of relationships: from chains of command between troops and their captains, to contracts that define the limits of a mercenary’s service. It is to these relationships that we need to look in order to identify mercenaries in Late Antiquity. I will begin this chapter with a discussion of the problems of identifying mercenaries both in general and in Late Antiquity. I will follow this with an exploration of the conditions that created markets for mercenary service and the extent to which they existed in Late Antiquity. I will also consider previous attempts to define ancient and medieval mercenaries and how these criteria might be applied to Late Antiquity – providing a set definition for identifying mercenary service in the period. Finally, I will discuss the case of the Gothic2 forces that provided occasional military service to the Roman emperor in Constantinople during the second half of the fifth century. This discussion will focus on the experience of the Gothic groups that operated in the southern Balkans and their leaders Aspar, Theodoric ‘the Amal’ and Theodoric ‘Strabo’.3 I will also consider the policies of the Emperors Leo I and Zeno, in particular their diplomatic settlements with the Gothic leaders. The ultimate question asked in this chapter is: ‘Were the Pannonian and Thracian Goths mercenaries?’ As we shall see, finding and identifying mercenaries in ancient sources can be as much an ontological problem as it is an evidential one. For instance, we know that Theodoric the Amal 259

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and the Pannonian Goths received payments in money and goods, and we also know that these Gothic troops served periodically in Roman conflicts. Drawing a line between these two observations, however, can be tricky. Here I build on the work of the late Matthew Trundle, whose work on Greek mercenaries up to the Hellenistic period thoroughly interrogated the uses and abuses of the term and emphasized as a feature of mercenary service the employment relationship between mercenary and paymaster.4 Both groups of Goths provided military service to the Empire in return for payments in cash and kind, as well as increased social status and prestige for their leaders, who acted as intermediaries between the Goths and the emperor. While their leaders were periodically integrated into the imperial political elite, this facilitated their role as brokers between the emperor and their troops. Gothic troops fought alongside imperial troops and may have often been supplied from the same sources, but they had a fundamentally different, and more casual, relationship with the emperor and the imperial government – and it is the nature of this relationship that defines them as mercenaries.

The difficulty of identifying mercenaries A fundamental issue that hinders any attempt to identify mercenaries is that the conditions of their employment are often deliberately obscured. Euphemisms such as ‘soldier of fortune’ obscure the myriad of often brutal situations in which mercenaries are employed. In the present time, the term ‘mercenary’ even seems somewhat old fashioned – despite the fact that mercenaries are employed in many modern conflicts. Just as the ‘War’ ministries of many countries have been replaced by ‘Ministries of Defence’, mercenaries have given way to ‘private military contractors’ and corporations such as Blackwater, now rebranded as ‘Academi’, and the Wagner Group continue to operate in conflicts across the globe.5 This lack of definition often stems from the types of situations where mercenaries are employed. Frequently mercenaries are employed in conflicts where regular troops cannot be used for political or economic reasons. The employment of mercenaries has often allowed governments to keep a certain distance from the conflicts that they are involved in, and mercenaries often find themselves employed by governments whose causes are not widely supported.6 In modern times mercenaries have also been discouraged, although often with little impact, by laws such as the United States’ Neutrality Act,7 which prohibits acts carried out on US soil as part of an overseas military operation against friendly countries.8 Furthermore, mercenary service may be seen as low status, encouraging mercenaries themselves to hide their occupation. The often brutal nature of mercenary service in the twentieth and twentyfirst centuries, along with attempts to limit the use of these troops, has contributed to the fading of mercenaries from the public eye. Identifying late antique mercenaries is further complicated due to the fact that the experiences of other pre-modern periods have been privileged by scholarship on the topic. Indeed, several ‘great ages’ of mercenaries can be observed in the literature regarding mercenaries. In antiquity the rise of mercenary service in ancient Greece 260

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during the Classical and Hellenistic periods, particularly in the service of the Persian Empire, stands out as a high point in the prominence of mercenaries – certainly in part due to Xenophon’s Anabasis, but also thanks to the contrast between the civic militias of the hoplite period and the exponential growth in professional mercenary service after the Persian wars. We might also look to the widespread use of mercenaries in Carthaginian armies and the employment of Gallic and German cavalry in the armies of the Late Roman Republic. Early modern armies employed German and Italian mercenaries extensively in their campaigns. The Italian condottieri have served in many ways as the model of historic mercenary service, helped in part by the work of scholars such as Michael Mallett.9 Another prominent example from this period the case of the so-called ‘wild geese’: emigré regiments of Irish nationals who served in the armies of Catholic Europe. These examples of mercenary service are often particularly clear-cut with detailed information about the terms and conditions of their service. Thus, the experiences that defined these periods have come to dominate our understanding of historic mercenary service. Unlike the mercenaries of other periods, the mercenaries of Late Antiquity were not such a dominant part of military life and do not feature heavily in our sources or military scholarship on the period. When the term ‘mercenary’ is employed, it is often one of convenience, used by scholars as a catch-all for a range of military experiences outside of the professional Roman army. Troops described in our sources as foederati and bucellarii are brought under the umbrella of ‘mercenary service’ without significant definition of their roles and the context of their service. Critically, the distinction is often made on the basis of supposed ethnic identities – thus ‘barbarian’ forces are classified as mercenaries, while ‘Roman’ troops are professional soldiers.10 Late Antiquity poses some significant challenges to defining this phenomenon. First, it is a very broad period, encompassing the third through seventh centuries, over which definitions shifted and changed. Second, the transformations of Late Antiquity occurred at an uneven pace across a range of geographic contexts. Whilst certain regions had conditions favourable to mercenary employment, others were prohibitive. In the specific case of the Goths, their employment as mercenaries has been obscured by later efforts to reimagine their history prior to the establishment of their kingdom in Italy. The works of Cassiodorus and Jordanes attempted to rehabilitate what had, by then, become the Ostrogothic kingdom and, in particular, its first king Theodoric the Amal. Jordanes’ Romana and Getica in particular sought to legitimize the Gothic position within the Roman world of the sixth century by reimagining earlier Gothic military service within the Roman army.11

Conditions for mercenary service in Late Antiquity As I have already noted, mercenaries are used in specific situations, often in cases where regular soldiers would be unsuitable. There are, then, particular conditions that generate demand and supply for mercenary service – here I will examine these conditions and their impact on the study of mercenaries in Late Antiquity. 261

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Mercenaries do not get much attention in discussions of late antique and early medieval military recruitment. In comparison to the employment of mercenary soldiers in the ancient Mediterranean from the late Archaic to the Hellenistic period, or the widespread employment of mercenaries in the High and late Middle Ages, mercenaries in Late Antiquity and the early Middle Ages are often the exception rather than the rule.12 Of course, examples of mercenary service exist between antiquity and the Middle Ages: we might consider, for instance, examples of mercenary forces in Merovingian service or Norse mercenaries in pre-Norman Britain.13 Mercenaries, however, do not feature heavily in discussions of the late-Roman military. Pat Southern and Karen Dixon do not use the term ‘mercenary’ in their discussion of the army and recruitment between the reigns of Constantine and Justinian,14 A. D. Lee discusses the importance of foreign sourced troops in the late-Roman army but only with regard to filling out the ranks of regular units,15 and Yann Le Bohec does refer to the recruitment of non-Romans via treaty as mercenaries, but in very broad terms: ‘. . .mercenary service provided additional soldiers.16 Recruiters went from town to town, from one barbarian nation to another, to recruit those who were attracted by meagre pay and less than pleasant living conditions.’17 The situation that Le Bohec describes appears more akin to the impressment of recruits than the recruitment and contracting of mercenary troops. While the manpower needs of the Roman military – both in the east and west – are repeatedly stressed in works on the period, mercenary service features in only the broadest terms. The term ‘mercenary’ has been most commonly employed in discussions of the ‘barbarization’ of the lateRoman army. While this phenomenon has traditionally been seen as having a negative impact on the effectiveness of the Roman military, recent scholarship has argued that the recruitment of barbarians into the army, in regard to both permanent and short-term recruitment, generally fulfilled the needs of the Roman army in a positive fashion.18 Perhaps conditions were not conducive to mercenary recruitment in this period? In particular, changes in the post-Roman economy have been given as explanations for the lack of mercenaries in this period. Guy Halsall tied the decline in use of mercenaries in post-Roman Western Europe to demonetization, noting that: ‘large areas of the West were effectively non-monetary in the fifth and sixth centuries’.19 A similar argument is made by Richard Abels regarding the hiring of mercenaries in early medieval England: ‘Quite simply, the English economy was not sufficiently commercialized in the seventh, eighth and ninth centuries for military service to be treated as a high-end commodity.’20 Rather, itinerant warriors increasingly found themselves bound to employers by embedded reciprocal relationships.21 Certainly, disruptions to the monetary system occurred along with the gradual withdrawal of Roman imperial authority, particularly in those regions furthest from the Mediterranean, and especially in Britain and northwestern Gaul. In such regions, commodification declined and exchanges became more socially embedded and tied more to reciprocation than purchase – although it should be noted that gift and non-monetary transactions existed alongside the Roman monetary economy.22 In regions where this was the case the recruitment of mercenaries and professional soldiers might decline in favour of warriors who were increasingly bound to their masters by social and customary ties.23 These warriors and ‘hired-men’ might be 262

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remunerated with valuable items, loot and victuals.24 They might even be ‘foreigners’, but the ties they shared with their employer were more permanent and less transactional and led to these individuals becoming embedded in the societies they fought for. Demonetization was far from a universal phenomenon, however. In areas where imperial authority continued, and the use of money was more embedded, the conditions for commercial military service continued.25 During the fifth century the Roman world (both inside and outside of imperial control) remained awash with cash.26 Indeed, coins produced in mints at Constantinople still circulated in large numbers across Europe and as far away as Scandinavia.27 If in 499 the church of Milan could find 400 gold solidi to help influence the election of the bishop of Rome (Ennod. Op. 77.3), then it was likely that sufficient cash and other monetary devices existed to facilitate the payment of soldiers. Certainly, money existed to pay the wages of regular soldiers and the necessary donatives to ensure their loyalty. On his accession to the throne the Emperor Zeno was sure to pay the customary donatives to the army. While Halsall and Abels associated money with the temporary transactional ties maintained in mercenary contracts, money was also the medium that reinforced and embedded the relationship between the regular army and the emperor. While in earlier periods money could be a disruptive technology, by the fifth century it had become a ‘cool medium’, a medium that was innately familiar to Roman society and that acted to entrench existing social structures.28 The fifth century was dominated by extensive professional bureaucracies: the civil service, army and the church, all of which functioned thanks to armies of salaried professionals. This was an age of gold – exemplified by the gold solidus that replaced silver as the defining currency of the empire under Constantine. An additional consideration is the existence of necessary ‘market conditions’ beyond the existence of ready currency. Supply and demand, that is, a market for mercenary and military services, was limited compared to other periods. A ready supply of potential mercenaries existed in Late Antiquity. Border regions such as the Balkans served as major recruitment grounds for the imperial army, filtering recently arrived groups from outside of the Roman world into Roman service.29 Members of the military class who were recruited from this environment would penetrate all levels of the Roman bureaucracy – including the emperorship. The extensive debate on the settlement of socalled barbarian groups across the fifth and sixth centuries has illustrated the extent to which large groups of non-Romans desired to enter the Roman world and were willing to exchange military service in exchange for this.30 Demand for mercenaries is less clear; traditionally the market for mercenaries is heavily demand-driven.31 In a fundamental way the late-Roman world was a less competitive marketplace than in other periods, because of the high level of centralization of the bureaucracy and the state. This centralization meant that often there was only a single potential buyer for military services: the Roman state. Of course, as we have seen, the Roman army’s appetite for manpower was significant. This high centralization of the state does belie the fact that there were other potential employers within the Roman world. The fifth century was an age of warlords: generals such as Aetius, Ricimer, Boniface and Odoacer, operating on their own or in conjunction with the Roman state needed to manage their own manpower 263

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needs.32 In addition, generals in the imperial army maintained private forces supplementary to the imperial troops they commanded.33 These bucellarii were private soldiers but the extent to which we might call them mercenaries is up for debate. The fifth-century chronicler Malchus makes a clear distinction between private and public soldiers. In 478, Zeno, responding to raids by the Pannonian Goths, sent the patrician Adamantius to deal with Theodoric. Accompanying Adamantius was the general Sabinianus. Malchus notes that Adamantius and Sabinianus decided against taking hostile action against Theodoric because: Sabinianus had with him only a few of his own mercenaries, and of the imperial army and the legions part was dispersed through the cities and part was away with the general Onulf. όλίγων μὲν συνόντων αὐτῷ Σαβινιανῷ μισθοφόρων οἰκείων. τῆς δε δημοσίας στρατιᾶς καί τῶν κοινῶν ταγμάτων τῶν μεν διεσπαρμένων κατὰ πόλεις, τῶν δὲ μετὰ τοῦ στρατηγοῦ Ὀνούλφου ἀκολουθούντων.34 Malchus uses the term μισθοφόρων – wage earners – to describe Sabinianus’ troops. As Trundle notes, this was a well-worn euphemism for mercenaries, although it could be extended to all professional soldiers.35 What defines these men specifically is their employer: they are μισθοφόρων οίκείων, personal soldiers belonging to Sabinianus. Sabinianus’ men are distinguished from the δημοσίας στρατιᾶς, the public army, and κοινῶν ταγμάτων, common regiments.36 We have no further details about Sabinianus’ men, but they were under his personal command rather than imperial troops. What separates these troops from more clear-cut mercenary units is the extent to which they were employed. These troops were often tied by more permanent oaths of loyalty to their commanders, who were themselves completely embedded in the Roman bureaucracy that employed them. So, while they might be private soldiers, and professional to boot, they were not employed in a temporary or commercial fashion. The market conditions of Late Antiquity differed from those periods of extensive mercenary service such as classical antiquity, the High Middle Ages and the Renaissance. Still, the monetary and market conditions required for mercenary service did exist in Late Antiquity. Importantly, mercenaries do not exist solely due to specific market conditions; they exist in political and military conditions that require mercenary service: temporary, often unofficial operations where regular soldiers are unsuitable. These conditions were common in Late Antiquity.

Defining mercenary service Because mercenaries can be so difficult to distinguish from other professional soldiers, and our sources often obscure and misrepresent mercenary service, researchers in this field have often applied a range of external definitions to the topic. As Trundle noted, 264

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‘Definitions are crucial to identifying the mercenary soldier.’37 While some types of external criteria are necessary to help us separate mercenaries from other professional soldiers, not all can be equally applied or are of equal value. Michael Mallett emphasized two aspects of mercenary service as defining features: ‘It is the concept of fighting for profit, together with the gradual emergence of a concept of “foreignness”, which distinguish the true mercenary’.38 Kelly DeVries has argued that foreignness and pay are problematic criteria.39 The national or ethnic identities of mercenaries in ancient and medieval service are often impossible to gauge, particularly as individuals often maintained multiple identities of this nature.40 Nor were mercenary contingents always ethnically uniform: Gothic troops in Hunnic units might be represented in our sources as ‘Huns’, for instance.41 Similarly, DeVries argued that pay, per se, is not enough to distinguish mercenaries from other professional soldiers as in many instances all soldiers were paid in some form.42 The 1977 Geneva Protocol, which forms the basis of Trundle’s definition,43 is more explicit in its definition of pay and foreign status. The protocol states that mercenaries fight for private gain and are remunerated in excess of what might be expected by regular soldiers of equivalent status; and that mercenaries are neither nationals or residents of the state that employs them.44 From the Geneva Protocol, Trundle placed an emphasis on examining the remuneration, stake in the state, and employment relationship of the mercenary.45 Of these, the employment relationship is absolutely crucial to understanding mercenary service, as remuneration and the mercenary’s tie to the state are both bound to the employment relationship. William Urban argues that pay is the connection between the mercenary and their employer.46 However, the employment agreement might be much broader than the remuneration, binding the mercenary through oaths and contracts, and stipulating the limits of their service. An additional important consideration comes from Halsall: ‘The mercenary employs his fighting skills, or those of the soldiers whom he contracts to supply, as a commodity. A paymaster buys these skills for a set amount of time. When the time is up and the payment received, the relationship between mercenary and master is terminated.’47 Therefore, the employment relationship between mercenary and employer is temporary. For a mercenary to maintain their mercenary status, the employment relationship must be temporary and not lead to the mercenary becoming more embedded in the state. ‘Mercenary’, like the term ‘Viking’, is an occupation-based identity. As such it is a highly contingent identity. So long as one is engaged in mercenary service or actively seeking employment, an individual might be labelled a mercenary; but when they turn to another form of employment, such as raiding or piracy, they cease to be mercenaries. Soldiers in national service often retain elements of their identity after their contracted commitment is over, but there are no veteran clubs for mercenaries.48 As an occupationbased identity mercenary service is primarily defined by the employment relationship that connects the mercenary to their employer. Marshall McLuhan proclaimed that: ‘Where the whole man is involved there is no work. Work begins with the division of labour and the specialization of functions and tasks in sedentary, agricultural communities’.49 Specialization separates the part-time militia from the professional soldier; the nature of the contract separates the regular soldier from the mercenary. 265

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Specialization creates an employment relationship that defines both the identity of the employee and employer. There is no ‘one size fits all’ employment relationship that can be applied to mercenary service. We must consider all criteria – remuneration, stake in the state, employment agreement and period of service – in their own contexts. These criteria form the basis of the definition that I will apply to the Thracian and Pannonian Goths. Mercenaries provide military service for remuneration. Unlike regular soldiers, mercenaries do not have a full stake in the state and the period of their service is often temporary. The occupational identity of mercenaries is contingent on the employment agreement that binds all of these criteria together, and establishes the relationship between the mercenary and their employer. In addition to these criteria, the role of the mercenary captain is important both in providing leadership to the mercenary company and negotiating the employment agreement with the employer – often maintaining that relationship on behalf of their troops.

Gothic mercenaries in the late fifth century Gothic forces and leaders had played an increasingly prominent role in Roman affairs since the fourth century.50 While some groups passed through Roman territory to settle on its fringes, others settled in core territories around Constantinople. Several prominent men controlled Gothic forces in the southern Balkans and Thrace during the fifth century. The first of these was Aspar, who exerted a near-monopoly control over the Gothic forces that served the Roman state and remained one of the key powerbrokers in Constantinople throughout the fifth century. After Aspar’s death two major groups of Goths competed for imperial favour in the Balkans: the Thracian Goths led by Theodoric Strabo and the Pannonian Goths led by Theodoric the Amal. Each of these leaders acted as brokers between the forces they led and the Roman state. The Balkans were a major recruiting ground for Roman forces where individuals and whole groups crossing from the barbaricum into the Roman world could gradually be integrated into Roman society through military service.51 The Balkans were a great place to find employment and to seek patronage along with the possibility of arable land and long-term support. It is likely that acquiring land with which they could sustainably support themselves was the ultimate goal of both groups of Balkan Goths in the 470s,52 but the actions of the Emperors Leo and Zeno would serve to keep both groups in a liminal situation: at times friends and at others enemies of the Roman state. Subsequently, both Gothic groups became embroiled in a continually shifting political landscape that Halsall described as a political ‘merry-go-round’.53 Here I will briefly outline the relationships between these three brokers, both with the Roman state and among themselves, before applying the criteria and definitions already discussed to the experiences of these Gothic groups. Between the 420s and his murder in 471, the general and statesman Aspar dominated the court at Constantinople under a succession of emperors. While Aspar did have Gothic heritage, he was firmly embedded in the Roman military class that dominated the court at Constantinople. This combination of identities allowed him to act as a patron to 266

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less embedded Goths who wished to enter Roman service. These Goths were settled on the Thracian plain near the imperial capital. Settlement so close to the seat of power was unusual, and this shows the extent of the patronage extended to these groups of Goths.54 In the 460s, the Thracian Goths were not a single unified group, and it is likely that Aspar had the support of several leaders, each with their own groups of Goths. This is important because although Peter Heather argues that the Thracian Goths were in the process of integrating into the Roman world, their point of access was through a single individual who completely controlled this process.55 In the late 460s the Emperor Leo, who had risen to power through the support of Aspar, sought to sideline the influential patrician and his Gothic supporters. Leo began to build an alternative base of support, chiefly among the Issurians under Tarasikodissa and in 471 Aspar was murdered at Leo’s command. Several of his Gothic supporters revolted. The Goths who supported Aspar and through him served in Roman armies were not loyal to the emperor and the Roman state but to their patron; while they may have provided troops who fought alongside the public armies of the emperor, they only did so as long as their sponsor remained influential. Aspar himself was too embedded in the Roman world to be considered a mercenary, but the monopoly he established over the patronage of Gothic forces ensured that his supporters were not themselves integrated fully into the Roman world. With the severing of their connection to the court, the Thracian Goths would be forced to renegotiate their position. Following the murder of Aspar, Theodoric Strabo rose to prominence as the leader of the Thracian Goths and by 473 he had brought at least the majority of these groups under his control. This put Theodoric Strabo in a position to negotiate with the emperor. Theodoric Strabo negotiated two agreements with two emperors: the first in 473 with Leo and the second in 478 with Tarasikodissa, who had succeeded Leo as emperor and assumed the Greek regnal name Zeno. According to Malchus (fr. 2), Strabo requested three things from Leo: that he receive the inheritance left to him by Aspar, that he be allowed to live in Thrace, and that he obtain a generalship and command of Aspar’s forces. Leo rejected the first two demands outright: the handover of property and the freedom to dwell outside of the capital risked giving Theodoric Strabo too much autonomy. Leo sent a counteroffer agreeing to the final condition so long as Theodoric became his philos, binding the Gothic leader to him with a formalized friendship. Theodoric rejected these terms and immediately began raiding Roman settlements. This was a negotiation tactic, and soon an agreement was reached that secured an annual subsidy of 2,000 lbs of gold, a generalship for Theodoric Strabo, recognition of Theodoric Strabo as the sole Gothic leader, increased control over the territory where they had been settled, and service by Gothic troops in imperial campaigns except against the Vandals. With this agreement Theodoric Strabo secured for himself a monopoly over the recruitment of Gothic contingents and prevented Leo from dealing with the newly arrived Pannonian Goths.56 Theodoric Strabo and the Thracian Goths did not remain long in this key position. In 473, the Pannonian Goths crossed from Pannonia, where they had been settled for some time, into Illyricum, where they began raiding Roman settlements.57 Jordanes (Get. 267

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52: 270–1) reports that the move was due to the breakdown of a treaty that existed between the Pannonian Goths under Valamir and his brothers and the Emperor Marcian, due to the late payments of monetary gifts. In moving deeper into the Roman world, they joined other Gothic groups such as the Thracian Goths led by Theodoric Strabo in striving for closer relations with the emperor at Constantinople. Plunder was not a replacement for subsidies from the emperor, but did tide the Gothic force over while they ‘negotiated’ by force. Closer relations with the emperor were desirable because they were a mark of status – and thus had the potential to improve a leader’s standing among his followers and to draw new followers to him.58 In 474 Leo died and was succeeded by his grandson Leo II and his son-in-law (Leo II’s father) Zeno. Leo II died soon after in 474 and Zeno assumed sole rule. A party led by Leo I’s wife, the Empress Verina and her brother, Basilicus, managed to usurp the throne along with support from Theodoric Strabo and the Thracian Goths (Malalas, Chron. 377–8).59 Basilicus’ rule would only last two years, however, until Zeno was able to secure his Issurian powerbase and retake the throne. The Pannonian Goths made use of these disruptions to build ties with the deposed Zeno and were rewarded upon his regaining the throne by supplanting the Thracian Goths as the preferred Gothic group.60 For Zeno, however, both Gothic groups were a threat to his powerbase, and he attempted to play them off against each other: organizing a combined attack with Theodoric the Amal and the Pannonian Goths in 478 against Theodoric Strabo’s forces (Malchus, fr. 18.1–2).61 When Theodoric the Amal agreed and advanced on Theodoric Strabo’s position in the Haemus Mountains he found that Zeno had set him up and not followed through with sending the promised supporting forces – hoping that the two Gothic armies would fight and weaken themselves (Machus, fr. 18.2). The two Theodorics, however, came to a mutual understanding and agreed to avoid conflict between themselves. Faced with two hostile Gothic forces, Zeno negotiated with Theodoric Strabo, but this agreement would not last, as in 479 a second attempt at a coup was made by Marcian and supported by Theodoric Strabo (Malchus, fr. 18.4). Strabo would die soon after when thrown by his horse, leaving his son in charge of his forces. Shortly after, however, Theodoric Strabo’s son Recitach was murdered on account of his association with an Issurian rival of Zeno, Illus, leaving Theodoric the Amal the dominant Gothic leader in the Balkans. Subsequently, the Amal supported Zeno in holding the emperorship against the Issurian threat of Illus in the mid-480s. The key to understanding the relationship between mercenary companies and the patrons they serve is understanding the role of the ‘mercenary captain’. This individual is more than just the leader of the mercenary company, he is also its advocate – the person who secures contracts, deals with the patron, and manages the mercenaries’ needs. In this respect the mercenary captain is a broker. Individual mercenaries lack the ability to negotiate individually with the patron – to do so would be inefficient for both parties, thus, a broker is needed to facilitate the transaction between the two. Brokerage has long been a focus of the network tradition in sociology.62 There are three relevant considerations that can be drawn from the research on brokers and applied to the Thracian and Pannonian Goths. First, brokers derive benefit from the deals that they negotiate. Second, brokers do not need to be neutral in their ties to either party. Third, they facilitate the 268

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flow of resources across networks. Following the example of Aspar, both Theodoric Strabo and Theodoric the Amal acted as competing brokers between their troops (and peoples more broadly) and the imperial government in Constantinople. Loyalty between the Gothic leaders and their subordinates was fluid. Malchus reports defections from the army of Theodoric the Amal to that of Theodoric Strabo in 477, leading Theodoric Strabo to increase his demands in negotiations with Zeno (fr. 17). The ability to secure imperial favour and the payments that came along with it was clearly a factor in the loyalty of these men’s followers. This was again illustrated after the death of Theodoric Strabo in 481 and the subsequent death of his son Recitach, when the majority of his forces declared for the Amal.63 Integration of these leaders enhanced their status and helped to secure the flow of payments to their followers. As well as brokering payments for their followers, the Theodorics secured troops for the emperor. It is important to note that these troops were a fraction of the entire followings of these two: Theodoric Strabo negotiated at one instance pay and provisions for a contingent of 13,000 men (Malchus, fr. 18.4), and Theodoric the Amal is frequently associated with a core contingent of 6,000 men (Malchus, fr. 20). They may have been able to levy further troops from their followers, but only these core contingents owed service to the emperor. As brokers the two Theodorics established ties between their troops and the emperor. Crucially, however, the relationship between emperor and troops continued to flow through the two generals. Having negotiated the deal, the broker’s role did not become redundant. There is a stark contrast, then, with imperial troops. The relationship between emperor and army was direct, reaffirmed with the regular gifting of donatives in the form of gold solidi that carried the image of the emperor – a direct link to their paymaster. The Gothic troops received imperial coins from their generals, who continued to act as the conduit between the troops and the source of income. When the deal was unsatisfactory the troops followed their leaders in retreating to the hills out of the reach of Constantinople. One of the criteria outlined for mercenary service has already been illustrated: the importance of the role of the mercenary leader in establishing and maintaining the relationship between his troops and their employer. Another important consideration has been touched upon: the temporary and contingent nature of mercenary service. This is visible in the constantly shifting relationships between the emperors and the Gothic leaders. This contingency was particularly marked after the death of Aspar when the monopoly of control of the Goths in the Balkans dissolved into a competitive market. What of our remaining criteria: pay, military service and employment agreements? As I have already noted, pay is often the first criterion applied to mercenaries. The receipt of pay did not in and of itself define mercenaries from other professional soldiers, but the nature of the pay given to Gothic soldiers and its distribution can be distinguished from that of the ‘regular’ army. The evidence for pay comes from reports of the agreements between the Emperors Leo I and Zeno, and the Gothic leaders Theodoric the Amal and Theodoric Strabo preserved by Malchus. Monetary payments are key features of these settlements and provided subsidies to support the Goths alongside their own agricultural production. In the settlement of 473 between Theodoric Strabo and Leo I, the emperor agreed to pay the Thracian Goths, through their leader, an annual subsidy of 2,000 lbs of 269

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gold (Malchus fr. 2); and in 478 Zeno agreed to provide pay (συντάξεις) and food (τροφήν) for a force of 13,000 men chosen by Theodoric Strabo (Malchus fr. 18.4). In the agreements of both 473 and 478, the Thracian Goths received payments; in 478 those payments were directly tied to the provision of pay and provisions for troops. The details of the agreement of 473 are less specific. However, the Thracian Goths agreed to provide military service as a part of the bargain, and it is therefore probable that the annual payment was intended to provide at least in part for this service. Heather argues that by 478 the Thracian Goths were being paid as regular soldiers based on Malchus’ use of the term συντάξεις, which denoted military pay.64 The Thracian Goths, however, received their pay via the intermediate figure of Theodoric Strabo, who negotiated the settlement and distributed the money (χρήματα) to the troops chosen by him. Imperial troops were paid directly from the imperial treasury via the state bureaucracy. Evidence for the special mechanisms for paying Gothic troops is reported in an exchange between Theodoric the Amal and an imperial envoy, Adamantius, in 478 (Malchus fr. 20). In the exchange Theodoric accuses the emperor of breaking the agreement between them and notes that Claudius, the paymaster (ταμίαν) of the Gothic forces, did not arrive as promised with the pay for the ‘mercenaries’ (ξενικῷ). The distinction of the Pannonian Goths from the regular army is clear from the necessity of having a specific official who handled their pay and their designation as xenoi. Blockley translates ξενικῷ with the euphemism ‘mercenaries’,65 a common usage dating back to antiquity,66 but in an even more generic sense, the word highlights the foreign nature of these troops. The Gothic troops provided by Theodoric Strabo and Theodoric the Amal were paid by the imperial treasury. These funds were either distributed by their own leaders or by imperial bureaucrats specifically charged with handling the pay of Gothic soldiers. At least in the case of the Pannonian Goths, their role as hired soldiers was made clear by the terminology used to describe them and the mechanism of their pay. Military service is a key component of each of the agreements between the two Gothic groups and their imperial employers. In the 473 agreement between Theodoric Strabo and Leo I, the Thracian Goths were obliged to fight alongside Leo’s forces as required with the strict exception of the Vandals (Malchus fr. 2). In 478, as we have seen, the agreement between Theodoric Strabo and Zeno stipulated the maintenance of at least 13,000 chosen Gothic troops (Malchus, fr. 18.4). Based on the details of the 478 agreement between Zeno and Theodoric Strabo, Heather has argued that the Thracian Goths were Roman foederati and served as regular soldiers.67 Defining foederati presents as great a problem as a coherent definition of the concept of ‘mercenary’. This is primarily because the legal term foedus is used in our sources to describe several different types of agreements over a very long duration, representing a range of imperial policies from the Principate to the Justinianic revival.68 In the period of Late Antiquity this practice ranged from the settlement agreements between the western emperors and groups such as the Visigoths and Burgundians,69 which often included military commitments of varying degrees, to the formalized cavalry units of foederati found in Procopius’ descriptions of the sixth-century Roman army which recruited both ‘Roman’ and ‘barbarian’ troops and perhaps stemmed from original raisings of ethnic units (Procop. Vandal. I.11.3–4). Both 270

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of these examples would not meet our definition of mercenary service, although they come close, due to the fact that both were ways of integrating groups into the Roman state or formal parts of the Roman army. Ralf Scharf defines foederati in the fourth and fifth centuries as mobilized barbarian troops who served under Roman commanders rather than their own leaders, with the foedus defining the terms of the mobilization.70 Under these conditions foederati could not be considered mercenaries due to the fact that they did not serve under their own leaders but directly under Roman commanders. It is also worth noting that, in the context of the Pannonian and Thracian Goths, the term foederati is only applied by Malchus to the Thracian Goths, while as we have already seen the Pannonian Goths were xenoi. It is unclear whether this is just a literary distinction between the two groups or reflected a difference in the agreements that each made. Scharf argues that this distinction represents a failed attempt by Zeno to turn Theodoric Strabo’s troops into foederati and thus bring them under more direct Roman control by removing them from Strabo’s direct command.71 It may be, then, that the Thracian Goths were in a process of becoming more embedded within the Roman military. However, Zeno’s policy of playing each group of Goths off against each other and the constant power plays in Constantinople interfered with this process. The military service provided by the Pannonian Goths appears more contingent in nature. Unlike the Thracian Goths who negotiated more permanent deals and who had been embedded in the Roman world for longer, Theodoric and the Pannonian Goths negotiated shorter and more specific terms of service. In 478, Zeno and Theodoric agreed to a joint campaign against the Thracian Goths, which failed according to Theodoric because the emperor did not provide the reinforcements that he had promised (Malchus, fr. 20); in negotiations subsequent to this campaign Theodoric suggested that if Zeno wanted him to renew hostilities against Theodoric Strabo, he could lead a force of 6,000 men to Thrace so long as he was supported by the imperial troops from Illyria (Malchus. fr. 20). In addition, he also offered to lead this force of 6,000 men to Italy to restore the western emperor Nepos on behalf of Zeno if the emperor desired this. In 483, Theodoric negotiated a new deal with Zeno and the Pannonian Goths, which provided Gothic troops to support Zeno against the Issurian forces of Illus.72 In each of these cases Theodoric the Amal offered the service of his troops in specific campaigns under his command. This was not continuous service, as offered by the Thracian Goths, but a series of temporary contracts against specific threats. The specificity of the contracts and military service negotiated by the Pannonian Goths mark these agreements out as more mercenary in nature. While the Pannonian and Thracian Goths provided military service as a part of the agreements that bound them to the state, they were not regular soldiers. The military service that they provided was not continuous and it came with conditions: the Thracian Goths would not campaign against the Vandals, and Theodoric the Amal considered his agreement to attack Theodoric Strabo void because Zeno had not committed the agreed upon reinforcements to the operation. While regular troops might refuse to go on campaign, as they did in 478 when Zeno ordered them against the Amal (Malchus fr. 18.3), their service was not as conditional as that provided by the Goths. When military 271

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service was not required, the subsidies that the Goths received, such as the 2,000 lbs per annum that Leo I promised the Thracian Goths in 473, acted as a retainer for their potential service. These retainers muddy the water somewhat: the Goths were not hired for specific campaigns but at least one group of the two was held ready to give service as required. Indeed, the imperial finances could only support a single Gothic group at a time (Malchus, fr. 15), allowing Zeno to play the Pannonian and Thracian Goths against each other. When one group became inconvenient, a deal was made with the second. But even when they were not on a specific campaign their contract with the emperor could end at any minute – in a way completely at odds with the service of regular troops. The employment relationship is a crucial element that defines mercenary behaviour, in that it binds all the elements of mercenary service together: the role of the mercenary leader, the pay and the conditions of service. As has been already discussed, Gothic military service in the Balkans was secured with several agreements between the Gothic leadership and the emperors in Constantinople. These contracts were based on personal relationships: the demise or loss of favour of one of the parties rendered them void.73 Despite these agreements, the Goths during their employment in the Balkans did not have a permanent stake in the Roman state. While at times they enjoyed imperial favour – including treaties, payments and offices – these periods of détente with the Roman state, or more accurately the emperor, were interspersed with periods of conflict during which the Gothic forces raided the local population to meet their needs and to extort better conditions from the emperor. Indeed, they could not secure a stake in the state so long as two Gothic forces remained as competition for each other. So long as the two groups existed, the emperor could play each one off against the other keeping both in a state of quasi-dependence. The agreements that secured the military service of the Gothic forces employed the language of friendship and integration into state offices. At face value this might seem to indicate that more permanent bonds were being established than those of a mercenary contract – however, ancient mercenary service had always employed the euphemistic language of friendship.74 Friendship in Latin and Greek, whether amicitia, philia, or xenia, was often contractual in nature and a part of a much wider web of obligations and ties that might bind an individual.75 Friendship and kinship diplomacy was a standard practice across the ancient Mediterranean.76 Similarly, in each deal secured by the two Theodorics, they negotiated for the title of Magister Militum (Malchus, fr. 18.4, 20). While the holding of imperial office might indicate that the leadership of the Goths was at least being co-opted into the military class of the empire, these positions were as temporary as the military service rendered by their troops. When one Theodoric fell out of favour, the offices were transferred to the other, leaving the first outside of the Roman state and at odds with it. The granting of these offices facilitated the mercenary military service of the Goths, by giving their leaders a place in the Roman command structure and enhancing the prestige of the Gothic leadership. In each employment agreement that we have discussed, the pay and conditions of military service have been at the forefront – and in each case the agreement has been facilitated by a mercenary leader acting as a broker between his troops and the employer. Crucially, each agreement has been temporary in nature. 272

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Conclusion Mercenaries existed in Late Antiquity. While the conditions for their service and employment were not uniform, in core regions of the empire, such as the southern Balkans, private soldiers and the money to pay for their services were in ready supply. The proximity of this region to the imperial court at Constantinople provided immediate access for these troops to their main potential employer. The constantly shifting political conditions, particularly during the reign of Zeno, necessitated the use of temporary forces. Contingents of mercenaries provided useful support during political crises and could be played off against one another if necessary. Of course, these groups could be integrated further into the Roman world if desired, but it often suited imperial policy to keep them in the liminal world of the mercenary. Were the Pannonian and Thracian Goths mercenaries? The Pannonian Goths certainly were – this can be seen in their pay, service, employment relationships, and the crucial role played by their leader Theodoric the Amal in negotiating contracts on their behalf. The case is less clear for the Thracian Goths, who were more embedded in the Roman world thanks to the patronage of Aspar. However, the policies of Zeno ‘mercenaryized’ them as a group, as they went from embedded partners of the emperor to competing with the Pannonian Goths for imperial favour and employment. This casual employment relationship suited Zeno, who had to balance many potential threats to his rule, from both the Goths and his own Issurians. By playing these forces off against each other he was able to keep them off balance while maintaining a useful reserve of troops for when he needed them. The primary reason the Goths were mercenaries is because it suited their employer better to keep them in this employment relationship rather than integrate them further into the state. After 488, the situation would change: those Goths who left with Theodoric the Amal for Italy became Ostrogoths and, as an army, took possession of their own state. Those who remained were likely fully integrated into the Roman army in much smaller units.77 In this fashion the Pannonian and Thracian Goths were employed as part of a much wider market of private military employment, but despite their ‘friendships’ with the emperor and the holding of imperial office, they remained casually employed soldiers who, upon the completion of their service, returned to a status outside of Roman jurisdiction, reliant on plunder for their sustenance.

Notes * I owe an incalculable debt to Matthew Trundle. He was a great scholar, mentor, backgammon player and friend. I shall miss your guidance, friendship and laughter – but will continue to endeavour to ‘Play up! play up! and play the game!’ vale. 1. I would like to thank the editors for the opportunity to participate in this volume. I would also like to thank Karen Stark, Leslie Carr-Riegel, and Olga Kalashnikova for their edits and suggestions throughout this paper’s composition; thanks to Alexander Anđelović for his comments and suggestions on the Greek text of Malchus, and thanks also to Jeroen Wijnendaele for answering numerous questions and providing invaluable advice for this paper.

273

Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World 2. In this chapter I shall avoid the term Ostrogoths except when discussing the unified group that Theodoric led to Italy in 489 and the subsequent kingdom that he established. In the 470s the unity of the Gothic groups operating in the Southern Balkans was not a given, particularly as the Pannonian and Thracian Goths were in direct competition with each other; Heather (1994), 252–3. The construction of Gothic ethnic identity has been a lively debate, influenced heavily by the Vienna school of history. See: Pohl and Reimitz (1998) and Wolfram (2006). 3. This chapter will not consider the experience of the Visigoths and their service for the Roman state in the fourth century. On this question see: Goffart (1980), Heather (1994), and more recently Scharf (2001), 28–44. In an effort to disambiguate these two similar names I will maintain the use of these to cognomen ‘the Amal’ and ‘Strabo’ throughout. Theodoric the Amal is sometimes mistakenly referred to as the ‘son of Valimer’ in our sources, similarly Theodoric Strabo is also known as Theodoric the son of Triarius. 4. Trundle (2004), 22–3. 5. Paquette, Sohyun Lee and Swain (2022). The Wagner Group blurs the lines between private military company, paramilitary organization, and private army of the Russian government – proof that even modern mercenaries are, often deliberately, hard to define. Rácz (2020) argues that they are proxies of the Russian government and not true mercenaries. In light of how Wagner PMC has evolved over the course of the current war in Ukraine, we might view them as something altogether more feudal under the command of Yevgeny Prigozhin, who much like the Chechen leader Ramzan Kadyrov, is bound to Vladimir Putin through a range of personal ties. 6. The continued use of mercenaries in Africa throughout the twentieth and twenty-first centuries in conflicts such as the Rhodesian Bush War and the civil conflict in Mali often conform to this norm; cf. Pacquette (2022). 7. 18 U.S.C. § 960. 8. Mackie (2021) argues that the legal restrictions placed on mercenaries in the US are particularly weak and outdated, giving an appearance of regulation more than effective legislation. 9. Mallett (1974). 10. Cf. Amory (1997), 30. 11. Scharf (2001), 8–16. 12. For instance, Trundle (2004), 9, ended his study of the phenomena of Greek mercenaries with the year 322 bc for the reason that as professional armies became more prevalent, discerning mercenary service from that of regular soldiers becomes a more difficult proposition. Mallett (1999), 210–11, points to the rise of medieval mercenaries in the middle of the eleventh century with the phenomenon coming into its own in the thirteenth century. 13. Bachrach (2008) provides a good discussion of mercenaries in Merovingian service, on the question of Norse mercenaries see Abels (2008), 155–7. 14. Southern and Dixon (1996), 39–75. They do, however, discuss foederati as temporary troops; see below for further discussion. 15. Lee (2007), 79–85. 16. Le Bohec (2010), 68. 17. Ibid: “lieferte das Söldnertum zusätzliche Soldaten Werber gingen von Stadt zu Stadt, von einem Barbarenvolk zum andern, um die anzuwerben.” 18. Stickler (2007), 498–9. 19. Halsall (2003), 112. 274

Gothic Mercenaries 20. Abels (2008), 151. 21. Halsall (2003), 112. 22. Fischer and López-Sánchez (2016), 249, 23. See Althof (2004) for a comprehensive study of social bonds in the early Middle Ages. 24. Abels (2008), 148. 25. The connection between money and military service in Trundle’s work is evident in the themes of the chapters in this volume. See in particular: Armstrong and Termeer, and Pomeroy in this volume. 26. See Brown (2012), for instance, on the vast wealth of individuals and institutions in the fifth century. 27. Fischer and López-Sánchez (2016), 254–61. 28. McLuhan (1994), 22–3. 29. Amory (1997), 278–84. 30. The classic work on the barbarian settlements is: Goffart (1980), also (2006); for alternative narratives see Heather (2006); see also Amory (1997), 30, 276–85. For a summary of the hospitalitas debate see Halsall (2016), 177–83. 31. Trundle (2017), 42. 32. On Roman warlords and Boniface in particular: Wijnendaele (2015) 33. I would like to thank Jeroen Wijnendaele for allowing me to read an early version of his forthcoming article on irregular recruitment and the bucellarii as well as for providing many useful suggestions for this chapter. 34. Malchus, Frag. 20: 131–4, trans. Blockley (1981), 443. 35. Trundle (2004), 11–12. 36. Blockley (1981), 443, translates these as ‘imperial army’ and ‘legions’, respectively. 37. Trundle (2004), 21. 38. Mallett (1999), 209. On the foreign status of mercenaries see also Aymard (1967), 487; Aymard’s emphasis on the outsider status of the mercenary was a key influence on Trundle’s formulation. 39. DeVries (2008), 44–5. 40. For an extensive discussion of this problem in a late antique context see Amory (1997), particularly pages 1–42. 41. DeVries (2008), 49; Halsall (2016), 173–5. 42. Ibid., 54–6. 43. Trundle (2004), 22 provides an abridged version of the protocol’s text; see also English (2012), who follows Trundle’s lead. 44. For the full text of the Geneva Protocol see Roberts and Guelff (1982), 414. 45. Trundle (2004), 22–3. 46. Urban (2015), 21. 47. Halsall (2003), 112. As will be discussed later in the chapter, social bonds and the language of friendship could be used to formalize mercenary contracts so we must be careful to distinguish this from situations where the individuals participated in more embedded social ties and obligations. 48. This is perhaps a somewhat glib statement; mercenaries may maintain some form of camaraderie among former colleagues. But in comparison to the extent that returned 275

Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World servicemen and women retain a ‘military’ identity after their service, the retention of mercenary identities is very limited. 49. McLuhan (1994), 138. 50. See Goffart (1980); Heather (1994); and Scharf (2001). 51. Amory (1997), 278–84. 52. Cf. Heather (1994), 244–5. 53. Halsall (2007), 286. 54. Heather (1994), 257. 55. Ibid., 252–6. 56. Ibid., 270. 57. Ibid., 242–3, argues that the Goths had been settled in Pannonia by the Huns and that the Emperor Marcian recognized their possession of territory in this area. 58. Ibid., 248. 59. Heather (1994), 272–3. 60. Heather (1994), 277–8. 61. Heather (1994), 284–5. 62. Stovel and Shaw (2012), 140–2. 63. Heather (1994), 302. 64. Ibid., 253, notes that syntaxeis is the term for the monetary component of military pay; cf. Trundle (2004), 81, for the term’s connection to payments derived from the allies of the Athenians to pay for troops. 65. Blockley (1981), 455. 66. Cf. Trundle (2004), 191. 67. Heather (1994), 253. 68. Stickler (2007), 509–10; Scharf (2001), 5–6. 69. Goffart (1980), 105–77. 70. Scharf (2001), 35–7. 71. Ibid., 57–8. 72. Heather (1994), 301. 73. Cf. Trundle (2004), 23. 74. Trundle (2017), 43–5. 75. Althof (2004), 2. 76. See, for instance, Jones (1999) or Gillette (2003). 77. Cf. Heather (1994), 302.

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Gothic Mercenaries Althoff, G. (2004), Family, Friends and Followers: Political and Social Bonds in Early Medieval Europe, trans. C. Carroll, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Amory, P. (1997), People and Identity in Ostrogothic Italy, 489–554, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Aymard, A. (1967), ‘Mercenariat et l’histoire grecque’, in A. Aymard (ed.), Etudes d’histoire ancienne, 487–98, Paris: Presses universitaires de France. Bachrach, B. S. (2008), ‘Merovingian Mercenaries and Paid Soldiers in Imperial Perspective’, in J. France (ed.), Mercenaries and Paid Men: The Mercenary Identity in the Middle Ages, 167–92, Leiden: Brill. Blockley, R. C. (1981), The Fragmentary Classicising Historians of the Later Roman Empire: Eunapius, Olympiodorus, Priscus and Malchus, Liverpool: Francis Cairns. Brown, P. (2012), Through the Eye of a Needle: Wealth, the Fall of Rome, and the Making of Christianity in the West, 350–550, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. DeVries, K. (2008), ‘Medieval Mercenaries Methodology, Definitions, and Problems’, in J. France (ed.), Mercenaries and Paid Men: The Mercenary Identity in the Middle Ages, 43–60, Leiden: Brill. English, S. (2012), Mercenaries in the Classical World: To the Death of Alexander, Barnsley : Pen & Sword. Fischer, S. and F. López-Sánchez (2016), ‘Subsidies for the Roman West? The Flow of Constantinopolitan Solidi to the Western Empire and Barbaricum’, Opuscula: Annual of the Swedish Institutes at Athens and Rome 9: 249–69. Gillette, A. (2003), Envoys and Political Communication in the Late Antique West, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Goffart, W. (1980), Barbarians and Romans, a.d. 418–584: The Techniques of Accommodation, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press Goffart, W. (2006), Barbarian Tides: The Migration Age and the Later Roman Empire, Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Halsall, G. (2003), Warfare and Society in the Barbarian West, 450–900, London: Routledge. Halsall, G. (2007), Barbarian Migrations and the Roman West, 376–586, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Halsall, G. (2016), ‘The Ostrogothic Military,’ in J. J. Arnold, M. S. Bjornlie and K. Sessa (eds), A Companion to Ostrogothic Italy, 173–99, Leiden: Brill. Heather, P. (1994), Goths and Romans 332–489, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Heather, P. (2006), The Fall of the Roman Empire: A New History of Rome and the Barbarians, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Jones, C. J. (1999), Kinship Diplomacy in the Ancient World, Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press. Le Bohec, Y. (2010), Das römische Heer in der späten Kaiserzeit, trans. A. Kolde and G. Kolde, Stuttgart: Steiner. Lee, A. D. (2007), War in Late Antiquity: A Social History, Malden: Blackwell. Mackie, W. (2021), ‘Soldiers of Fortune: Why U.S. Mercenaries Should Not Be Legal’, War on the Rocks, August: https://warontherocks.com/2021/08/soldiers-of-fortune-why-u-s-mercenariesshould-not-be-legal/ (accessed 27 May 2022). Mallett, M. (1974), Mercenaries and Their Masters: Warfare in Renaissance Italy, London: Bodley Head. Mallett, M. (1999), ‘Mercenaries’, in M. Keen (ed.), Medieval Warfare: A History, Oxford: Oxford University Press. McLuhan, M. (1994), Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man, Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Paquette, D., J. Sohyun Lee and J. Swain (2022), ‘Civilian Killings Soar as Russian Mercenaries Join Fight in West Africa’, The Washington Post, 23 May: https://www.washingtonpost.com/ world/2022/05/23/mali-russia-west-africa-wagner/ (accessed 27 May 2022). 277

Money, Warfare and Power in the Ancient World Pohl, W. and H. Reminitz, eds (1998), Strategies of Distinction: The Construction of Ethnic Communities, 300–800, Leiden: Brill. Rácz, A. (2020), ‘Band of Brothers: The Wagner Group and the Russian State’, Center for Strategic & International Studies, September: https://www.csis.org/blogs/post-soviet-post/bandbrothers-wagner-group-and-russian-state (accessed 27 May 2022). Roberts, A. and R. Guelff, eds (1982), Documents on the Laws of War, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Scharf, R. (2001), ‘Foederati: Von der völkerrechtlichen Kategorie zur byzantinischen Truppengattung’, Tyche Supplementband 4, Wien: Holzhausen Southern, P. and K. R. Dixon (1996), The Late Roman Army, London: Batsford. Stickler, T. (2007), ‘The Foederati’, in P. Erdkamp (ed.), A Companion to the Roman Army, 495–514, Malden: Wiley-Blackwell. Stovel, K. and L. Shaw (2012), ‘Brokerage’, American Review of Sociology 38: 139–58. Trundle, M. (2004), Greek Mercenaries, Oxford: Routledge. Trundle, M. (2017), ‘Hiring Mercenaries in the Classical Greek World: Causes and Outcomes’, Millars. Espai i Història XLIII (2): 35–61. Urban, W. (2015), Medieval Mercenaries, Barnsley: Frontline Books. Wijnendaele, J. W. P. (2015), The Last of the Romans: Bonifatius – Warlord and comes Africae, London: Bloomsbury. Wijnendaele, J. W. P. (forthcoming), ‘Irregular Recruitment: Buccellarii and Retainership’, in P. Rance (ed.), A Companion to Military Culture in Late Antiquity, Leiden: Brill. Wolfram, H. (2006), ‘Gothic History as Historical Ethnography’, in T. Nobel (ed.), From Roman Provinces to Medieval Kingdoms 309–19, London: Routledge.

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INDEX

Acanthus 147, 189 Achaean 4 coinage standard 207 Acragas/Acragantine 147–8 Adriatic 146, 151–2, 155, 163 Aegina/Aeginetan 73–75, 78, 81, 136, 147, 149 aerarium (public treasury) 205, 246–9, 251–5, 257 Agesilaus II 4, 78–9, 82–6, 91–3, 96 Agiad 74–5, 79, 83–4, 89, 98 Agis II 79, 83, 96 Agis III, revolt of 111, 114 Ahmose 12 Alcibiades 5, 59–60, 66–7, 97 Alexander II of Macedon 127 Alexander III of Macedon (the Great) 1, 6, 105, 109, 114m 117–19, 121, 127–43, 208 Alexander tetradrachm(s) 13–15, 109, 118, 153–6, 168 Alexandria 220–1, 223, 229–30, 232–4, 236, 239 Aqua Marcia 226 Arbela 130, 139 Ariminum 204, 213 Aruna Pass 11–13, 20 Athens 2–3, 5, 6, 30, 32–9, 45–67, 73, 78, 83–4, 87–90, 97, 106, 108–9, 117, 119, 128–9, 132, 135–6, 139, 142, 147–50, 152, 168, 189, 208, 276 religion 3, 32–9, 50, 112, 139 tetradrachm(s) 135, 142, 147, 149–50, 168; see also coinage (silver) Brasidas 76, 86–90, 92, 97–8 bronze 4, 37, 66, 76, 79, 81, 91, 108, 128, 130, 139, 145, 149–52, 155–8, 161–3, 167–8, 175–6,181–90, 191–4, 197, 202–8, 210, 212–14 aes 176, 197, 203, 213 aes rude 200, 202–4, 213 cast 158, 176, 205–7 ramo secco 200, 202, 204, 213 sextans 213 struck 158, 175–7, 181, 183, 186, 189, 205–7, 210 Caesar, C. Julius 220–1, 224, 231–2, 234–5, 246, 249, 252, 255, 257 Calabria/Calabrian 148, 151–2, 155, 167 Cales 156, 168, 181, 183–7, 193, 203, 210, 214

Campania/Campanian 156–8, 175–6, 181, 183, 185–9, 192, 194, 208, 210 Carseoli 204, 213 Carthage/Carthaginian 6, 111, 145–6, 149, 152–3, 155–8, 167–8, 197–8, 208, 210–11, 261 Cassius Dio 219, 246 Catania 150, 158 Cato, C. Porcius (tribune, 56 bce ) 222–32, 236 Cato, M. Porcius (censor 184 bce ) 253 Cato, M. Porcius 220–2, 227, 235, 236 Caulonia 207 Chaeronea, battle of (338 bce ) 106, 111, 114, 116, 120, 132 Charon’s obol 37 see also coinage (silver), obol chiliarchia 134 Cicero, M. Tullius 1, 219–25, 227–39 Cilicia 130, 149, 221, 232–3 Cleomenes I 75–6, 94 Cleon 52, 54, 59, 64 Clodius Pulcher, P. 220–2, 227–8, 230, 232, 237–8 coin circulation 145–66, 168, 170, 176, 181, 186, 188, 199, 201–3, 155, 263 coinage (silver) 1–7, 29–40, 50–1, 105–22, 128–30, 139–40, 145–70, 175–94, 197–215, 248–9, 269 control marks 112–13, 115, 121, 122, 181 denarius/denarii 4, 158–9, 164, 213, 220, 234 drachm(s)/drachma(e) 32–4, 38, 51–2, 55, 64–5, 111–17, 128, 131–2, 135–6, 138–42, 247 hemidrachm 50; see also triobol hoard(s) 110, 112–13, 116, 121, 145, 147–50, 152–5, 158–60, 167–8 mint(s)/minting 32, 35, 51, 105–18, 119–21, 129–30, 140, 145–9, 151–3, 155–62, 164, 168, 175–6, 180–91, 193–4, 197, 199–202, 206–13, 263 obol(s) 31, 33–4, 37–8, 50–2, 64–5, 131, 136, 192; see also Charon’s obol origins 3–4, 6, 31, 109, 175–94, 197–215 overstrike 108, 112–13, 116, 121–2, 145, 147–8, 155, 157–8, 168 pegasi 112–13, 115–18, 121–2, 145, 147–8, 150, 152–3, 155–6, 162–4, 168 posthumous 113, 115 stater(s) 111–18, 121–2, 133–7, 142

279

Index tetradrachm(s) 113–15, 118, 122, 135, 142, 147, 149–50, 168; see also Alexander tetradrachm(s); Athens, tetradrachm(s) triobol(s) 50, 52, 59 victoriati 158–9 colony/colonies 53, 65, 88, 116, 152, 183, 203–4, 205, 208, 210, 212–13 Compulteria 187 Corcyra/ Corfu 66, 152 Corinth/Corinthian 3, 6, 45, 55–6, 67, 88, 106, 110–18, 120–1, 152, 163, 185 Acrocorinth 111, 114 coinage of 32, 105, 110–18, 120–2, 146–50, 155, 163 league of/Hellenic League 111, 114, 121 Cozzo Scavo 153 Crassus, M. Licinius 220–1, 229–33, 236 Crete 32 Crimisus River, battle of 111, 114, 117 Croesus 3, 30–1 Croton/Crotone 48, 147, 207 Cyprus 220, 222, 227, 235 Deir el Medineh 15, 17–18 dekadarchos 133–5, 137, 142 dekas 133–4 dekastatēros/oi 133–7, 142 delators 247, 249, 254–5 Delian League 139 Delphi 3, 30, 32, 37, 55, 79, 81–2, 88, 92, 98, 208 demagogue(s)/demagogic 52, 54, 66 Demetrius Poliorcetes 3, 113, 115 democracy/democratization/democratic 6, 34–6, 45–51, 54, 59–63, 65, 67, 129, 146 dikastēria/dikastērion 49, 51, 63 dilochia 134 dimoiritēs 133–7, 142 Dionysius I 149–52, 167–9 Dionysius II 152, 168 diphalangarchia 134 donkey(s) 13–14, 22–3 dyarchy/dyarch(s) 75, 78, 82–3, 85–6, 91–2, 94, 96–7 Egypt/Egyptian 1, 6, 11–22, 63–4, 147–9, 159, 162, 208, 212, 219–20, 222–4, 226, 232–5 Eleusis/Eleusinian 33, 35–6, 65, 189 enōmotia 134 see also dekas epibatēs(ai) 58, 62 Epirus 151–2, 162, 170 Eryx 147 Eurypontid(s) 75, 78–9, 82–6 Favonius, M. 222, 236 faenerator(es) 245–6, 248, 254–6, 280–1 festival(s) 5, 30, 31–2, 34, 36, 92, 99, 189, 225

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fiscus (imperial treasury) 248, 251, 254–5 Foedus Neapolitanum 177, 189 Gabinius, A. 221–3, 227, 232–6, 239 garrison(s) 13–14, 18, 21, 106, 111, 114, 151, 208 Gaugamela, battle of 130–2, 137–8, 143 Gaul(s) 162–3, 210, 231, 245, 262 Gaza 11–12, 14, 17–18, 21 Gela/Geloan 148, 150, 154–5, 192 gens/gentes 205, 209, 211 gift-giving/gift-exchange/reciprocity/redistribution 2–4, 12, 15–16, 21–2, 30–5, 79, 84, 90–1, 96, 109, 194, 262, 268–9 gold 3–4, 37, 63, 73, 76, 79–80, 87, 90, 113, 134, 139–40, 142, 149–50, 155, 188, 207, 248, 263, 267, 269–70 grain 12, 14–15, 17–19, 21–3, 32, 34, 61, 113–14, 116–17, 145, 150, 152–3, 221, 223–4, 229, 236, 253 supplies of 11–20, 21–2, 116–17, 129, 131, 152–3, 155–6, 164, 168, 221, 229, 245, 253 Gylippus 89–91, 98 Hadria 204, 213 Halaisa 161 Hatshepsut 12, 18 helot(s) 76–80, 84, 86, 94–5 hero/heroic/heroization 38, 60, 66, 75, 82, 88, 92, 94, 97, 99 Hieron II/Hieronian 155–6, 158, 163, 168, 170 Himera 147 hipparch(s) 129 hippeis 46–9, 57, 61–2, 64 hoplite(s) 3–4, 46–50, 52, 55–6, 58–66, 77, 86, 93, 129, 136, 261 hypaspist(s) 132, 135–6, 138, 141–2 Hyperbolus 54, 60 hypēresia 46, 48–9, 55, 58, 62 hypēretēs(ai) 52, 65 Iguvium 204, 213 Illyria/Illyrian(s) 142, 151, 162–3, 271 infamia 256 interest 245–6, 250–1, 255–6 rates of 246–7, 249, 252, 254–7 Irnthii 187 Issa 151, 163, 168 jury service 6, 46, 49–55, 59, 62–5, 233 Kadesh 13–14, 19–20, 22 kingship 75, 84, 90, 94 Lacedaemon/Lacedaemonian 73, 75, 77–8, 81–3, 87–90, 93

Index Laconia(n) 81, 91 Lamian War 111, 114 Lentulus Spinther, P. Cornelius 221, 223–4, 228–9, 232, 234–5, 238 Leontinoi/Leontine 148, 150, 167 Leukas 150 Lilybaeum 156, 169 Lissos 151 lochagos 128 lochos 134 see also dekas Locri 152, 168 Macedon(ia)/Macedonian(s) 15, 86, 105–6, 108, 111, 113–14, 117–19, 121, 127–9, 131–4, 136–40, 142, 153–4, 158, 189, 228 Magna Graecia 148, 163, 197, 201–2, 207, 212 Magna Mater 226–7, 237 Malies (Maleventum?) 187, 193 Malta 148, 155, 168 Megiddo 11–13, 16–18, 20 merarchia(i) 134, 138–9 mercenary/mercenaries 1–3, 6–7, 66, 78, 84, 87, 97, 105, 109, 111, 116, 128–32, 136, 138, 140, 142, 148–9, 151–2, 155, 157–8, 198, 200–1, 204, 207–10, 214–15, 259–75 as rowers in Athenian fleet 6, 45, 52, 55–8, 66 Messana [includes ‘Mamertine’] 147–8, 156 metic(s) 6, 46, 52, 55–8, 62–3, 66 Miletus 130 military conscription 47, 49, 59, 62–3, 134 misthophora/oi 49–52, 54–5, 63, 67 misthos 51, 129, 189 money-lenders (faeneratores) 245–6, 248, 250, 252, 254–6 Montagna dei Cavalli 153, 156 Monte Iato 146, 156, 161, 169 Morgantina 146, 154–6, 161, 169 naval service 45–67 and citizen identity 47–50, 53–4, 56–60, 62 as profession 45–8, 51–2, 55, 57–9, 61–7 nautēs(ai) thalamioi 58, 67 thranitai 57–9, 67 Neapolis 6, 156, 175–8, 180–90, 191–3, 197, 203, 208–9, 213 Nicias 4, 30–1, 57, 89 Nola 187, 203 Nuceria 203, 209 Numidia/Numidian 163, 170 numismatic(s)/numismatists 106–7, 109–10, 117–18, 146, 152, 156, 158, 189, 194, 212 die-study 111–14, 117, 121–2

ochlos (‘mob’) 48, 54, 62, 66 see also thētes offering box/thēsauros 33, 35 Ouragos 134 P. Anastasi I 13, 16 Palestine/Palestinian 11, 18–20, 21, 24 Panormos 147, 161–2 Parthia 110, 143, 222, 232 Pausanias 74–7, 79–82, 84, 88–92, 94–5, 98 Peloponnesian War 3, 6, 37, 55, 73, 76, 82–3, 87, 89–90, 92, 98, 105, 136, 139 pentakosiarchia(i) 134, 138 pentakosiomedimnoi 46–7, 49, 61, 64 Pericles 3, 51, 53, 65, 139 citizenship law of 50–1 political motives of 50, 56 in Thucydides 3, 36, 45, 48, 55–6, 61 Persepolis 130, 140 Persia/Persian 3, 6, 30, 37, 73–4, 76–7, 79–82, 84–5, 89–90, 96, 105–6, 109, 117, 119, 130, 133–4, 137, 139–40, 150, 261 phalangarchia 134 phalanx(es)/phalangites 6, 127, 129, 133–9, 142–3 Philip II of Macedon 105, 111, 121, 127–8, 132, 136, 138, 143 Philo (Q. Publilius Philo) 177 Phocian(s) 3, 37 Phormio 56–7 piety 6, 30–1, 37 Plataea 73–82, 90, 95 Pompey (Cn. Pompeius Magnus) 219–24, 226, 228–38 population 2, 4, 12, 15, 23–4, 46, 48–50, 53–4, 63–4, 77, 161, 199–200, 253, 272 growth of 50, 63 Praeneste 204, 213 priest/priestess 29–30, 32–6, 38, 224–8, 234, 237, 257 prodigies 225–6, 237, 253 Ptolemy Alexander I or II 219–220, 235 Ptolemy XII Auletes 6, 219–24, 226–36, 238–9 Punic War(s) 146 First 152, 155–8, 186, 201, 207–8, 210, 215 Second 4, 153, 156–9, 162–3, 198, 226 quindecimviri sacris faciundis 225–8, 233, 237 Rabirius Postumus, C. 220–1, 232–4 Ramesses II 14, 19–20, 22 religion 6, 29, 31, 34, 36, 39, 46, 98, 227 see also Athens, religion Rhegium 147–8, 150, 167 ‘Romano-Campanian’ coinage 176, 188, 192

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Index Rome/Roman 4–6, 15–16, 97, 108–10, 128–9, 145, 155–63, 168–9, 175–7, 181, 183, 184–6, 188–90, 192–4, 197–213, 215, 219–28, 232–4, 236, 245–9, 252–6, 257, 259–64, 266–8, 270–5 rowers 3, 40, 45–9, 51–2, 55–8, 60–7, 105, 109 see also thētes Salamis 45, 56, 95, 130, 189 Salemi 153 Samnium/Samnite 177, 186–9, 197, 199, 208, 214 sanctuary/temple 5, 11, 29–31, 92, 139, 189, 206, 225, 249, 257 finances 3, 6, 29, 32–9 Sardinia 145, 155–8, 160, 163, 168 Sardis 130 Sebethos 181 secular/secularization 30, 36 Segesta 147, 150 Selinous/Selinuntine 146–8, 150 Seneca the Younger 245, 254 Seti I 16, 20–1 Sibylline oracles 219, 224–6, 228, 232–4, 237 Sicily/Sicilian 3–6, 30, 47–8, 51, 55, 58, 64, 89–90, 105–6, 110–11, 113, 116–17, 120, 145–64, 166–9, 185, 192, 197–8 Sinai 11–14, 17–21, 23 slave(s)/slavery 2, 4–6, 29–30, 45, 47, 52, 55–8, 62, 64, 66, 200, 226, 236, 245, 254 Solon 30, 32, 60, 62, 67 and ancestral laws (patrioi nomoi) 67 census classes and military service 46–7, 49, 61–2 Solous 161 Spain/Spanish/Hispania 147–8, 158–60, 169, 222 Sparta/Spartan 3–4, 6, 35, 40, 45, 56, 58, 73–84, 86–99, 105, 119 spoil(s) 3–4, 37, 73–4, 76–81, 83–6, 89–92, 95, 111, 120, 127, 131–2, 167, 197, 211, 259 stipendium 201, 205, 211 stratēgoi 51, 129 Suetonius 220, 246, 248, 250, 257 Suessa Aurunca 156,186, 203 Sibyl 227–8 Susa 130–1, 139–40 syntagma 134 Syracuse/Syracusan 4, 52, 57, 89–90, 111, 116, 120, 148–52, 154–6, 208 Syria 11, 18–21, 149, 220, 222, 232, 239

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Tacitus 6, 245–57 Tarentum 4, 113, 160, 207 Tarsus 130, 140 taxiarch(s) 62–3, 128 taxis 134, 142 Teanum Sidicinum 186–7, 193, 203 tetraphalangarchia 134 tetrarchia 134 thētes 6, 45–56, 59–66 and demagogues/prostatai tou dēmou 52, 54, 59–60, 66 as rowers 6, 45–56, 59, 61–4 see also nautēs/nautai; epibatēs/epibatai; misthophora Thorax 91, 98 Thrace/Thracian 36, 57, 63, 86–8, 98, 128, 142, 259, 266–74 Thutmose III 11–14, 16–20, 23 Tiberius (emperor) 6, 245–55, 257 Timoleon 111, 114, 116–17, 120, 122, 152 Timotheus 189 Tjaru 11, 18, 21 trade/r(s) 4, 7, 57, 107–10, 116–19, 122, 131, 147–50, 152–3, 155–6, 158, 163, 167–8, 194, 200, 202 tribuni aerarii 205 tribute 5, 50, 59, 62, 66, 83, 139 tributum 205–6, 211 trierarch(s) 55, 58–60, 129 trireme(s) 45, 47–9, 51, 57–8, 62, 65–6, 90, 207 trophē 189 Trundle, M. 1–7, 29–40, 60, 93, 98, 105, 167, 175, 194, 200–1, 219, 260, 264–5, 273–5 Tyndaris 161 Venafrum 187 Via Appia 198, 201 Victoriatus(i) 158–9 Wadi Hammamat 13, 22–3 wage-earning 46, 54, 66 see also misthophora Ways of Horus 12, 18–19, 21 weight standard 108, 155–6, 159, 182–3, 193 Athenian 107, 156, 189 Corinthian 111, 146 liberal 202–4, 206–7, 213 see also Achaean, coinage standard zeugitēs(ai) 46–7, 49, 61, 64–5

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