The ancient Greeks at war 9781847791535

Table of contents :
Front matter
Contents
Acknowledgements
Abbreviations
Introduction
War and peace in ancient Greece
Early Greek warfare
The makers of war
The patterns of war
Battlefield engagements in the age of the hoplite
Naval warfare
Siege warfare
War and economy
War and religion
War, the individual and the community
Conclusion: the ancient Greeks at war
Bibliography
Index

Citation preview

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The ancient Greeks at war

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The ancient Greeks at war

Louis Rawlings

Manchester University Press Manchester and New York distributed exclusively in the USA by Palgrave

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Copyright © Louis Rawlings 2007 The right of Louis Rawlings to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. Published by Manchester University Press Oxford Road, Manchester M13 9NR, UK and Room 400, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010, USA www.manchesteruniversitypress.co.uk Distributed exclusively in the USA by Palgrave, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010, USA Distributed exclusively in Canada by UBC Press, University of British Columbia, 2029 West Mall, Vancouver, BC, Canada V6T 1Z2 British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data applied for

ISBN 978 0 7190 56574 hardback First published 2007 16 15 14 13 12 11 10 09 08 07

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Typeset by Action Publishing Technology Ltd, Gloucester Printed in Great Britain by Bell & Bain Ltd, Glasgow

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Contents

Acknowledgements Abbreviations Introduction 1 War and peace in ancient Greece

page vii ix 1 4

2 Early Greek warfare

19

3 The makers of war

43

4 The patterns of war

63

5 Battlefield engagements in the age of the hoplite

81

6 Naval warfare

104

7 Siege warfare

128

8 War and economy

144

9 War and religion

177

10 War, the individual and the community Conclusion: the ancient Greeks at war Bibliography Index

203 223 228 245

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Acknowledgements

This book grew out of a course on army and society that Hans van Wees had proposed to teach at Cardiff University. I was fortunate enough to be able to take over his idea (and his office) when I moved to Cardiff from London, while he moved in the other direction. I have found teaching the students at Cardiff inspirational, and I extend my thanks to the many enthusiastic and engaging people who have followed my courses and made a great difference to my thinking about ancient warfare and Greek society. My colleagues at Cardiff have been extremely supportive and I owe a great debt of gratitude to them for their good-natured conversations and contributions throughout this work’s evolution. In particular, I would like to thank Kate Gilliver and Nick Fisher for reading drafts of the chapters and providing many thoughtful and thought-provoking observations throughout, but mostly for encouraging me to persevere. Of colleagues who have moved on to new horizons, I would also thank Adrian Goldsworthy for the many lively and formative discussions of my ideas, and Sian Lewis for asking me to dredge up things I had forgotten I had ever possessed. Beyond Cardiff, a whole host of colleagues have provided encouragement, feedback and inspiration, and I would not wish to embarrass my memory or tire the reader with an attempt to recount them all. I hope they will accept my thanks nonetheless. Two individuals, however, have supported my endeavours and have made the most important contributions to the development of this book. Tim Cornell has been an inspiration, and I can never thank him enough for the time he has taken to read and listen to my outpourings. Most important of all, however, are the qualities he possesses as teacher and thinker; all of the time I have spent in his presence has been to my profit. Hans van Wees constantly finds new ways of looking at the world; I am fortunate that his attention is drawn so very often to Greek society and warfare. I would like to thank him for his extensive comments on my text, which have made a considerable difference to the final version and, over the years, to his generous insights and observations in all matters. Without reservation, therefore, I offer my deepest gratitude to both of them.

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Acknowledgements

In the production of this text, I would like to thank Janet Goodall for helping to bring the bibliography into a semblance of order, Ann Williams for proofreading both drafts in such a professional and timely manner, the anonymous reader whose supportive suggestions have much improved this work, and all the staff at Manchester University Press for bringing this project to fruition. I must also thank my parents and brothers as always, Megan and Archie for all the good times and, most especially, Ann: who has shared all the good times and the bad, but who never once wavered in her belief.

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Abbreviations

Most Greek names have been given in their most commonly accepted Anglicised forms. Abbreviations have generally followed those of the Oxford Classical Dictionary (3rd edn) or are listed below. ATL BSA CIA Fornara

HCT IG ML

Pritchett Sage SEG SIG SV Tod

B. D. Meritt, H. T. Wade-Gery and M. F. McGregor, The Athenian Tribute Lists, 1–4 (1939–53). Annual of the British School at Athens. Corpus Inscriptionum Atticarum (1825– ). C. W. Fornara, Archaic Times to the End of the Peloponnesian War: Translated Documents of Greece and Rome, vol. 1, 2nd edn (Cambridge, 1983). A. W. Gomme, A. Andrewes and K. J. Dover, A Historical Commentary on Thucydides, vols 1–5 (Oxford, 1945–78). Inscriptiones Graecae (Berlin, 1873– ). R. Meiggs and D. M. Lewis (eds), A Selection of Greek Historical Inscriptions to the End of the Fifth Century BC, revised edn (Oxford, 1988). W. K. Pritchett, The Greek State at War, vols 1–5 (Berkeley, 1971–91). M. M. Sage, Warfare in Ancient Greece: A Sourcebook (London, 1996). Supplementum Epigraphicum Graecum. W. Dittenberger, Sylloge Inscriptionum Graecarum, 3rd edn (Leipzig, 1915–24). H. Bengston, Die Staatsverträge des Altertums, 2nd edn (Munich, 1962). M. N. Tod, A Selection of Greek Historical Inscriptions to the End of the Fifth Century BC, 2nd edn, vols 1–2 (Oxford, 1946–48).

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Introduction

This book examines the developments in warfare in Greece from the Late Bronze Age (c. 1600 BC) to the end of the classical period (c. 323 BC). It is by no means exhaustive in coverage, since the quality and quantity of ancient material varies considerably, but it has tried where possible to adopt a wide-ranging and thematic approach. One central observation is that organised violence between Greek communities manifested itself in a variety of ways. The ancient Greeks, by land and by sea, conducted raids, ambushes and police actions; they embarked on campaigns of intimidation, conquest and annihilation. Some wars were very intense and bloody and others less so. It must be remembered that there were many Greek communities, some big, many small, and these were spread not just across what is now modern Greece and the Aegean, but also the coasts of the north Aegean, Asia Minor and Cyprus. From the eighth century BC onwards, Greek communities established themselves along the edges of the Black Sea, Sicily, Southern Italy, North Africa, Spain and Southern France. In the fourth century, the Greeks and Macedonians took military forces into the Persian Empire and, with Alexander the Great, ultimately as far as India. The nature of warfare across these wide areas of time and space varied considerably. Nevertheless, it is possible to talk in broad terms about some issues and there is considerable continuity in the Greeks’ practice and approach to war. The Greeks, on the whole, shared the same language, although with regional dialects and idioms. They were polytheistic and shared a common understanding of their gods and mythology. In this they were aided by the seeming universality of the poetry of Homer, which stood at the head of the literary output of Greeks. The Iliad and the Odyssey described a fantasy world of gods, monsters and heroes, but also contained sufficient realism to be regarded by the Greeks as a representation of their historical past. The poems were often taught to children as part of their education; in Athens, they were performed in public at religious and social events. Their universal appeal led them to become a cornerstone of Greek identity. The Greeks shared more than a poetic heritage, however. From the eighth century many

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communities (but by no means all) coalesced around urban centres, and began to develop conceptions of citizenship, law and government. They developed political and religious institutions that tended to be civic in character and focus. Such communities were known by the Greeks as poleis, often translated as city-states, for the territorial extent of these communities was generally much smaller than modern nation states and the term embodies a conception of the polis as both its urban centre (asty) and its hinterland (cho-ra). For the most part, the citizens lived and worked as farmers in the cho-ra and usually dwelt there, but they travelled to the asty to exercise their political, legal and other rights. When these city-states went to war, it was usually the citizens who both assembled to take the decision to march (or sail) out, and armed themselves for the undertaking. The values and structures of these communities inevitably influenced the types of warfare that were conducted, and in this, two city states, Athens and Sparta, tend to dominate the record. This is not just because in the sixth and fifth centuries these became dominant partners in their respective alliances (the ‘Peloponnesian’ and ‘Delian’ Leagues), and in political and social organisation, economic sophistication, physical layout and military structures these states were extremes of the polis system. It is also because the earliest Greek historians whose work still survives, Herodotus, Thucydides and Xenophon, described their military activities. Herodotus, writing in the 440s and 430s BC, described how many communities, under the leadership of Sparta (but with a decisive military contribution by Athens), banded together to resist a massive Persian invasion of Greece in 480–479 BC. In his sprawling and ‘universal’ account of this invasion, he describes many other earlier events and wars from the preceding centuries, for which he often remains the only, or the earliest source. Thucydides, by contrast, generally confined himself to contemporary events. His theme was the conflict that grew up between the Spartan alliance and the Athenian-led Delian League after the Persians were repelled (and, in passing, the way in which the Delian League came to be converted by the Athenians into an Aegean-wide empire). The Peloponnesian War (431–404 BC), which eventually ended in the defeat of Athens, was a conflict which he regarded as ‘greater and more worthy to be written about than any of the wars of the past’ (Thuc. 1.1). Thucydides saw other conflicts that fell in the period as subsidiary to the main war, brought on by conditions of political instability and the interference of one or both of the main parties. Indeed, he even thought of a period of peace negotiated between the Athenians and Spartans (421–415/14 BC), as a continuation of the conflict by other means. Thucydides’ account broke off in 411 BC and was continued by Xenophon, who went beyond the end of the war in 404 to detail events down to 362 BC. Xenophon’s picture lacks the unifying thesis of Thucydides, but is useful in conveying to us how the

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Introduction

3

majority of Greeks probably saw wars not in broad terms, but as separate, local and immediate episodes in their lives. Both Xenophon and Thucydides were participants in some of the events they described, both were Athenians and both were, to some extent, military men: their view of war was shaped by the events themselves, their personal experiences and also the wider political, social and cultural climate in which they lived. It is important to consider these wider elements when considering the way in which the Greeks waged war. There is a wealth of other material: literary, epigraphic and archaeological, that contributes to our understanding of the nature of Greek society and warfare. By drawing on these to illuminate, supplement, even correct, our historical narratives, we can go some way to understanding the factors that determined the nature of warfare and its impact on society. This book therefore looks beyond the purely military aspects of Greek warfare. While it does discuss the nature and role of battle, logistics, strategy, equipment and so forth, it also examines other elements, such as the role of religion, the nature of the economy and the relationship between the individual and his or her community, before, during and after wars. Since the 1960s there has been a vast outpouring of modern scholarship in a variety of military subjects. This book has tried to take account of the main developments and to engage, where necessary, with some of the theories and interpretations that have been advanced. It is hoped therefore to contribute to the development of some debates, while also being accessible to a more general readership (to this end, all Greek is in translation, and necessary Greek terms have been transliterated).

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Chapter 1

War and peace in ancient Greece

War and peace: definitions and representations What is war? How does one go about attempting to define something as varied, as brutal and as wasteful as war? In broad terms, the condition of war can be characterised as organised violence produced by rival groups, communities or states. It is a bloody and terrible human activity that is imbued with suffering and accompanied by a riot of emotional responses and traumas. War is also culturally defined. The conduct, objectives and outcomes of wars are subject to the expectations and value-systems of their participants and organisers. Both sides in a conflict may have similar outlooks on what wars mean and what constitutes victory and defeat, or they may not. The Greek word for war, polemos, often retained the physical resonance of fighting, combat or battle (Shipley 1993, 2–3; Liddell and Scott s.v. polemos). But the Greeks recognised that war was much more than just the act of violence; it was the organisation of men and resources for combat and the provision of equipment, training and logistical support. It was the decisionmaking and planning to achieve political, economic or other aims. It was the designation of another group, community or region as enemy and the persuasion of people, usually men, to enter into a condition of murderous antipathy with those so defined. It manifested in many varied ways, from brief raiding expeditions to long-term campaigns of conquest and assimilation. It varied in intensity from border scuffles with only a handful of casualties, to the annihilation of whole communities and extensive looting, bloodletting and enslavement. The Greeks were familiar with all these aspects of war and, for many Greeks, war, or the threat of war, was a harsh fact of life (Shipley 1993, 18). The Greeks thought of war as an activity that the gods themselves engaged in and approved of. Hesiod’s Theogony (630–721, 820–67) includes myths of wars and violent struggles fought between the gods and against other divine beings such as Titans. The gods were ‘Deathless’, however, and

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although some were defeated and cast into Tartarus, for the most part violence was not a serious threat to their continued existence. Similarly in the Iliad, the gods fought one another and even mortal heroes, but without ever being seriously threatened. At one point in the poem, as Achilles was rampaging among the fleeing Trojans, Apollo led him away from the rout by posing as Hector; eventually he turned, saying, ‘Son of Peleus, why are you chasing me with all your swiftness, when you are mortal and I an immortal god . . . You will never kill me for I am no creature of fate’ (Il. 22.8–9, 13). When the gods engaged in war in the Iliad, a strong contrast was made between the trivial wounds they received and the suffering and death of men and their families. When Aphrodite was wounded by the hero Diomedes, the other goddesses mocked her: ‘Cypris must have been coaxing some Achaean girl to run away to the Trojans, who are now such favourites of hers, and when caressing one of these Achaean women in their lovely dresses she must have scratched her pretty hand on a golddress pin’ (Il. 5.422–5). But her mother, Dione, comforted her by reminding her of Diomedes’ mortality: The son of Tydeus doesn’t understand that life is not long for a man who fights against immortals; for him no homecoming from war’s grim struggle to have his children climb into his lap with cries of ‘Daddy!’ So now the son of Tydeus should take care that nobody greater than you will meet him in battle or else good Aegialea, Adrestus’ daughter, strong wife of horse-taming Diomedes, may rouse her fond household from their sleep with her long lamentation, crying for the loss of her husband. (Iliad 5.406–15)

The all too fatal conflict of men, of course, served to emphasise their humanity and bravery in risking their precious lives in battle. At one point Sarpedon tells Glaucus that ‘if away from this battle we were forever to be ageless and immortal, neither would I myself fight amid the foremostfighters, nor would I send you into battle where men win glory; but since the fates of death surround us, innumerable fates, which no mortal may escape or avoid – then let us go forward, until we give glory to another, or he to us’ (Il. 12.322–8). The compensation for being mortal, in Sarpedon’s view, was that men had the opportunity to win glory (Vernant 1991a, 57). The search for a glorious reputation was for some men so important that Achilles, for example, chose a short life of violence and fame to one that would have been long, peaceful and obscure (Il. 9.410–16). War was a means to a good reputation, a way of living in glory, since all men were to die. War could also give some men gratification. Odysseus, posing as the son of Castor, explained how ‘labour in the field was never to my liking, nor the care of a household, which rears goodly children, but oar-swept ships and wars, and pitching spears with treated hafts and arrows, dismal things that

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are shuddering and bitter to other men, to me were sweet; a god put them in my heart; for different men take joy in different works’ (Od. 14.223–8). One Spartan remarked that during war ‘nothing is more enjoyable or honourable than to be dependent on no one, but to live on booty taken from enemies that provides sustenance and renown’ (Xen. Hell. 5.1.16). Similarly, for a free-living citizen of a polis at war, ‘nothing equals the sheer delight of routing, pursuing and killing an enemy’ (Xen. Hiero 2.15). For many Greeks, war was god-given. Isocrates (4.84) claimed that some god had caused the Persian Wars so that the quality of those who fought in it should not remain unknown. It is unsurprising, therefore, that war was seen to be part of the natural order of things. Heraclitus (frg. 53) claimed that ‘War is the father of all and king of all’, while ‘one should understand that war is common and justice is strife . . .’ (frg. 80). It was also recognised, however, that war was an evil. For Thucydides (3.82.2, see p. 214) ‘War is a violent teacher’, while in Homer, war was predominantly characterised as ‘wretched’, ‘tearful’, ‘bad’ and ‘painful’. Even the son of Castor, who delighted in violent acts, recognised that these were ‘dismal things that are shuddering and bitter to other men’ (Od. 14.226–7). Despite men’s lust for battle (charme-), it was the agony, exhaustion and grief produced by war that was given prominence by Homer (e.g. Il. 22.405–515). Xenophon, who in his life experienced his share of warfare, suggested that although ‘it is fated by the gods that wars should exist, man should be cautious about beginning them and anxious to end them as soon as possible’ (Xen. Hell. 6.3.6). Such a sentiment was echoed by other Greeks: Euripides’ Suppliant Women (949–54) exhorted ‘mortals to live quietly and to cease from the toils of battle, since life is so short’. The difference between war and peace, Herodotus (1.87) observed, was that ‘In peace, sons bury their fathers; in war, fathers bury their sons.’ In Aristophanes’ comic play Acharnians, the contrast was brought out in a pair of characterisations drawn by the chorus. War (Polemos) was represented as an evil table companion, drunk and always brawling: When we were prosperous he burst upon the scene, Committed crimes, upended and wasted everything. He’d fight and when we said, ‘sit down and have a sip; Let’s drink a friendly toast to our good fellowship,’ Instead he’d turn more violent, set fire to our vines, And tramp them till he’d squeezed out every drop of wine. (Aristophanes, Acharnians 980–6)

By contrast, Reconciliation (Diallage-) was a desirable bride (Newiger 1980, 225), described in agricultural metaphors of sex and procreation:

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If we embraced, I could still pull you down three times, I’d first shove in a long hard row of tender vines, And then alongside fresh fig-shoots I’d bed And finally some grapes – I, old bald-head. And all around the plot a stand of olive-trees, So we could oil ourselves for every New Moon Feast. (Aristophanes, Acharnians 995–9)

War destroys vines with his tramping feet, while Reconciliation provides the opportunities to get back to planting them.1 The plot of the play concerns an Athenian farmer, Dicaeopolis, who became so exasperated with the Athenian assembly, which failed to debate the issue of peace sensibly, that he came to private terms with the enemy. The contrast between the ongoing war and his personal peace was made in scenes that were richly comic and allegorical (Newiger 1980, 223). Lamachus, a general who denounced Dicaeopolis’ private truce, was made to march off and winter in the passes of Attica to guard against a Boeotian incursion, while Dicaeopolis set off to attend a banquet (Ach. 1143–9). Lamachus returned injured in the arms of two soldiers; Dicaeopolis staggered home drunk, carried by a couple of girls (1214–17). Peace enabled Dicaeopolis to open a private market and acquire sexual gratification (763 ff.) and a variety of foodstuffs (870–94) from the enemy. But there is little social concern in Dicaeopolis’ ‘I’m alright Jack’ attitude or actions; he selfishly denies the benefits of his peace to his fellow citizens (1018–39).2 Despite a general recognition that peace was preferable to war, there was very little in the way of pacifism in the Acharnians. The deal that the gods brokered for Dicaeopolis with the Peloponnesians came in the form of a choice of treaties of differing duration. Each was represented as a type of wine: This here’s a five-year treaty. Have a sip. Yuk. AMPHITHEUS What’s the matter? DICAEOPOLIS I can’t stomach this. It smells of pitch and warship construction. AMPHITHEUS OK then, here’s a ten-year treaty. Try it. DICAEOPOLIS But this one smells like embassies to the allies, A sour smell, like someone being bullied. AMPHITHEUS Well, this one’s a treaty lasting thirty years By land and sea. DICAEOPOLIS Sweet feast of Dionysus! This treaty smells of nectar and ambrosia, And never hearing ‘get your three days’ rations’. It says to my palate ‘go wherever you like’, AMPHITHEUS

DICAEOPOLIS

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The ancient Greeks at war I accept it; I pour it in libation; I drink it down. I tell the Acharnians3 to go to hell! For me it’s no more hardships, no more war: It’s home to the farm and a feast for Dionysus! (Aristophanes, Acharnians 188–202)

The image drew its strength from the word for truce, spondai, which referred to the libations (spondai) of wine poured during its agreement. Dicaeopolis chose a thirty-year truce, which appears to have alluded to the agreement made between Athens and Sparta in 446/5 BC (Thuc. 1.115). It was a feature of Greek international relations that some peace agreements and truces were set to expire after a certain time. In the negotiations conducted by Nicias (421 BC), which brought an end to the first phase of the Peloponnesian War (often termed the ‘Archidamian War’, 431–421 BC), the Spartans and Athenians made a fifty-year peace, to be renewed annually (Thuc. 5.24.3), while at the same time the Boeotians and Athenians had a truce that was renewed merely every ten days. Indeed, Thucydides regarded the peace as just an interlude in his account of twenty-seven years of war between the Athenians and Spartans: Only a mistaken judgment can object to including the interval of this treaty in the war. Looked at by the light of facts it will be found that it cannot be rationally considered a state of peace, for neither party either gave or got back all that they had agreed, not to mention the violations of it which occurred on both sides in the Mantinean and Epidaurian wars and other instances, and the fact that the allies in the direction of Thrace were in as open hostility as ever. (Thucydides 5.26)

Athens and Sparta continued their provocations; by 416 BC both sides were raiding one another openly, and, in 414/13 BC, Sparta was prepared to declare war again (Thuc. 7.18). Thucydides’ view has been lauded by many scholars as a candid appraisal of Greek international relations, apparently revealing an underlying reality of almost constant hostility among rival poleis.4 From such a perspective, it seems as if the Greeks were always in a state of undeclared war with their neighbours, which they often converted into open hostility and military action, and only briefly suspended with limited periods of truce (e.g. Keil 1916; de Romilly 1968). Indeed, support for this view has been found in a statement, put into the mouth of a certain Cleinias by Plato in the Laws (625e–626a), that ‘[a Cretan Lawgiver] condemned the stupidity of the mass of men in failing to perceive that all are involved ceaselessly in a lifelong war against all States . . . For (as he would say) “peace”, as the term is commonly employed, is nothing more than a name, the truth being that every State is, by a law of nature, engaged perpetually in an informal war with every other

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State.’ It is, however, worth observing that Cleinias admitted that ‘the mass of men’ was not aware of this reality of ‘lifelong’ and ‘informal’ war between states (van Wees 2004, 4 and 253 n. 6). He represents a philosophical position rather than a widely held perception. Moreover, the argument is, in fact, criticised by another of the speakers in the Laws, the Athenian, who argues that states ought to be given laws and institutions that promote peaceful relations rather than war (626b–628e), for ‘the highest good is neither war nor civil strife, things that we should pray rather to be saved from, but peace with one another and friendly feeling’. Thucydides’ appraisal of the Peace of Nicias was drawn from hindsight and may have been be an overly cynical view that was not shared by the majority of his contemporaries. There is some reason to regard the peace negotiated in 421 as a genuine attempt, at least by the Spartan and Athenian ambassadors and their supporters at home at the time, despite considerable difficulties and complexities on the ground, to establish a lasting agreement.5 Aristophanes’ Peace, produced in 421 and perhaps reflecting the contemporary mood in Athens, appears to have been a celebration of the negotiations that would become the Peace of Nicias, probably concluded a few days after the play was performed.6 The hero of the play, Trygaeus, by organising the labour of Greeks of all cities (represented as a Chorus of PanHellenes, Peace 302), rescues the goddess Peace (Eire-ne-) and her attendants, Festival (Theo-ria) and Harvest (Opo-ria), and is able to ensure not a private truce, but a Pan-Hellenic peace.7 Even Thucydides at one point refers to the agreement as a peace (eire-ne-, Thuc. 5.17.2; van Wees 2004, 258 n. 57), and in the view of other ancient writers, the Peace of Nicias, although short-lived, was nevertheless more than a mere truce.8 Furthermore, against the common modern perception that Greek cities experienced only limited periods of formally contracted non-aggression, many states, Athenians and Spartans included, concluded treaties and peace agreements that had no time limit, or indeed were intended to endure ‘for ever’.9 Thus did the people of Sybaris commit themselves to friendship with the Serdaioi (c. 550 BC, Fornara 29 = ML 10; van Wees 2004, 10), while the alliance of Athens and the Aegean states, forged in the aftermath of the Persian invasion of 480–79 BC, sank lumps of iron into the sea to symbolise the permanence of the relationship ([Arist.] Ath. Pol. 23.5; Plut. Arist. 25.1). When, just a few years later, Naxos attempted to leave (c. 469 BC, Thuc. 1.98.4, 137.2), it was compelled by an Athenian-led military expedition to remain in the ‘Delian League’ (as modern scholars often refer to it). This alliance was an aggressive association committed to continue the war against Persia and to punish the Great King ‘by ravaging his territory’ (Thuc. 1.96.1, cf. 6.76.3); its members all undertook to have the same friends and enemies, and sent military or financial contributions to the war effort of the League.10

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Although, on the surface, it appears a rather egalitarian alliance, it is clear that the Athenians were the leading state within it and exercised overall command over the league’s military and financial resources (see p. 109, 160–6). Some other offensive alliances (symmachiai) also seem to have been rather lopsided. Members of the Peloponnesian League appear to have agreed to have the same friends and enemies as the Spartans, but the allies on campaign were obliged to ‘go by land and by sea wherever the Spartans might lead’.11 The Spartans, at least in some cases, appear only to have committed themselves to defend allies against acts of aggression – a subtle difference, perhaps, but one that betrayed the imbalance in status and power. Other military alliances could be purely defensive, either side committing only to send aid if the other was attacked. Such an agreement was made ‘for a hundred years’ by the Acarnanians and Amphilochians with the Ambraciots, whom they had recently heavily defeated at Olpae (426 BC).12 Of course such arrangements did not restrict aggressiveness towards nonsignatories, but nevertheless they were intended to keep the peace and create mutual protection for those parties who had signed up. There were also other ties that promoted good relations between Greek states, less formal than legally constituted treaties ‘sworn with binding oaths’, but just as effective. These included ancestral and mythological claims to kinship (syngeneia) and friendship (philia), and favours (charites) owed for past benefactions (euergesiai).13 These relationships could be invoked in negotiations conducted between states and, while not always successful in bringing support or defusing volatile situations, appeals on these grounds nevertheless reveal a common expectation that states ought to be swayed in their actions by them.14 Starting wars In 446 BC, Athens and Sparta, after a series of conflicts (which some modern scholars have termed the ‘First’ Peloponnesian War), had come to terms and agreed a thirty-year peace (Thuc. 1.115). It lasted until 432/1, some fourteen years, when due to a number of provocations, ‘The Lacedaemonians voted that the treaty had been broken, and that war must be declared’ (Thuc. 1.88). Before we move on to discuss what the reasons and causes of the war might have been, it is worth establishing the procedure by which a state of war might be called into existence. Wars were clearly started by the decision of one group to attack another for whatever reason (Shipley 1993, 9). In the Greek world, this generally meant that troops marched out after consultation within the community and, usually, with its consent (Garlan 1976, 43). In the case of Sparta, the all-male citizen assembly voted on such matters, usually by acclamation (Thuc. 1.87.1–3; Lendon 2001) or, possibly, by the

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casting of votes using pebbles (Hdt. 9.55); although, on one occasion (for the important vote in 431 BC on war with Athens), a certain Sthenelaidas proposed that the Spartans form into two groups for a headcount (Thuc. 1.87.1–3). Sparta also consulted its allies and attempted to get their assent by a majority vote (Thuc. 1.87, 1.120–4). At times it responded to allied desires or requests for action. Sparta was not bound by the decisions of the Peloponnesian League (Xen. Hell. 2.2.19–20) and so could not be legally compelled to go to war by its allies, but it recognised that the grievances of allies generally had to be addressed, and so it might feel obliged, for the sake of unity and the satisfaction of the more important members, to co-operate with the League’s wishes.15 Nevertheless, the responsibility for deciding that a condition of war existed lay with the citizen body of Spartiates, and a decision for war was generally followed by a muster of the army (Xen. Lac. Pol. 11.2). In Athens, the citizen assembly also debated and voted on issues of defence and war, generally by a show of hands ([Arist.] Ath. Pol. 43.4; Thuc. 3.49). Its views were considered binding on the state as a whole, regardless of how many citizens were able to attend for any particular vote (Ober 1989, 134). The need to ensure consensus in such a dangerous matter as war would have been obvious to any participant. It was understandable that those engaged in fighting would want, wherever possible, communal support. Men on campaign would want to know that, should they survive, they would not experience the indignation (nemesis) of the people or prosecution at their hands. Or so it would seem. As part of his legal framework for the ideal state, Plato suggested that: Everyone shall regard the friend or enemy of the State as his own personal friend or enemy; and if anyone makes peace or war with any parties privately and without public consent, in his case also the penalty shall be death; and if any section of the State makes peace or war on its own account with any parties, the generals shall summon the authors of this action before the court, and the penalty for him who is convicted shall be death. (Plato, Laws 12.955b–c)

The need for communal unity in times of war is emphasised, but Plato’s proposal recognised an underlying reality: that in most cities and most wars, communities were not unified. In Plato’s ideal state, Dicaeopolis would have soon found himself facing the death sentence, but in Athens and elsewhere dissent and ongoing debate appears to have been normal. The Athenians sometimes had repeated debates about military decisions, and changed their minds on resolutions they had made (e.g. Thuc. 3.49). Plato’s legislation also recognised the possibility that individuals or groups within the community might make war ‘privately and without public consent’. Evidently some undertakings were less than official. In fact, small operations by privately

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organised groups appear to have been a recurrent feature of the archaic and classical periods, not just in the less civilised and urbanised regions where raiding was seen as a common, legitimate and honourable activity (Thuc. 1.5–6), but across the borders of city-states. One survey of predatory activities in the archaic and classical periods concluded that raids, reprisals and the violent seizure of persons and property were endemic even in the most developed of poleis.16 In 491 BC, when the Persian governor Artaphernes was assigned to pacify the reconquered Ionian cities, he also ‘compelled the Ionians to make agreements among themselves: that they would abide by the law and not rob and plunder each other’ (Hdt. 6.42). The reality of this policy appears confirmed by an early fifth-century inscription from Teos, which displayed a concern over private acts of raiding or piracy. Indeed, it prescribed the death penalty for any who participated in such activities and for those who harboured them.17 It is likely that, by the time the inscription was erected, Teos had joined the Delian League against Persia; even so, it indicated an ongoing concern about this problem. Underlying Greek concerns in controlling such activity were the issues of accountability and the threat of escalation: that a private matter might engulf the whole community. When, in the sixth century, Samian pirates seized a huge bronze bowl, a Spartan diplomatic gift bound for King Croesus of Lydia, its theft came to be used as a pretext for a later Spartan attack on the island (Hdt. 1.70.2, 3.47.1). One raid by a gang of marauders, then, might embroil the whole community in war (Garlan 1976, 37–8). In the Iliad, when Nestor stole the cattle of the Epeans, the whole Epean kingdom was mobilised against Pylos (Il. 11.673 ff.). In 395 BC, it was a series of titfor-tat border raids between the Phocians and Opountian Locrians over grazing rights that sparked a much greater conflict: the Corinthian War.18 At other times, a community that felt itself provoked could issue a marque that any of its citizens might raid a specific target, as occurred in 416 BC when the Spartans issued a proclamation to that effect against the Athenians, while not formally renouncing the Peace of Nicias (Thuc. 5.115, 7.18). For the most part, it appears that the motivation behind private raiding was economic: the enrichment of the predators at the expense of their victims (see p. 69, 104–5, 149–54). Indeed, Thucydides argued: The proposition that war is an evil is so familiar to every one that it would be tedious to develop it. No one is forced into war through ignorance, or kept out of it by fear, if he imagines that he will gain from it. To the former the gain appears greater than the danger, while the latter would rather face the peril than put up with any immediate sacrifice. (Thucydides 4.59)

Ophelia (‘profit’, ‘gain’, ‘advantage’) was a commonly stated motivation for aggression. It could occur both on a private and a public level. The Athenian

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ambassadors present at the discussions in 432/1 BC, when the Spartans repudiated the thirty-year truce agreed in 446, admitted that their empire had grown ‘under the pressure of three of the strongest motives, honour (time-), fear (deos) and profit (o-phelia)’ (Thuc. 1.76.2). However, although profit was numbered among their reasons, they also asserted that it had been fear (of Persia) that had been their principal motive in building an empire (though once they had gained their empire, ‘honour and profit afterwards came in’: Thuc. 1.75.4). It was a sense of fear that Thucydides also emphasised to have been at the root of Spartan motivations in annulling the truce: The Lacedaemonians voted that the treaty had been broken, and that war must be declared, not so much because they were persuaded by the arguments of the allies as because they feared the growth of the power of the Athenians, seeing most of Hellas already subject to them. (Thucydides 1.88)

In Thucydides’ analysis, the Spartan attack on Athens was a pre-emptive strike at a state that posed an increasing threat to them, but fear of Athens was not a reason Spartans used publicly: To the question of why they broke the treaty, I will answer by placing first an account of their causes (aitiai) and disagreements (diaphorai); that no one may ever have to ask the immediate reason which plunged the Hellenes into such a great war. The real motive (ale-thestate- prophasis) I consider to be the one which was formally most kept out of sight. The growth of the power of Athens, and the alarm that this inspired in Lacedaemon, made war inevitable. Still it is well to give the grounds (aitiai) announced by either side, which led to the dissolution of the treaty and the breaking out of the war. (Thucydides 1.23.6)

The meaning of prophasis has been subject to intense academic debate, particularly after the Second World War.19 It has been variously translated as ‘excuse’, ‘pretext’ or ‘general cause’. But, as Momigliano (1966, 118) recognised, Thucydides took care to distinguish between prophasis and aitia. He wished to look behind the ‘stated’ or ‘commonly held’ aitiai – in other words, the reasons which were uppermost in people’s minds and debates at the time – to the less obvious but, in some way, more revealing motivations behind a declaration or outbreak of war.20 Thucydides knew that the causes of the Peloponnesian War derived from decisions that humans took about events as they developed and, having considered themselves provoked, the votes that men cast (Shipley 1993, 11). But he also attempted to account for the more general process of Athenian imperialism over a prolonged period of time and the Spartan reaction to the growth of Athenian power. There is a further motivation that Thucydides alluded to in his discussion of the causes of the Peloponnesian war: honour (time-). He employed it frequently in his account of the actions and motivations of both individuals and communities, although it was only ancillary to his grand theory

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of the ale-thestate- prophasis for the Peloponnesian War itself (Lendon 2000, 1–2). The Athenians claimed that they had gained honour from winning their empire (Thuc. 1.75.4), and that it had been one of the three pressures that had compelled them to take it in the first place (1.76.2). In 415 BC, the Syracusans argued that if the people of Camarina helped the Athenians to victory, it would be pointless, for ‘all the honour will go to them’ (Thuc. 6.80). The importance of honour for communities can be seen in the quarrel between the Athenians and the Tegeates over who was to take one of the wings in the battle-line at Plataea (479 BC, Hdt. 9.26–7). The arguments of both sides were based on the reputation of past exploits. Interestingly, both accepted the predominance in time- of the Spartans who took the other wing and commanded in the battle (Wickersham 1994, 11–15; Lendon 2000, 14). It is the negative form, dishonour (atimia), which Greeks talked most about as the cause of wars. In the years leading up to the Peloponnesian War, while other colonies honoured their mother-city, Corinth, the Corcyreans ‘acted outrageously’ towards it (Thuc. 1.38, cf. 1.25.3). The actions of those who caused dishonour were frequently seen as acts of hybris, ‘overweening arrogance’ – a deliberate insult that dishonoured the victims, who felt shame if they could not take revenge (Fisher 1992, 10–13, 137–42). So, when the Spartans and Corinthians attacked Samos in the sixth century BC, the Spartans acted to avenge the theft of the bowl stolen by pirates, while the Corinthians ‘also enthusiastically helped . . . For an outrage (hybrisma) had been done them by the Samians a generation before this expedition, about the time of the robbery of the bowl’ (Hdt. 3.48). It was, again, the Corinthians who claimed at the meeting of the Peloponnesian League in 432/1 BC that they were ‘being insulted (hybrizein) by the Athenians’ (Thuc. 1.68.2). Athens had, in fact, been acting provocatively towards Corinth for some time. In the ‘First’ Peloponnesian War (461–446 BC), Megara had abandoned the Peloponnesian League and gone over to Athens after a border-war with Corinth. This, Thucydides said, was the beginning of the bitter hatred for Athens among the Corinthians (1.103.4). Athens had also sided with Corcyra in its dispute with its mother-city, Corinth (Thuc. 1.44–5), even contributing ten warships to the battle fought between the two parties off Sybota (434 BC, Thuc. 1.49). It had recently besieged the Corinthian colony of Potidaea, which was in the rather anomalous situation of also being a member of the Athenian Empire (432 BC, 1.56–65). Such interference with her colonies gave Corinth the ammunition to persuade the allies, and ultimately the Spartans, to declare war on the Athenians (Thuc. 1.86), ‘for vengeance and self-preservation’ (Thuc. 1.121.5). It seems it was as much with retaliation as with any other motive that the Corinthians voted for war in 432/1. Thucydides positions these aitiai along a chain of causa-

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tion, in which, from the Corinthian point of view, the Athenians always acted with deliberate hybris. Lendon (2000, 2) observes that the cry for vengeance was so often recorded in the sources that ‘it argues powerfully for its ideological legitimacy and so its historical importance as a real cause of real wars’. The concept of vengeance was part of popular ideology and culture (Dawson 1996, 65). We have only to return to the Acharnians to see this motive at play. The chorus of bellicose Acharnian farmers, whose land had borne the brunt of much of the fighting, claimed: Not he, father Zeus and gods on high, Who’s made his peace with our enemy; For him and his like our hatred demands Implacable war because of our lands. (Aristophanes, Acharnians 225–9)

Moreover, the cycle of insult and vengeance, of tit-for-tat private action that escalates into all-engulfing war, is brought together in Dicaeopolis’ ludicrous analysis of the causes of the Peloponnesian War: Why blame things entirely on the Spartans? It was men of ours – I do not say our polis; Remember that, I do not say our polis, But some badly-minded troublemaking men, Some honourless (atimos) counterfeit half-breeds Who started denouncing shirts from Megara And if they spotted a cucumber or a bunny Or piglets, cloves of garlic, lumps of salt, It was Megarian, grabbed, sold-off that very day. Now these were merely local; country customs. But then some young kottabos-players got to drinking And went to Megara and stole the whore Simae-tha. And then the Megarians, garlic-stung with passion, Got even by stealing two whores from Aspasia. From this the origin of the war broke forth On all the Greeks: from three girls good at blow-jobs. And then in wrath Olympian Pericles Wrought lightning and he thundered and turned Greece upside-down, Establishing laws that read like drinking-songs: ‘Megarians shall be banned from land and markets And banned from sea and also banned from shore.’ Whereupon the Megarians, starving inch by inch, Appealed to Sparta to help make us repeal The decree we passed in the matter of the whores.

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The ancient Greeks at war But we refused although they repeatedly asked. And then it came to a clashing of the shields. You say they shouldn’t have; but what instead? (Aristophanes, Acharnians 515–40)

Aristophanes focuses on the most local aitiai of the war, the worsening relations with Athens’ neighbour Megara that resulted in the Megarian decree (432 BC).21 It was a cause that Thucydides himself appears to under-emphasise in his own analysis, but it shows that members of the same community could have very different interpretations of why a war might break out. Although this is a comic parody, it reflects both contemporary popular ideas and some of the methods of explanation advanced by serious historians, such as Herodotus (1.1–5), whose discussion of the tit-for-tat theft of women prior to the Trojan War it appears to parody.22 Indeed, in demonstrating a causal chain of events, albeit played for laughs, it uses a method that Thucydides himself was to employ in detailing the progression of aitiai of the Peloponnesian War. Conclusion Wars are called into existence by the decisions of men to designate other groups and communities as enemies (ekthroi, hypernantioi, polemioi). The ancient Greeks invoked a range of justifications for their actions, frequently referring to the gods, past provocations, honour and self-interest. Often they did so in order to persuade themselves and others to overlook any ties of kinship or any formal agreements that had been made with their erstwhile foes. Although the consequences may not have been fully foreseen and the judgements of some might have been clouded by emotions such as anger and fear, it is likely that most declarations of war were not made lightly, or unanimously. Internal differences about whether violence was the right option, or even over the causes of conflict, were as common then as they are in today’s societies. The Greeks might have regarded Polemos as an evil and terrifying acquaintance, but it did not always stop them from inviting him to dine with them. Notes 1 In Acharnians and Peace (possibly also Farmers and Second Peace: Dillon 1987, 99), War is shown to be a destroyer of nature’s produce, particularly agricultural cultivation, while Peace is the restorer of fertility and agricultural productivity, Newiger 1980, 224–5; Dillon 1987, 97–9. 2 Dover 1972, 86 ff., followed by Newiger 1980, 223, although note the dissent of MacDowell 1983, 158–9.

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3 The Acharnians was performed in the sixth year of Peloponnesian War (431–404 BC), in the context of frequent Peloponnesian incursions into Attica, the populous region around Acharnae being particularly affected. The Acharnians themselves are characterised as bellicose in the play; see p. 63, 135–6, 149. 4 See for example, Howard 1983, 7–22; Doyle 1990; Johnson 1993; Crane 1998. 5 So initial compliance by Sparta appears to demonstrate, although its powerlessness to compel the Chalcidians to return Amphipolis to Athens (Thuc. 5.22.1) soon came to be interpreted as duplicity (Thuc. 5.25.2), Seager 1976, 251. Genuine intentions do not necessarily lead to permanent results, but some scholars go beyond Thucydides’ view that the peace was unstable and filled with violations (5.25.3) and argue that it was doomed from the start (on which see Kagan 1974, 347–8; 1981, 30 ff.; Seager 1976, 249–51). 6 Noted, for example by Gomme HCT 3.658; Dover 1972, 137; Kagan 1974, 340–1; Newiger 1980, 228. 7 Theo-ria (Festival) and Opo-ria (Harvest), symbolise the possibility of Athenians being able to return to the countryside and get on with their agricultural activities and religious calendar. One of the clauses of the Peace of Nicias guaranteed sanctity for those travelling to Pan-Hellenic temples and festivals (theo-riai), something that had been disrupted during the Archidamian war (Thuc. 5.18). Like the longing of the Chorus for the agricultural-bride Diallage- (989–99) in Acharnians, the restoration of Eire-ne- to mankind allows the marriage of Trygaeus to Opo-ria in the finale of Peace; Newiger 1980, 225. Newiger (226) also observes that Eire-ne- is rescued primarily by the labour of farmers (Peace 508–19). 8 Andoc. 3.8, cf. Aeschin. 2.175; Diod. 12.74.5–6; Plut. Nic. 9; Alc. 14.2. 9 No time limit: e.g. the alliance made between Sparta and Erxadieis c. 426/5 BC, Peek 1974; Baltrusch 1994, 21–4; van Wees 2004, 14. ‘For ever’: e.g. Athenians and Boeotians in 395 BC (SV no. 223; Tod 2.101), and in general van Wees 2004, 15 and 257 n. 44. 10 Much has been written on the original aims of the Delian League: e.g. Larsen 1940; Jackson 1969; Meiggs 1972, 47; H. R. Rawlings 1977; Robertson 1980. 11 This is the case with a treaty made between the Spartans and Erxadieians, see above n. 9. Xen. Hell. 2.2.20, 5.3.26, represents similar agreements with Athens and Olynthus; cf. 4.6.2, where the Achaeans allude to their having such a relationship. From c. 507/6 BC the Spartans appear to have had to obtain the consent of the allies before calling on them to assemble for war (Hdt. 5.91–3; cf. 5.74–5). On the Peloponnesian League see Larsen 1933 and 1934; de Ste Croix 1972, 101–24, 333–46, esp. 108–12; Cawkwell 1993. 12 Thuc. 3.114.3. On defensive symmachies see Adcock and Mosley 1975, 121, 189–92; Baltrusch 1994. 13 On syngeneia see Curty 1995; Hall 1997, 34–40; Jones 1999. On traditional philia see L. Mitchell 1997, 23 ff.. 14 e.g. Thuc. 1.32–3, 1.41–2, 1.95.1, 3.86.2, 5.80.2, 7.58.3. On Thucydides’ generally cynical attitude to such claims see Wilson 1989; Hornblower 1996, 61–80; Crane 1996, 149–61; van Wees 2004, 8–9. On the Athenian preference for self-interest

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15 16 17

18 19 20

21

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The ancient Greeks at war over traditional reciprocal obligations created by past benefactions see Missiou 1998. e.g. Thuc. 1.90.1, cf. Hdt. 5.73; Xen. Hell. 4.6.3. Missiou-Ladi 1987, 337; Cawkwell 1993, 365; Birgalis 2003. This was the view of Ormerod 1978 [1924], 66–7; cf. L. P. Rawlings 2000, 234–6. SIG 37, 38 = Fornara 63; de Souza 1999, 29. Cf. SV no. 146 = Sage 182, where the Locrian cities of Chaleum and Oeanthea (c. 450 BC), agreed ways to limit seizures from plunder and piracy, or reprisals. see also Bravo 1980. Hell. Oxy. 21.3; McKay 1953, 6–7; Perlman 1964. For example see Pearson 1952; Kirkwood 1952; Momigliano 1966; Sealy 1957 and 1975. Cf. Thucydides 6.6.1 where he claims that the Athenians invaded Sicily with the specious reason of helping their kinsmen (syngenoi) and allies (symmachoi), but that their real aim (alee-thestate- prophasis) was the conquest of the island. Thuc. 1.67, 139; Plut. Per. 29–31; Diod. 12.38–9. On the Megarian Decree(s) see for example: Brunt 1951; de Ste Croix 1972, esp. 236–44; Fornara 1975; Sealey 1975; Tuplin 1979; MacDowell 1983, 151–4. Recognised by e.g. Forrest 1963, 8; Dover 1972, 87; Newiger 1980, 222; criticised by MacDowell 1983, 151.

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Chapter 2

Early Greek warfare

Greeks in later periods looked back into the past and saw an age of heroes. As early as the beginning of the seventh century BC, the farmer-poet Hesiod described: A god-like race of hero-men who are called demi-gods, the race before our own, throughout the boundless earth. Grim war and dread battle destroyed a part of them, some in the land of Cadmus at seven-gated Thebes when they fought for the flocks of Oedipus, and some, when it had brought them in ships over the great sea gulf to Troy for rich-haired Helen’s sake: there death’s end enshrouded a part of them. But to the others father Zeus, the son of Cronus, gave a living abode apart from men, and made them dwell at the ends of earth. (Hesiod, Works and Days 159–70)

He drew on a rich mythology that already surrounded these heroes. A similar appreciation of this mythical past existed in the more or less contemporary composer, or composers, of the Iliad and Odyssey (conventionally called Homer since antiquity), who gave a poetic account of several episodes in the legend of the Trojan War and its aftermath. The Homeric poems have been identified as the products of a sophisticated and well-developed oral tradition of epic narrative that probably stretched back several centuries (Finley 1978 [1954], 29 ff). They most probably found their final form some time after the arrival of the alphabet in Greece and in the late eighth or early seventh century BC (van Wees 2002). The poet’s vivid narrative of events is clearly fantastic, and it is very unlikely to have had any historical reality. Thus, whether Odysseus blinded a Cyclops, or a hero named Achilles ever fought Hector on the plains of Troy, or even whether there was a panAchaean war against the city of Troy, ought not to detain us. These are aspects of the narrative superstructure of the general mythology and of the specific story, and are not generally accepted as historical. Nevertheless there may be underlying structures (social, institutional or moral) that were founded on objective and observable reality. Finley, for example, through a comparison with similar customs in other historically attested societies, was able to establish that the institution of guest-friendship (xenia) described by

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the poet(s) of the Iliad and Odyssey must have had its basis in reality (Finley 1978, 61–6, 99–103, 145). Indeed, later Greeks also had a similar custom.1 Guest-friendship is not an isolated case, but can be regarded as an example of an underlying social reality familiar to both poet and audience. It is possible, therefore, to undertake a comparative approach that draws on external, preferably contemporary, data to allow us to assess whether the picture of Homeric warfare might reflect the warfare of Greece at a particular time. Unfortunately such data is problematic in itself, since there is little consensus among scholars about what period the poems reflect, if any. It is therefore hard to decide what other evidence might be relevant. Some scholars have suggested that because of the chain of oral tradition, the poems may well have preserved elements from as far back as the Late Bronze Age; a time when large portions of Greece were dominated by Mycenaean palaces.2 Others imagine that the oral tradition, while perhaps possessing a superficial veneer of Late Bronze Age features, such as chariot use or helmets adorned with boars’ tusks, nevertheless described the warfare of the Early Iron Age, after the end of Mycenaean civilisation (e.g. Finley 1978; Murray 1980). Yet others argue that the bardic performers were completely arbitrary in the selection of what they passed down through the generations and that the result was a pastiche of periods, with little consistency or understanding of how warfare operated at any time (Webster 1958, 214–20). The poems were, after all, fantasy and ought not to be asked to bear the burden of historical expectation. Finally there are those who argue that the poems reflect, to a lesser or greater extent, the society, values and warfare of the period when the poems probably crystallised from a state of oral flux into the versions that survive to this day (Morris 1986; van Wees 1992; 2002). This chapter will briefly outline what can be discerned of the nature of warfare in the Bronze and Iron Ages, before turning to a consideration of what the Homeric poems have to tell us. Mycenaean warfare The warfare of the Mycenaean kingdoms in the Late Bronze Age is rather difficult to comprehend. The archaeological record has tended to reveal large defensive structures situated around hilltop palaces. Citadels with ‘Cyclopean’ walls have been revealed at such sites as Mycenae, Pylos, Tiryns, Thebes, Orchomenus, Gla, Athens, Midea and Nichoria, and at Hisarlik in Asia Minor, which the original excavator, Heinrich Schliemann, named Troy. The main construction of defences occurred between the seventeenth and thirteenth centuries BC, before the palaces that they encircled fell into disuse or were destroyed. These structures had a two fold purpose. They were obviously meant to serve a defensive function (see p. 128–31), but they were also

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impressive monuments to the power and resources of the community and its ruling elite. Such large-scale constructions were probably features of peerpolity competition and status rivalry between kingdoms. The palaces themselves also served this function, but there are indications of large storage facilities, workshops and offices, which would have serviced the palace administration and helped to equip any military forces the kingdom possessed. In some palaces, at Knossos and Pylos in particular, large archives of clay documents, written in Linear B script and preserving a very early form of Greek, have revealed that the palaces were organised along bureaucratic lines.3 The Linear B documents defined the resources of the kingdoms in a deeply stratified and specialised fashion. In some ways, these documents were similar to the administrative records of Near Eastern cities and empires whose armies appear to have been characterised by uniform and centralised supplies from the state, with specialist units of archers, charioteers, spear infantry and so forth (Watkins 1989). The Knossos tablets list several hundred chariots and spare parts (Ventris and Chadwick 1956, 365), along with spearheads, swords, corselets and helmets (360–1, 375–81). Approximately 8,600 arrowheads are listed on one document alone and this compares well with the Mari letters of second-millennium Babylonia, where the king, Zimri Lim, asked for 10,000 arrowheads of various weights.4 At the Mycenaean palace of Pylos, one tablet lists sixteen places that are to supply ‘bronze as points for arrows (or javelins) and spears’, while a small nodule or seal, probably a delivery-marker, is inscribed with the words ‘handles’ and ‘javelins’, and also displays the sign Wa, for Wanax, ‘king’.5 Such documents suggest a centralised system of arms procurement and redistribution in the Mycenaean kingdoms and present us with a very different picture from the Homeric poems and from the Greek city-states of the archaic and classical periods. Perhaps the most intriguing Linear B tablets, from a military point of view, are among those found at Pylos. Some of these detail the deployment of rowers and troops of men throughout the kingdom, just before its palace was destroyed by fire (c. 1200 BC).6 In one document (Ventris and Chadwick 1956, Doc. 53 = An12 [1]), thirty rowers, drawn variously from five named locations, were to go to Pleuron, presumably to man a ship for a mission of significance to the palace authorities. Five other tablets seem to have formed a coherent strategic deployment. They mention over 780 men who were divided, in multiples of ten, into relatively small contingents, the largest of which was 110 (Doc. 57 = An43 [519]). These were allotted to ten commands or sectors called O-ka, with named commanders and subordinates. Some were accompanied by individuals termed e-qe-ta, ‘Follower [of the king’s household]’, a relatively prestigious position that is elsewhere asso-

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ciated with chariot possession (Doc. 286 = Sa787; 288 = Sa790). Chadwick plausibly suggested these were to act as king’s liaison with local forces and, presumably, possession of chariots would have allowed them to bring information swiftly to the central command (Ventris and Chadwick 1973, 429). These tablets probably do not represent the full muster of Pylos, but they appear to show troops being deployed to areas along the coast. They seem to indicate that the Pylians feared an attack by sea.7 The fact that, very soon afterwards, the palace was destroyed (and the clay tablets preserving these recent movements were baked into a state of preservation), suggests that such fears may have been justified (Ventris and Chadwick 1973, 430). It may have been a further irony that the site of Pylos, which had earlier possessed fortifications (from c. 1700 BC), had been reworked into a splendid, yet physically undefended, palatial complex in its last phase (Late Helladic IIIB, c. 1300–1200 BC, Blegen et al., 1973). Other palaces did retain, or enhance, existing fortifications. Mycenae, Athens and Tiryns, for example, all extended and strengthened their citadel defences in the thirteenth century, perhaps suggesting unsettled conditions and heightened perception of threat. Although there are administrative similarities with the Near Eastern kingdoms, it is difficult to go much further. Linear B tablets, being little more than inventories for palace administrators, never describe the nature of battle. It has often been noted that while the palace of Knossos might have access to around 400 chariots, there is very little evidence to confirm that they were used in a way analogous to the vast chariot armies of the contemporary Egyptians and the Hittites.8 While these armies used chariots as both harassing missile platforms and in massed shock attacks (charging at high speed in order to break up enemy infantry), the terrain in Greece appears, for the most part, unsuited for either of these tactics. The secondment of just a handful of ‘Followers’, or a single e-qe-ta, to each of the O-ka divisions at Pylos perhaps suggests a less militarily decisive role. The chariots may have served the purpose of conveying the elite of the palace about the kingdom, as signifiers of favoured status and, perhaps, only rarely were employed to engage the enemy physically in battle. There are, however, other clues to the types of violence that characterised Mycenaean warfare. Finds of weapons, often in high status ‘warrior graves’, range from the practical to the rather more ‘ceremonial’. There was some development over time, as technological and, perhaps, military proficiency improved. Early swords, for example, tended to be long and rapier-like but of a weak construction at the tang. They were principally high status, and multiple swords have been found deposited in elite graves, such as the seventeenth- and sixteenth-century BC shaft-graves of Mycenae. As the centuries passed, other swords appeared that were ‘shorter, stouter and more work-

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manlike’ (Snodgrass 1999 [1967], 28), and some were inventoried at Knossos in twenty-two ‘sword’ tablets (Ventris and Chadwick 1956, 360–1; Snodgrass 1999, 21–2), suggesting more widespread dissemination and use. Indeed, by the end of the Mycenaean period (c. 1200 BC; LH IIIC), exemplary cut-andthrust swords, typologically known as Griffzungenschwert, in particular, the Naue II type sword (probably of central European or North Italian origin), appear to have been in general use throughout the Mediterranean (A. Harding 1984, 162–5; Drews 1993, 192–208). Warriors are depicted in a number of contexts engaging one another in sword-combat; one gold seal even represents an unarmoured swordsman fighting a lion (Phylactopoulos 1974, 252). A fragmentary fresco in the palace at Pylos seems to show several helmeted swordsmen in a combat with other figures dressed in hides, who nevertheless also seem to use swords (Lang 1969, 71 (22 H 64), pls. 16, 117, A, M). Sword fighting is a very direct and immediate form of combat, where the warrior has to close to a distance that also allows an opponent the chance to strike. The sword is a weapon specifically designed to be man-killing, with the additional effect of showing off the prowess, bravery and ferocity of the user. The appearance and development of the sword in Mycenaean Greece, as in other cultures, therefore suggests something rather emphatic about the nature of combat. Killing an enemy with a sword was a matter of intense personal risk in which the individual endeavoured to display both martial and moral qualities (such as courage, commitment, weapon-proficiency, and aggression) to peers and rivals. A wide variety of other weapons such as spearheads, daggers, arrowheads and sling-stones also survive in Mycenaean contexts, either directly in the material record or in visual representations and Linear B archives. The iconographic medium allows us to see thrusting spears and throwing javelins in use and, less frequently, slings and bows.9 The sixteenth-century BC Lion-hunt dagger, found at Mycenae, represents several men engaging a lion with long spears and large shields, while another uses a bow. Similarly, two groups of archers and spearmen, helmeted but otherwise identically equipped to the Lion-hunt warriors, engage one another on the silver Battle krater (Sakellariou 1974; see p. 24 below). Another early representation of combat occurs on the fragmentary sixteenth-century silver Siege rhyton from Shaft Grave IV at Mycenae: unarmoured slingers and archers are depicted fighting in defence of a walled settlement with women shown with their arms raised in lamentation (or panic) on the battlements (Karo 1930, 106–8, no. 481, pl. 122; see p. 130 below). One side of the twelfth-century Warrior vase depicts a marching column of soldiers with spears over their shoulders, while the other shows warriors using pairs of spears, presumably one at least of each for throwing. The Mycenaeans also manufactured defensive equipment. Helmets are

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represented in iconography, including a number of boars’ tusk helmets that resemble the description of a helm worn by Odysseus in the Iliad (10.254–65; Lorimer 1950, 212–19), as well as conical metal helmets and leather caps, sometimes adorned with horns, crests or metal plates. The less perishable elements of these items, such as metal fittings and prepared boars’ tusks, have sometimes been unearthed (Snodgrass 1999, 19, 26, 31). In the fifteenth century, body armour appears in the form of the elaborate and cumbersome bronze plate armour found at Dendra (c. 1450–1400 BC) and the banded corselets represented as ideograms on the Linear B tablets of Knossos (some issued to chariot holders may represent armour of Dendra type: Catling 1977, esp. 96–8; Greenhalgh 1980). This armour is likely to have been impractical for prolonged use on foot, and may have been a relatively short-lived phenomenon. In the twelfth century, the stiff leather jerkins of the Warrior vase were probably common, although the perishable material has left little or no trace in the archaeological record. Similarly, our knowledge of shields comes primarily from art. The Warrior vase represents a uniformly armed group of men marching with shields that are either circular or D-shaped (and approximately two cubits (one metre) in diameter), while the sixteenth-century Lion-hunt dagger and Battle krater represent men using two types: the ‘figure-eight’ and the ‘tower’ shield. Both of the latter were seemingly constructed of cowhide stretched over a wicker or wooden frame (Lorimer 1950, 134–46; Snodgrass 1999, 19–20). These shields were body-covering, giving protection from missiles (as indicated by the archers on the Battle krater), although some seal-stones depict single combats involving warriors with these shields and long swords. This may reflect duelling practices, the heroic pretensions of the original owners of the seals, or the limitation of the seal-stone medium for showing martial activity on a larger scale. One gold signet ring does manage to depict four combatants on rocky terrain (Phylactopoulos 1974, 294). Two central figures fight with swords; another appears wounded, while the fourth shelters behind a ‘tower’ shield. This figure holds a long spear horizontally at shoulder height and uses the right arm for counterbalancing and directing the weapon, while the left, although concealed behind the shield probably acts as a fulcrum. This pose is represented more clearly on the Battle krater; the warriors’ shields hang from straps over their right shoulders, leaving them both hands free to manipulate their spears. It was a natural pose for long thrusting-weapon use, represented also on the Lion-hunt dagger and adopted, for example, by pike men (without shield) of the Renaissance and early modern era when they engaged enemies in close combat. By contrast, the Warrior vase from Mycenae represents warriors on the point of throwing their rather shorter spears. It is unclear whether this depiction represents a shift in fighting style; however, while javelin and larger thrusting spear-

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heads occur together in the earlier period, by the period of the decline of the Mycenaean palaces (LHIII B–C, c. 1250–1150 BC) large spearheads disappear from the archaeological record (Snodgrass 1999, 29). Perhaps the most significant aspect of the Warrior vase is that the two columns of warriors are armed in a regularised and uniform fashion. Similarly, the contemporary Warrior stele, also found at Mycenae, represents five warriors in uniform equipment closely related in style to that depicted on the Warrior vase. It is unclear whether such depictions reflect a late development towards massed infantry, but the contemporary O-ka tablets suggest that there was some organisation of foot-soldiers in the thirteenth century. Indeed, some groups of men on the tablets are specifically differentiated from others; whether ethnically or militarily (or both) is unclear, but the possibility exists that in the bureaucratic world of the Mycenaean palaces, some men were centrally armed with identical equipment and formed into distinct units.10 The Knossos tablets, produced a century earlier (c. 1350 BC), also presuppose a degree of centralised issue and manufacture of equipment. Some tablets depict combinations of chariot, horse and corselet ideograms, and the equipment they represent appears to have been issued to specific individuals, while the arrow tablets mentioned above suggest that the kingdom supplied a significant number of bowmen.11 Such centralisation would have had a standardising influence on the armament, if not the organisation, of the military forces of the kingdom. How far that influence permeated onto the battlefield is currently unknown; nor is there much indication of the extent of militarisation among the community at large or of the maximum fighting capacity of the kingdoms.12 No matter how well organised the supply and deployment of troops may have been, the Mycenaean kingdoms appear to have been unable to resist the pressures of changing circumstances at the end of the Late Bronze Age. In the late thirteenth and twelfth centuries the palaces were destroyed and not rebuilt, and the Linear B script, and the administrators who used it, disappeared. Along with the snuffing out of bureaucratic literacy, over the next century (c. 1200–1100 BC) iconographic representations all but ceased, and the relatively poor material culture of the next three centuries is often thought of as representing a ‘Dark Age’.13 Iron Age warfare The twelfth and eleventh centuries saw a marked decline in the quality and quantity of material culture in Greece. A few Mycenaean strongholds, such as the Athenian acropolis, continued to be occupied, but the defences were not generally well maintained. Some communities relocated inland, away from low-lying coastal areas, while others came to be situated on defensible

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high ground, such as the spurs of mountains and hills, especially in central Greece (Winter 1971, 6; see p. 131 below). Such changes in settlement patterns perhaps suggest a heightened perception of threat and instability. As the ‘Dark Age’ progressed, the geopolitical situation also developed, with some previously important centres falling into obscurity or being completely abandoned. Mycenae, for example, lost its pre-eminence to Argos, which emerged at the end of the eighth century as the principal community in the Argolid (Kelly 1976). Along with topographical and political changes came technological developments. In the Mycenaean period, weapons had been predominantly made from bronze, but in the ‘Dark Age’ there was a spread of iron-working technology, which allowed for the manufacture of iron weapons. These were superior to their bronze counterparts in hardness, sharpness and lightness. In the ProtoGeometric period (c. 1050–900 BC), Griffzungenschwert-type swords made the transition to iron. By the ninth century, iron was the most common metal for weapons (Snodgrass 1999, 37–8). Defensive armour, at least of non-perishable material, became extremely scarce, but by the mid-to-late eighth century, bronze armour reappeared, possibly influenced by the prosperous Danubian Urnfeld culture to the north of Greece (Snodgrass 1964, 77–83). ‘Warrior graves’ of the tenth, ninth and eighth centuries display limited amounts of weapons. The majority do indicate a preference for burial with multiple spearheads, implying, perhaps, the predominance of long-range warfare and the employment of throwing spears (Snodgrass 1964, 136–9), although undoubtedly they could also have been used for thrusting if necessary. It is only in the eighth century, at the end of the ‘Dark Age’, when Geometric-style pottery painting began to include human figures, that we get the clearest indication of the nature of violence and warfare. Late Geometric battle scenes confirm that some spears were thrown, while others were thrust (Lorimer 1950, 259–60; Snodgrass 1999, 39). Warriors were often shown carrying two spears and at least one of these must have been for throwing. Frequently, swords were illustrated, and Ahlberg (1971, 79–80) noted that representations of sword slashes were more common than thrusts. Most representations suggest a relatively open and fluid mix of missile exchange and mêlée. A significant motif is that of ships landing, with warriors shown either aboard or fighting on the shore. This suggests that predatory and piratical action was a common enough event to catch the attention of the potter (Snodgrass 1965, 111). More problematic are the representations of shields and chariots. Some shields are drawn large and circular, perhaps indicating an early development of the aspis, which was to become one of the defining elements of the archaic and classical hoplite.14 A different sort of shield is the Dipylon (named after a series of representations found in the Dipylon cemetery at Athens). This is a large circular shield

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but with exaggerated scallops cut out of either side. It has sometimes been dismissed as a ‘heroic’ fancy, a decayed memory of the figure-eight shields of the Mycenaean period (Webster 1958, 169–70; Snodgrass 1964, 58–60). However, its reality has been asserted by Greenhalgh (1973, 63–83), who argued that it was designed to be carried on the back by a telamon strap and allowed a warrior full use of both hands for holding reins or weapons. It also allowed the warrior elbow-room when he turned and ran away from an enemy, perhaps after throwing a spear. While asserting the reality of the Dipylon shield, Greenhalgh, however, dismissed its frequent companion, that of the chariot, which, he thought, revealed the ‘heroic’ subject matter of the vase painting.15 To reject one aspect of the visual record while retaining another seems methodologically problematic. Indeed, the existence of the war-chariot in the Iron Age has found its defenders (Anderson 1975, 175–87). Part of the debate revolves around the military use to which chariots in Greece could be put, and whether the representations reflect ‘realistic’ contemporary usage or a garbled memory of the Mycenaean age. What gives the debate over chariot use its vitality is the importance for the study of early Greek warfare of the Homeric poems, which feature large-scale battles that include chariots. Some scholars regard the Homeric description of chariots as deliberately archaising, to add colour to the once-upon-a-time setting of the poems. It is possible that they may be a remembrance from the Mycenaean stage in the chain of oral composition of the poems. Lorimer (1950, 328), for instance, viewed the use of chariots as ‘strictly Mycenaean’. However, Greenhalgh (1973, 40–62) argued that the poet, knowing that chariots were the trappings of his aristocratic heroes, felt compelled to include them, but, since he had never witnessed true chariot warfare, he completely misunderstood their function. Rather than the missile platforms or shock weapons of Near Eastern warfare, Homer’s chariots are transformed into little more than battlefield taxis, in which the heroes ride to and from the fighting, but dismount to engage in combat. Greenhalgh goes further and argues that Homer archaised a contemporary practice: that of the aristocrat and his squire who rode horses to battle, the noble dismounting to fight on foot. Chariots and charioteers were simply a heroic substitute for the use of horses by rich men as transportation in the infantry-dominated battlefields of Homer’s own day (Greenhalgh 1973, 61). The objections to such a theory are several. That Mycenaean chariot forces were used in the same manner as those of the Near Eastern empires is difficult to prove (contra Drews 1993, 113–29), so whether Homer may have misremembered their function is moot. Moreover, given that there are historical parallels from other societies for the use of chariots in precisely the role of battlefield taxis, then if horses can be used by the Greeks as battlefield transportation, why not chariots?16

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It is perhaps time to look more directly at the Homeric poems themselves to see what picture of warfare emerges. A number of scholars have claimed that the sort of society (including, therefore, warfare) described in the poems reflected the general conditions of the Early Iron Age.17 But we have also encountered one argument that regarded the warfare in the poems as reflecting practices contemporary to Homer. Regardless of the merits of Greenhalgh’s specific hypothesis, the observation upon which it is based is nevertheless a potent one. Homer, notwithstanding the chain of oral tradition, whatever that may mean, depicted warfare his audience could understand; inevitably, much of this would have been drawn from contemporary life.18 Violence and warfare in the Homeric poems Odysseus was a subtle liar. When travelling back from the Trojan War, he adopted a number of alternative identities in order to keep his true name a secret. His alibis had to be convincing, not only for his dupes, but also for Homer’s audience. It would not do for the most cunning of all the Achaeans to be made to sound implausible by the poet telling his story. The implication of this, of course, is that the careers he invented, or that the poet invented for him, had to have some basis in truth – that is to say, in a reality the audience could believe in.19 In one of Odysseus’ invented stories he relates that: I have fled, an exile, because I killed the son of Idomeneus, Orsilochus . . . I killed him because he tried to deprive me of my share of plunder from Troy, and for the sake of it my heart had suffered many pains: the wars of men, hard crossing of the wide seas; for I would not do his father a favour and serve as his follower, but led my own men. I lay in wait for him with a friend by the road, and struck him with a bronze-headed spear as he came back from the fields. (Odyssey 13.259–68)

The murderer of Orsilochus had made a robust response, to put it mildly, to one who had challenged his status in the community and tried to appropriate his booty (by what mechanism it is unclear), because he had acted as an independent leader of the Cretans on the Trojan expedition. We are to imagine that this was not an outlandish story for Homer’s audience. The seizure of another man’s booty is central in the dispute between Agamemnon and Achilles in the Iliad. However, Achilles, ‘as he was drawing from its scabbard his great sword’, was restrained from killing his rival by the intervention of the goddess Athena (Il. 1.194–221) and he was thus forced to seek recompense for the insult in a different way (by the military impact on the Greeks caused by his withdrawal from the war). The murderer of Orsilochus feared the repercussions of his actions and quietly fled Crete on

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a Phoenician ship (Od. 13.269–75). Others too fled to exile after moments of violent bloodletting (e.g. Phoenix: Il. 9.447–79) When Odysseus finally returned home to Ithaca, he found a large number of suitors to his wife camped in his house, feasting off his resources. Just as if it were an attempt to reduce his portion of booty, this assault on his household’s stock of provisions was regarded as an aggressive and arrogant attack on the position Odysseus held in the community (Fisher 1992, 162–84). His reaction to the suitors’ insult (hybris) towards his status and possessions, and to their political manoeuvre of occupying his house to obtain the hand of Queen Penelope in marriage, was to kill them. However, this spectacular outburst of murderous revenge soon resulted in blood-feud. The kin of the 108 suitors quickly gathered together under arms, fearing that Odysseus might escape: ‘then we shall be shamed forever, this matter will be a disgrace even in generations to come, if we do not take revenge on the murderers of our brothers and sons’ (Od. 24.432–4). Odysseus did indeed flee; but only to his father, Laertes, and his remote farm, in order to take stock and gather a few slaves willing to fight for him. Finally, a further mêlée between the family of Laertes and the relatives of the suitors occurred, which was only stopped by the intervention of the goddess Athena. She took the form of an Ithacan elder, Mentor, and made both sides ‘swear pledges for the days to come’ (Od. 24.546). The intervention of the goddess reveals how difficult it often was to break the cycle of violence once it had begun. Homeric society did have mechanisms to discourage such private violence from escalating; the elders depicted on the shield of Achilles were being called upon to judge whether a man ought to accept compensation for the killing of a relative (Il. 18.497–508). For the most part, though, there was an ever-present danger that once violence between families had broken out, it would continue or, indeed, escalate to engulf the wider community. When the Centaur, Eurytion, got drunk at the wedding of Perithoös and performed ‘ill-deeds’, the reaction of the wedding party was to ‘drag him through the forecourt and outside, and with pitiless bronze to sever his ears and nose’ (Od. 21.295–304). The actions and treatment of Eurytion were the beginnings of the enmity between Lapiths and Centaurs. At one point, Nestor recounted his own participation in the subsequent war (Il. 1.263–71), in which the Centaurs were driven from their mountain homes ‘and terribly destroyed’ (Il. 1.268). Even the Trojan War was due to the dispute between two families, the Atreids and the Laomedonids, who just happened to be the rulers of several significant kingdoms. Menelaus attacked Troy to avenge ‘the struggles and groans of Helen’ (Il. 11.589–90). Paris’s family supported him in his quarrel with Menelaus (Il. 3.146–53). Although the rest of the Trojans seem to have been divided over the issue of whether to return Helen and give compensation to the Achaeans, they eventually supported Paris, because

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‘wise Antimachus, more than any other, had taken gold, glorious gifts, so that he had opposed the return of Helen to fair-haired Menelaus’ (Il. 11.123–5, cf. 11.139–41, 3.205–24). Violence might come to a community unprovoked, such as the seemingly random attack visited on the Pylians by Heracles (Il. 11.689–92). This so weakened them that their neighbours, the Epeans, were emboldened to treat them arrogantly (11.693–4). The raids of the son of Castor (Od. 14.229–32, 245–7), or that of Odysseus on the Cicones of Ismarus, would have seemed like random acts of predation to the targets.20 These were intended as hitand-run actions of opportunity. Odysseus made the point on several occasions that raiding parties ought not to wait around for the enemy to gather its main force, because when they do, the raiders usually come off worse (Od. 9.43–61, 14.259–72). The forays of Odysseus and his alternative persona had motives that seem purely predatory; the acquisition of movable booty took priority and the raiders seemed intent on trying to get away with having to fight only local defenders. Other raids, however, fulfilled communal objectives. The raid of Nestor was mounted ‘in reprisal’ (Il. 11.673) for the hybris shown by the Epeans, so that all who were ‘owed their due’ among the Pylians received a portion of the booty (11.684–7). In turn, the raid provoked the Epeans to come out with their full army and to besiege the community at Thryoessa (11.710–13). The men of Pylos responded by mustering their army to come to its relief (11.715–16). The cycle of violence escalated from tit-for-tat insults and raiding to the point where a pitched battle was fought between communal armies. Some raids appear to have been part of wider operations undertaken in a full-scale war. Achilles claimed to have raided twelve communities by sea and eleven by land, bringing ‘goodly and numerous treasures’, and brought them back to Agamemnon (Il. 9.328–30, 2.690–4). These operations provided the Achaean army with booty and supplies of cattle and sheep (Il. 6.424, 20.90–2, 21.35–8), but the raids also struck at allies of the Trojans. Among the towns Achilles attacked were Thebe, a city allied to Troy through the marriage of Andromache and Hector,21 and Lyrnessus, which gave shelter to Aeneas.22 Achilles ‘plundered’ the town of Lyrnessus and ‘took the day of freedom from the women; carrying them away into captivity’ (Il. 20.193–4; see p. 142, 219–20). The destruction visited on places like Lyrnessus and Thebe, to some extent, mirrored the treatment that was planned by the Greeks for Troy, although the stated motives seem rather different. The Greeks desired the physical destruction of Troy (Il. 7.400–4, 6.5–60) and intended to rape the Trojan women in revenge for Helen’s abduction (Il. 2.345–6). It was rather rare for the booty of Troy to be advanced as a motive, although it would have

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been a by-product of the fall of the city (Il. 3.285–9, 458–60; van Wees 1992, 189). Clearly other things were at stake than merely the acquisition of booty. The Trojan War appears to have been an example of what van Wees (1992, 206 ff.) defines as ‘status warfare’. Menelaus and Agamemnon waged war not only to retrieve Helen, but also for their time-, ‘honour’ (Il. 17.92, 14.70–1). At one point, Diomedes claimed that he and his charioteer, Sthenelus, would continue fighting even if Agamemnon and the rest of the Greeks went home, because they did not want to be seen as cowards and weaklings (Il. 9.40–9). Individual reputation was evidently a strong motivator. At the heart of the concept of status warfare is the notion that communities shared the same desire as the heroes ‘always to be the best and excel above others’ (Il. 6.208, 9.784). Communities, just like individuals, were conceived of as feeling shame at their failures and at what they perceived as deliberate humiliations by other communities, or, significantly, by any members of those communities (see p. 14, 47, 203–8). This explains how inter-family disputes rapidly escalated to involve whole peoples and why recruitment for the Trojan expedition was viewed as much as a public matter as a private one (see p. 11–12, 15, 32, 105). Whether all the members of these communities ever felt collective emotions, of unanimous hybris or shame, for example, is unlikely. It did not stop individuals, however, from characterising them as such; thus Menelaus claimed that the Trojans ‘are hybristic people . . . whose fighting strength is full of blind fury, nor do they ever have their fill of the close mêlée of deadly warfare’ (Il. 13.633–5). It also perhaps explains the reactions of the people of Ithaca, on learning that a certain Eupeithes had raided the lands of the Thesprotians: ‘they were furious with him’ and he ‘was a fugitive in fear of the people’ (Od. 16.425–7). They were most probably concerned about being held accountable for the action of one individual by a people who were close enough to strike back at them. As was seen in the previous chapter (p. 10–15), accountability and escalation were important factors in the initiation of military activity for the Greeks of all periods. Recruitment and organisation The Spartan queen Helen is known as the face that launched a thousand ships, and the Greeks had a number of stories about the assembly of the fleet: of how the suitors of Helen, princes and heroes from across Greece, had sworn an oath to uphold the marriage between her and Menelaus, and were obliged to come to his aid to restore her; of how Odysseus feigned madness to avoid leaving his wife and infant son; or how Achilles was hidden from the recruiters on Scyros disguised in girls’ clothes.23 The Homeric poems tend to ignore such legends, but present a twofold picture of recruitment to the expedition to Troy. Firstly, individuals such as Agamemnon,

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Nestor and Odysseus travelled to various communities and persuaded their rulers to join the expedition; indeed, both nobles and commons alike appeared to go on the expedition as a favour (charis) to please Menelaus and his brother (Il. 1.156, cf. 5.306–7). Some, like Achilles, went willingly and enthusiastically, while others, such as Odysseus were persuaded ‘with difficulty’ by Agamemnon (Od. 24.115–19). Nevertheless it was through the exploitation of a series of personal relationships that the expedition was recruited (van Wees 1992, 174). This extended to the men who followed the kings into war. They are often referred to as ‘companions’ (hetairoi: Il. 9.630–1, 12.122, 13.778, 17.680, 17.703) or friends (philoi, particularly in speeches: e.g. Il. 2.110, 19.78), terms which stress their personal relationship of charis with the kings.24 At other times, they are called followers or retainers (therapontes: Il. 16.272, 17.165), which brings out the aspect of obligation in the concept of charis. These men went because they needed to show the appropriate amount of deference (aido-s) to their leaders. Secondly, the expedition is also presented as being organised by the various Achaean communities and the sending of troops was a public decision.25 Idomeneus and Odysseus’ alter ego, the son of Castor, were chosen as leaders of the Cretans and went ‘because we were forced by the hard words of the people’ (Od. 14.237–9). Other participants appear to have been selected by lot (Il. 24.396–400; cf. Od. 2.15–22), or substituted service for a compensatory contribution of some sort (Il. 11.19–23). Some households (oikoi), for whatever reason, appear not to have sent anybody (Il. 23.295–9). The contingents are listed in the so-called ‘Catalogue of Ships’ (Il. 2.494–759) and reveal a political and military structure reflecting both private and public elements. Forty-six named individuals, kings or the sons of kings, were placed at the head of twenty-nine distinct forces, themselves assembled, quite often, from agglomerations of lesser communities (van Wees 1992, 37; Singor 1995, 193 ff.). The Greek muster against Troy is not the only one that we learn about in the Homeric poems. Communities appear to have been summoned together by beacons (Il. 18.207–13) when an enemy suddenly appeared, which implies prior commitment between them to render mutual aid. This would have been most practical on a local level, where forces had a reasonable expectation of arriving in time. Another way that an army appears to have been assembled was through the recruitment of epikouroi, ‘allies’. In the expedition of the Seven against Thebes (Il. 4.376–81), Tydeus went to Mycenae looking for epikouroi and, again, it appears that the community as a whole decided whether to contribute such troops. In this instance, however, the decision in Mycenae was overturned by bad omens. In the war against the Achaeans, the Trojan epikouroi appear to have been gathered both from among neighbouring towns and further afield and they seem to

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have received some form of compensation for their service (Il. 18.288–92; see also p. 159). Powerful individuals, seemingly on their own initiative, were able to mount military expeditions. Odysseus, posing as the son of Castor, claimed to have organised a raid on Egypt by acquiring ships and feasting his companions (hetairoi) prior to sailing (Od. 14.247–53; see p. 104–5). The fact that he offered them extended feasts over several days, suggests his concern to perform a charis, ‘favour’, for his companions that would oblige them to follow his command, His statement that: ‘I led men nine times . . . and gained much booty, taking out an abundance of spoils, but sharing out much too’ (Od. 14.229–34), further suggests that he was concerned to curry favour with his men (cf. Od. 9.39–42). It appears that oaths were often exchanged to ensure that the leader would be supported by his followers (Il. 2.286–8, 339–41, 4.266–7), and a potential point of friction might have come from those who felt that they were not beholden to the individual concerned (Od. 13.265–6). When Nestor claimed that ‘I fought by myself ’ (Il. 1.263–71) on the campaign of the Lapiths against the Centaurs, it may have been because he had not acted as anyone’s follower, and he may have brought his own contingent of followers (van Wees 1992, 364 n. 117). Even when on campaign, the organiser or commander may have had only limited co-operation from his followers. It is a central theme of the Iliad that Agamemnon lost the respect and support of Achilles and, on several occasions in the Odyssey, including the Egyptian expedition of the son of Castor, Odysseus emphasised that the men who followed him ignored his advice or commands.26 Contexts of fighting The Homeric poems present military forces being assembled for a variety of purposes, from predatory raids on neighbouring or distant regions to wars waged against enemy communities for vengeance and status. In these operations, troops appear to have undertaken a variety of military operations and experienced a range of different combat contexts. In a hidden ambush, there a man’s courage is most easily determined, where brave men and cowards become apparent, for the skin of a coward changes colour, one way or another, and his inner heart cannot keep him sitting steadily, but he shifts his weight from foot to foot, and his chest’s heart thumps violently as he thinks of the death spirits, and his teeth chatter together: but the brave man’s skin is constant, nor is he over concerned, once he has taken his place in ambush, but his prayer is to get to grips as soon as possible in bitter combat. (Iliad 13.277–87)

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Men react differently in certain combat contexts. When waiting in ambush, some men betray their nervousness, while others just wish it to begin. The son of Castor claimed that he was always first to leap out in the ambushes of the promachoi (‘foremost-fighters’, Od. 14.217–21). Diomedes reflected that two men were better than one for a night reconnaissance (Il. 10.220–6), as ‘there would be more comfort and greater confidence in it’. He chose Odysseus, whose wits in such situations he considered the best (10.246–7). It was also the best fighters who laid in wait inside the wooden horse until they could sneak out by night and open the way for the Greek army (Od. 8.502–3, 512–20). Homeric fighters, then, were happy to seek the advantage of ambush and the cloak of night. The murderer of Orsilochus struck his man down when ‘a very dark night was spread across the sky and no one saw me’ (Od. 13.269). But, at other times, it was the direct conflict of pitched battle that took centre stage. The sear of battle was where men could be seen and judged on their actions (Il. 12.315–21) and it occupies much of the narrative of the Iliad. When forces marched out to battle in Homer, as they did in the war between the Pylians and Epeans, or when the Achaeans and Trojans approached one another, the poet was keen to give the impression of large armies and massed ranks. So Nestor recounted in the campaign against the Epeans that ‘we horsemen, and the hordes of streaming foot-soldiers, having armed in full speed, formed up in our armour’ (Il. 11.723–4). In response to the plundering by the Cretan followers of the son of Castor, the Egyptians ‘filled all the plain with infantry and horses and the flash of bronze’ (Od. 14.267–8). Indeed the ‘Catalogue of Ships’ lists all the contingents that were marching out to battle against the Trojans: the Greeks were ‘the multitudinous tribes from the ships and shelters who poured onto the plain of Scamander, and the earth beneath their feet and the horses’ hooves thundered horribly’ (Il. 2.464–6). The poet regularly emphasises the dust and din caused by the movement of large groups (if not formations) of men. The ranks of men came on like waves (Il. 4.422–8, 13.795–800). One Trojan advance is compared to a river in flood (Il. 13.136–9), while at one point the Myrmidons assembled together: As when a man builds a solid wall with close-set stones for the rampart of a high house to keep out the force of the winds, so densely arrayed were the helms and massive-bossed shields. For shield leaned against shield, helm on helm, man beside man, and the horse-hair crests along the horns of the shining helmets touched as they bent their heads, so dense were they formed on each other. (Iliad 16.211–18)

The importance of massed infantry seems clear. The word phalanx, synony-

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mous among many modern scholars with close-set infantry formation in the archaic and classical periods, occurs thirty-four times in the Iliad, predominantly in its plural form, phalanges (‘rows’; Pritchett 4.22). Latacz (1977) has strongly argued for the decisive contribution of the general mass of infantry to the battles of the Iliad. Thersites claimed that it was he and others like him (i.e. the laos, de-mos), who bore the labour of combat (Il. 2.231, 235–8), while the importance of the mass over the individual was stressed by Poseidon, who called out to the Greeks: Argives, must we again yield the best of it to Hector, Priam’s son, so that he may take our ships and win glory from them? Such is his thought and prayer, because Achilles in his heart’s anger stays by the hollow ships. But we shall not feel his absence too strongly if the rest of us stir ourselves to stand by one another in support. (Iliad 14.364–7)

Some scholars have argued that Homeric battle was little more than a pastiche of fighting styles from different historical periods. They tend to regard the episodes of massed combat as anachronistic, reflecting the contemporary development of hoplite battle, which was beginning to emerge at the time when the poems crystallised. There are regular references in the Iliad to the Achaeans as bronze-clad (chalkochitones) and well-greaved (eukne-mides, Gray 1954, 8, n. 45) in a manner, it is generally supposed, that hoplites were armed.27 There are numerous descriptions of weapons and armour flashing or shining in the sun. When warriors are killed and they fall to the ground, their armour clashes or rings about them (e.g. Il. 5.294).28 The poet and his audience may have been familiar with this form of massed combat, but, it has been argued, its inclusion was fundamentally opposite to the requirements of a plot that had heroes such as Achilles, seemingly by their own efforts, drive the Trojans back in rout (Finkelberg 1998, 27). The poems regularly make a distinction between the mass of the army (laos, ple-thys) and those who are at the front (pro-toi, promachoi).29 While the Myrmidons were drawn up like a wall of stones (Il. 16.211–18), ‘before them all were two men in their armour, Patroclus and Automedon, both of them united in a fury to fight in front of the Myrmidons’ (Il. 16.218–20). It is on the promachoi (‘foremost-fighters’) that most of the narrative attention settles, and it is they who seem to have engaged in most of the fighting, seemingly on an individual basis. Just before engaging Aias in single combat, Hector says, I know well myself how to fight and kill men in battle; I know how to turn to the right, how to turn to the left the ox-hide tanned in a shield which is my protection in battle; I know how to storm my way into the struggle of flying horses; I know how to stamp my measures on the grim floor of the war god. (Iliad 7.237–41)

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Hector emphasises shield manipulation and footwork, which were evidently handy for the duel he was about to embark upon. Such skills were evidently often needed; the Iliad recounts over 140 individual engagements fought by the promachoi. Although there is a great deal of variation in the combination of elements, the combats have generally been seen as quite stylised and formulaic (Fenik 1968). Taunts were sometimes issued, followed by the meat of the action: the throwing of spears, close combat, and the death or wounding blow: Iphidamas, Antenor’s son, the huge and stalwart, who had been reared in generous Thrace . . . he came face to face with Atreus’ son, Agamemnon. Now when these in their advance were close together, the son of Atreus missed with his throw, for the spear was turned away, but Iphidamas stabbed to the belt underneath the corselet and leaned in on the stroke in the confidence of his strong hand, but he could not penetrate the bright war belt; the silver turned the pushing spear-point back like soft lead. And wide-powerful Agamemnon with his hand caught it and dragged it against him, raging like a lion, and tore it out of his hand, then he struck the neck with his sword, and unstrung him. So Iphidamas fell there and went into bronze-clad slumber, unhappy, and left his young wife still a bride and had known no delight from her. (Iliad 11.221–2, 231–43)

How is this picture of the individualistic combat of promachoi to be reconciled with the references to the mass of men whom the poet describes as participating in battle? Devotees of the pastiche interpretation, who usually regard the massed action as contemporary, argue that the individualistic elements of combat reflect an earlier phase of warfare in the Iron Age, before the developments towards massed battle had occurred (Singor 1995, 193). However, as noted earlier, the evidence for what early Dark Age warfare was actually like is practically non-existent. It is impossible, in fact, to know the relative contributions of individual ‘heroic’ warriors and of the general population to warfare in the early Iron Age; nor is it possible, therefore, to assess which elements, if any, of such warfare were reflected in the Homeric epics. When considering the portrayal of battle in the Homeric poems, it seems methodologically sounder to seek an explanation that considers the role of the mass and of the heroes in an integrated fashion. On one level, the poet’s description of battle was concerned with the human dimension of the story: it concentrated on the struggles of individuals, in the manner of a film director’s close-up on the principal actors in a war-scene. The focus on the promachoi, then, was partly a storyteller’s technique to integrate characters into the sweep of a larger event, and the poet was not concerned to depict the battle completely realistically.30 But this perspective does not account for all of the elements of combat; particularly the combinations of missile with hand-to-hand fighting or the apparent

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existence of open spaces into which heroes run and fight. There is a possibility that the poet may have been describing several consecutive phases of battle. Perhaps champions stepped out from the line of battle to duel in the space in between and, once these were complete, then the armies closed for battle.31 This does indeed occur, but only twice, and in unusual circumstances (Il. 3.320 ff. Paris and Menelaus; 7.30 ff. Aias and Hector, which, in fact, ends the day’s fighting). Such a reconstruction does not therefore account for the majority of promachoi combats. Indeed, Pritchett (4.21–30, 5.181–90) argued for the opposite: an initial stage of massed engagement, which broke up into single combats at a later, more confused point in the battle. Van Wees has challenged both of these views and argued that neither model actually matches the way in which combat appears to have been represented in Homer.32 From a close analysis of the ebb and flow of battle, both in the text and from anthropological parallels of twentieth-century tribal ‘primitive warfare’, his conclusion is that Homeric battle was a more fluid and realistic affair than many commentators have realised.33 He envisaged a danger zone between the main bodies into which the promachoi entered to issue challenges and boasts, to throw and dodge missiles, and to engage in hand-to-hand combat, either singly or with small groups of companions. This occurs even when combat appears to be heading for a clash of massed infantry: Aeneas on the other side called to his comrades, looking to Deiphobus, Paris and goodly Agenor, who were the leaders of the Trojans along with him, and after them followed the host, as sheep follow the ram from the pasture to the water, and the shepherd is pleased, so the heart of Aeneas was happy in his breast when he saw the thronging host following after him. (Iliad 13.487–95)

So Aeneas and other leaders advanced, followed by their men. However, their target was not the main Achaean line, but a small knot of Greek fighters assembling around a Trojan corpse on the battlefield. The aged Idomeneus stood against them, ‘like a mountain boar who confident in his strength stands up to a great rabble of men in some deserted place, bristling, with eyes of fire, grinding his teeth in fury’ (Il. 13.471–5), and had called forward a handful of warriors to join him. In the extended sequence that follows, several of these companions are killed in the fighting, but the Trojans suffer casualties too. What is striking, however, is the nature of the fighting, which although involving a ‘throng’ of Trojans, is notably open: Then over the body of Alcathous they clashed in close fight with their long spears, and about their breasts the bronze rang terribly as they aimed each at the other in the throng; and above all the rest two men of valour, Aeneas and Idomeneus, peers of Ares, were eager to cleave each other’s flesh with the piti-

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less bronze. And Aeneas first cast at Idomeneus, but he, looking steadily at him, dodged the spear of bronze, and the missile of Aeneas plunged into the earth and stuck there quivering, for it had sped in vain from his mighty hand. But Idomeneus cast and smote Oenomaus, full upon the belly, and broke through the plate of his corselet, and the bronze spewed out his bowels; and he fell in the dust and clutched the earth in his palm. And Idomeneus pulled the farshadowing spear from out of the corpse, but could not in the same way strip the rest of the fair armour from his shoulders, since he was sore pressed with missiles. For the joints of his feet were not firm in a charge as had once been, that he might rush forwards after his own cast, or avoid another’s. (Iliad 13.500–13)

Clearly Idomeneus and Aeneas are throwing spears at specific targets; Idomeneus has enough room to dodge Aeneas’ spear, which he sees coming his way, but he also survives a barrage of other missiles. Nevertheless, they prevent him from stripping an enemy corpse, because his old age inhibits his running and dodging forward after a spear-throw. An understanding of the fluidity and openness of the combat is assumed; the poet goes only to the trouble to explain why Idomeneus is no longer as assured in it as he used to be. Even close combat, then, can be characterised by an exchange of missiles. The poet regularly mentions swarms of arrows in flight (Il. 15.313, 16.774) and missiles can fall for much of the day while the fighting continues (Il. 8.66–7; cf. 11.84–5, 16.777–8). Heroes seem quite ready to use missile weapons as the occasion demands, to strike across the danger zone, or, entering it, to strike with spears (thrown or thrust) at enemy promachoi, before withdrawing to the relative safety of their own lines. To this end, warriors sometimes carry more than one spear (Il. 16. 139–41; Lorimer 1950, 259–60) or, like Idomeneus, need to run and retrieve the one that they have thrown. In this respect, the Homeric fighters display some correlation with Late Geometric representations of warriors with two spears and, since there are numerous eighth-century graves across Greece displaying internment with multiple spear-tips (Snodgrass 1964, 136–9; 1999, 38), the actions of Homeric promachoi appear to reflect something of the audience’s conceptions of reality. When warriors do cluster, and when fighting becomes intense, it is generally small-scale and localised.34 Such knots of closer fighting appear to develop over wounded or slain companions, as in the case of the body of Alcathous (13.424–580; cf. Il. 11.592–5, 4.532–3, 17.266–7, 352–65) or when the situation becomes desperate; when an Achaean wall of spears and shields is formed (Il. 13.126–48, 13.806) it is because they have their backs to the sea and there is nowhere else for them to run (Snodgrass 1993, 53). The mass combat of the Homeric poems may not reflect the type of combat that

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occurred in the clash of two classical phalanxes. It was not neat rows and columns of troops, but amorphous groups of men coalescing in the heat of battle because of the pressures of moment (e.g. Il. 13.83–5). In the generally open and fluid conditions of Homeric combat, chariots serve the function of allowing heroes to move about the battlefield, dismounting to engage enemies (Il. 3.29–31), mounting to flee or withdraw (e.g. Il. 11.266–74). They also enable the pursuit of fleeing enemies (e.g. Il. 20.495–502). The military effectiveness of the chariot in the Late Geometric period has often been minimised, perhaps rightly, but its existence ought not to be entirely rejected.35 Admittedly, the eighth century was a period that saw the widespread appearance of true cavalry in the Near East and, indeed, in Greece,36 but there is evidence that in some areas of the Greek world, Cyprus and in the North African colonies around Cyrene, war-chariots continued to be used.37 Furthermore, the chariot appears as transportation, primarily in sporting events and ritual processions, throughout the archaic and classical periods in Greece. In Athens in the sixth and fifth centuries, apobatai, men dressed in armour, leapt into and out of moving chariots,38 while a statue-base, found incorporated into the rebuilt city walls of Athens (therefore dating earlier than c. 478 BC), depicted a procession of hoplites, the first of whom was shown climbing into a chariot (Snodgrass 1999, pl. 36). So there is sufficient reason to suspect that the chariot had not entirely had its day by the end of the Geometric period, although it was to be supplanted in the seventh century by cavalry proper. Consequently chariot use in the Homeric poems may draw upon and reflect contemporary realities, just as much as representing continuities with military usage in Greece that perhaps stretched back into the Mycenaean period. Conclusion Mycenaean palace authorities appear to have possessed sufficiently centralised resources to supply at least some of their warriors with standard equipment and, by the thirteenth century, also appear to have been capable of organising some fighters into military units with, perhaps, distinct functions. However, such organisation does not appear to have survived the decline of the palaces, although the heroic pretensions of the elite, suggested by, for example, carved signet rings representing duels with men and wild beasts, find their echoes in the poetry of Homer. Homeric combat nevertheless appears to have a distinctive and generally coherent character, where combat between large groups is dominated by brave fighters surging through the throngs of warriors to fight among the promachoi (van Wees 1988, 12–14). As with xenia (guest-friendship), it seems likely that the poet represented real social and military practices,

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which underpin, in a generally consistent way, the fantasy story of the Trojan War and its aftermath. The extent to which this combat reflects the reality of the late eighth and early seventh centuries BC is bound up with arguments about the nature of the development of massed infantry combat. The advent of the hoplite and the emergence of the phalanx are often thought to have changed the face of warfare in the seventh century BC. Such a development will be the concern of the next chapters, but, as shall be seen throughout this work, there was significant continuity between the military practice and mentality of the Homeric poems and that of the increasingly better documented late archaic and classical periods. Notes 1 See, for instance, Herman 1987; L. Mitchell 1997. 2 See, for example, Luce 1975, esp. 114–37; a general perspective held in Wace and Stubbings 1962. 3 An important selection of Linear B tablets are translated in Ventris and Chadwick 1956; some modifications of translation, argument and discussion were produced in the 2nd edition (= Ventris and Chadwick 1973). 4 Ventris and Chadwick 1956, 361: tablet R 0482 had an arrow ideogram and the two numbers, 6010 and 2630, which would require about 13 kilograms of bronze. In the same room as the tablet was found remains of sealed chests that contained arrow plates; cf. Doc. 264 = Ws1704 (P). On Zimri Lim see Watkins 1989, 15–35. 5 ‘Bronze as points’: see Ventris and Chadwick 1956, 357–8, Doc. 257 = Jn829, cf. 2nd edn Ventris and Chadwick 1973, 511–14; Bennet 1998, 114, 118 fig. 59. ‘Javelin handles for the king’ see Nodule Wr1480, Shelmerdine 1998, 90, 91 fig. 46. 6 Ventris and Chadwick 1956, esp. docs. 53–60; cf. 2nd edn 1973, 427–32. 7 But note the scepticism of Uchitel 1984. 8 See, for example, Littauer 1972; Littauer and Crouwel 1983; A. Harding 1984, 151. Support for the Near Eastern parallel: see Drews 1993, 113–29. 9 Spears and javelins: Snodgrass 1999, 22–3, 29, pls. 2, 5; bows and slings: Snodgrass 1999, 30; on Mycenaean bows generally see Lorimer 1950, 276–80. 10 Driessen and Macdonald 1984, although the suggestion that these terms are ethnica, describing groups of foreign mercenaries, may be stretching the evidence. 11 Drews (1993, 124) suggests that the arrows were primarily intended for a chariot corps of Dendra-corseleted chariot archers. The absence of supporting visual evidence of such chariot use remains a check on such a theory; see Crouwel 1981, 119–51. Nevertheless the bow was evidently of considerable importance in Mycenaean warfare, judging by the finds of arrow heads, reference to bowyers (to-ko-so-wo-ko) and arrows in the Linear B tablets and some representations of foot warriors employing it in various contexts; Tölle-Kastenbein 1980, 24–6, 41–2; Snodgrass 1999, 40.

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12 Such questions are variously addressed in Laffineur (ed.) 1999. 13 On the reasons for the decline and wider Mediterranean ‘systems collapse’ at the time of the movement of Sea Peoples, see Drews 1993. 14 e.g. Lorimer 1947, pl. 19A (Benaki Museum); Coldstream 1968, 59 no. 21a (Buffalo Museum of Science C12847); both examples show identically armed warriors in procession, each with large circular shield and two spears. Snodgrass 1993, 56–7. 15 A view shared by Snodgrass 1964, 159–63; 1999, 46. 16 Diodorus 5.21, Gauls; cf. Caesar BG 4.33, British essedarii. Anderson 1965; van Wees 2004, 158–60, 176–7; cf. Littauer 1972, who argues that Mycenaean representations are most easily interpreted as transports and status items for elite warriors. 17 e.g. Finley 1978, 153–8; Murray 1980; Dickinson 1986, 20–37; Donlan 1989. 18 Morris (1986) suggests that Homeric poems were composed, or crystallised into written form, at a time of social change. He argued that the poems contributed to ongoing debates within communities that were experiencing far-reaching political and social changes that accompanied the development of the polis in the eighth and seventh centuries BC. Indeed, because the poems tend to represent traditional values from a predominantly elite perspective, it suggests that such values may have been under threat. For further discussion of the date of the Homeric poems, see van Wees 2002. 19 I am grateful to Professor Walter Burkert (personal comm.) for the suggestion that Odysseus’ lying stories might be far more plausible to an archaic audience than his ‘own story’ of a monster-blighted return from Troy that he tells to the Phaeacians. 20 Od. 9.40–3; although according to the Iliad (2.846–7), the Cicones had been allies of the Trojans and sent contingents of troops to their aid. 21 Il. 6.414–27; it is also Chryseis’ community, 1.365–70. 22 Aeneas: Il. 20.188–95; Briseis’ home 2.690, cf. 19.291–6. 23 Helen’s suitors: Hesiod frg. 198 (M/W); cf. Apollodorus 3.10.9; Thuc. 1.9; Hyginus Fab. 78. Odysseus’ madness: Apollodorus Ep. 3.7; Hyg. Fab. 95; Ovid, Metamorph. 13.34. Achilles on Skyros: Apollodorus 3.13.8; Hyg. Fab. 96; Ovid Metamorph. 13.162–70. 24 Donlan 1979, 67 n. 6; Geddes 1984, 32; van Wees 1992, 48; 337 n. 80. 25 Jeanmaire 1939, 64; Murray 1980, 53–4; van Wees 1992, 174. 26 Inevitably, perhaps, they paid for it with their lives: followers of the son of Castor in Egypt: Od. 14.245–72; raid on Ismarians: 9.39–61, cf. cattle of Helios 12.260–390; winds of Aeolus 10.17–55. 27 While bronze armour is often regarded as a contemporary feature (cf. Snodgrass 1993, 55–9), somewhat paradoxically, bronze weapons are regarded as deliberate archaising (Greenhalgh 1973, 41), and even a memory of the Mycenaean Bronze Age (Luce 1975, 65–6). 28 But see van Wees 1988, 11 on the presence of lightly equipped heroes in mêlée. 29 As noted by Singor 1995, 188–9. 30 Albracht 1886, 28; Strasburger 1954, 43–8, 67–8; Latacz 1977, 68–74.

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See, for example, Murray 1907, 151. See, for example, van Wees 1988; 1997a. Van Wees 1986, 296–7; 1994 1, 8; 2004, 153–6, pls. XIV–XVII. Il. 4.532–3, 11.592–4, 17.266–7, cf. 354–5, 13.128–35; Snodgrass 1993, 52–3. Anderson 1975, 184. Indeed, the Dipylon shield with its heavily scalloped indents, if it ever existed, could have had a considerable effect on reducing the wind resistance for chariot riders wearing circular or figure-eight type shields; see Crouwel 1981. 36 For instance, Worley 1994, 32–5. see also the observation on riding posture in Anderson 1975, 184. In Geometric art and probably in reality, cavalry was beginning to make its presence felt, but one need not take too literally Aristotle’s (Pol. 1297b 16–19) influential analysis (among modern scholars) that before the emergence of the hoplite, cavalry (hippeis) dominated the military and political scene. Aristotle was writing in the fourth century, and his observation about the earlier military predominance of horsed aristocracies need be little more than a guess (Sallares 1991, 400); after all, Aristotle was Alexander the Great’s tutor, one of the greatest cavalry captains of all time, and in Aristotle’s day the elite of many city states were called upon to appear on the battlefield as cavalry. It is true that the elite of all periods in Greece often chose to rear horses, and came to use them on the battlefield, but that does not mean to say that this was exclusively for riding. Indeed, the ownership of multiple horses not only demonstrated the wealth of the owner, but allowed him to deploy them extravagantly as chariot teams, whether for sporting or, until the seventh century BC, military purposes. 37 Cyprus: Hdt. 5.113; Snodgrass 1999, 87–8. Cyrene: Aeneas Tacticus 16.14; Diod. 18.19.14; 20.41.1; Polyaen. 7.28.1; Anderson 1975; contra Greenhalgh 1973, 38–9. 38 [Dem.] Eroticus 23–9; Kyle 1987, 188–9; Reed 1990, 306–17, esp. 307.

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Chapter 3

The makers of war

During the reign of the Egyptian pharaoh Psammetichus I (664–610 BC), a group of Greek marauders, equipped, so the story goes, as hoplites in bronze armour, landed on the Egyptian coast (Hdt. 2.152). Psammetichus, recalling an oracle that ‘bronze men’ from the sea would help him against his enemies, recruited them, and after having used them to good effect, rewarded them for their services with land near Pelusium (2.154). Their descendants, and other Greeks attracted by the rewards of service, continued to be enrolled in the armies of the Pharaohs throughout the sixth century (Kaplan 2003). Thanks to soldierly graffiti carved on the left leg of a statue of Rameses II at Abu Simbel (c. 591 BC; ML 7 = Fornara 29), we even know some of their names and origins: Telephos and Anaxor, both Ialysians, Elsibios of Teos, Pabis of Colophon, Psammata, Crithis, Python son of Amoibichos and his brother Archon with his ‘Axe, son of Nobody’. Their commander was Potasimto, an Egyptian, and the campaign during which they carved their names was aimed at imposing the rule of Psammetichus II (595–589), whom Herodotus called Psammis (2.161), onto the Ethiopian tribes in the region deep to the south, beyond Elephantine. Some sixty-five years later, when Cambyses, king of Persia (530–522), invaded Egypt in 525 BC, he overwhelmed its Greek mercenaries (who by then may have numbered as many as 30,000, on the reckoning of Herodotus), at the battle of Pelusium (Hdt. 2.163, 3.10–11; Murray 1980, 218–21). Egypt was not the only Near Eastern state to find itself employing Greeks as mercenaries. The poet Alcaeus from the island of Lesbos could write of his brother, Antimenidas: You have come from the ends of the earth, the ivory Hilt of your sword bound with gold.1

Strabo explained that: Antimenidas, according to Alcaeus, when he was fighting among the Babylonians performed a great deed and saved them from their toils by killing

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‘A fighting man Lacking but a single palm’s breadth’, so he says, ‘From a height of five royal cubits’. (Strabo 13.2.3 = Alcaeus frg. 350 Lobel; page Z27)

These Greeks, who went to seek fortune and glory, were part of an outpouring of population that saw Greek settlements spring up throughout much of the Mediterranean and Black Sea littoral. Many of their home communities had suffered internal factionalism and disputes that led to the dominance, albeit often temporary, of certain aristocratic families or groups, or to the rise and fall of tyrants. Antimenidas was involved in the overthrow of the tyrant Melanchrus in Lesbos, but he and his brother lost out to a rival, Pittacus, who was a successful military commander, himself having reputedly killed Phrynon, an Athenian general, in a monomachia, a single combat.2 In contrast, Alcaeus had fled battle, throwing away his arms, which the Athenians hung up in the temple of Athena (Plut. De Herod. Malig. 858a–b; Hdt. 5.94–5). While Pittacus secured his political dominance in Lesbos, his opponents went into exile. Alcaeus apparently spent some time in Egypt (Strabo 1.2.30), while Antimenidas appears to have joined the army of Nebuchadnezzar, where he killed the supposedly five-cubit (8 feet = 2.44m) giant celebrated in his brother’s verse.3 In a world of intense political and personal competition, individuals and groups left or were expelled from their communities to wander, or settle, or enrol as mercenaries, wherever they could. They came into contact with local populations, and while some enjoyed peaceful relationships with natives, others imposed their presence through conquest by killing, enslaving or driving away those peoples not strong enough to resist them. Greek colonisation was, at times, a violent process. Many of the communities that grew up in these new lands came to resemble, in their political and social values and institutions, the communities of the homeland which, in the eighth and seventh centuries BC, had seen the development of city-states, poleis: in essence, territories focused on urban centres. These communities produced political and religious institutions and codes of law, and while often fractious, they regularly selected, and sometimes even elected, magistrates to administer them. Throughout the archaic period, they developed conceptions of citizenship expressing a range of communal duties, rights and privileges. They asserted their territorial integrity and boundaries against their neighbours through recourse to diplomacy, negotiation and war. When necessary, they fielded community armies composed of their citizens, many of whom were infantrymen known as hoplites.

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The arms of war Although the Egyptians used bronze for military purposes, what Herodotus thought was distinctive about the Greek marauders and mercenaries of the seventh and sixth centuries BC was the sheer amount of bronze equipment that they wore; it was this that appeared to give them their military potency. Such equipment, in part, survives in the archaeological record. ‘Warrior graves’ discovered at Argos (c. 720 BC) have revealed some of the earliest elements of the panoply: bronze cuirass, greaves, helm, spear and sword. The helmets were rather crude, constructed with separate cheek pieces. Later, during the seventh century, a single piece casting, known as the Corinthian helmet, was to become popular throughout Greece. At Argos, excavators discovered at least one complete cuirass, and traces of another, each consisting of separate breast and back-plates, along with iron swords and spearheads. No traces of shields, however, have been found in the tombs, and their absence has led to the suggestion that these early panoplies may have been the equipment of horsemen rather than infantry (Snodgrass 1999 [1967], 136). At any rate, since bronze was an expensive alloy of copper and rare tin, those who wore such armour were expressing their economic as much as their military power. The graves at Argos give an indication of the equipment available to the wealthier members of the community in this period. Writing at the end of the seventh century, Alcaeus describes the arms of the warriors of his own day: The great house gleams with bronze, All the roof is well furnished with bright helms; White horse-hair plumes nod down from them, Ornaments for the heads of men. Bronze-shining greaves hang around and hide the pegs, A fence against the strong dart. Corselets of fresh linen and hollow shields are thrown down; Beside them are blades from Chalcis, Beside them many a belt and tunic. These we must not forget since we first undertook the task. (Alcaeus, frg. 357)

The poet presents an image of equipment that would have been familiar to his audience, but it is worth remembering that this would have consisted of his wealthy fellow aristocrats. It is unlikely that poorer warriors would have been able to afford such outfits in their entirety. Nevertheless, these arms have been taken as the ideal equipment of the hoplite, an infantryman who dominated

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the battlefields of Greece and beyond from the seventh to the fourth centuries BC. Identifying who these men were, and how and why they fought, is central to understanding Greek warfare in the archaic and classical periods. In the seventh century BC, high status ‘warrior graves’ all but disappear and relatively few remains of military equipment come from burial contexts thereafter. The Greeks increasingly dedicated arms and armour to their gods at local shrines and at the developing Pan-Hellenic sanctuaries at Olympia and Delphi. From the beginning of the seventh to the early fifth centuries (Snodgrass 1999, 48, 89), such large numbers of items were deposited, then periodically cleared out and buried (in order to make room for yet more dedications), that rudimentary statistical analysis of what survives can be undertaken.4 At Olympia, for example, approximately 350 helmets and about 280 shields have been discovered. These numbers are of similar enough orders of magnitude, particularly of items dated from the midseventh to early fifth centuries BC, for us to suppose that most hoplites probably possessed both. About 225 single greaves also survive, which, on the assumption that hoplites protected both legs, suggests a ratio of one pair deposited for every three helmets (van Wees 1997b, 155). Perhaps a similar proportion of hoplites (one in three) may have worn greaves in reality. Finds of bronze breastplates are much fewer, about thirty-three in total. The paucity of such material implies that perhaps as few as one in ten hoplites possessed bronze cuirasses. Others may have worn either leather or, as Alcaeus mentions (frg. 357 quoted above, p. 45), stiffened linen, which, it seems, might have given similar levels of protection, but which, if dedicated, has not survived to the modern era.5 Certainly during the classical period, from the evidence of painted pottery depicting hoplites, the vast majority appear to have worn these alternative and, perhaps, cheaper materials, and a significant minority may have possessed no chest-protecting armour at all (Anderson 1970a, 24–9; Snodgrass 1999, 90 ff.). Although the term hoplite itself derives from hopla, ‘equipment’ and the hoplite has often, therefore, been envisaged as an individual who wore a panoplia, ‘all-arms’, of breastplate, greaves and helm, each of bronze, and a large wooden shield that might be faced in the same metal, it is quite probable, if these statistics and depictions are in any way representative of ancient reality, that most of Psammetichus’ ‘bronze men’ were probably less metallic than the story might lead us to suppose.6 Greek warriors were usually expected to equip themselves at their own expense, and, inevitably, there would have been much variation in quality and the type of equipment. Scholars have often pointed to certain crucial items of the panoply as defining characteristics of the hoplite, arguing that without these elements, hoplites and hoplite warfare do not exist. The spear (aichme-, doru, enchos, lonche-) is regarded as a defining feature of the hoplite.7 It is usually repre-

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sented in surviving visual material as a thrusting weapon between one and one-and-a-half times the height of a man.8 In combat representations, it is normally held over-arm, or sometimes under-arm (Anderson 1991, 17–18). When hoplites engaged in mêlée, it was often called doratismos (‘spear-fighting’). Archilochus saw his spear as the source of his military livelihood: ‘in my spear is my daily bread, in my spear my Ismarian wine, on my spear I rest and drink’ (frg. 2). Conquests and captives were conceived of as spear-won (aichmalo-tos, Pritchett 5.169), and Aeschylus contrasted the Greek spear with the Persian bow (Pers. 85–6, 147–9). It seems that, when hoplites engaged in combat, they relied on this weapon above all others; the sword, if present at all, was relegated to a secondary role.9 Much of the discussion about hoplite equipment in recent years has focused on the Greeks’ adoption and use of the convex and circular shield (hoplon or aspis).10 It was, in essence, a large bowl, often described as ‘hollow’ by contemporary poets, with a central grip (porpax) for the forearm to slip through, and a fastening (antilabe-) on the inside edge of the shield gripped by the hand. It is this shape that constitutes the majority of those found at Olympia and, because of the bronze facing that it sometimes received, it is the type that is most often identified in the archaeological record. While some, if not the majority, of hoplites may not have chosen, or could not afford, to wear a bronze cuirass or greaves, it was supposedly the view of Demaratus, a Spartan king, that these items were worn only for personal protection. According to Plutarch, he argued that the shield was carried for sake of the whole battle line (Plut. Mor. 220a). So, at least on this view, regardless of the other equipment a hoplite might possess or be able to afford, by bearing the shield the individual subsumed his identity to the phalanx (see p. 53–4, 63) and collective action was emphasised. Lipotaxia, ‘leaving the ranks’, was frowned upon, as it was thought to endanger the integrity of the phalanx. Indeed, it was regarded not only as cowardice, but also as unpatriotic behaviour. In many communities, those guilty of it suffered great shame and sometimes the loss of political and other rights (see p. 100, 205–8). Cowards could be readily identified by their failure to return from battle with their shields, since it seems to have been common to discard them in flight. Archilochus (frg. 6) once remarked: ‘I left the shield because I had to, poor innocent object, under a bush, and now it pleases some Saian, but I escaped. Why should I worry about that shield? It can be damned for all I care. I’ll get another just as good.’ Archilochus’ attitude is unrepentant, but seems also somewhat defensive, reacting against the idea that perhaps he ought to have been concerned about what happened to his shield.11 For others, holding on to the shield was a matter of life or death; Spartan hoplites were expected to either return home holding their shields or for their bodies to be carried back on them (Plut. Mor. 241.16; see p. 218).

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The shield, then, seems to have been the item most closely related to the group, and dropping or abandoning it was often subject to censure and punishment by the polis. It was a key element in the identity of the hoplite, and a tangible token of his status within and loyalty to the community. Ideology and status With such a man the field is fattened. (Archilochus frg. 148)

Archilochus’ image of a soldier’s fertilising corpse draws its chilling power from the fact that most hoplites derived their wealth and status from being landowning farmers. The physical strength, endurance and fighting zeal of farmers was recognised and frequently praised: ‘agriculture contributes greatly to the construction of manliness; because, unlike the banausic crafts, it does not make bodies unfit, but it accustoms them to living outdoors and to toil and gives them the energy to undertake the hazards of war. For only the farmer’s possessions, unlike those of other men, are outside the citydefences’.12 It is clear that, to some extent, the hoplite’s ethos was a farmer’s ethos. Use of farming imagery and terminology by our sources reveals this ethos: killing could be described as ‘threshing’ (Tyrt. frg. 19.16), while piles of dead hoplites might remind an onlooker of ‘heaps of corn, wood, or stones’ (Xen. Hell. 4.4.11–12). The word zeugitai, a property-class in Athens whose members could be obliged to serve as hoplites,13 perhaps meant ‘yoke-men’ (Liddell and Scott s.v. zeugite-s, but see Whitehead 1981), while the term ‘phalanx’, a formation most closely associated with hoplites, was a word also used to describe a log (Hdt. 3.97), perhaps revealing a farmer’s perspective on the formation.14 In the fourth century (and perhaps earlier, Siewert 1977, 102–12), Athenian ephebes, young men reaching the age for military service, swore an oath to maintain the fatherland undiminished. Their oath was to be witnessed by ‘the gods Aglaurus, Hestia, Enyo, Enyalius, Ares and Athena Areia, Zeus, Thallo, Auxo, Hegemone, Heracles, and the boundaries of the fatherland, wheat, barley, vines, olive-trees, fig-trees’ (Tod 2.204). The emphasis both on the borderland and on the agricultural produce of the cho-ra reveals the importance of both in the ideology of the hoplite and the state. It may have been an ideal that hoplites tried, where possible, to deploy on the most attractive (to them) and most level ground.15 In other words, they preferred to fight on the cereal-growing plains that had a personal and social significance to them, rather than the more socially and economically marginal terrain (eschatia) that characterised much of the borderland of the polis (Hanson 1995, 252–3). Of course it should be noted that this was merely an ideal; hoplites very often found themselves fighting in less concep-

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tually attractive territory and many hoplite encounters occurred in and over borderland (Hanson 1995, 253–4, 314, 488 n. 14). Many farmers had a vested interest in the territorial integrity of their state and in maintaining their own wealth and status. When their property was threatened, they took an active interest in defending it. The co-operative aspects of both farming in the fields and fighting in a phalanx were recognised by ancient commentators.16 Indeed, it has been suggested that the hoplite phalanx acted as a kind of Farmers’ Union or corporation that had its basis in an understanding to defend every member’s farm land (S. Mitchell 1996, 96–7, 104 n. 34; Hanson 1991a, 6; 1996, 290–1; see p. 63, 148–9 below). That is to say, by maintaining the territorial integrity and security of the polis, the members of the phalanx preserved their own property. For many, it was land-ownership that formed the basis of their economic status and, often, their political and social status as citizens, as well as underpinning their ability to qualify or serve as hoplites. However, it would be easy to over-simplify matters. It is clear that farmers were not all wealthy and that many lived at or just above subsistence level. Such men, who were not rich and probably had little chance of becoming so through war, were nevertheless frequently praised for their military prowess. Aristophanes, in his comedy Wealth, has the character Poverty argue that it was she who kept Athenian men wasp-like and able to win battles (561; cf. Wasps 1071–90). Of course, such men were often landowners and thus better off than the urban poor and landless labourers (thetes), but many were still used to lives of backbreaking graft for little more than subsistence return on their labour. It has sometimes been argued that those who were not able to afford the full panoply, including perhaps many subsistence farmers lacking spare capital, would have become militarily marginalised; being regarded in battle as gymne-tes, ‘the naked’ (Cartledge 1977, 24; Connor 1988, 26). Although perhaps forming a majority of potential combatants, they might be pushed to the fringes of the battlefield and have a limited impact on the mêlées fought between rival formations (phalanxes) of hoplites (Pritchett 4.51–4; see p. 85–6). They may also have found themselves politically excluded, perhaps not even enjoying all of the benefits of citizenship (Hanson 1995, 296). However, it is important to observe that several states, on the basis of an assessment of economic resources, might restrict the political rights of some potential combatants, including hoplites. At Athens, under the oligarchic regimes of the Four Hundred (411 BC) and the Thirty (404/3 BC), access to political rights was restricted to groups of 5,000 (Thuc. 8.72, 89; Lysias 20.13) and 3,000 respectively (Xen. Hell. 2.3.18–20). The Five Thousand were described as ‘all who could provide themselves with arms (hopla)’ (Thuc. 8.97; cf. [Arist.] Ath. Pol. 33.1). This is considerably less than

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the number of hoplites Athens had possessed at the beginning of the war (431 BC, around 13,000, excluding the 16,000 hoplite garrison troops and reservists, Thuc. 2.13). Losses to the plague in the 420s, on campaign in Sicily in 415–413 and elsewhere, seem unlikely to have carried off nearly two-thirds of those of hoplite status, so it appears therefore that the Five Thousand were only part of the full muster of men who served in the phalanx. The restriction seems aimed at excluding some of those who fought as hoplites but who were considered, by the regime, to have been inadequately equipped and, consequently, to be too economically under-endowed for this more elitist political system. A similar, indeed more stringent, assessment of the wealth of hoplites appears to have been applied in the case of the Thirty Tyrants, who restricted political rights to the wealthiest 3,000 in the state. In fact, they disarmed all those they excluded and removed their arms (hopla) to the acropolis (Xen. Hell. 2.3.20). For most of the fifth and fourth centuries, Athens, because of its naval strength and democracy was notable for the unusually significant influence of the non-hoplite citizens of the state. The Old Oligarch had noted that Athens was dominated by the thetes, the poor, whose power, he claimed, derived from their military contribution as rowers in the fleet ([Xen.] Ath. Pol. 1.2). This is perhaps an exaggeration – many thetes were themselves landowners who could afford enough equipment to consider volunteering as hoplites if they so wished, particularly as marines.17 These were the sort of people who might own a spear, a shield and a helmet, but perhaps little more, and who were the intended targets of the exclusions of the oligarchic regimes at the end of the fifth century (van Wees 2004, 81–2). Equally, many of those who served in the Athenian fleet during major campaigns were less than full-time sailors. Although a significant proportion of thetes did serve for long periods of time overseas, stationed with their ships at bases throughout the Aegean, many more were part-time rowers who were enrolled only for major summer expeditions and returned to their farms afterwards (see p. 115–16, 166). It is likely that there was a significant section of the Athenian population who might have thought of themselves as farmers, rowers and also as hoplites, depending on the context in which they served. Any notion that hoplites consisted only of those men who were wealthy enough to acquire bronze armour should be rejected: there were many poorer men, less successful subsistence farmers, even traders and craftsmen, who conceived of themselves as hoplites. In Athens, as perhaps in other states too, there were categories of men who might be entitled, or required, to serve as hoplites, but who nevertheless were restricted access to political rights. In Laconia, these were the semiautonomous perioikoi, who served alongside the citizen Spartiates in the phalanx, but who were nevertheless denied political rights in the Spartan

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state (Cartledge 1987, 37–43). In times of war, the Athenians could draw on their metic population. These were non-citizens, either foreigners or freed slaves, living in the city, paying the metoikion,18 some of whom were deemed wealthy enough to qualify as hoplites and could be enrolled to garrison Athens’ frontiers or in defence of the city itself (Thuc. 2.13.6–7; Whitehead 1977, 82–4). Many were also employed as crewmen in the fleet19 and might be eligible for war-taxes (eisphorai, Lysias 12.20). The loyalty of the metics to the democratic regime was remarkable. Even during civil conflict, many metics fought alongside the democrats (Xen. Hell. 2.4.25–6; Lysias 2.66); indeed some of the more prominent individuals had been targeted by the oligarchic Thirty Tyrants (Lysias 12.6–19; Diod. 14.5.6). One unique category of resident aliens who were a feature of Athens’ social and military life in the late fifth and fourth centuries BC was the Plataeans. They were survivors of the siege and destruction of their city in 427 BC and had been granted some Athenian citizen rights later in that year.20 The men served as a single force of light-armed psiloi in the Athenian army in the 420s BC. At the Megarian harbour of Nisaea in 424 BC, these Plataean psiloi embarked on a night operation in conjunction with a force of Athenian hoplites. They were sent ahead to seize the gates and Thucydides highlights their importance in checking the attacks of the enemy hoplites until the Athenians arrived. They clearly possessed a veteran steadiness and experience gained in their years of siege. It is probable that their status as light-armed psiloi stemmed from the hardships of their recent exile; with little or no property, even once-affluent hoplites of Plataea might be in a reduced financial position in Athens.21 It seems possible that they could not afford even the qualification for metic service in the Athenian phalanx. Their loyal service and land-hunger came to be rewarded by their settlement at Scione, after the Athenians had dealt with its population.22 The Plataeans appear as economic casualties of the Peloponnesian War, nevertheless serving in a valuable capacity in Athenian campaigning, ultimately and ironically gaining a new (albeit temporary, 421–c. 404 BC) homeland, and probably hoplite affluence, through the destruction of another community. The existence of near-destitute groups, such as the Plataean refugees, should alert us to the presence of those who, at least in the eyes of aristocratic sources who rarely mention them, were militarily marginal. The urban poor of Athens, for instance, not only rowed in the fleet, but also disembarked during raids and campaigns to act as light-armed infantry, using any weapons they could lay their hands on (Pritchett 5.1–67; van Wees 2004, 62–5). Slaves and servants too accompanied their masters, carrying their equipment and getting involved in combat in their own right (Hunt 1998; van Wees 2004, 68–71). In the sources of the archaic period, we encounter such people rubbing shoulders with hoplites in the phalanx itself (see

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p. 55–7) while on any large scale communal campaign in the classical period, hoplites were accompanied by those who were so economically deprived and poorly equipped as to be regarded as ‘naked’ (gymne-tes). Whether such people shared the ethos of farmer-hoplites is unclear: rarely are they exhorted to fight courageously in our sources (note, however, Tyrt. frg. 11.35–8; see p. 55). Often they appear to stand for the opposite of hoplite virtues, condemned by elite writers such as Plato for ‘thinking no shame of not dying boldly at their posts when the enemy attack; for excuses are readily made for them, as a matter of course, when they fling away their arms and take themselves off in what they describe as “no dishonourable flight”’ (Plato, Laws 706c). Phalanx-fighters The military value of the individual elements of the panoply and how, combined, they shaped the way that hoplites fought has been a controversial issue. Some scholars have thought that the combined encumbrance of heavy shield, body armour and thrusting spear forced the hoplite to adopt a technique of hand-to-hand fighting in a closely packed formation, the phalanx.23 Others have argued that massed infantry fighting was already present in the Homeric poems.24 It is a view that can accommodate the idea that the hoplite panoply gradually evolved to provide increased protection in close combat.25 This view has the virtue of allowing for the presence of less well-armoured individuals in the phalanx, greater protection coming to the wealthier first and foremost in the context of massed combats in which many men had already been regular participants. One attempt to reconcile the various positions has been advanced by Hanson (1995, 229 ff.), who accepts that the phalanx already existed in the massed fighting described in Homer. But, he notes, it was a loose, disorganised and unformed mass of aristocrats and their followers. He accepts that hoplite arms were adapted from pre-existing conditions of mass combat, but he argues that ideological factors, stemming from the demographic make-up of the majority of hoplites, created conceptual reasons for the emergence of a densely ordered fighting formation. He argues that as farmers became increasingly influential in early Greek communities, they imposed their ethos of co-operation and egalitarianism on the phalanx and gave it eutaxia, good order. The phalanx, in his view, was well adapted to the economic and social status of its hoplite participants, whom he equates with the land-owning citizens of the polis. Because they were expected to outfit themselves with the appropriate trappings of war and take their place in the phalanx, these farmerhoplites were able to obtain social importance and political influence, while the very poorest elements of the community remained sidelined. It is even

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possible that the concept of citizenship emerged as an articulation of the political, social, religious and economic rights and privileges of these farmers. The Greek understanding of this process can be seen in the political treatise of the fourth-century philosopher Aristotle: The first form of constitution which came after monarchy in Hellas was one where the warriors (hoi polemountes) formed the citizen body. Initially it was made up entirely of cavalry. At that time this group had the military might and expertise, since hoplites are useless without a tactical system (syntaxeia), and since an understanding of formation (taxis) did not exist at such an early time, the army strength relied on cavalry. Once states began to grow in size, and hoplites became more potent, then more people were allowed to enjoy citizen status. (Aristotle, Politics 1297b10)

Note here that Aristotle emphasises the importance of formation over equipment. It is not that these farmers were totally encased in expensive bronze, although undoubtedly a number of them were, but rather that they shared a collective and organised military system that gave them political potency. Combined with the demographic and territorial development of city-states, this led to more people participating in the political system as citizens. At some point, then, the hoplite phalanx emerged as the dominant massed-infantry formation. But most conceptions of the nature of the phalanx in the archaic period have drawn on the picture of hoplites in battle during the classical period, when the contemporary written descriptions of combat are more numerous and informative.26 Archaic phalanxes have thus been envisaged as densely packed units of hoplites arrayed in files usually eight to twelve men deep, because in the classical period, this appears to have been the case when armies deployed for battle. The front ranks are thought to have attacked the enemy with their thrusting spears (the doratismos), trying to fight their way into the enemy formation and disrupt its cohesion. The rear ranks are assumed either to have lent physical weight, perhaps shoving with their shields to overwhelm the enemy with a mob-like pressure (the o-thismos),27 or offered moral support to the promachoi, replacing casualties or exploiting any gaps in the enemy formation.28 The promachoi no longer acted as individualistic Homeric heroes, running into the danger zone between armies to boast and engage other heroes in single-combats. Instead they remained in their closely ordered ranks, fighting in conjunction with their neighbours. For scholars who hold this view, the full bronze panoply appears ideally suited to such a formation and method of close combat, as the heaviness of the armour and the large weighty shield maximised protection against the many spear points arrayed in the opposition phalanx. Such defence, however, it has been argued, came at the expense of both individual and collective manoeuvrability, but this, it is supposed,

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was not such a significant loss to closely packed fighting men who remained able to jab at the enemy with their spears. In such a reconstruction, the hoplites huddled together, deriving some protection for their vulnerable right sides from the projecting left part of the shields of their neighbours (Hanson 1989, 28). Support for the notion comes from Thucydides (5.71), who seems to suggest the effect that this had on the movement of a phalanx across a battlefield: The following is the case for all armies: when they are marching to engage, the right wing becomes over-extended so that both forces come to overlap the enemy’s left with their own right. This is due to the fear that makes every man strive to find protection for his unshielded side in the shield of his right-hand neighbour, imagining that increased safety comes from a closer locking together of shields. The man on the extreme right of the front line, who is forever trying to keep his unarmed side away from the enemy, is the cause of the problem. His fear spreads to the rest who then follow his example.

The archaic phalanx appears, in the reconstruction of some scholars, to have been a cumbersome formation, so specialised for hand-to-hand combat that it may only have been completely effective on level plains. It is therefore regarded as unsuited to rougher terrain where the formation might become broken up and the hoplites, lacking its collective protection, might become isolated and fall foul of groups of agile infantry skirmishers (Vidal-Naquet 1986, 89). However, when the archaic evidence, such as it is, is looked at in its own right, a very different picture emerges. An important exposition of the hoplite way of war can be found in the surviving fragments of the seventhcentury Athenian poet and Spartan general Tyrtaeus, who composed martial exhortations in the context of the Lacedaemonian attempts to conquer Messenia: You are descended from Heracles, so be cheerful, for Zeus has not yet turned away his head. Do not fear the enemy’s numbers, or flinch, but every man must take his shield towards the front-most fighting, making an enemy of Life, and considering the black spirits of Death and Evil as dear friends. For you are aware of the destructive antics of woeful Ares, and have learned the habits of lamentable War (Polemos), experiencing both flight and pursuit, men, and have drunk your fill of both. Those who stay by one another and go with purpose into the fray and towards the foremost fights (promachoi), fewer of these are killed, preserving those who come after; however, those who turn in fear, all their virtue (arete-) is lost; no man can speak of each and every misfortune that fall upon a man without honour. For in horrific war, it is nice to spear the midriff of some fleeing man, and a slain man who is sprawled in the dust with a spear-point (aichme- douros) in his back is disgraced. So each man must bite his lip with his teeth and stand with legs solidly astride on the ground,

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covering with the belly of his shield (aspis) both the thighs and legs below and the chest and shoulders above; he must brandish the solid spear (enchos) in his right hand, wave the awful crest (lophos) on his head, learn the art of fighting by undertaking formidable tasks, and not skulk with shield (aspis) in hand beyond the range of missiles. But each man must close with his enemy, and with his long spear (enchos), or with his sword (xiphos), strike and kill an opponent, and setting foot to foot, shield against shield (aspis), crest to crest (lophos), helm to helm (kunee- – usually of leather), and chest to chest, he must fight his man with sword (xiphos) or long spear (doru) in hand. And also the lightly armed (gymne-tes), crouching hither and thither under shield (aspis), you must hurl at them your throwing-rocks and smooth javelins (akontes), in your place beside the heavier armed men (panoploi). (Tyrtaeus, frg. 11.1–38)

The Lacedaemonians long revered his works and they were favourite party pieces in the mess halls (syssitia) of Sparta. It must be the case that his words had great emotive and didactic value to Spartan hoplites, and they also sang his songs on campaign (Athenaeus, 14.29, 640f; Bowie 1990). Yet a closer examination of Tyrtaeus’ presentation of war and battle reveals how some of the conceptions of the archaic phalanx so far outlined begin to unravel. The equipment used by the fighters in this Tyrtaean picture of warfare is varied. While the panoploi, ‘the panoplied’, are exhorted to stand shield against shield, helm against helm, others are gymne-tes, literally ‘the naked’, who crouch below shields (aspides) from where they throw missiles (Anderson 1991; van Wees 2000). These gymne-tes perhaps shelter behind the shields of the heavy-armed, as archers in the Iliad do (Il. 4.112–14, 8.266–72, 15.436–44; van Wees 2000, 151), and as some representations on archaic vases illustrate (e.g. van Wees 2000, 153, figs 17b, c, d). It is equally possible, however, that they carry a shield (aspis) of their own;29 ‘naked’ because they lack the full set of defensive hopla of the panoploi, and thus are less well suited to fighting toe-to-toe with the enemy, but capable nonetheless of contributing to combat by throwing their apparently lighter spears (akontia, as opposed to the dorata or enchoi of the panoploi). The formation therefore appears to consist of a mix of differently armed fighters, and this conforms to the impression of other evidence that not all hoplites were completely bronze-clad. The formation is also rather more permeable than the syntaxis of a classical phalanx. The promachoi seem to act more in the style of Homeric fighters, and individuals are encouraged to make their way to the cutting edge of combat through the throng rather than skulking out of range of missiles (Anderson 1991, 15–16; van Wees 2000, 150). The advice that fewer men are killed fighting close together echoes Homer’s observation that fewer Greeks were killed because they defended each other (Il. 17.364–5). That the advice is offered by Tyrtaeus implies that it did not always occur in the warfare he is discussing.

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The poetic picture that missile throwers might be mixed among hoplites in archaic warfare receives a degree of support in the visual record, where light-armed archers are quite often represented alongside hoplites.30 There are even depictions of hoplites with two spears, one or both presumably to be used for throwing.31 Some spears are shown with throwing loops, to provide power and spin for greater range and accuracy.32 Such representations, because they imply the liberty and space to run forwards to throw them, have important ramifications for the understanding of the development of hoplite warfare and of battlefield tactics in the archaic period. The very act of throwing a spear implies room to manoeuvre, a looseness of order that is antithetical to the view of a dense and rigid archaic phalanx. Depictions of the use of two spears continue to the end of the sixth century at Athens. A series of late archaic Athenian examples in black figure pottery, produced over a period of thirty years (c. 520–490 BC), show hoplites operating with two spears and often doing so in close co-operation with Scythian archers.33 Vos (1963) had difficulty imagining how archers would fit into the packed ranks of a phalanx. In combat scenes, the bows are aimed horizontally, implying selection of specific targets and an enemy at a relatively close proximity.34 Vos imagined that they were stationed just in front of the phalanges or between the first and second ranks, but it might be wondered how the archers would remove themselves without disorder should the enemy phalanx make a running charge. Indeed, their presence might provoke such a charge to minimise the effect of a sustained barrage, as the Athenians themselves did against the Persian archers at Marathon.35 Their very close proximity to hoplites might seem problematic in the context of traditional views of phalanx battle.36 However, it is possible that the phalanx of the late archaic period was still permeable and fluid, as the depiction of hoplites with two spears suggests. Indeed, several battle narratives from the classical period also reveal hoplites throwing spears or rocks at the enemy, and although these are usually regarded as desperate measures, they sometimes seem to exploit the advantage of terrain where the enemy are themselves hindered from returning in kind.37 Moreover, the Chigi vase itself, often a paradigm for conceptions of the early phalanx, while showing ordered lines of hoplites, also depicts them with two spears and, perhaps, even on the point of throwing them (van Wees 2000, 136). The inference that should be drawn, as with other representations, is that some hoplites went into battle in the seventh and sixth centuries BC armed for missile combat. Archilochus appears to allude to these when he mentions that ‘the beechwood flew’, referring to the spear-shaft material (Archilochus frg. 186 = Schol. on Iliad 6.201). Throughout the archaic period, then, hoplites appear with missiles or missile-armed troops, fighting in loose formations. This is not to suggest that hoplites always threw their spears in combat, but that

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sometimes it was an option. The majority of depictions from all periods indicate that thrusting was the preferred method of use in most close combat contexts. If the variability in armour and weaponry of those in the phalanx suggests that a degree of individual manoeuvrability was possible, so too does an appraisal of the utility of the hoplite shield. The circular aspis is not the only type of shield encountered in iconographic representations. The ‘Boeotian’ shield, a modern term inspired by frequent representations on the coinage of the region, appears in a significant minority of hoplite representations. It was an oval shield, narrower than the aspis, with a large scalloped indentation on each of its long edges. It appears to have been of a lighter construction than the solid wooden and bronze aspis, perhaps of hides and wicker stretched over a frame, and this may be the reason that none have been discovered in the archaeological record. Often the Boeotian shield has been dismissed as an artistic fancy, or as a mis-remembered version of the eighthcentury Dipylon shield. Its historical existence has recently been asserted, however, and it seems reasonable to infer from the surviving visual representations that some hoplites carried this shield and that it provided adequate protection in combat.38 The Boeotian shield, lacking the width of the aspis, appears more suitable, perhaps, in one-to-one situations, or in a loose promachos-style engagement, ‘dashing among the foremost fighters’ (Mimnermus frg. 14 West) reminiscent of the poetry of Homer or Tyrtaeus, where the lightness of the shield would be at a premium. Such combats, it is sometimes assumed, were essentially alien to the characteristic mode of massed combat. Yet, it appears from the visual evidence that hoplites frequently fought in such a style and there are plenty of examples of engagements depicting hoplites armed with Boeotian shields fighting alongside comrades with circular shields.39 It should also be noted that the aspis itself may have been more manoeuvrable, or offered better protection to the right, than the standard view usually admits. The pose most frequently depicted in archaic and classical art is one where the hoplite stands with left foot forward and his left side facing towards the enemy, rather than chest-forward as is sometimes imagined. Such a pose placed the hoplite behind the centre of the shield, and in profile he would present a narrower target to the enemies that faced him. He could rest the rim on his shoulder, and with his shield-arm unbent and stretched roughly towards a point on the ground a couple of feet (60 cm) ahead, so that the shield itself was angled away from the legs, he would have found himself effectively covered from chin to shin. He might have been able to rotate his shield-arm to the left or right in order to make the shield deflect spear thrusts to either side, away from the body.40 The weight of the shield, estimated at around 15–16 lb (7.5 kg, Hanson 1989, 65), appears not to have

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inhibited its manoeuvrability (L. P. Rawlings 2000, 248–9). The weapon arm, being effectively behind the body, was relatively safe from wounding, but the 8-foot spear would still be able to reach its target effectively from an overarm position by striking down over the shield. This is a pose represented on the Berlin aryballos from the Middle Corinthian period (c. 650 BC), and in the famous statuette found at Dodona (c. 500 BC, although this figure bears a Boeotian shield) among many others.41 If such representations are to be trusted, then the hoplite frequently seems to have engaged his enemy crabwise, advancing behind his obliquely held shield. He would have been adequately protected, without the need to rely on his neighbour’s shield for physical protection. Furthermore, he would have been able to engage enemies on an individual basis, both within and without the phalanx. In the phalanx, the advantage of protection from his neighbours was derived not from a physical sheltering behind part of another’s shield, but from the collective commitment to mutual protection, as the exhortations of Tyrtaeus indicate, by staying ‘by one another’, not giving ground, nor allowing anyone to become surrounded by enemies and isolated in the fray, an ideal he praises but which suggests that it was not always the case in reality. The view of combat posited allows for rather more individual action, as the phalanxes got to grips with one another. There are accounts and depictions of hoplites leaping, running and even, in non-combat contexts, dancing with their shields (L. P. Rawlings 2000, 248–9). They indicate what hoplites were capable of and that hoplite combat could be rather loose and fluid. This fluidity seems at odds with the ‘good-formation’ (eutaxia) of Aristotle’s early hoplites, but since Aristotle was writing in the mid-to-late fourth century, his views on the developments of early Greek warfare may be little more than guesswork and an appreciation of the advantages that Macedonian and fourth-century Greek trained formations had over less well-formed rivals. Indeed, there is very little contemporary evidence that anything but a ‘protophalanx’ of the type described by Tyrtaeus existed before the Persian wars (van Wees 2004, 166–83). Conclusion The connection between ideology and formation is not easily established. If farmers in the archaic period gave the phalanx a concept of good order, it was not in the creation of neat rows and files of hoplites that excluded those who were socially or politically marginalised. Nor was the burden of equipment a reason to prohibit hoplites from fighting in a fluid and at times individualistic manner. In fact, the equipment difference between the very poorest hoplites and the light infantry was marginal, being little more than the possession of a large shield. Perhaps more significant was the intention

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to stand one’s ground for the sake of the community (and for the farm), perhaps to engage enemies in very close combat, rather than ‘skulking outside the range of missiles’ or, like light infantry, relying entirely on employing them in combat and running for it when the enemy came too close. However, the Greek mercenaries of Psammetichus and those who, like Athenian metics or Plataean exiles, were to be found in the service of other states, clearly disconnected from their homeland and outsiders in their new environments, nevertheless could also fight bravely and successfully as hoplites (or as psiloi) in their attempts to make new lives for themselves. Notes 1 Hephaestion Ench. 10.3; Libanius Or. 13.5. This fragment is usually linked with that of Strabo 13.2.3. 2 Strabo, 13.1.38; Diog. Laert. 1.74; Plut. Mor. 858a; Diod. 9.12.1; Pritchett 4.18. Even in the early classical period, we hear of single combats conducted prior to some major engagements, e.g. Hdt. 6.92: Eurybates killed three Athenians in successive monomachiai, but was killed by Sophanes of Decelea. Strabo, 13.1.38; Diog. Laert. 1.74; Plut. Mor. 858a; Diod. 9.12.1; Pritchett 4.18. 3 According to Herodotus (1.178), royal cubits were three finger-breadths longer than ordinary cubits (181/4 inches), making them 201/2 inches overall. Cf. Hdt 7.117: Artachaees, the tallest soldier in Persia during the reign of Xerxes, was also supposedly four finger-breadths short of five royal cubits. On mercenaries in the archaic period see Kaplan 2002 and Trundle 2004. 4 Jarva 1995, esp. 111; see also review by van Wees (1997b). 5 Jarva 1995, 40 ff.; Tornkvist 1969; Snodgrass 1999, 57: ‘The bronze panoply of the hoplite was not, it seems, adopted universally or at once; for every warrior armed cap-à-pie there are several with only part of the equipment.’ 6 Lazenby and Whitehead 1996. Some scholars have followed the first-century BC historian Diodorus (15.44.3) in thinking that hoplite derives from hoplon, a type of shield, although he actually states that hoplites were so called after their aspides, the alternative word for shields, rather than hopla, perhaps trying to avoid the confusing plural of hoplon. 7 Anderson 1991, 17–18. Note here his revealing remark about Archilochus frg. 3: ‘Since the poet, quite exceptionally, gives the sword preference over the spear for close action, it is not clear that hoplites are involved . . .’ Anderson imagines that hoplites are to be defined, at least in their offensive capability, by the use of spears. 8 Anderson 1991, 22–3, from the visual evidence of painted pottery, estimates an average spear-length to have been about 8 feet (2.4 m). 9 Anderson 1991, 25–8; Hanson 1989, 165; but note the absence of spears in Alcaeus frg. 357 quoted above, p. 45. For early vase painting with long swords, see Snodgrass 1999, 58, but by the classical period the short-sword (machaira or kopis) is the most common second weapon for a hoplite (Snodgrass 1999, 97).

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10 See especially Cartledge 1977; Lorimer 1947; Salmon 1977; Snodgrass 1964; 1965; 1993; 1999; Hanson 1989, 65–71; 1991b; van Wees 2000, esp. 126–34. 11 This was certainly the view of later Greeks: in 421 BC, Aristophanes portrays the son of Cleonymus, an infamous coward, reciting the lines of Achilochus (frg. 6) to be told ‘you’ve disgraced your family’ (Peace 1298–304); cf. Critias frg. 295 West, B 44 ll. 396 D-K (= Aelian VH 10.13); Plut. Instit. Lac. 34.239b. 12 [Arist.] Oec. 1343b2–6; cf. Xen. Oec. 5.4–5; 6.6–7, 9–10; Vegetius 1.3. 13 On zeugitai as the hoplite class in Athens, see Whitehead 1981, but this has been questioned by van Wees 2001, who argues that other members of the community, richer and poorer that this property class were also hoplites. Note the qualification for inclusion on the katalogos, a list which was drawn up to oblige men to serve as hoplites, which was based on wealth, among other criteria; see MacDowell 1978, 160; Christ 2001, 405. It seems the case that anyone who possessed or could afford a panoply might be eligible (Luc. Tim. 51), which could well include the richer thetes. 14 Hanson 1995, 243. Of course, it must not be forgotten that phalanx is a word used extensively in the pre-hoplite Iliad to mean ‘row’ or ‘rank’ (Pritchett 4.22). Indeed, the richness of farming metaphor in Homeric descriptions of fighting demonstrates the immediacy of agricultural activity for the poet and his audience: ‘Like two lines of reapers who, facing each other, drive their course all down the wheat or barley for a man blessed in wealth, and swathes are cut and drop showering, so the Achaeans and Trojans cut men down in their drive against each other’ (Il. 11.67–70). Other examples include irrigation motifs: Il. 31.257–62, 346–7, 5.87–92, 16.384. Cf. Od. 7.112–30, 24.247; on actual irrigation practices see Hanson 1995, 60–3. Also note Il. 12.421–4, where two armies fighting across a battlement are compared to two farmers wrangling over boundary stones in a narrow plot of land; Il. 8.131, where routers are driven and penned like sheep; Il. 11.556 ff., where Aias is compared to a stubborn donkey eating in a cornfield, ignoring the blows of children. 15 Hdt. 7.9b.1, but see p. 88–90, for reservations. 16 e.g. Xen. Oec. 5.14; but cf. Xen. Cyn. 12.3, where hunting, mainly undertaken by aristocrats and their assistants, receives similar praise. 17 e.g. Thuc. 6.43. Van Wees (2001) notes that while it was only the zeugitai who could be obliged, this did not preclude volunteers from the thetic class. 18 The rate of metic-tax, metoikion, was one drachma a month for men, half for women, Harpocration s.v. metoikion; Whitehead 1977, 75–6, 101 n. 39. Whitehead calculates that this revenue was annually worth at least 20 talents. 19 Thuc. 1.143; [Xen.] Ath. Pol. 1.12; Whitehead 1977, 84–6. 20 [Dem.] 59.104 ff.; cf. Isoc. Plataikos 14.51 ff. According to the decree cited by Apollodorus, the Plataeans were to be distributed among the demes and tribes (but not the phratries, it seems). However, they appear to have stayed together and served as a distinct body of troops (if Thucydides’ casual reference to them in 4.67 is representative). See M. J. Osborne 1982, 11–15. 21 Similarly, once the Thirty Tyrants had confiscated the panoplies of Athenian hoplites, many fought as psiloi and stone-throwers as they moved from Phyle; Pritchett 1991, 54; Xen. Hell. 2.4.12–16. Cf. Thuc. 6.43 who notes that 120

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Megarian exiles served as psiloi on the Sicilian expedition. 22 Thuc. 5.32; Diod. 12.76.3; Isoc. 4.109. 23 e.g. Cartledge 1977; Detienne 1968; Hanson 1989. 24 Pritchett 4.22; cf. Bowden 1993; Latacz 1977; Raaflaub 1991, esp. 225–30. See p. 34–5. 25 Advanced by such scholars as Snodgrass (1965) and Salmon (1977). 26 See, for instance, Cartledge 1977, 15–16; Hanson 1995, 321: ‘The reactionary nature of hoplite warfare, the insular world of two columns colliding, explains why classical scholars can legitimately describe the environment within the phalanx, its activity on the battlefield, in nearly uniform terms throughout four centuries, even though the larger conduct of Greek warfare itself changed enormously in just that period.’ (Emphasis in original.) 27 On the o-thismos as a scrum-like phase of battle see, for instance, Hanson 1989, 68–9, 152–9, 171–84; Luginbill 1994. 28 For rear ranks acting as reserves rather than shoving see Krentz 1985b, 51–5, 61; 1994, 47; Goldsworthy 1997. 29 Pritchett 4.40 n. 136; though contra Pritchett, these shields seem no lighter than the linguistically identical aspides of the panoploi. 30 Two examples are the Perachora aryballos, Lorimer 1947, 93 fig. 7 – a helmetless archer kneels between a pipe-player and two hoplites who engage two opponents, an arrow is about to hit the first opponent; and a Proto-Corinthian aryballos in the Louvre, Rev. Arch. 78 (1921), 7 ff. fig. 1 = Lorimer 1947, 100 fig. 9d – a naked archer, but for a Corinthian helmet, kneels among hoplites fighting one another. I see no compelling reason to accept speculation that this should represent Paris and Achilles rather than a contemporary scene of panoploi and a gymne-s. 31 Snodgrass 1999, 57. Earlier, Snodgrass (1964, 136–9) had noted that Dark Age and archaic warrior grave-finds, including pairs of spearheads, are a positive if not decisive support for the visual evidence. 32 So for example on a Corinthian alabastron (Berlin 3148, Snodgrass 1964, pl. 33); also, on the Chigi vase (Villa Giulia 22679), two pairs of spears of different lengths, all with loops, rest behind two aspides on the immediate right of the handle, upper band. See van Wees 2000, 136, 158–9 n. 20. 33 Vos 1963, pls Va–b, VIb, VIII. A number of vases also show individual hoplites closely paired with archers, even running side by side (nos. 67, 124, 193, 373), pp. 72–3; cf. Snodgrass 1999, 83–4 and n. 53. 34 Snodgrass 1999, 67. Plate 38 shows an Attic black figure amphora (in the Staatlische Museum, Berlin) of hoplites kneeling, each with two spears, and archers shooting horizontally; i.e. at picked individual targets: Snodgrass 1999, 83–4 and n. 53. 35 Hdt. 6.112; Lazenby 1993, 67. A late archaic Attic red figure cup discovered at Vulci (= BM. Cat. E808, London), portrays a Scythian archer loosing arrows at a pair of hoplites. The first hoplite falls, while the second, with shield raised and spear in underarm grip, runs directly towards an arrow in flight. 36 So too van Wees 1995, 164, 176 n. 29.

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37 Munychia 403 BC, Xen. Hell. 2.4.15–16; Haliartus 395 BC, Xen. Hell. 3.5.20; Acarnanians in 389 BC, Xen. Hell. 4.6.11; Thebans in 377 BC, Xen. Hell. 5.4.52; Anderson 1991, 18–21; Cawkwell 1989, 376–8; Krentz 1985b. Cf. stone-throwing hoplites in Thuc. 4.43; Anderson (1970a, 35) notes that in the depiction of the siege on the fourth-century BC Nereid monument, defending hoplites throw stones both from the battlements and in the sally from the gates. 38 Boardman 1983, 27–33; van Wees 2000, 134, 135 fig. 8, 158 n. 17. While the scalloped sides may have contributed to the lightness of the shield, it is possible that they had the specific function in combat of entangling an enemy spear and even of potentially disarming the opponent with a twist of the shield. Such a move might have required more skill than the average hoplite was able or prepared to put into shield use, which accounts for the relative lack of popularity of these shields. It also presupposes a certain amount of freedom to move the shield within combat, perhaps incompatible with the classical syntaxia of phalanxmêlée. 39 e.g. the Perachora aryballos, Lorimer 1947, 93 fig. 7; Corinthian alabastron from Delos, Dugas 1928, 137 fig. 3 (alabastron 459); L. P. Rawlings 2000, 240 fig. 1: note the presence of a slinger who appears to have set aside his aspis and Corinthian helm, which rest in front of him. 40 A certain Sophanes ‘whirled’ his shield, perhaps in this fashion, when he went into battle at Plataea in 479, Hdt. 9.74; L. P. Rawlings 2000, 249. 41 Berlin aryballos, Berlin inv. 3773, see Lorimer 1947, 84 fig. 3; Dodona statuette, Berlin Misc. 7470.

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Chapter 4

The patterns of war

Warfare in the age of the hoplite It is often argued that the farmers of the phalanx ensured that ideological constraints were placed on hoplite warfare. The primacy of land in their ideology of protecting the oikos (the homestead) promoted battle, involving the clash of opposing phalanxes, as their main mode of conflict resolution (Hanson 1995, 221–89). Stephen Mitchell (1996, 97–8), for example, argues that most hoplite battles were fought for control of farmland, rather than waged in the mountain passes between city-states, because this was where farmer-hoplites derived the most motivation for combat. In such a view, the ethos of hoplite warfare was defensive, waged to the farmer’s dictum of ‘get off my land’. This became the collective and patriotic coercive, ‘get off our land’; a sentiment echoed in Aristophanes’ comic play Acharnians, where the chorus of old Acharnians claim, ‘We’ll not let up until we’ve stuck a reed (schoinos) in them, a sharp, distressing one, right to the hilt, so they’ll never again trample our vines’ (Ar. Ach. 230–2). The hoplite fought to preserve the patris, fatherland, the territory or farmland (cho-ra) of the polis as a whole, because it represented a contract between the individual and the collective to fight and die protecting the farm of any member of the phalanx. Thus the phalanx was a corporate organisation with collective responsibility to protect any and all of its members’ property. Of course, the ideology could not have been quite as defensive as has been characterised here, or wars would never have broken out. Furthermore, this view of the hoplite ethos as a farmer’s ethos is often combined with the notion of the over-specialisation of the phalanx, its lack of manoeuvrability and its dense formation of heavily armoured and shielded close-fighting infantry, to create a quite erroneous perception that the character of archaic and classical warfare was principally one of hoplite pitched battle. Indeed, it has been argued that the ideological and military investment of individuals and states in hoplite equipment was so great that, to all intents and purposes, phalanx-battle was warfare (Hanson 2000; Vernant 1980). Hoplites, because of the burden of

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their arms, were supposedly unsuited to other forms of combat, and some scholars have imagined that hoplites simply could not wage warfare in any way other than to march out and attempt to force the enemy to meet them on a flat plain where the opposing phalanxes could slug it out. Hoplite warfare has also been described by some modern scholars as agonal because of the seemingly rule-bound, even ritualised, nature of battle between opposing phalanxes. When the sources are examined closely, however, such modern views simply do not hold water. The patterns of warfare in this period are just as varied as they were in the Homeric poems, with raiding, skirmishing, deception and ambush being perpetrated by hoplites and nonhoplites, and we encounter campaigns varying in combat intensity and numbers of participants from handfuls of combatants to tens of thousands. The interpretation of some scholars that hoplite warfare was primarily agonal derives, in part, from the picture of Greek warfare that Herodotus, writing in the third quarter of the fifth century BC, produces as a speech of the Persian general Mardonius (c. 484 BC): As far as I have heard, the Greeks are pugnacious enough and start fights on the spur of the moment without sense or judgement to justify them. When they declare war on each other, they seek out the most attractive and most level territory and go down and have their fight on it – with the result that even the victors never get off without heavy losses; as for the losers – well, they’re wiped out. Now surely, as they all talk the same language, they ought to be able to find a better way of settling their differences: by negotiation, for instance, or an interchange of views – indeed, by anything rather than fighting. Or if it were really impossible to avoid coming to blows, they might at least employ the elements of strategy and look for a strong position to fight from. In any case, the Greeks, with their absurd notions of warfare, never even thought of opposing me when I led my army to Macedonia. (Herodotus 7.9b)

Greek warfare is portrayed as irrational to the Persian commander and more like a very bloody sporting event, where both sides, by arrangement, tried to have as fair a contest (ago-n) as possible, deliberately avoiding stratagem and the advantage of terrain. Yet there is a strong need to be suspicious of the statement that Herodotus gives to Mardonius (Krentz 1997, 60). In the campaign mounted by the Persians in 480–479 BC to conquer Greece, they were faced by Greek forces that attempted to gain every advantage that they could from terrain: at Thermopylae, Plataea, and even in the naval battles of Artemisium and Salamis (a form of warfare, incidentally, that Mardonius does not even suggest the Greeks knew about). Krentz (1985a) has demonstrated the fallacy of the statement about hoplite casualties: these generally seem to have been far lower than Mardonius implies. The Persian general is characterised on a number of other occasions as possessing a faulty understanding of the true situation (Hdt. 8.100, 9.41–3), and the final irony is the

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fact that he is killed in battle, fighting against Spartan hoplites (Hdt. 9.63). Advocates of agonal warfare and of Mardonius’ interpretation point to several examples of ritual conflict where both sides, by mutual agreement, decided to limit the nature of the conflict by imposing specific conditions on its conduct. Such ‘ritual’ warfare is exemplified by the agreement reported by Strabo of a prohibition against the use of missiles in a war (or possibly battle) fought between the Euboean communities of Chalcis and Eretria: These poleis (Eretria and Chalcis) were generally friendly to each other, and in their conflict over the Lelantine plain they did not completely discard this friendship so as to be unrestrained in their war (polemos), but instead they agreed to a number of limitations to their conduct of the contest (ago-n). This is also made clear in the stele set up in the Amarysia [temple of Artemis], and this states that long-range attacks [i.e. missiles] were to be forbidden. (Strabo 10.1.12)

Such gentlemen’s arrangements, it is argued, limited warfare to a few hours’ close quarter fighting and, while brutal and bloody in themselves, they generally minimised casualties and spared the majority of the population from the horrors of prolonged warfare (Hanson 1989, 36–7). However, the reliability of Strabo’s account has been questioned; the story of the treaty may in fact have been an invention of the fourth century historian Ephorus (Wheeler 1987). Indeed, the references to this very rule-bound behaviour are extremely slim and the numbers of examples of ritual battles, prescribed beforehand by formal agreement, are in fact rather limited.1 The most notorious are two agreements between Sparta and Argos relating to Thyrea. Thucydides (5.41), writing of negotiations in 420 BC, reports: At length, the Argive negotiators were able to persuade the Spartans to accept the following terms: there would be peace for fifty years, but each side should have the right, provided that there was not a plague or war in Sparta or in Argos, to issue a challenge to the other and decide the question of the disputed land by battle – as had occurred once in the past, when both sides had claimed they had won – no pursuit to be allowed across the frontiers of Argos or of Sparta. This idea seemed at first to the Spartans as simply a piece of foolishness, but they wanted friendly relations with the Argives at almost any price, and so they accepted the Argive proposals and had them drawn up in writing.

The terms of the treaty are striking. They allowed for either the Argives or the Spartans to challenge the others to pitched battle over Thyrea, provided that neither had a war or plague on their hands. This was presumably so that neither side could claim to have been distracted. Nor would excessive pursuit of the defeated be permitted, possibly to limit killing. The agreement seems to draw on an earlier precedent of a ritualised combat, the so-called Battle of the Champions, reported by Herodotus (1.82). In his account of this earlier

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(perhaps mid-sixth-century) dispute over Thyrea, three hundred men were picked from each side. They fought until nightfall, when all but two Argives had been killed. These men returned to their camp claiming victory on the grounds that only one Spartan, Othryades, had survived the day. He, however, remained on the field, stripped the enemy dead and raised a trophy. Othryades’ act of controlling the battlefield, the Spartans argued, ought to have meant that victory was theirs. So both sides disagreed over the result and resorted to a conventional battle in which the Spartans were victorious and gained control of the town. Such a story has parallels to a number of other tales of border disputes settled by heroic monomachiai, but these usually involve a single champion from each side; none were on such a mass scale as the Battle of the Champions.2 Such stories, however, tend to exist in order to give certain claims to disputed territory a legendary pedigree. Rather than reflecting historical agones, they are charter-myths, and perhaps we ought to be equally sceptical of the accounts of the Battle of Champions. It is, in fact, over a century later, in 420 BC, that the Argives get around to demanding the opportunity for a re-match. The second treaty (Thuc. 5.41) may have been inspired by the prominence of Herodotus’ account of the story of the Battle of the Champions, which was in circulation by the late 420s BC.3 It is not implausible to suggest that the conscience of the Argives had been pricked by the recent notoriety of the story.4 Thucydides mockingly portrayed the agreement as a Spartan humouring of the Argives (Thuc 5.41); to him it seemed a militarily irrational proposal. In fact, it appears never to have been ratified by the Argives at home and the negotiations were superseded by other events (Thuc. 5.44; Krentz 1997, 57–8). Nor did such theoretical consideration prevent the Argives from raiding Thyrea in a less than honourable fashion several years later (Thuc. 6.95, spring 414 BC). Indeed, the main point that Herodotus had made was that the first contest was indecisive and it needed a conventional battle to establish Spartan control of the region. So on both occasions the theoretical prominence of an agonal contest over Thyrea gave way to the less ritualised realities of warfare. Even if instances of agonal conflict actually had occurred, they may have been recorded precisely because they were unusual. It is quite clear that in the majority of the ancient accounts the conception of warfare is far from agonal (Krentz 2002). For one thing, rather than being banned, forces other than hoplites did have a role to play in warfare. Polycrates of Samos had a force of 1,000 archers, which he used to secure power (Hdt. 3.39, 45). The Peisistratids of Athens, judging by the frequency of representation of Scythian archers in Attic black figure ware, appear to have also recruited archers who were closely integrated into their military system.5 There are often very numerous finds of bronze arrowheads in archaic sanctuaries (Snodgrass 1999 [1967], 81 and n. 41) and of dedications of lead figure

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archers at Sparta (van Wees 2000, 152–3, 162 n. 52). Athens could also call on Thessalian allies for cavalry, who succeeded in repulsing a Spartan attack in 512 BC (Hdt. 5.63). In a war between Chalcis and Eretria, we hear of Thessalian cavalry under Cleomachus (Plutarch, Eroticus 760.42) playing a significant role against the Eretrian cavalry. Far from being a border dispute to be settled by a limited set of rules, the war waged by these rivals over the Lelantine plain is described by Thucydides (1.15) as having achieved the biggest polarisation of the Greek world and having involved the most allies prior to the Peloponnesian War itself.6 When necessary, therefore, intercommunity conflicts could draw in allies from other states. From around 550 BC onwards we see the Spartan construction of a league of allied states in the Peloponnese that recognised the authority of the Spartan kings in military affairs (Cawkwell 1993). Other states too formed alliances and lent aid to individuals and groups. Peisistratus eventually gained power in Athens with outside backing and a force of mercenaries. Indeed, he successfully defeated the Athenian army near the temple of Athena Pallenis in central Attica by attacking them while they were still having lunch – such a triumph by surprise attack was far from agonal, or unique.7 Nor was the character of warfare entirely dominated by battles. The forms of combat that Tyrtaeus described in his seventh-century poetry (see p. 54–5) perhaps, may not even have represented pitched battle but, rather, have been related to guerrilla or siege warfare, possibly reflecting the conditions of the conquest of Messenia in the seventh century BC.8 Yet this possibility implies hoplites undertaking activities, in the orthodox view, to which they were ideologically, tactically and technologically unsuited. Psammetichus’ ‘bronze men’, it may be remembered, appear to have originally been a band of freebooters acting in a way remarkably similar to the expedition to Egypt recounted by Odysseus (Od. 14.245–72; see p. 104–5). Although such men also served as mercenaries in the armies of the Pharaohs and others, it seems clear that the predatory warfare of the Iliad and Odyssey existed in the world of the hoplite. Thucydides noted that even in his own time, some regions of Greece continued such practices and regarded them as honourable pursuits (1.5–6; see p. 12, 152). In the early sixth century BC, the Athenian lawgiver, Solon, recognised the legal status of parties who banded together for the purpose of le-isteia, ‘raiding’.9 In other states, individuals dedicated part of their spoils from sula, ‘seizures’, at temples (Ormerod 1978 [1924], 100–1). Apparently, Polycrates of Samos would rather return booty plundered from an ally than not have his army plunder in the first place (Hdt. 3.39). In the immediate aftermath of the Ionian revolt, the Persians attempted to rein in such predatory activity (Hdt. 6.42), while almost a century later in 398/7 BC, Dercylidas besieged a stronghold of Chian exiles at Atarneus that was a base for raiding the Ionian cities (Xen. Hell. 3.2.11).

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Small-scale raiding might involve hoplites, perhaps equipped more lightly than for battle, though that is not an impression gained from the Psammetichus story. In such a light, some of the late archaic pottery evidence from Athens of archers and hoplites operating together can be interpreted. A number of the depictions appear to be of smaller operations such as skirmishes, ambushes and raids where their co-operation with hoplites armed with two spears would be appropriate to the conditions of combat.10 The fifth and fourth centuries were a period of alliances, firstly against the threat posed by the Persian Empire, but also in the context of an Athenian alliance that rapidly became an Aegean-wide empire. A series of Peloponnesian and Boeotian alliances challenged it and each other, producing extended periods of conflict and instability. Eventually, in the second half of the fourth century, these came to be overshadowed by the rise of Macedon under Philip II and Alexander III and the campaigns that conquered the Persian Empire (336–323 BC). Against this broader canvas, however, occurred a host of smaller-scale conflicts, raids and border-disputes involving individual or groups of poleis. The endemic violence of civilised and uncivilised parts of Greece alike was conceptually and descriptively unattractive for our sources, who usually preferred to describe the excitement, drama and seeming decisiveness of pitched battle. Nevertheless, the accounts of writers such Thucydides and Xenophon abound with examples of such low-level operations. They note many minor overland and sea-borne actions conducted by relatively small contingents of hoplites, perhaps numbering in their tens or hundreds. For instance, seventy exiles under Thrasybulus seized the Athenian fortress at Phyle in 403 BC, from which they conducted successful operations and collected other dissidents that numbered over 700.11 In 431 BC Brasidas was able to relieve the city of Methana with 100 hoplites (Thuc. 2.25) and in 424 BC he attempted to enter Megara with 300 hoplites (Thuc. 4.70). Our sources are not interested in describing the intricacies of these actions, so it is difficult to understand how hoplites operated in contexts where there were insufficient numbers present to make up a viable phalanx, or where the conditions of engagement (such as in sieges, street fighting or on ships; see p. 123–4, 139) did not allow such a formation. We have, therefore, to be aware of a variety of contexts in hoplite warfare. The important point is to realise that hoplites were not wedded to the phalanx. They could fight in other contexts when necessary, just as they could fight together in the phalanx. Nor were hoplites the only participants in war, light infantry and cavalry were often active participants, both in battles and other forms of operation on campaign.

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The nature of campaign We are given some information about the everyday experience of campaigning in the classical period, and although this is often made up of little more than passing references made by contemporary sources, we can nevertheless come to a limited understanding of the strategic and logistical issues confronting armies on campaign. Leon of Thurii, on the long and difficult march of the Ten Thousand, exclaimed: ‘Well, I, for my part, comrades, am tired of packing up and walking and running and carrying my arms and being in line and standing guard and fighting. What I long for now is to be rid of these toils’ (Xen. Anab. 5.1.2). Although it is rarely stated in such terms by our sources, a considerable proportion of any campaign would have been taken up with marching, foraging and ravaging, or with garrison, picket or sentry duties, or participation in sieges. Very rarely, in fact, did a major battle occur: often not at all, but at most only once or twice in a campaigning season. The purpose of a war will often influence the military objectives on campaign. In wars of territorial conquest, military objectives tend to focus on destroying the enemy’s capacity to resist through pitched battle, sieges, or overawing them militarily so that the threat of destruction leads to surrender. In predatory warfare, if the raiding party feels confident and is strong enough, then an engagement might be sought because of the possible acquisition of captives, armour and other booty. In general, however, when plundering is the sole military objective, the avoidance of battles that the raiders might be ill-suited to fight can be a central aim. In border disputes and titfor-tat raiding, such predatory practices may have been common, but once matters escalated, communities might commit their phalanxes to the field of battle in order to assert their power. In such cases, invading forces actively sought pitched battle, and they frequently resorted to coercive devastation in the form of attacking cities, border towns or forts, as well as the deliberate ravaging of crops in order to provoke battle. These were the Peloponnesian tactics during the Archidamian invasions: threatening and indeed destroying crops in an attempt to draw the Athenians into battle (see p. 146–9). The Athenians, however, were restrained by the strategy advocated by Pericles (Thuc. 1.143; Krentz 1997). They avoided marching out and facing the full force of the Peloponnesian League in a pitched battle that would have resulted in a crushing defeat. Some communities did seek a decisive resolution to their differences with their enemies and this might involve quite a large percentage of the adult male population marching out to war. In very major campaigns, such as against the Persians, this proportion might be practically every able-bodied man. At Plataea, the Athenians had 8,000 hoplites (Hdt. 9.28–9); in the

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Second Peloponnesian War they could put 13,000 into the field, with another 16,000 young and old, and metics for garrison duties around Athens itself (Thuc. 2.13). In 430 BC: As autumn approached the Athenians invaded the Megarid with their whole levy (pande-mei), resident foreigners [metics] included; they were commanded by Pericles, son of Xanthippus. Those Athenians who, in a hundred ships, were returning home from their circumnavigation of the Peloponnese had just reached Aegina, and hearing that the citizen body was at Megara in full force, sailed over and joined them. This army was undoubtedly the largest the Athenians ever assembled; the state was still at the apogee of her strength and had yet to be struck down by the plague. Over ten thousand hoplites were on campaign, all Athenian citizens, besides the three thousand who were besieging Potidaea. Also those metics who joined in the expedition numbered at least three thousand; and there was also a multitude of light troops. They devastated most of the territory before retiring. The Athenians afterwards annually raided the Megarid during the war, on some occasions only with cavalry, but on others with all their forces. (Thucydides 2.31)

In 459 BC, with Athenian forces committed in Egypt and in the siege of Aegina, the Corinthians calculated that the Athenians were over-stretched and invaded Megara, at that time an ally of Athens. However, they were met by a muster of those normally too old or young to campaign that marched out under Myronides, who in two engagements bettered the Corinthians (Thuc. 1.105; Lys. Funeral Oration 2.49–53). Clearly the Athenians were pushed to their limits in this particular year, and while not normally willing to commit every last man in the city, they nevertheless had a large enough population to be able to undertake simultaneous campaigns in different theatres. Smaller cities, in order to stand a chance against more powerful enemies, might have to commit most of their adult male citizens to campaign. The Plataeans, for example, sent 1,000 hoplites to the battle of Marathon in 490 BC: ‘every available man’, says Herodotus.12 Four years earlier, the 6,000 Argives who fought the Spartans at Sepeia probably represented an almost full muster (Hdt. 7.148) and their annihilation was an enormous military and demographic blow that, according to Herodotus, led to political change in the city.13 At the upper end, then, the armies of major states could muster thousands of hoplites. For allied armies, the numbers could be much greater. At Nemea, in 394 BC, those facing the Spartans numbered 24,000 hoplites, 1,550 cavalry and an unspecified number of light infantry, psiloi (Xen. Hell. 4.2.16–17), while at Plataea (479 BC), Herodotus (9.28–9) puts the Greek army at 38,700 hoplites. Most armies would be accompanied by light forces and cavalry, often marginalised in our battle accounts, but nevertheless present. Herodotus (9.29) added 35,000 helot psiloi and 34,500 other Greek

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light troops to the hoplites at Plataea, about 110,000 men in all. At Delium the Boeotians brought 10,500 light troops and 1,000 cavalry to the field in addition to their 7,000 hoplites (Thuc. 4.93). Armies did not just consist of fighting men. There would also be heralds (kerykes), traders, slaves to carry packs and perhaps even participate in combat,14 camp-followers and prostitutes, as well as herds of pack animals and sacrificial animals with their shepherds.15 Such armies on the march could stretch out in columns covering many miles. In open terrain this might not prove to be too much of a problem; however, marching columns might have also to negotiate choke points such as bridges, defiles and narrow passes, which would slow movement and extend the line even further. These positions would be ideal for ambush, but it has sometimes been argued that, on the whole, Greek armies had little fear of ambush or harassment. Ober (1991, 174–9) has even suggested that rival states colluded in constructing military roads that gave better access to one another’s territory. Some scholars have thought that hoplites regularly refused to gain advantage through ambush, since opponents might have regarded apate- (deception) as invalidating the result of such action, and could have caused them to continue the conflict beyond the supposedly decisive victory. They imagine that borders were left deliberately unguarded in order to allow invaders to enter the plains and make fair challenges. However, as with many assumptions connected with the agonal model, the frequency of examples to the contrary calls such assertions into question. Xenophon, in the Memorabilia (3.5.25–7), makes Socrates recommend to Pericles the Younger that psiloi should be sent to the Boeotian border. In his manual On Hunting (Cynegeticus) Xenophon recommends that the state employ those skilled in hunting, who would be used to moving and using weapons across rough terrain and could exploit their intimate local knowledge for ambushes (Cyn. 12.1–9). Similarly Aeneas Tacticus, in his treatise On the Defence of Fortified Positions (9.1, 16.16–19, cf. 8.4), recognised that one of the best ways to avoid siege is to make it as difficult as possible for the enemy to get to the city by harassing them as they enter the territory. Along with recommendations by such fourth-century theorists are actual instances of harassment, the use of terrain and the control of passes by defenders throughout the fifth and fourth centuries. A few examples will suffice to demonstrate this point. In 480 BC, the Greeks collectively resolved to prevent the Persians from entering Thessaly by sending an army of 10,000 hoplites and cavalry to Tempe (Hdt. 7.173). They discovered, however, that the pass could be turned, and so they were forced to withdraw south, abandoning Thessaly and later reassembling at Thermopylae. There they repaired an old wall that had been used by the Phocians to block Thessalian incursions, disused now that Thermopylae was

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no longer part of their territory (Hdt. 7.176; McInerney 1999, 79–80, 333–9). This wall formed a focal point for the Greeks’ resistance to the army of Xerxes, and was only abandoned when the Persians discovered, through a local sympathiser, an alternative, if difficult route to the rear. The 1,000 Phocian troops detailed to guard this lesser pass failed to put up adequate resistance when confronted by an elite Persian force ten times their number (‘the Immortals’), and so Thermopylae was turned (Hdt. 7.218). At some point before the Persian Wars, the Phocians had been more successful against local rivals. They had booby-trapped a pass near Hyampolis, burying wine-jars in a trench to break the legs of Thessalian cavalry.16 After the failure to hold Thermopylae against the Persians, the Peloponnesians fortified a wall at the end of the Isthmus near Corinth (Hdt. 8.71). The Megarid, the main land conduit between the Peloponnese and the rest of Greece, was often strongly guarded at either end. There were fortifications at Pagae and Nisaea, and a network of smaller forts and early warning posts throughout the eastern Megarid (built at some point (or points) during the classical period, van de Maele 1992). The battle of Tanagra in 457 BC occurred because the Athenians wished to take advantage of a Spartan army stranded in Boeotia. They were unable to return to the Peloponnese because the Athenians controlled the routes over Geraneia and through the Megarid (Thuc. 1.107–8). Other places in Greece were also garrisoned to prevent the passage of armies. Mantitheus (394 BC, Lysias 16.16) refers to being sent with a taxis, a division of the Athenian army, to interdict the route that Agesilaus might take past Corinth. When Cleombrotus, in 376 BC, failed to force the Athenian and Theban-held pass at Cithaeron (Xen. Hell. 5.4.59), his reputation suffered, because previously, Agesilaus had twice managed to invade Boeotia by this route.17 If an army was inclined to force a bottleneck and was willing to suffer the casualties that might result, then it was often successful. The Spartan army that invaded Corinth via Epieicia in 394 BC suffered many casualties from missiles and arrows from enemy psiloi until it had forced its way through the high ground and descended into the plain (Xen. Hell. 4.2.14–15). In the following year, the Spartans fortified Epieicia to protect the territory of their allies from Corinthian expeditions moving in the opposite direction (Xen. Hell. 4.4.13). A force might also enjoy success when its attack was not expected or when a strategic position was lightly or laxly guarded; thus Brasidas forced a bridge over the Strymon with a surprise attack during a stormy night (424/3 BC, Thuc. 4.103). On prolonged campaigns, marching through neutral territory might be problematic. Thucydides noted how difficult it was for armies to pass through Thessaly unescorted by local allies, and entering any neutral territory without a prior agreement produced suspicion (Thuc. 4.78). He makes

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the point that Brasidas would not have been able to complete his journey to Thrace were it not for his skill in negotiating a way through territory that had, up to that point, been generally favourable to Athens. It was also the case that the swiftness of his march prevented a force assembling to oppose him in the territories through which he passed (Thuc. 4.79). Armies that comprised mainly infantry might, in a day, travel anywhere from a couple of miles up to about twenty, depending on their degree of organisation and amount of baggage, the conditions of the terrain and weather, and the needs of the situation. This upper limit has been calculated for the army of Alexander in his forced march from Gaza to Pelusium (Engels 1978, 153–6 table 7; Arrian 3.1.1); in general, his army moved at a rate nearer to twelve to thirteen miles per day. Alexander often surprised and disheartened his enemies with the speed of his progress,18 but less welltrained and organised forces were not so effective at moving swiftly and their daily rates of advance were likely to have been far closer to the lower end of the scale. The progress of most armies, therefore, was relatively slow and predictable to defenders who, should they be so minded, were usually capable of organising some form of reception, be it the blocking of passes or the mobilisation of the full levy of the polis in the field. Cavalry forces might go at a much quicker rate for limited amounts of time, perhaps as much as fifty miles per day,19 and this made them particularly effective in raiding the enemy or engaging in opportunistic hit-and-run harassment.20 Logistics Logistics is the mobilisation of resources: human, financial and material. Massed battle, essentially involving the manpower of whole communities, sometimes appeared necessary for a clean resolution of issues under dispute, but it is clear that a desire to bring the enemy to battle as quickly as possible was as much a logistic as a strategic issue. Most poorer hoplites, being fulltime farmers, were effectively an agricultural militia, and since campaigns often occurred at the time of harvest, their concerns were with returning home to gather their own crops as much as with winning the campaign. Often an effective means of coercing an enemy into battle was through the devastation of crops, or at least persuading the enemy that such an attempt was a serious threat to their agricultural resources. However, armies also often needed to feed themselves from what they could seize. In the Archidamian War the invasions of Attica in 431, 430, 428, 427 and 425 lasted little more than a month, even with access to Athenian croplands. The invasion of 425 lasted fifteen days because the crops were unripe.21 Such short campaigns point to the twin pressures of a concern with their domestic harvest and the inadequacy of their logistical organisation. In the first inva-

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sion of Attica of the Peloponnesian War (431 BC), the Peloponnesians had assembled each ‘with rations appropriate to a foreign campaign’ (Thuc 2.10; Pritchett. 1.32–4), but this evidently did not to allow them to remain in Attica indefinitely. When we do hear of the amount of rations being brought, they are for but a few days at a time. The Athenian farmer Dicaeopolis characterised a thirty-year peace treaty as one where he will never hear the shout to ‘get your three-days’ rations!’ (Ar. Ach. 197; cf. Wasps 243; Peace 312), presumably the amount of food a soldier might have been told to bring when marching out to battle. It was generally the case that supplies were taken by individuals, as their resources allowed. Mantitheus claimed that when assembling for a campaign to Haliartus (395 BC), he had recommended that the better off should make up the deficiencies in supply among the poorer citizens. He himself gave thirty drachmas apiece to two of his fellow soldiers (Lys. 16.14, cf. 31.15). The gift of money, rather than provisions per se, was so that the men could either buy supplies before they began their march, or, perhaps spend it on purchasing food on campaign. Large armies could be likened to moving cities, and this parallel for the Greeks was not unrecognised. Nicias addressed his demoralised troops on their retreat from Syracuse saying, ‘see yourselves, note the hoplites marching in your ranks, and do not despair. You must understand that you become a city wherever you sit down, and that there is no other in Sicily that could easily defend itself against your attack, or expel you once established’ (Thuc. 7.77; cf. Xen. Anab. 5.6.15). Unlike cities, however, armies do not have a wellestablished transport infrastructure or a regular point of collection for produce. Indeed, hostile armies tend to be avoided by those with produce to sell, although the practice of establishing a market (agora) and trading with friendly locals was one favoured by the Greeks.22 This often meant that negotiations were conducted and requests for markets and supplies were made along the line of advance, prior to the army setting out. Agesilaus in 396 BC ordered the cities on the route from his base at Ephesus into Caria to organise markets, knowing that this would deceive the Persians into thinking that he intended to invade the region (Xen. Hell. 3.4.11–12; Polyaenus, Strat. 2.1.9). Alexander the Great (Engels 1978, 120) preferred to organise supplies in advance, marching to provisions rather than expecting them to be brought overland along ‘lines of communication’. Negotiations with locals could be accompanied by the threat that the advancing army might take what it needed by force. Xenophon made this clear to ambassadors from Sinope: ‘When we come to a place where we are given no chance to buy food, whether it is a barbarian or a Greek country, we take our supplies, not from wanton aggression (hybris) but due to necessity’ (Xen. Anab. 5.5.16). Several years of planning went into readying the Persian army and its

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logistical infrastructure for the invasion of Greece. Bases and supply depots were constructed along the route of the march (Hdt. 7.20, 25), and a canal was even cut through the isthmus of Athos (Hdt. 7.22–3). The reasons for this emphasis on advance planning (particularly in the campaigns by the Persians, who were conditioned to the topography of Asia, where distances between meaningful objectives could be much further than in Greece itself) become obvious when the practicalities of transporting rations are considered. Modern calculations have indicated that an army of 10,000 men was likely to consume around 15 tonnes (30,000 lb) of provisions each day, not including water (Engels 1978, 123–6); for the Persian army, numbering perhaps over 200,000 men, these requirements would have been vast.23 Pack animals consume more than men do, and although they might acquire some of this through grazing, it might not have been a viable option in poor terrain or when the army was trying to move swiftly. If a mule had to carry its own fodder, then it is likely to have consumed its own load in eight to ten days, with nothing carried for the troops in this time (Engels 1978, 128 and n. 126). A mule or a packhorse might, on average, carry 200 lb, so an army of 10,000 might consume the loads of 150 pack animals in a single day. At Plataea, the Persians captured a supply train of 500 mules and ‘men with wagons’ bringing food from the Peloponnese (Hdt. 9.39), perhaps no more than a couple of days’ supply for the 100,000 or so Greek soldiers assembled there. Wagons could carry much more food and equipment (perhaps in the region of 1,000–1,200 lb for a two-ox cart, Engels 1978, 15 n. 15), but their mobility was limited to roads and trackways; they were practically useless across rough country. Xenophon argued that the Ten Thousand should burn their wagons so that ‘our oxen shall not be our officers, but we will be able to march wherever it is best for the army’. (Xen. Anab. 3.2.27). Moreover, the average speed of oxen is two miles per hour, much slower than infantry, and their working day is around five hours (Engels 1978, 15 n. 15). So the notion that an army on the move might be supplied overland along ‘lines of communication’ from a base somewhere in the rear is not particularly viable, as the supplies might never catch up with a column on the move. If an army remained in one area, it could draw supplies from well-stocked bases, but without these it might soon exhaust the food available from local markets (Xen. Anab. 5.1.6). Even if it could gather all available food through violence and foraging, it might be faced with starvation within a few weeks (Engels 1978, 121). Thucydides rationalised the duration of the Trojan War on just these terms: the force of 1,200 Achaean ships was so large that it created supply problems (Thuc. 1.11). The Greeks could only keep part of their force in the field; the rest worked the land to grow food. The Iliad mentions supply issues: Achilles raided twenty-three nearby towns for booty

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(Il. 9.329–30), including cattle for the army (20.90–2, 21.35–8), while supplies of wine were brought in by ships from Lemnos, providing the opportunity for the soldiers to exchange their booty for it (7.466–75, 9.71). There were even men appointed to oversee the distribution of rations (19.44; Pritchett 1.30–1). Foraging directly from the land itself was only successful when crops were available (ripe enough) to eat.24 Early springtime was particularly difficult because of the endemic problem facing pre-industrial communities of winter stocks running low; indeed, pre-harvest, starvation rations were often on the menu for many farmers.25 Foraging in friendly territory was often politically difficult. In hostile territory, foragers who were dispersed about the countryside were vulnerable to enemy cavalry and light infantry.26 Often the ease of foraging would dictate the route and timing of a march. The reason why Alexander did not pursue Darius after Issus was probably because the Persians had already consumed most of the available produce along their escape route during their original advance. Cities on that route, faced with feeding a Macedonian army as well, may have closed their gates and risked siege rather than guarantee starvation for their populations. Instead, therefore, he chose to march along the coast, taking cities and moving on to conquer Egypt, before attending to Darius in the following year. In his conquest of the Eastern Mediterranean coast, Alexander generally benefited from access to supplies from the sea. Compared with land transportation, merchant ships could carry, on average, about 200 tonnes, while the largest might carry twice that (Thuc. 7.25); a single ship could feed an army (depending on its size of course) for several days. In good weather, cargo ships relying on sail might be capable of travelling fifty miles in a day (Casson 1995 [1971], 292–6). It was therefore quicker and often easier to transport supplies by sea than primarily by land. There was, however, a need to protect supply ships from pirates and enemy warships. Each trireme assigned to this duty, with its crew of 200, would, however, also need supplying. A squadron of triremes could make severe inroads into a supply fleet’s cargo. However, with the strategic mobility available to ships, they could travel some distance to pick up supplies and bring them to an army. This logistical practice involved the close co-operation of large land and naval forces for mutual protection and supply (symparapleia, ‘a sailing along the coast with’).27 Trireme crews needed to come ashore regularly to cook, eat and sleep, or to haul up ships to protect them from storms, and in the absence of friendly bases, an army could provide greater security than relatively small numbers of marines (Diod. 11.20.3). Very large armies wishing to reap the benefits of naval synergy were obviously restricted to advancing along coasts and rivers. This made their routes of march fairly predictable

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and they were subject to being held by defenders at bottlenecks. To oppose the symparapleia of the Xerxes expedition, the Greeks mounted a combined operation of a land force at the pass of Thermopylae, covered by a fleet stationed at Artemisium. The vast fleet and army of the Persians were delayed for several days by a much smaller force that was willing to make a stand at this strong position. As we saw earlier, however, the pass was turned and the resistance of the rearguard at Thermopylae, under Leonidas, king of Sparta, was overwhelmed (see p. 71–2). The loss of supply ships for large forces moving along or near to the coast could be potentially disastrous. The defeat of a war-fleet, or its destruction in a storm, might mean supplies falling into enemy hands and the army starving. According to Aeschylus’ play The Persians (480–95), after the naval defeat at Salamis, many Persian land troops succumbed to hunger on their long march back to Asia. If ships were delayed on a march by bad weather and missed their rendezvous with the army, this could also spell disaster. This happened to the army of Alexander as it moved through the Gedrosian desert. Advance supply dumps (importantly, water) were not established by the fleet, which had been delayed at Pattala on the River Indus by the monsoons (Engels 1978, 112–15). The march of the army became one where ‘The blazing heat and the lack of water caused innumerable casualties, especially among the animals, most of which died of thirst or from the effects of the deep burning, sun-baked sand . . . Often they were killed deliberately by the men, who used to get together and agree to slaughter the mules and horses, whenever supplies gave out, and then eat the flesh’ (Arrian 6.24–5). According to Plutarch (Alexander 66.4), only a quarter of the original land army came through this terrible ordeal. Conclusion The relatively brief duration of many ancient campaigns appears to have been due to the undeveloped nature of ancient supply procurement and the limitations of ancient transportation. Clearly one reason why invading armies might seek out the enemy and coerce them into fighting a pitched battle, by ravaging their land if necessary, was the fact that supplies were limited. The alternatives were dispersing or withdrawing to sources of supply, or, when far from home, sometimes facing starvation. The importance of farmland to many hoplites ought not to lead us into thinking that they had agreed an agonal system of rules and rituals with their enemies. While there were undoubtedly psychological and ideological factors at play (see p. 48–53, 63), attackers were tempted to the plains because they provided the most abundant sources of forage, while defenders often

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marched out to save their farms and livelihoods from devastation (see p. 148). Furthermore, wars did not inevitably lead to hoplite battles on the plains. Not all actions undertaken by Greek states were considered to be significant enough to be resisted by the full muster of a city’s phalanx. Often the use of force was proportional and a polis might risk less of its population and operate for limited objectives that did not necessarily need to end in a pitched battle between community-sized phalanxes. For instance, during the winter of 420/19, the Argives and Epidaurians fought no pitched battles but conducted a number of raids and ambushes that caused casualties on both sides (Thuc. 5.56). In 416, the Corinthians made attacks upon the Athenians because of private quarrels, while the Spartans declared that, although their treaty with the Athenians remained in force, nevertheless any of their people who wished to could raid the Athenians. This was by way of reprisal for Athenian depredations launched from their base at Pylos (Thuc. 5.115). At times, however, such tit-for-tat exchanges could become rather more serious and escalate into all-out war (see p. 12, 15, 30–1). When such raiding and counter-raiding escalated, so that communal responsibility became an issue, then larger expeditions might be mounted, perhaps involving the whole citizen phalanx, or indeed the combined armies of several allied poleis. Thus, according to the Oxyrhynchus Historian,28 a dispute between Phocis and Locris over land and grazing rights escalated into the Boeotian War, waged between Sparta and her allies and Athens, Thebes and its Boeotian League.29 Just as the causes and the aims of conflicts varied, so did the methods of conducting them. Notes 1 Contra Garlan 1976. Just because there were recurring disputes over certain border territories does not make them ritual, in any way more than the FrancoPrussian/German disputes over Alsace-Lorraine. 2 Athenian Melanthius versus Boeotian Xanthus: see Vidal-Naquet 1986, 108 for discussion and references. Pittacus versus Phrynon: see Will 1955, 381–3. Dergmenus versus Pyraichmes: see Pritchett 4.18; L. P. Rawlings 2000, 240. On monomachia generally see Pritchett 4.16–21; Armstrong 1950. 3 The opening of Herodotus’ Histories had been parodied by the Athenian comic playwright Aristophanes in 425 BC, Ach. 515 ff. 4 Cf. Kelly (1974), who argues that it was not until 421 that the Argives showed any interest in the recovery of Cynouria. 5 Although the representations of Scythian archers decline after 490 BC, the Athenians nevertheless maintained a corps of archers in the classical period: Plut. Them. 14. Thuc. 2.13: in 430 BC Athens had 1,600 foot archers (toxotai), and some horse archers (hippotoxotai), cf. 5.84; 6.94. 6 Blakeway (1936, 47 ff.) argued that the allies became involved because of the

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8 9 10

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wide-ranging nature of the maritime activities of both Chalcis and Eretria, a suggestion followed by Jeffery (1976, 65). Proclus, in the scholia to Hesiod’s Works and Days 650, says that Amphidamas of Chalcis died in a naval battle against the Eretrians: West 1966, 43. Pallene 546 BC, Hdt. 1.63; cf. Syracuse 413 BC, Thuc. 7.39–41; Polyaenus 5.13.2, 5.32.1, 2; a stratagem attributed also to Iphicrates, Frontinus 3.1.6; Polyaenus 3.9.53. See Krentz 2000, 183–200; Pritchett 2.156–76. Cf. Schol. on Arist. Nic. Eth. 1116a36; p. 164 Heyl.; Anderson 1991, 16; Snodgrass 1964, 181; Hammond 1950, 51 n. 50. Gaius, Dig. 47.22.4; Pritchett 5.325–6; L. P. Rawlings 2000, 234–5. Vos 1963, plate VIII does indeed appear to represent an ambush; the Scythian stands in front of five hoplites that crouch in vegetation holding pairs of spears and shields. Xen. Hell. 2.4.2–5; cf. Thuc. 4.47 for another example of hoplites involved in stasis. Hdt. 6.108; 1,000 men according to Nepos Miltiades 5.1; Plut. Mor. 305b; Paus. 10.20.2, cf. 4.25.5; Suda s.v. Hippias; Justin 2.9. Hdt. 6.77–83; cf. Plut. Mor. 223a–c, 245c–f; Paus. 2.20.8–10, 3.4.1, 3.10.1; Arist. Pol. 1303a; and see Kiechle 1960; Willetts 1959. See the bold theory of Hunt 1998. See Engels 1978, 11 and n. 1 for the extensive range of people who accompanied the army of Alexander the Great. Hdt. 8.28. For discussion of obstacles and traps planted by defenders, see Hanson 1998 [1983], 110–12. Xen. Hell. 6.4.5; cf. Xen. Hell. 5.4.36–7, 378 BC; 5.4.47–9, 377 BC, where he also deceived the Thebans into blocking the route into Boeotia via Thespiae but, instead, entered with a forced march via Erythrae. Diod. 4.5; Arr. 1.4.3, 1.7.5, 3.17.4, 3.25.7, 7.28.3; Curtius 5.7.1, 7.4.1; Engels 1978, 23. Engels 1978, 155; cf. Spence (1993, 36–9), who notes an example of an overnight advance by Athenian cavalry of roughly sixty miles (96 km), Xen. Hell. 7.5.15. Spence 1993, 135–6: raids; 127–32: ‘mobile defence’; see also Spence 1990. In 429 Attica was avoided because of plague in Athens, and in 426 there was an earthquake. No invasions were launched from 424–421 because of Spartiate prisoners held by Athens. See p. 82. e.g. Xen. Anab. 4.8.8, 5.5.18, Macronians set up an agora; cf. 4.8.23, 5.5.14, Trapezian agora. See 3.2.21 on the inflation of prices and profiteering by traders at such army-markets. On the size of the Persian army and fleet, as well as the logistics involved, see Lazenby 1993, 90–7. Note also that local foods might upset those who sample them; some of the Ten Thousand became nauseous and acted in a drugged fashion for several days after eating honey in Colchis, Xen. Anab. 4.8.20–1. On malnutrition and hunger see Garnsey 1999. Xen. Hipparch 7.4–15 gives advice on how to attack foragers; Hanson 1998, 122–8; Spence 1990.

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27 Symparapleia: e.g. Diod. 11.5.1 (Xerxes’ army and navy advances together to Acanthus, cf. Hdt 7.121); 11.20.3 (the Carthaginians advance on Himera where their fleet and army set up two camps); 11.77.1 (Persian land and sea forces move from Cilicia to Egypt along the Syrian and Phoenician coast; cf. 15.41.4 for a similar operation); 13.86.5 (Punic force numbering 30,000 infantry and 5,000 cavalry is accompanied by thirty ships); 14.21.2 (Cyrus sets out for Syria with his army, ordering the admirals to accompany him by sea with all the ships); 14.56.2 (Himilco’s army marches towards Messena, his ships sailing along the coast beside him); 14.59.3–7 (both Carthaginian and Greek fleets advance accompanying their armies. Mago’s fleet consists both of ‘ships with rams’ and ‘merchantmen’, 59.7); 14.100.2 (Dionysius advances against Rhegium with land and sea forces that then separate for raiding). 28 Hell. Oxy. 18 (13). 3, (trans. in Oxy. Pap. 5, London 1908) p. 231; cf. Paus. 3.9.9 ff. 29 Cf. Diodorus 14.81; Xen. Hell. 3.5.3; Lys. 26; Sealey 1976, 389, 398 n. 2; cf. also the dispute between Megara and Corinth that sparked the ‘First’ Peloponnesian war: Thuc. 1.103, 105; Plut. Cim. 17.

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Chapter 5

Battlefield engagements in the age of the hoplite

While 200,000 Greek and Persian soldiers were facing one another at Plataea, Mardonius, the Persian commander, sent a herald to the Spartans with the message: Your reputation led us to expect that you would issue us a challenge . . . but as you have sent none, we will ourselves make it: why should we not fight with equal numbers on both sides, you as champions of Greece and us as champions of Asia? Then, if it seems a good thing that the rest should fight as well, let them do so after we have finished; otherwise, let it be settled between us, and let the victor be considered to have won the battle for the whole army. (Herodotus 9.48)

When he received no reply, Mardonius was elated ‘by his empty victory’ (9.49). We have seen in the previous chapter (p. 64) how Mardonius had imagined that the Greeks fought battles by mutual arrangement and how his view has been drawn upon by a number of modern commentators to suggest that Greek warfare was agonal. Clearly, however, Herodotus intended his readers to see that Mardonius’ expectations of Greek warfare were unrealistic, and even his fellow Persians thought that he had said ‘silly things’ about them (Hdt. 7.9g). His challenge to the Spartans, then, was little more than an expression of vainglory so absurd and impractical as to not even merit a response. Some scholars have argued that in reality, ‘battles were fought as if they had been arranged’, because the movement of armies was often slow and predictable, which meant that at some point along their advance, they encountered defenders who had resolved to meet them in combat.1 In such contexts, where both sides appeared ready to risk themselves in an open encounter, what usually followed was a pitched battle of opposing hoplite phalanxes (parataxis or ek paraskeue-s mache-, Pritchett 4.45) augmented by contingents of cavalry and light infantry (psiloi). Although armies might set out to engage one another directly, forces gathered for battle might not immediately fight, and, indeed, might not come to blows at all. When, for example, Agesilaus deployed his army opposite the

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walls of Mantinea in the winter of 370 BC, the enemy refused to meet him, and he left after three days (Xen. Hell. 6.5.20).2 At Plataea (479 BC, Hdt. 9.41) there was a delay of ten days, while at Olpae (426 BC, Thuc. 3.107) both sides waited five days before deploying for battle. (Pritchett 2.153–5) Sometimes this is explained by the need to obtain favourable omens (e.g. Hdt. 9.36–7; see p. 190–2). Nevertheless, delays were often due to some jockeying for a physical advantage in terrain, or a psychological manipulation of morale or the expectations of the enemy. So at Plataea, after being heartened by their success in resisting a major attack on the defensive positions at Erythrae (Hdt. 9.20–4), the Greeks tried to secure the spring of Gargaphia, (9.25), but the Persians made repeated attacks and eventually successfully spoiled the water supply (9.49). This prompted the Greeks to attempt to withdraw back towards another source of water, but their overnight manoeuvres (9.52–7) created a discontinuity in their lines that encouraged the Persians to launch an all-out attack. There were clearly also attempts to gain as much advantage as possible. It was, of course, hard to organise and co-ordinate the movement of very large bodies of men. The instances of successful stratagem and deception in battles were relatively rare, simply because there were many variables in their execution. Indeed, in some cases stratagems might do more harm than good. At Syracuse, during an initially successful night attack on the Syracusan forces based on Epipolae, the Athenians began to lose cohesion in the moonlight, and in their confusion, many parts of the army ended up falling upon each other, friend against friend and citizen against citizen, not only causing panic amongst themselves, but actually fighting hand to hand and only being parted with difficulty. The way down from Epipolae was only a narrow one, and in the retreat many men lost their lives by throwing themselves down the cliffs. (Thucydides 7.44)

Of course, when successful, such stratagems might win a battle. In 425 BC, a surprise dawn attack on the island of Sphacteria by Athenian hoplites secured a beachhead against the Spartan garrison, which allowed the landing of a large number of archers and peltasts (Thuc. 4.31–2). Despite the Spartan wish to close with the Athenian hoplites, they were prevented by the threat to the flanks and rear posed by the light troops, who subjected them to continual harassment with missiles (4.32–4). Confounded and exhausted by these tactics, the Spartans retreated to their fortress and fiercely resisted Athenian attacks until a force of archers and peltasts found an unguarded route to their rear (4.35–6). Unlike the valiant fight to the death of the 300 Spartans who had been surrounded by Persians at Thermopylae, the 292 hoplites at Pylos surrendered (Thuc. 4.38). Although losers might cry foul – ‘a theft of war’, as the Spartans are supposed to have regarded this defeat

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(Paus. 1.13.5) – nevertheless there was frequent admiration for those who successfully gained a strategic or tactical advantage over their enemies before or during battle. The Spartan Brasidas, for instance, argued that ‘the most successful soldier . . . makes his attack not so much in an open and straightforward fashion, but by seizing the opportunity of the moment; and these stratagems (klemmata, lit. ‘thefts’), which most aid our friends by totally deceiving our enemies, have the most brilliant renown in war.’3 The opportunities to make ‘thefts’ were often dependent on the make-up and experience of the military forces involved and the experience of the commanders. At Sphacteria, the less experienced commander, Cleon, deferred to Demosthenes, who devised a plan based on earlier experience (Thuc. 4.30, 32). In particular, Thucydides notes that Demosthenes had reflected on his defeat in Aetolia of the previous year, when his hoplite marines had been roughly handled by swarms of enemy light troops (426 BC, Thuc. 3.97–8). Added to this was his successful use of an ambush by a combined force of hoplites and light troops at the battle of Olpae (winter 426/5 BC, Thuc. 3.107; Roisman 1993). When the forces involved were larger and comprised of a variety of allies, matters were far more difficult. Nearly all of the large battles of the classical period were fought between rival conglomerations of allies. At Nemea (394 BC, Xen. Hell. 4.2.16–17), 6,000 hoplites from Sparta were joined by 3,000 Eleans, Triphylians, Acrorians and Lasionians; 1,500 Sicyonians, plus 3,000 from Epidaurus, Troezen, Hermione and Halieis as well as an unspecified number from Tegea and Mantinea. In addition, they had 300 archers from Crete, 400 Marganian, Letrinian and Amphidolian slingers, and 600 cavalry whose origin is not mentioned. This multinational force was opposed by an equally diverse alliance of 6,000 Athenian hoplites, 7,000 Argives, 3,000 Corinthians, 5,000 of the various cities of the Boeotian League and 3,000 Euboeans, along with various light-armed and cavalry contingents. The forces on both sides had been assembled only for the current campaign, or had been collected as it progressed, so that most contingents were relative strangers. In such situations, there would have been little opportunity, even if the inclination had been present, for these troops to train together. Although there was often some rudimentary discussion among the generals of the various contingents, relatively little attention could be given to the chains of command, the interplay of tactical formations, or even the cohesion of contingents and wings in the battle itself. Inevitably, therefore, battlefield co-operation was limited and the various national elements acted almost independently (tabulated in Pritchett 2.194–9). At Nemea, for instance, Xenophon notes that the allies opposing Sparta did spend time negotiating about who would command the army, and over the depth of the army, in an attempt to avoid individual contingents making their phalanxes

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too deep and giving the enemy a chance to encircle them. However, when it came to the battle, the Boeotians ignored the decision for the army to deploy sixteen deep, making their ranks very much deeper (Xen. Hell. 4.2.18). Cooperation clearly had its limits and Nemea was not unique. At a number of other battles fought in the fifth and fourth centuries BC we learn that the various national contingents drew themselves up in greater or lesser depth.4 This has an important ramification for our understanding of the nature of the classical phalanx in battle. We should imagine the deployment not of one single phalanx of hoplites but of several autonomous phalanxes, perhaps of different widths and depths, stretched across the battlefield. There was probably also some space between them to reduce the risk of interference on the move and to retain the distinctiveness of each contingent (Goldsworthy 1997, 16). Such formations may have been broken up even further. The Athenians were divided into ten tribal units, taxeis or phylai, each commanded by a taxiarch (taxis commander) or strate-gos (general). At Plataea, there may have been ten Athenian taxeis of roughly 800 men each. At Marathon, the Athenians were divided into tribes (phylai) and deployed ‘according to their number’ (Hdt. 6.111).5 The centre was far shallower than the wings, stretched in order to prevent the Persians from outflanking. The tribal taxeis were capable of operating independently in battle and on campaign.6 At Nemea, four of these taxeis routed and pursued their Tegean counterparts, but the other six were encircled by the Spartans on their left flank and suffered heavy casualties before disintegrating (Xen. Hell. 4.2.19, 21). Thucydides noted that the Spartan army was also subdivided into units called lochoi and that each commander, lochagos, could vary the depth of his own lochos (Thuc. 5.68). At First Mantinea (418 BC) the Spartans deployed seven lochoi, each further subdivided into four pentecostyes, themselves divided into four enomotiai. Each enomotia consisted of four files and Thucydides used this number to calculate that the frontage of the seven lochoi as a whole had been 448 men; he asserted that they generally had a depth of around eight men.7 The Spartans also had a force of 300 hippeis who acted as a hoplite bodyguard for the king (Thuc. 5.72). The Sciritae, drawn from the Arcadian region of Sciritis, acted as the vanguard on any Spartan expedition. In battle, they were either deployed on the left wing (Thuc. 5.67) or were a mobile reserve, stationed with the king, whose role was to come to the support of sections of the line in distress (Diod. 15.32.1). At Mantinea, Agis and his hippeis were positioned in the centre of the lochoi, while 600 Sciritae were deployed alongside a force of veteran freed helots on the left. A few Arcadian allies were placed with the men of Tegea on the right, augmented by a few Spartiates at the end of this line. This deployment implies a degree of unit independence and self-coherence, and we encounter

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individual units called morai8 and garrisons (phrourai, e.g. Thuc. 4.55) of hoplites undertaking independent actions outside of battle. The Spartans had, we are told, a somewhat elaborate chain of command, which helped to facilitate such a division of forces (Thuc. 5.66: king to polemarchs to lochagoi to pentecontarchs to enomotiarchs). The Spartan army therefore presented a highly articulated line and its flexibility was evident in the battle at Mantinea. The Tegeans and the small force of Spartans outflanked the enemy formation and bore down on it from behind (Thuc. 5.73). On the left, however, an attempt to prevent the same happening to the Spartans by shifting the Sciritae and helots leftwards opened a gap in the line which, coupled with the refusal of two lochagoi to follow orders and plug it, caused the collapse of that wing (Thuc. 5.72). This problem arose partly because of Agis’s over-optimistic expectation that his line was capable of fairly intricate manoeuvres and of instant response to a developing situation. Nevertheless, the battle was retrieved by the control exercised by the other commanders, who were able to crush the enemy right and centre and turn on the remaining enemy as they rallied from their pursuit (Thuc. 5.73). The Spartans may have been unusual for their flexibility and training in the fifth century, but Thucydides noted that at Mantinea a body of 1,000 picked Argive troops, who had been given extensive training at state expense, were deployed separately from the main body of Argives (Thuc. 5.68). Even the main body was separated into a section of older Argives and the ‘socalled five lochoi’ (Thuc. 5.72.4). In the fourth century, other states such as Thebes created elite units numbering a few hundred men who trained for prolonged periods and operated autonomously in battle.9 Non-hoplites In the archaic period, the presence of lighter-armed troops among the hoplites is sometimes indicated, even as late as the Battle of Plataea in 479 BC: ‘the 5,000 Spartan hoplites took the field protected (ephulasson) by 35,000 helot psiloi, seven being deployed around (tetagmenoi) each man’ (Hdt. 9.28, 29, cf. 10, 61; van Wees 1995, 163–4). However, as hoplites increasingly came to be organised in distinct units so, by the mid-to-late fifth century BC, light troops appear to have been separated from the phalanx, and were often deployed on the wings of the army, as at Delium (424 BC, Thuc. 4.93). Indeed as time progressed, the use in battle (or merely, perhaps, the reporting) of troops other than hoplites increased. It is clear, however, that describing the skirmishing of light troops was ideologically unattractive to our upper-class fifth- and fourth-century writers (van Wees 1995, 162–5). Accounts written after the fourth century, when they show an interest, frequently reflect the practices of the Hellenistic period or later. For

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these reasons an evaluation of the roles and effectiveness of such troops in battles of the classical period is difficult to ascertain. At Delium, the Boeotians had about 10,000 psiloi and 500 peltasts, while the Athenians had few such troops, and these apparently not properly armed or organised.10 However, Thucydides gives the impression that such a numerical advantage was irrelevant, for he does not discuss their performance in the battle itself. Some battle accounts describe preliminary skirmishing of opposing light troops in the area between the rival phalanxes, who apparently stood as spectators. In the context of an engagement at Syracuse in 415 BC, Thucydides notes: ‘First there was fighting between the stone-throwers, slingers and archers of both sides in front of the battle-lines, and, as is usual with psiloi, they chased one another about’ (Thuc. 6.69). He does not explain satisfactorily why, on this occasion, the skirmishing appears to have taken place prior to the sphagia, the ritual sacrifices that preceded the advance into battle. The engagements of groups of light-armed troops evidently seem to have been regarded as somewhat indecisive and irrelevant to the course of the battle as a whole. However, on some occasions, they could pose problems for the hoplites, as happened at Aegitium in Aetolia (426 BC, Thuc. 3.97–8), Pylos (425, Thuc. 4.31–8), Piraeus (403, Xen. Hell. 2.4.33) and Lechaeum (390, Xen. Hell. 4.5.11–18). In 413 BC, during the siege of their city, the Syracusans lost one engagement because of their inability to deploy their light infantry and cavalry in the narrow space between the lines of siege- and counter-works (Thuc. 7.5). On the following day, however, they were able to use these forces to break the Athenian left, forcing their army to withdraw and allowing the Syracusans to complete a vital counter-wall (Thuc. 7.6). More attention is given to the role of peltasts (so called initially because of their distinctive shield, the pelte-), in the fourth century, both in their ability to harass (e.g. Xen. Hell. 5.4.42) and ambush (e.g. Xen. Hell. 4.8.35–8; 5.1.10–12) forces on the march and in their combat roles. This is due mainly to the quality of the information, for Xenophon is generally more interested in reporting combat operations in more detail and with greater frequency than earlier historians do.11 Other specialist, often mercenary, groups are described as accompanying armies of hoplites on campaign. Cretan archers and Rhodian slingers rub shoulders with barbarian Thracian peltasts and Italian, Spanish and Celtic warriors (Xen. Hell. 7.1.20, 31–2) who begin to find their way into armies of the Greek states. The recruitment of these mercenaries indicates the increasing attention being paid and state resources being devoted to non-hoplite forces and suggests recognition of their military value. In the middle of the Persian Empire, surrounded by hostile forces, Xenophon attempted to encourage the disheartened Ten Thousand hoplite mercenaries:

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But if anyone here is depressed because we have no cavalry while the enemy have a multitude, he should remember that ten thousand horsemen are only ten thousand men; and nobody has ever been killed in battle from a horse’s bite or kick, but it is the men who do the killing in battles. Moreover, we are on a much surer footing than riders: they have to cling onto their horses’ backs, afraid not only of us, but also of falling off; while we, standing upon the ground, shall strike with far greater strength if we are approached by anyone and shall be far more likely to hit our foe. Only in one way do cavalry have an advantage – fleeing is easier for them than it is for us. (Xenophon, Anabasis 3.2.18)

Nevertheless, he quickly organised a small force of fifty cavalry and converted any soldiers from Rhodes into slingers because of their innate skills in skirmishing (Xen. Anab. 3.3.16–19). What cavalry did bring to the battlefield, however, was tactical mobility to harass and flank, and the ability to screen and protect parts of the infantry line. The impact of harassment by just fifty mercenary cavalry on one army in 369 BC was such that they seemed to be herding the enemy about the battlefield (Xen. Hell. 7.1.20). In 415 BC, the cavalry covered the Syracusan retreat after the first defeat at the hands of the Athenians (Thuc. 6.70), while Athenian deficiency in this arm, due to the difficulties in transporting horses overseas, posed a problem for them throughout the campaign in Sicily. In fact, in the fifth century, despite the expense of breeding and maintaining horses and the nature of the landscape of Greece, most states had organised cavalry forces, albeit in relatively small numbers (Spence 1993, 1–33). The Athenians themselves, while having only 100–300 cavalry in the first half of the fifth century BC, had developed a relatively large cavalry force of 1,000 divided into ten phylai, plus 200 horse-archers, by the time of the Peloponnesian War.12 When based in Attica (Spence 1990), this force did sterling work in limiting the impact of Peloponnesian invasions, and at First Mantinea (418 BC, Thuc. 5.73) it preserved the Athenian taxeis from annihilation. Cavalry would not directly engage formed infantry, although they could charge down light infantry and were effective against peltasts if combined with infantry, who could force them to evade, allowing the cavalry to take over the pursuit (Xen. Hell. 4.5.16).13 They could also panic infantry if they could get at the flanks or rear of a formation (Thuc. 5.10.9–10), or indeed charge at those in the process of rallying back into formation (Thuc. 2.79). For the most part, Greek horsemen used javelins, throwing them at their targets before wheeling away out of harm’s reach (Xen. On Horsemanship 12.13). Athens also had a corps of horse-archers (hippotoxotai) who may have proved particularly elusive to their enemies (Spence 1993, 56–60). Certainly the Persian hippotoxotai who harassed the Greeks at Plataea were noted as being particularly difficult to get to grips with (Hdt. 9.49).

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In the fourth century, there appears to have been a limited but significant shift of emphasis in the battlefield role that some cavalry might undertake. At Second Mantinea (362 BC), for example, the Theban army advanced ‘prow-on like a trireme’ with its cavalry formed into a wedge (embolon) at the front closely supported by infantry, with the intention of cutting through the enemy line. They charged against the Spartan cavalry (‘drawn up six deep, like a phalanx’, says Xenophon) and put them to flight, panicking the rest of the army in the process (Xen. Hell. 7.5.23–4). This ‘shock’ role, primarily charging home and thrusting with spears against enemy cavalry, became the hallmark of the Macedonian elite cavalry, the Companions, under Philip II and Alexander the Great.14 At Granicus and Issus, the Companion cavalry acted as a decisive arm in the Macedonian attack, cutting through opposing cavalry, and falling upon the flank or rear of the enemy lines.15 The impact of the Macedonian and allied cavalry of Alexander’s army was such that it may have forced Darius III to tailor his army specifically, but unsuccessfully, to deal with it at Gaugamela.16 Terrain Many battles appear to have been fought on relatively level plains that allowed the deployment of the opposing armies. It would be misleading, however, to accept at face value the statement given to Mardonius by Herodotus that ‘When they declare war on each other, they go off together to the most attractive and level bit of ground they can find and have their battle on it’ (Hdt. 7.9b). During almost all of the land battles of the Persian invasion, the Greeks either occupied strategic and defensively strong positions (Thermopylae, Hdt. 7.176; Plataea, Hdt. 9.20–4), or had part of their force traverse difficult terrain (Mycale, Hdt. 9.102). Our sources might sometimes give the impression that battlefields were as smooth as dancingfloors, but even the most level of Greek plains tend to be strewn with boulders and features that could interfere with the movement of troops. Even relatively minor terrain features, such as streams (Arist. Pol. 1303b10–15), might disrupt the formation of the phalanx as it advanced. At Delium such water channels prevented the wings of both sides from playing any part in the battle. Disorder caused by the vagaries of a seemingly flat battlefield may have been the order of the day in many hoplite engagements (Goldsworthy 1997, 7–8). It is generally the case that our sources only described topographical features that made a tactical impact on the battlefield, or that helped to orient a reader who might have known the site. We learn, for instance, that the area between the armies at Nemea was thickly overgrown only because the Spartans did not see the enemy advancing until they heard their paean

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(Xen. Hell. 4.2.19). Some sources also noted features of religious significance, such as a temple or a sacred grotto. Plutarch (Arist. 11.3–9) went to some lengths to discuss the sacred sites of the battlefield at Plataea because of their pertinence in interpreting oracles that related to the battle. We learn that there were sanctuaries of Heracles at Marathon (Hdt. 6.108) and at Malea (368 BC, Xen. Hell. 7.1.31), in the first instance because the Greeks camped in it, and in the second because men of one side were inspired by it. So it is not, then, solely due to concerns of military expediency that the topography of the battlefields was described. We must remember that our sources were highly selective in the features that they mentioned, which makes it very difficult, if not impossible, to understand the topography of the battlefields in all but a few cases where the exact location has been identified and surveyed.17 Nevertheless, as the deployment of Greeks in the engagements of the Persian Wars demonstrates, the advantages of terrain were clearly understood. According to Xenophon (Hell. 7.5.8), Epaminondas would never attack the enemy if he saw that they held a strong position, while Agesilaus refused to attack a force of Thebans deployed on a hill known as Graos Ste-thos (‘Old Woman’s Breast’, Xen. Hell. 5.4.50). Thrasybulus explained to his force of hoplites and light-armed on the hill of Munychia: [The gods] have provided us with a location where the opposition, because they are coming up hill, cannot throw either spears or javelins over the heads of those in front of them, while we can throw spears and javelins and stones downhill, and shall be in range to strike down many. And although we would have imagined that we should have an even fight against their front ranks, however the reality is that, if you cast your missiles resolutely, as you ought, you will not fail to hit a target when the road is packed with them, while they, as they try to preserve themselves, will be continually ducking beneath their shields. So, they are like blind men, you will be able to hit them anywhere you care to and then pounce on them and overthrow them. (Xenophon, Hellenica 2.4.15–16)

His hoplites were drawn up in ten ranks and, when they charged downhill, drove back the enemy column even though it was purportedly fifty shields deep. Clearly, fighting from higher ground was a significant advantage, but this might not always be decisive should an enemy be resolute in pressing an attack (Pritchett 4.80). Nicias, for instance, succeeded in taking a strong hill defended by Peloponnesian troops outside of Scione (Thuc. 4.131) and Agesilaus stormed a mountain ridge occupied by Acarnanian hoplites who had thrown many missiles, including their spears (dorata), before fleeing just at the moment of impact (Xen. Hell. 4.6.11). Terrain could channel and condition the experience of combat. The walls and siege-works at Syracuse caused difficulties when the combatants wished

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to deploy against one another, initially forcing the Syracusans to deploy without their cavalry and psiloi (Thuc. 7.5). The area around the Sicyonian stockade and city wall at Corinth in 392 BC proved to be a slaughter-ground. The Argives, who held the city, at first burst into the stockade, routing the Sicyonians, and killing many who, in the pursuit, became trapped beside the sea. However, as a force of Spartans threatened to trap them inside the stockade, the Argives burst out and began to run towards the city wall in an attempt to get back inside. They lost some men to the Spartans as they exited, but worse was to follow. Their disordered mass encountered a small force of 150 Corinthian exiles that drove them back towards the Lacedaemonians: Thereupon some of the Argives climbed up by the steps onto the top of the wall, but were killed jumping down to the other side, others fell around the steps, being shoved and struck by the enemy, and others were trampled by their comrades and suffocated. The Spartans had no doubts about killing them; for it seemed that they had a heaven-sent opportunity that exceeded even their prayers. For to find a crowd of enemies delivered into their hands, frightened, panic-stricken, offering their unprotected sides, indeed not even thinking of defending themselves, but doing everything they could to work for their own annihilation, how could that not be a divine gift? In any case, on that day, so many were killed in such a short time that men who saw the piles of corpses likened them to piles of corn, wood, or stones. (Xenophon, Hellenica 4.4.11–12)

Terrain could also be used to deceive or ambush the enemy. At Delium, the Boeotians sent cavalry around a hill so that when they appeared, they caused panic among the Athenian right wing, which had, up to that point, been getting the better of things (Thuc. 4.96). At Olpae, the Athenians hid 400 hoplites and psiloi in an ambush (Thuc. 3.107–8) that fell upon the rear of the Spartan flanking movement. Tisamenus was fortunate to detect an Ionian force concealed behind a ridge because it had disturbed a flock of birds: a well-interpreted omen by any reckoning (Polyaenus 2.37; Frontinus 1.2.8). Manoeuvre and the charge While the Greeks understood the benefits of tactical manoeuvre, they rarely, it seems, had the discipline and cohesion to undertake more than rudimentary movements across the battlefield. Nevertheless, almost all of the large battles of the fifth and fourth centuries BC were characterised by manoeuvre of some form. At Nemea the Spartan right was able, by inclining its march, to outflank the Athenians on the left (Xen. Hell. 4.2.20). The Sacred Band of 300 Thebans at Leuctra were deployed on the far left of the line, and apparently ran ahead to prevent Spartan encirclement (Plut. Pelopidas 23.1).

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There were other precautions taken to avoid encirclement (kyklo-sis): at Olpae the Athenians expected to be outflanked and so planted an ambush to attack those who attempted it in the rear (Thuc. 3.108), while at Gaugamela, Alexander deployed a second phalanx, facing towards the rear to inhibit Persian envelopment (Arrian Anab. 3.12.1; Curtius 4.13.32). Once the advance had begun, the opportunity for generals to change a plan of attack or to communicate with other parts of the line was limited. Even though the Spartans had, according to Thucydides, a very effective chain of command, at Mantinea Agis found that during the march into battle his officers might disobey him (Thuc. 5.72). The independence shown by subordinates at Mantinea was not unique. At Plataea a similar dispute between the lochagos Amompharetus and the regent Pausanias arose during pre-battle manoeuvres, (Hdt. 9.53–6). When ordered to withdraw along with the rest of the Lacedaemonian force, Amompharetus is supposed to have picked up a large rock and placed it at Pausanias’ feet, saying, ‘here is my voting pebble and I cast it against running away from enemies’ (9.55). The occasional use of the salpinx, a war-trumpet, allowed some communication of pre-arranged signals, but generals found it difficult to improvise as events unfolded (Krentz 1991). While, in a few battles, reserve forces were employed to shore up the line at points of pressure,18 in general, it seems that there was little awareness of the utility of strategic reserves, or willingness to employ them to turn the tide of battle. Even in the battles of Alexander the Great, where the king himself often waited for just the right opportunity to arise before launching himself and his Companion cavalry into the enemy, his left wing might have to withstand a good deal of pressure before relief from the king was sent.19 In less unified, organised or controlled armies such support might be made impossible by over-enthusiastic pursuit of a defeated section of the enemy line. There are numerous instances of victorious contingents and wings discovering that the rest of their force had been defeated, or indeed being caught by the undefeated parts of the enemy army (Pritchett 2.201–3). This happened at the battle of Mantinea, where the victorious wing of Mantineans and elite Argives pursued the Sciritae to the Spartan camp, but were then put to flight by the victorious centre of the Spartan line (Thuc. 5.72–3). Wings of perhaps less committed allies might collapse with little more than token resistance, but they could also draw off their opponents, allowing the rest of the army to salvage the situation. At Nemea, although almost all of Sparta’s allies were chased away, the Spartans themselves, having routed the Athenians, managed to keep their order and roll across the battlefield defeating enemy contingents as they encountered them returning from their pursuit (Xen. Hell. 4.2.22). Herodotus (6.112) believed that the first charge by hoplites into contact occurred at Marathon (490 BC). However, it is clear from seventh- and

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sixth-century pottery paintings of running hoplites, some in scenes of combat, and from the tradition that from 520 BC there was an Olympic race in armour, that this was not the case.20 Herodotus might mean that this was the first massed charge, for he emphasises that the Greeks came into contact along the whole line, although his assertion that they ran for a whole mile is clearly an exaggeration. The Athenians were already familiar with the Persian army; indeed, at Ephesus, during the Ionian revolt, they had lost a battle against it (Hdt. 5.102). They also had as one of their commanders a man who had served in the Persian army: the ex-tyrant of the Chersonese, Miltiades, whose Athenian origins and family connections allowed him to be elected as one of the generals at the battle. He would certainly have understood the strengths of the Persian military and this knowledge must have been invaluable in contributing to the victory, with which he was thereafter closely connected. Whether a deliberate tactic or not, the charge of the Athenian and Plataean hoplites probably allowed them to minimise the casualties caused from Persian archery and to play to the strengths of their equipment, which was probably better suited to very close-quarter mêlée (Lazenby 1993, 67). After Marathon, if not before, it seems that most hoplite formations broke into a run (dromo-i) to engage their enemy (How 1919). During the fifth and fourth centuries, the desire to get into contact appeared to be so strong that despite the disorder that might entail from a charge, and despite any enemy advantage in terrain, the hoplites of both sides would often rush the last few hundred yards of their advance. At Delium, the Athenians charged uphill as the Boeotians marched down on them (Thuc. 4.96). Such behaviour can be explained by the tension and dread generated by the conditions of waiting for action to begin; once things got under way, the desire to get it all over and done with might become irresistible (Hanson 1989, 139–40). It is likely that however dense and well-ordered the phalanx was at the beginning of its advance, both the march and the charge would have entailed some disintegration in its formation. The faster and braver hoplites would outstrip the rest, stringing out the phalanx (Goldsworthy 1997, 10). At times, one part of the line might break into a run sooner than other parts, further undermining the continuity of the battle line (cf. Coronea, Xen. Hell. 4.3.17). At Cunaxa, one part of the Greek mercenary force of the Ten Thousand began its charge too soon, but the rest called out to each other not to run so fast as to outstrip one another (Xen. Anab. 1.8). The Spartans, when trying to maintain the cohesion of the majority of their force, generally marched in step to the sound of the flute even as their enemies were beginning their charge (Thuc. 5.70). At Nemea, they even halted to perform a sacrifice to Artemis when they were less than 200 yards from the enemy line (Xen. Hell. 4.2.20; Goldsworthy 1997, 10). In general,

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they appear to have possessed the discipline to remain in step and in formation up until the point of contact (van Wees 2004, 187). This probably enabled them to conserve energy, preserve the density of their ranks and intimidate the enemy. The cohesion, rather than the impact, of a Spartan advance sometimes caused enemies to break at the point of contact (Thuc. 5.72), or, as happened to the Argives at Coronea (Xen. Hell. 4.3.17), even before. When confronted with the need to charge an enemy at speed, but also to preserve the order of their main body, the Spartans might detail the younger age groups to run out first (ekdromoi). This was usually in response to harassment from light forces, or where difficult terrain was involved. So in their attack on the Acarnanians in 389 BC, the first fifteen age groups (ages twenty to thirty-five years old) assaulted the lower slopes, driving the enemy back to their hoplite supports on the ridge.21 At the River Pactolus, ekdromoi of ages twenty to thirty combined with peltasts to charge the Persian cavalry while the rest of the army marched up in good order (Xen. Hell. 3.4.23–4). Combat At once we ran up, armed with spear (doru) and shield (aspis), and we fought them, drunk with bitter-tasting anger, standing man to man with rage deforming our lips. Under their archery we could not even look up at the sky. However, towards evening, with the aid of the gods, we shoved the enemy away . . . then we speared their baggy trousers like tunny-fish; they fled . . . (Aristophanes, Wasps 1081–8)

This is how the chorus of old men, the wasp-like jurors of Aristophanes’ comic play, staged in 422 BC, recall their earlier exploits against the Persians. Fighting barbarians was a somewhat different experience from engaging hoplites. Although the Persians undoubtedly, as Herodotus says (9.62), had strength and courage, so that at Plataea they rushed the Greek lines singly or in groups of ten and, in close-fighting, grabbed and snapped the Greek spears, they lacked the experience of hoplite combat and were not equipped for it (9.63). In fact Herodotus is not entirely correct in this analysis. The Persians had a reasonably good record of success against Greeks in Asia Minor, having subdued the Ionian cities in 545 and quelled their six-year revolt in 493 BC, defeating their hoplites in land battles at Ephesus (499/8 BC, Hdt. 5.102) and Malene (493 BC, Hdt. 6.28–9). At Pelusium (525 BC, Hdt. 2.163) they had destroyed the 30,000 mercenary Greeks serving with the Egyptians. They had conquered most of the major islands of the Aegean, subdued cities in the Hellespont and along the Thracian coast, and, in the Marathon campaign, had sacked Naxos, Carystus and Eretria. Although they

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had been repelled from Attica in 490, that campaign had still given them possession of the Cyclades and the heart of the Aegean. The conquered Greek populations of the Aegean and Ionia regularly served in the Persian fleet and land forces, and in the campaign in Greece there were also large contingents of Greek allies from Boeotia, Locris, Phocia and Thessaly. Just as in 490, at Marathon, when Datis had brought along the ex-tyrant of Athens, Hippias, so in 480 Xerxes even had a renegade Spartan king, Demaratus, who could provide him with intelligence and perhaps undermine the Lacedaemonian resolve. The Persians, then, had a good deal of experience of the Greeks and their methods of war, and although they may have been surprised by the Athenian and Plataean victory at Marathon (Hdt. 6.112), they had little reason to think, until Plataea, that this defeat was anything more than an aberration. Moreover, despite the assessment of Herodotus (6.93, see above), he nevertheless characterised the land battles of the Persian Wars as long and sharply contested (Hdt. 6.113, 7.210–12, 224–5, 9.102). However, Herodotus was right to say that there was a qualitative difference in the expectations of Greeks and armies of the Persians. Whereas the army of the Great King was designed with the traditions of Near Eastern warfare, of archery and cavalry mobility and of siege, most hoplites probably shared a very different conception of battle. They were armed for close combat and expected to fight in such a fashion, even if, at times, their nerves failed them and they flinched, or even fled, before contact. It is undeniably the case, therefore, that combat between rival phalanxes was a terrible experience for its participants. Hoplites closed to a distance that not only allowed them to strike at their enemies with their spears, but also, of course, allowed their enemies to strike at them. In the momentum of the initial impact, spears might punch through even the best-made defensive equipment, and many may well not have been so protected; in any case, blows might be aimed at the face, throat, thighs and groin, where there was no armour.22 Each man along the cutting edge of mêlée was involved in his own personal struggle for survival; Thucydides remarked (7.44) that in battle ‘no one knows very much more than what is happening to him’. He came up against protagonists who at times pressed or were pushed up against his shield, and at others times, during lulls in the fighting, might face him across a short distance, ready to surge forwards and needing but a couple of paces to bring their spears within thrusting range. It must have taken a good deal of courage to strive to kill and be killed in such an immediate and brutal fashion (see p. 211–12). Attempts to explain the nature of hoplite combat have often provoked controversy. They have been based partly on evaluations of the individual manoeuvrability of the hoplite and the density of the phalanx, as well as

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debate about the nature of the o-thismos.23 It is this last term that has often been used to support the notion that hoplites fought in exceptionally dense formations and were reduced to little more than shoving in gigantic, rugbylike scrimmages.24 A number of scholars have argued against the prevailing view that phalanx combat was merely an enormous pushing match, examining the impracticality of such a concept and favouring, to a greater or lesser extent, a degree of opportunity for individual action within the ranks of the phalanx.25 Recent works have drawn inspiration from Keegan’s Face of Battle, which examined combat at Agincourt, Waterloo and the Somme from the soldiers’ perspective.26 Hanson’s 1989 study The Western Way of War vividly and effectively reconstructed the nature of hoplite battle. It has rightly drawn attention to the messy nature of the fighting, where individuals and groups came to grips with one another in grim and deadly mêlée and where phalanxes quickly degenerated from any semblance of neatly dressed, rectangular formations into bloody, ragged, amorphous mobs of screaming, stabbing, pushing, wrestling, dying men. In all probability, the charge made the phalanx become very spread out, so that, as the promachoi of both sides met, their formations were very open and there may have been a fair degree of interpenetration of friends and foes. This was very dangerous for individuals, who might, like Cleonymus and Dinon at Leuctra (Xen. Hell. 5.4.33), become isolated among the enemy as their rear ranks soon arrived and the phalanxes re-coalesced. They perhaps took the risk because the momentum of their charge might allow them to penetrate the shield and armour of an enemy more easily (Hanson 1989, 140). The impact could be severe enough to shatter spears (Diod. 15.86.2) and shields (Xen. Ages. 2.14; Menander, Aspis 75 f.), although what often developed was a doratismos, a spear-fight (Plut. Timoleon 28.1). It was during the battle at Malea (368 BC), when ‘the Spartans came to thrusting their spears’ that a few Arcadians and Argives who had engaged the Spartans were isolated and killed as the rest of their companions failed to support them adequately and, in fact, turned and fled (Xen. Hell. 7.1.31). Many battles appear to have lasted a considerable time (Pritchett 4.46–51), and it is difficult to imagine how men could fight continuously under the hot Mediterranean sun for minutes, let alone hours, at a stretch. If the enemy did not quickly buckle at contact, then those fighting in the front ranks appear to have temporarily withdrawn out of the range of spear thrust. Through sheer exhaustion (Cawkwell 1989, 376–7), or to replace a broken weapon, wipe sweat or blood from their eyes – indeed, for any reason that allowed a chance to catch their breath – troops would naturally have tried to back away from their foes. That small gaps opened between the enemy lines leading to lulls in the fighting, at least at local level, might be indicated by Epaminondas’ plea at Leuctra for ‘just one step more’

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(Polyaenus 2.3.2), or in the stratagem of Iphicrates that the line would, on a pre-arranged signal, take a step forward.27 It might explain how it was that the Persians, in the midst of the ‘bitter and protracted’ fighting at Plataea, could charge forwards singly or in small groups to attack the Greek lines (Hdt. 9.62). At Thermopylae, the Persians were pushed back four times in the fight over Leonidas’ body (Hdt. 7.225), while at Amphipolis the hoplites on the Athenian right ‘beat back two or three attacks’, until they became surrounded by enemy cavalry and peltasts, which caused them to flee (Thuc. 5.10). Hoplites sometimes rallied back into compact bodies (athrooi, lit. ‘crowds’ or ‘masses’, Thuc. 6.70). Thus the Spartans at Plataea are described by Socrates as ‘rallying back (anastrepho-n), as the Persian lines (taxeis) broke apart’ (Plut. Lach. 192 b). Having recovered the collective will to re-enter the killing zone, such groups collectively surged forwards again in an attempt to break (pararre-xis, Pritchett 4.69) the enemy line. That this might produce considerable ebb and flow across the battlefield is indicated by Thucydides’ account of the battle at Solygia. On one wing, stubborn fighting between Athenians and Corinthians eventually resulted in the rout of the Corinthians, and they fled to a nearby hill where they halted. On the other wing, however: The Athenians and Carystians, who were deployed at the end of the line [on the right], withstood the Corinthians and, with some difficulty, pushed them back. The Corinthians retired to a stone wall on the slope behind them, throwing down stones on the Athenians, and, after singing the paean, charged again. The Athenians met their assault and, once again, there was hand-to-hand fighting. Then another Corinthian lochos arrived to reinforce their left wing and beat back the Athenian right, driving it down to the sea; but then, once again, the Athenians and Carystians drove them back from the ships. (Thucydides 4.43)

Similarly at Haliartus in 395 BC, Lysander’s force was driven back to high ground where they rallied and attacked again the Thebans who had pursued them (Xen. Hell. 3.5.20). When the fighting was extremely stubborn, the enemy might only be forced back step by step, as occurred with the Athenian left at Delium (Thuc. 4.96). Here the advantage of momentum lay with the Thebans, who were able to keep up constant pressure in their downhill advance, enjoying also the benefit of the pressure brought to bear by their especially deep formation (twenty-five shields deep, Thuc. 4.93). It was in the moments when the fighting was fiercest and one or both sides were thrusting forwards aggressively that the sources use the term o-thismos, ‘the pushing’. It should probably not be imagined as a separate or distinct phase of the battle as a whole, but more a manifestation of local conditions at points in the battle-line. It was over the body of Leonidas that the Spartans resorted to pushing away the Persians. This might have entailed aggressive

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shoving with the shields; we hear at Delium that during stubborn fighting there was an o-thismos of aspides (Thuc. 4.96), while at Second Coronea (394 BC): [The Spartans] made a furious frontal attack on the Thebans. Thrusting shield against shield, they shoved and fought and killed and fell. There was no shouting, nor was there silence, but the strange noise that wrath and battle together will produce. In the end some of the Thebans broke through and reached Helicon, but many fell during the escape. The victory lay with Agesilaus; but he himself had been carried wounded from his phalanx. (Xenophon, Agesilaus 2.12)28

Eventually parts of the line gave way as the combatants decided they could take no more punishment, and this might cause a general collapse of the line. However, when the Spartans at Leuctra (Xen. Hell. 6.4.11) observed that their right had been overwhelmed, they made an orderly withdrawal to their camp, but this was generally a rare occurrence, undoubtedly due in this instance to the rigours of Spartan training and discipline. It was at the point where the enemy first began to rout that the trope-, ‘the turning’, would be marked by a trophy set up after the battle by the victors. The care with which Greek armies ensured that this dedication was made, and with which our sources reported it, indicates the importance of the trope- (Pritchett 2.246–75; see p. 192–3). As lines broke up, particular contingents might be locked together in a life-or-death struggle with spears and swords that had little bearing on the course of the battle, as the Thespians and Pellenians did at Nemea, fighting and dying where they stood (Xen. Hell. 4.2.20), or they might become isolated in the tide of advancing enemy, surrounded and suffering heavily, as the Thespians had earlier experienced at Delium (424 BC, Thuc. 4.96). Aftermath Sometimes the victors were too exhausted and had taken too many casualties to follow up an enemy withdrawal: at Solygia, the Athenians were unwilling to continue their battering of the Corinthian line once it had given way and rallied back to higher ground (Thuc. 4.43). More often, the cavalry and light infantry chased the enemy off the battlefield. Pursuit was, on the whole, limited by the coming of darkness, and often to the field of battle and its local environs. Here, cavalry played an important role in either covering the retreat or hunting down the enemy. The Athenians at Mantinea, although taking heavy casualties, were saved from annihilation by their cavalry (418 BC, Thuc. 5.73). It was in pursuit that most men appear to have been killed, and Tyrtaeus (frg. 11. 17–18) noted that, ‘in horrific war, it is

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nice to spear the midriff of some fleeing man’. It was a time when men were at their most vulnerable, fleeing with no thought of fighting, presenting their backs to the enemy who chased them. It was a time when the older men might find themselves abandoned by their younger and more agile comrades: ‘Young men’, says Tyrtaeus, ‘do not flee and leave the older men, whose knees are agile no longer, lying slain in the dirt, for truly it is a disgraceful thing for an elder to fall fighting in the front before the younger, with white hair and beard, coughing out his strong soul into the dust, his genitals all bloody in his hands, so ugly a sight to see and full of badness for the viewer, and his body also naked’ (frg. 10.21–7). However, in the rout, groups of men who retained a semblance of formation might be left unmolested as the pursuers sought easier prey (Plato, Symp. 221b). At Olpae, while most of the Peloponnesians suffered badly in their rout, the men of Mantinea (Thuc. 3.108), because they kept their order, suffered least and, in like manner, Socrates led a small force safely from the battlefield slaughter of Delium.29 Pursuit was in fact limited because of a number of factors: the endurance of the pursuers, the understandable relief that they had won, and the fear of encountering fresh forces or ambushes (Krentz 2002, 30–1). As the battle drew to its end and the fugitives and their tormentors spread themselves beyond it, the field itself would be littered with the dead and dying. The battlefield of Coronea (394 BC) had a particular impact on Xenophon, an eyewitness: Now that the fighting was at an end, a awesome sight met the eye, as one surveyed the scene of the conflict – the earth stained with blood, friend and foe lying dead side by side, shields smashed to pieces, spears snapped in two, naked blades drawn from sheaths, some on the ground, some embedded in the bodies, some yet gripped by the hand. Then, as the day was long over, having dragged the enemy’s dead within their battle line, they [the Spartans] supped and slept. Early next morning Agesilaus ordered Gylis, the polemarch, to draw up the army in battle order and to set up a trophy, and to command every man to wear a wreath in honour of the god and all the flute-players to play. (Xenophon, Agesilaus 2.14)

Such a grisly scene was accompanied by the stripping of the corpses not only of their arms, but even their tunics.30 It was followed by an approach by heralds from the defeated side requesting an armistice to take up the dead. The granting of such a truce confirmed the victors’ impression that they controlled the battlefield and had won the battle, while those forced to petition for their dead were evidently incapable of coming to retrieve them by force (although, at times, this might be considered as an option: Xen Hell. 3.5.19–25, 6.4.16; see p. 193–4). Corpses had to be collected for burial, some where they had fallen fighting in mêlée, but many more, who had been killed

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in the rout, might be spread over a considerable area (Plut. Pel. 32.7; Vaughan 1991, 39). Most corpses appear to have been buried on or near the field of battle, although from the 460s BC the Athenians cremated their dead and returned the bones to the city for a public funeral (see p. 196–8). Although rarely mentioned in the sources, unless they were prominent men such as Agesilaus (Plut. Ages. 2.13) or Alexander (e.g. Plut. Alex. 63), the wounded nevertheless had also to be cared for. Mostly, it seems, this was undertaken by friends and relatives present at the battle, rather than by specialist doctors or surgeons.31 Greek medical care was rudimentary: Pindar mentions that war-wounds might be treated by incantations, potions, bandages ‘or the knife’ (Pind. Pyth. 3.48–54). The fourth-century Hippocratic corpus reveals an understanding of how to treat uncomplicated wounds such as lacerations, fractures and such things as the types of head wounds caused by various weapons (Hipp. On Wounds to the Head 11). Some elements of surgery, to remove arrows and other objects embedded in the body, might also be undertaken, but access to men with such skills was probably limited. Philip II and Alexander III were both fortunate enough to have at their disposal the physician Critobulus, who, it seems, removed arrows from their wounds.32 The possibility of infection was high, even if wounds were washed with wine and treated with ointments (Hdt. 7.181.2; Hipp. On Wounds 11), and might still kill. Miltiades, having returned to Athens after the siege of Paros, eventually died of a festering, gangrenous wound in his thigh (Hdt. 6.136). Those who had shown conspicuous bravery might be given a prize (aristeion) and a ‘gift’ by their generals (Diod. 13.34.5; Pritchett 2.276–80). Alcibiades, who had been wounded at Potidaea, was awarded a crown and a panoply for his bravery at the battle (432 BC, Plato, Symp. 220d–e; Isoc. 16.29; Plut. Alc. 7). In the fourth century, gifts were sometimes omitted; purely honorific oak-leaf crowns might be awarded. Such prizes were recognitions of conspicuous performance and were part of the competitive ethos of the Greeks, an acknowledgment that even in war, some men strove to obtain a better reputation for manliness than their peers. For the victors, then, the return of the enemy slain, the trophy and victory paean (see p. 192–5), the prize-giving, and the luxury to boast of one’s exploits: ‘Of seven killed as we overtook them in pursuit, we are the thousand slayers’ observed the poet Archilochus (frg. 59 = Plut. Galba 27).33 For the losers, defeat involved humiliation and a recognition of martial inferiority, the need to collect the dead and observe where and how they had fallen. Where the line had been broken and where fighting had been heaviest, casualties might be disproportionately high (see p. 97, 211). Communities who had held the line at the point where such an event had occurred might experience catastrophic demographic consequences, even if on the winning side.34 Sometimes reflection allowed changes in practice to be introduced after

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defeat. Demosthenes appears to have quickly learned the lesson about the effectiveness of light forces in the aftermath of his defeat in Aetolia (Thuc. 3.97–8, 107, 4.30, 32). The Syracusans too learned that their initial defeat against the Athenians might be reversed: If they were to have a few skilful generals, and used this winter [415/14 BC] in preparing their hoplites, distributing arms (hopla) to those who had not got any, so as to make them as numerous as possible, and forcing them to practice, they would stand every chance of defeating the enemy, once cohesion (eutaxia) was added to the manliness (andreia) they already possessed. Indeed, both these qualities would improve, since danger would practise them in discipline, while their courage would increase by the confidence which skill inspires. The generals should be few and elected with complete authority, and an oath should be taken to give them the freedom to command: if they adopted this plan, their secrets would be better kept, all preparations would be properly made, and there would be no room for excuses. (Thucydides 6.72)

The aftermath of battles could be filled with recriminations among the defeated. The Spartans held their own Mantinean allies in contempt for their flight after suffering from the missiles of Iphicrates’ peltasts (Xen. Hell. 4.4.17). At Leuctra, Xenophon represented the Spartan allies as not being very committed, and indeed, as not unhappy that Sparta had been defeated (Xen. Hell. 6.4.15). Survivors who were perceived to have performed less well could also be accused of cowardice by their own communities (see p. 31, 47). Aristodemus, who, because of an eye complaint, had avoided participating in the final stand of the Three Hundred Spartans at Thermopylae, suffered dishonour (atimia) when he returned home; no one would give him fire or speak to him and he was called ‘Aristodemus the Trembler’ (Aristode-mos ho tresas, Hdt. 7.231, see p. 205–8). Conclusion If Mardonius had read Tyrtaeus, he might have understood better why the Spartans did not accept his offer of a champions’ duel at Plataea: This is excellence (arete-), the greatest possession of mankind, The most virtuous prize that a youth can acquire, This is a common good for the polis and the whole de-mos, When a man holds firm and stands unshaken in the front of the phalanx, And casts away all thought of shameful flight, Preparing his spirit (thumos) and heart to persevere, And encourages his neighbour with words, Thus is a man good in war; he quickly turns the fierce hordes of the enemy, And stems the tide of battle with his will. (Tyrtaeus, frg. 12.13–21)

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Although Tyrtaeus presents military engagement as an opportunity for individuals to demonstrate their strength and quality, his main concern is with the individual’s contribution to the well-being of the community, and he views the context of that contribution to be the collective effort of the phalanx. Arete- is not just standing firm, but encouraging your neighbour also to endure the sear of battle. Combat was a very emphatic manner in which to demonstrate such virtues as bravery, steadfastness and loyalty, but it was also the most direct way to destroy the enemy’s capacity to resist, to bend them to one’s will. Battles were not pre-arranged competitions. They were, it is true, surrounded by religious rituals (see p. 187–95), and they were often dressed in the language of honour and virtue. However, unlike competitions bound by rules and watched by referees, military engagements fought by the Greeks were often limited only by the practicalities of organising and motivating large groups of men to realise their capacity for destruction. Notes 1 Van Wees 2004, 134; cf. Krentz 2002, 27–8; contra Pritchett 2.147–55; Ober 1996, 56. 2 See Krentz 2002, 28–9 n. 23, for further examples. 3 Thuc. 5.9; for more examples and discussion see Wheeler 1988, 43–53; Pritchett 2.156–76 on surprise attacks, 177–89 on ambushes; Krentz 2000 on deception in hoplite warfare. 4 e.g. Delium 424 BC, Thuc. 4.93; see Pritchett 1.142–3. 5 See Lazenby 1993, 62–3. From later inscriptions (CIA i 443, 446, 447 etc.) the fixed order of deployment appears to have been: Erechtheis, Aigeis, Pandionis, Leontis, Acamantis, Oineis, Cecropis, Hippothoontis, Aiantis and Antiochis, although at Marathon the Polemarch commanded the right and according to Aeschylus (Plut. Mor. 628d), his tribe, Aiantis, fought on the right that day. Also Leontis (commanded by Themistocles) and Antiochis (led by Aristeides) may have fought side by side in the centre (Plut. Arist. 5.3). The discrepancy with the order prescribed in later inscriptions may have been due to the tribes being originally selected by lot ‘by their number’, and the fact that this was later abandoned for a more stable system of deployment. 6 Hdt. 6.103, 113; Plut. Arist. 5.3; Lys. 16.16. 7 Thuc. 5.68, cf. Xen. Hell. 6.4.2; Lac. Pol. 11–13; Anab. 3.4.21; Asclepiodotus 2.8; for discussion and other references to the organisation of the Spartan army see Lazenby 1985; van Wees 2004, 243–9. If we are to trust Thucydides’ figures, and to suppose, as he does, that the lochoi had even frontages, then each lochos appears to have been sixty-four men across, each pentecostys sixteen men across. While there was clearly variation in the depth of each lochos, Thucydides asserts that at this battle they were generally eight deep. This would give a size of 64 × 8 = 512 men for the average lochos at this battle. It should not be inferred that this was a standard size, since Thucydides states that it was difficult to calculate the

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8 9 10

11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18

19 20

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numbers of Spartans present. The lochagoi could vary the depth of their formation, presumably to accommodate more or fewer hoplites depending on how many were available. Of course, there were generally other reasons to vary the depth of a formation, for instance to suit the tactical situation or the aggregate level of experience and confidence of a force: Goldsworthy 1997. See Pritchett 1.141–2; van Wees 2004, 245–7, on the debate about this passage. e.g. the mora of 600 hoplites and a mora of cavalry at Lechaeum, Xen. Hell. 4.5.11–18. On Argives cf. Diod. 12.75.7, 12.79.1, 4, 12.80.2–3. For references and discussion of other specially trained forces see Pritchett 2.221–5. This is the earliest appearance in literature of peltasts, where they are differentiated from the psiloi, Gomme HCT 3.563. IG I3, 60.17 and 93.29 mention peltasts and may be slightly earlier than 424 BC. For a mid-fifth-century funeral epigram concerning a peltast see Raubitschek 1980. On peltasts in general see Best 1969; Griffith 1981; Lissarague 1990. Pritchett 5.169 notes that Xenophon’s Hellenica refers to 153 engagements of various types. Thuc. 2.13.8; Spence 1993, 11–15; Anderson 1961, 131. The inability of cavalry to break steady infantry formations is a feature of all periods, see Spence 1993, 104–7. Marsden 1964, esp. 68–73; Harl 1997. On the numbers of cavalry see Brunt 1963, 32–9, 46; Marsden 1964, 65–73 (for Gaugamela). Granicus: Arr. Anab. 1.14–16; Diod. 17.19.6–21.5. Issus: Arr. Anab. 2.9–11; Diod. 17.33.5–34.7; Curtius Rufus 3.11.2 ff. Marsden 1964, 33–7, 42–4. Gaugamela: Arr. Anab. 3.11–16; Diod. 17.60.1–4; Curtius Rufus 4.15–16. On Marathon, for example, see Pritchett 1965, 1–11; Whatley 1964; van der Veer 1982. Xen. Anab. 6.5.4: at Calpe, the Ten Thousand stationed three lochoi, each of 200 men, behind the phalanx to come to its aid where needed. Thuc. 6.67 notes that at Syracuse, half of the Athenian army was given the task of protecting the baggage and rendering support to the battle line if necessary. See, for example, Gaugamela: Marsden 1964, 61–3; Devine 1996. On the run at Marathon, see Donlan and Thompson 1976 and also 1979. On archaic period running hoplites, see van Wees 2004, 171–2, 175, 295 n. 21. The institution of the hoplitodromos, running in the panoply, at the Olympic Games in 520 BC, if the date is correct, might indicate that running was already a wellestablished feature of hoplite battle, Paus. 5.8.10; Golden 1998, 26–7; Plut. Mor. 639e. Xen. Hell. 4.6.10; cf. failure at Lechaeum, Xen. Hell. 4.5.11–17; Brasidas’ successful use of ekdromoi against loosely organised Illyrians; Thuc. 4.125; 127. Thuc. 6.72: a Syracusan defeat could have been avoided, it is claimed, if armour had been given to those without it. Cf. Diod. 14.43.2–3: Dionysius I, in equipping his army against Carthage, provided body armour only for officers, cavalry and his bodyguard mercenaries, but not for the rest of his army. Hoplites

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23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30

31 32 33

34

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without body armour: Xen. Anab. 1.2.15–16, 3.3.20, 3.4.47–8 (Xenophon struggles to march with cuirass and shield). On the ‘lightness’ of fifth- and fourthcentury hoplite equipment, the opening up of the face in some helmets, and sometimes their construction from leather or felt, see Anderson 1970a, 24–35, Snodgrass 1999 [1967], 91–3; Chrimes 1949, 359 ff., esp. 368. On the nature of wounds in hoplite battle see Hanson 1989, 210–18; Snodgrass 1999, 56. A representative sample includes Cawkwell 1978, 150–7; 1989; Krentz 1985b Goldsworthy 1997, 1–26; Pritchett 4.65–73; Hanson 1989, 171–6. So, for example, Luginbill 1994, 51–61; Lazenby 1991, 97; but see the reservations of Goldsworthy 1997, 3 on the relevance of scrum-imagery to the o-thismos. Frazer 1942; Cawkwell 1978, 150–7; 1989; Krentz 1985b; Goldsworthy 1997. See, for instance, Goldsworthy 1997; Hanson 1989; Pritchett 4.1–7. Polyaenus 3.9.27; Goldsworthy 1997, 21–2; Wheeler 1991, 149–50. Cf. Xen. Hell. 4.3.19. Plut. Mor. 581d; Plato, Symp. 221a–b; Hanson 1989, 180–1. When the democrats specifically did not strip the tunics from their fellow citizens that they had killed at the Piraeus, it implies that the opposite was a common occurrence after battles, Xen. Hell. 2.4.19. Hanson 1989, 210–18; Salazar 2000, 68–74; van Wees 2004, 146–8. Philip II after Methana (354 BC): Pliny NH 7.37.124. Alexander in 326 BC: Curtius Rufus 9.5.22–9.6; Plut. Alex. 63. See Prag 1990, esp. 239–44. The primary concerns of a victorious general in the aftermath of a victory are suggested by Diodorus (16.86.6): ‘Philip erected a trophy, yielded the dead for burial, sacrificed to the gods for victory, and rewarded according to their deserts those who had displayed bravery (andragathia).’ See, for instance, Hanson’s (1999) harrowing study of the impact on the small polis of Thespiae of being at the focal point of a number of defeats and heavy clashes over a century’s fighting.

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Chapter 6

Naval warfare

I stayed but one month with my wife and children until my inner spirit (thymos) moved me to mount an expedition to Egypt with well-appointed ships and my god-like companions. I acquired nine ships and swiftly the people (laos) came together; then for six days I feasted my ready companions (hetairoi), for I gave them many victims to sacrifice to the gods and for themselves to consume. On the seventh, we boarded and sailed on a fair north wind from broad Crete. Easily we sat, as if travelling downstream, so that no ship was damaged, nor were we harmed by sickness, but let the wind and our steersmen guide us steadily. On the fifth day we came to the fertile stream of Egypt, and I brought my oar-driven fleet into the Nile-river. Then I implored my ready companions to remain by the fleet, to guard the ships, and I urged them to place sentinels at the lookout points; but they pursued their own desires and gave themselves to wayward violence (hybris), for they plundered the good fields of the Egyptians, taking the women and blameless children, killing the men, and soon the cries reached the city. The natives heard the uproar and by dawn they filled all the plain with infantry and horses and the flash of bronze; they came at us and Zeus the Thunderer sent the shock of panic through my men so that none were stout enough to remain and fight, for they were surrounded by evils. They slew many of us with sharp bronze there, while others they dragged away, still living, to toil as slaves (Odyssey 14.245–72)

This tale of an ill-starred raid on Egypt is false: it is a deliberate lie told by Odysseus, posing as the unnamed son of Castor, to hide his identity, but it is also, of course, part of the fantastic narrative of Homeric epic. Nevertheless, it has been thought to represent the character of naval expeditions prior to the classical period.1 The reasons for this supposition seem clear. Although it is an obvious fabrication, Homer evidently expected the audience to believe that it could be a plausible enough cover story for a man like Odysseus to use, and it may, therefore, have reflected the expectations of the audience itself that such a raid was possible. That Egypt might be a target for Greek raiding parties seems to find support from the tale of another raid. Herodotus (2.152) relates that the seventh century Pharaoh, Psammetichus, enlisted ‘men of bronze’ from Ionia and Caria who had been raiding the Nile

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delta (see p. 43, 67). It is not so much the targeting of Egypt by the son of Castor that is significant, but how the story reflects early Greek organisation and conduct of overseas raiding. Homer even gives a tactical lesson for the prospective reaver: always act with vigilance and restraint until the coast, so to speak, is clear, or else the locals may be able to organise retaliation. The son of Castor’s expedition seems to have been a private undertaking initiated by this charismatic and successful individual who chose a target and gathered together friends, followers and supporters from among the community (laos). The mention of the laos coming together might imply that much of the community accompanied him on the expedition. Nevertheless the organiser used personal resources to provision the preexpedition meals for his companions. The purpose of these entertainments was evidently to offer sufficient sacrifice to the gods (perhaps here rewarded by fair winds). It also created a degree of commensal bonding among the crewmen and broad support for the expedition, although this clearly did not mean that the crews were obliged to follow the organiser’s orders. There appears to have been little sense of discipline on the expedition itself, and the organiser’s recommendations were ignored in a general free-for-all in the target territory. The expedition was little more than an agglomeration of individuals with a common cause, lacking any sense of military organisation or discipline. This may have reflected the realities of freebooting in the archaic period: when, after defeat at the naval battle of Lade (494 BC), Chian refugees, in some disorder, arrived at Ephesus during the women’s festival of the Thesmophoria, they were mistaken for pirates and killed.2 Other survivors of the defeat at Lade did indeed go on to set up a pirate base in Sicily, which preyed on Carthaginian and Etruscan shipping (Hdt. 6.17). The line between military action and piratical activity was often difficult to determine. Those who, at times, acted on their own initiative, at others, fought on behalf of their communities. The son of Castor, for instance, claimed that the Cretans had obliged him to take joint command, with Idomeneus, of the forces sent to Troy (Od. 14.237–9; see p. 32). Although the Greek expedition has sometimes been viewed as a very large raiding operation, Homer portrays it as an undertaking fully supported by the Greeks’ home communities.3 The commanders and their peoples are listed in the so-called ‘Catalogue of Ships’ (Il. 2.498–760; Hope Simpson and Lazenby 1970). Some, like the Cretans under Idomeneus, could send eighty ships to Troy (2.652), while smaller communities, such as Syme, sent as few as three (2.671). Although the ‘Catalogue’ and the war are poetic inventions, and the numbers of ships are little more than a storyteller’s mnemonic exercise, a consideration of crew sizes helps give an indication of how many men might depart a community for every ship in a raiding force. A raid on the scale of the son of Castor’s might have involved anywhere between 450 and

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1,080 warriors sailing from a community. The ‘Catalogue’ describes the ships of the Boeotians as having 120 crew (2.509–10), but other vessels were rowed by fifty men (2.719–20; Thuc. 1.10). It is possible that the poet is imagining the smaller craft to be penteconters. These ships were extremely common in the archaic and later periods. How the larger crews in the ‘Catalogue’ were accommodated is unclear, although it is possible that Homer is talking of larger ships with larger rowing complements. It appears that the Greeks applied a practical length limit to war ships of rows of twenty-five to thirty oars per side. The shorter a ship, the less hull in contact with the water, and therefore less friction and wave turbulence to overcome at any moment; this made the ship swifter and more manoeuvrable. In order to increase muscle power, providing extra speed and kinetic force (perhaps for ramming), but to stay within this parameter of length, either two rowers per oar, or two banks of oars, might be employed. The early development of the ‘two’, bireme, can be seen in archaic vase paintings, and this may be the type of craft employed by the Boeotians in the Homeric ‘Catalogue’. A short, twolevel ship implies naval combat: speed, manoeuvre and the intention either to gain advantage in boarding, or to use ramming tactics (if catheads are present). Indeed, once multiple-banked systems came into use, penteconters may also have been constructed using the design (Casson 1995 [1971], 60–5). Yet for all the ships involved, the Homeric poems do not describe naval battles: those who rowed the ships acted primarily as warriors in land combat (Thuc. 1.10). The only indication that ships might have engaged at sea is in a trap laid by the Suitors, who manned a twenty-oared craft intending to intercept Telemachus near an islet off Ithaca (Od. 16.360–70). That such ambushes were seen as a persistent danger to seafarers in antiquity is shown by the fourth-century writer, Theophrastus, who mocks ‘the cowardly man’ for imagining every outcropping at sea to be a pirate ship (Characters 25; Ormerod 1978 [1924], 25). Navies and naval power While small-scale boarding actions and piracy have probably occurred since the invention of sailing, concerted military action against enemy shipping by Greek communities does not appear to have been undertaken until the seventh century, or so Thucydides would have us believe. He states that the first naval battle occurred between Corinth and Corcyra (c. 664 BC, Thuc. 1.13), but what tactics were used is unclear. The development of naval warfare is predicated on an extension of hostilities between communities to the sea. While private and piratical actions continued into the classical period and beyond,4 inter-state naval conflicts often had a significant impact on the development of individual city-states, and on the Greek world in

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general. Such struggles were conducted, for the most part, by warships designed especially for the purpose of engaging enemy vessels. The development of multiple-banked military craft in the archaic period reached its apogee with the trie-re-s or trireme – a three-banked ship powered by 170 oarsmen and designed principally, it seems, for power, swiftness and manoeuvre. When and where it was first developed is still a subject of controversy, but it came to be used in increasing numbers from the middle of the sixth century BC.5 The development and employment of navies in the archaic period is a somewhat murky subject. However, given the fact that triremes were much larger than penteconters and thus were far more expensive to construct and maintain, it is unsurprising that the earliest trireme powers appear to have been the richest states: Phoenicia (as part of the Persian Empire), Egypt, Carthage, Samos, Miletus, Corinth and Corcyra. It seems likely that communities increasingly took over the control and administration of warships. In the archaic period, privately owned vessels may have been significant, such as the ship provided by the Athenian Cleinias at the Battle of Artemisium in 480 BC (Hdt. 8.17; cf. Plut. Alc. 1) or the trireme of Philip of Croton that joined the expedition of Dorieus (Hdt. 5.47) in c. 510 BC. Yet by the Persian wars, it seems to have been the norm that ships were constructed and maintained at public expense, or by individuals acting on behalf of the state. The ships were considered as the property of the state, at least for the duration of the campaign, but frequently for much longer.6 In the classical period, fleets, squadrons and, often, individual ships were commanded by state officials: admirals, generals and captains (trierarchs). Any definition of a navy should include not only the ships and these officials, but also the installations: the harbours and bases, buildings to house equipment, slipways for ships to be brought out of the water for repair and respite from the sea, and the equipment itself: sails, oars and tackle. It is also necessary to consider the infrastructure that maintained and developed naval assets: the systems that procured timber, flax and hemp, recruited and trained crews and craftsmen, and raised the money to finance the navy. Polycrates of Samos might be regarded as the first significant Greek naval player in the Aegean.7 He possessed a substantial navy of 100 penteconters and, later, 40 triremes that won victories over the Milesians and Lesbians, and dominated the islands through conquest and predation.8 He also appears to have overseen the construction of an artificial harbour and shipsheds at Samos.9 Polycrates was able to maintain some semblance of independence in the face of Persian imperial expansion, first by an alliance with the independent power of Egypt, later as an ally of the Persians, before he finally succumbed to their intrigues. The eastern Aegean came to be domi-

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nated by the fleet of the Persian Empire, which augmented its manpower requirements with locally procured crews from the subject Ionian states. These states maintained small forces of triremes, but nothing to match the resources available to Persia. The use of very large trireme fleets in the Aegean occurred from 500 BC when the Persians subdued Naxos with a force of 200. The Ionian cities that revolted in 499 BC had their own fleets, but could not have matched the Persians without the seizure of the fleet stationed in Ionia, which they, for the most part, had crewed for their overlords.10 With this force of 353 triremes, the Ionians were able to hold out for several years, until naval defeat at Lade in 494 BC brought the revolt to its closing stages. At some point in the early fifth century BC, the Athenians were persuaded to increase the size of their fleet and to increase the numbers of triremes they were to use. Athenian interest in the events across the Aegean, in Thrace and Western Asia Minor, had been long-standing. At the time of the Ionian revolt, the Athenians decided to send twenty triremes, a substantial part of their fleet of fifty ships, in aid of the rebels.11 Compared with the size of the Ionian fleet itself, or in relation to that crewed by individual states such as Miletus (eighty), Samos (sixty) and Lesbos (seventy), Athens’ contribution was small (Hdt. 6.8–9). However, considering the existence of Aegina, a rival in the Saronic Gulf within sight of Attica, and in comparison with some of the contributions from members of the Ionian league, this represents a not insignificant commitment (Hdt. 6.8–9). Athenian participation was limited to the first year of the war; they were not present at Lade for they had become embroiled in a conflict with Aegina in the later 490s. The Athenians were so hard pressed that they were forced to obtain twenty triremes from Corinth (Hdt. 6.89). This brought their fleet to seventy ships, yet by 480 it had risen to 200 triremes (Hdt. 7.144). This outstanding growth was due in part to the threat that Persia now presented to Athens (Thuc. 1.14). A landing at Marathon in Attica had been repulsed in 490, but it appeared that the Persians might return at any time, and according to Herodotus a second invasion was widely known to be in preparation (Hdt. 7.138). Some Athenians, it appears, understood that the five-year success of the Ionians against the might of Persia was based on their fleet. The revolt had only collapsed on the defeat of the rebel navy. Having a large and undefeated fleet would give the Athenians a fighting chance. However, without the financial resources that were provided by the discovery of silver at Laurium (or Maronea), Athens would probably never have been able to either expand its navy, or to construct the Piraeus harbour fortifications. Both programmes were attributed to Themistocles, and may have been initiated as early as his archonship of 493 BC (Thuc. 1.93; Paus. 1.1.2). Under his direction, the construction of a large trireme fleet allowed Athens to become a major naval

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power. It was used not only to overawe Aegina, but also to claim the leadership of the Hellenic forces at sea in the face of Xerxes’ invasion, although for the sake of unity this was yielded to the Spartans (Hdt. 8.3). At the Battle of Salamis, Athens provided 180 triremes, one half of the entire Hellenic fleet (Hdt. 8.44). Success against Persia, both at Salamis and, in the following year, at Mycale, established Athenian naval credentials. When the Spartan regent, Pausanias, mismanaged the allies, it was the Athenians who stepped in to take up leadership of the continuing war against Persia. From 478 BC, using the infrastructure of an Aegean-wide alliance system, Athens was able to project its power to Ionia, Caria and beyond. In the expensive and dangerous campaigning against Persian strongholds and naval resources in the Aegean, culminating in the victory at Eurymedon in c. 469/6 BC (Thuc. 1.100; Plut. Cim. 12; Diod. 11.60), many allies opted to provide cash rather than ships, although Lesbos, Chios and Samos continued to contribute significant numbers of triremes. Cimon, the Athenian General, accepted money and unmanned ships from those reluctant to undertake service, and so trapped by their own softness, the allies remained at home and became farmers and traders instead of fighters, and all because of their misguided love of the easy life. However, he compelled many Athenians to crew their vessels, constantly replacing one contingent with the next, and forced the labour of campaigning upon them, and after a short time, and by using the payments from the allies, he turned them into masters over their own employers. Those who undertook no military activity came to fear and flatter those who were always practising and exercising under arms, and constantly campaigning, and before they realised it they had become tribute-bearing subjects instead of allies. (Plutarch, Cimon 11.2–3)

In Plutarch’s analysis, by providing the bulk of the fleet, the Athenians gained control of the sea, thalassokratia. They maintained it with a good deal of vigour and firmness. When Naxos attempted to leave the alliance in 469 and refused to contribute its quota of ships, it was compelled to rejoin and reduced to paying tribute (Thuc. 1.98). Thasos was deprived of its autonomy in 465 (Thuc. 1.100–1), and Samos lost its independent ship-contributing status in the revolt of 440 BC (1.117; Shipley 1987). At the beginning of the Peloponnesian War in 431/0, Pericles claimed that Athenian rule of the sea was like tyranny; it was dangerous to relinquish it, even if it had been wrong to obtain it in the first place (Thuc. 2.60–4). Stesimbrotus of Thasos seems to have agreed, at least on Pericles’ first point. He wrote a condemnation of Athenian sea power and noted what he saw as its corrupting effect on the Athenian people (Plut. Them. 4; Momigliano 1944, 1–2). Their heavy involvement in naval matters had turned them into a nautikos ochlos, a naval mob.

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The Old Oligarch, who wrote a somewhat partisan account of the Athenian democracy c. 431–425 BC, noted that the rulers of Athens were not the rich, but the poor. The political power of the thetes in Athens was, according to this source ([Xen.] Ath. Pol. 1.2), based on their contribution to the imperial and military power of the state. It was they who sailed the ships that controlled the sea, and who had created an empire out of what had been a pan-Aegean alliance of cities and islands. Yet credit given to the people who manned the fleet was hardly forthcoming. The rowers who made up the vast proportion of crews received little attention in the elite Athenian literary sources; their lifestyles and political inclinations were distasteful to an aristocracy that derived its wealth primarily from landholdings. It is not easy to prove that oarsmen were even commemorated on public lists of war casualties (Strauss 2000, 261 ff.). Instead, it was the hoplites serving on board the triremes, the epibatai, who often received praise and credit – the 120 marines killed in Aetolia in 426 were labelled the ‘best’ of Athenians who died in the war (Thuc. 3.98). Nevertheless it is clear that the efficiency of the crew and the skills of the helmsmen (kyberne-tai) were often more decisive than the marines in Athenian naval victories (see p. 122). Military contribution was an important element in the rights and privileges of citizens and, despite systematic denigration in the sources, Athenian oarsmen were a major factor in political and social life. The de-mos and the fleet in the fifth century were closely identified. It was the poor who rowed in the fleet and benefited from pay, not only for military service but also for service in the institutions of democracy (particularly jury-service, but some may have qualified for seats on the boule- or held other magistracies). With the revenues of the empire rolling in, common Athenians became habituated to the receipt of state pay, and this served to reinforce loyalty to the democratic system.12 During the oligarchic regimes of 411/10 and 403, measures were taken to limit state pay. It is significant that the success and failure of the oligarchic revolution of 411 was based on the fact that the main Athenian fleet was stationed at Samos, many citizens were in service there, and their absence facilitated a change in constitution. However, continued opposition to the new regime from the fleet at Samos meant that the oligarchy was unable to direct affairs effectively and led to a restoration of the democracy. Similarly, defeat of the fleet at Aegospotami contributed to the conditions that allowed the oligarchic regime of the ‘Thirty Tyrants’ to seize power. The ‘Thirty’ attempted to redirect the interest of the state by re-orientating the Assembly space on the Pnyx so that it faced inland rather than, as previously, towards the sea. More damaging was the intention to destroy the expensive ship-sheds, although this may not have been completed. It is hardly surprising that the Piraeus became the base from which the ‘Thirty’ were overthrown. Indeed, Aristotle (Pol. 1303b10–12) claimed that the population of the Piraeus was more

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democratic than the population who lived in the city (Roy 1998). In the aftermath of the overthrow of the ‘Thirty’, at least one rich liturgist who may have supported the oligarchs nevertheless stressed his democratic loyalty and credentials by describing his heavy expenditure as a trireme captain (trierarch) under the democracy (Lys. 21.2). Criticism of the adverse effects of sea power continued in the fourth century, with orators and philosophers perpetuating anti-democratic valuations. Isocrates (Peace 8.102–3) in 355 BC argued that sea power caused injustice, lawlessness, laziness, greed, covetousness and tyranny. Sea power, he observed, was fostered by the crafts associated with the building of ships and by men able to row them – men who, in his opinion, having lost their own possessions, were used to living off the possessions of others (Isoc. Panath. 12.115–16). Despite its social effects, the advantages of thalassocracy were well understood by Greeks in the classical period. Contemporary discourse in Athens on the nature of sea power is reflected in the works of both Thucydides and the Old Oligarch, who juxtaposed its strengths with the limitations of land power.13 Any state that possessed a navy could attempt to project its power and reputation over more than local distances (de Souza 1998, 287). A navy enabled an imperialistic state to impose and enforce its will on other coastal and island states (Thuc. 1.15). A state aiming at thalassokratia, would, in the view of Thucydides (1.8, 1.13) – reflecting, it appears, Athenian policy – also put down piracy for the benefit of its commerce.14 A naval power had strategic mobility – it was able to go anywhere ([Xen.] Ath. Pol. 2.5) and to put in where the enemy was weak ([Xen.] Ath. Pol. 2.4, 2.13). However, a land power had to travel through friendly territories and fight its way through hostile regions to get to where it was going. Its progress was slow and its ability to take provisions was limited ([Xen.] Ath. Pol. 2.5). Strategic mobility enabled a naval state to project its power not only by raiding and campaigning against the enemy ([Xen.] Ath. Pol. 2.4; Thuc. 1.105, 143, 2.23), but also by controlling shipping ([Xen.] Ath. Pol. 2.12), and to aim at the elimination of rivals at sea. At a number of points in the fifth century, Athens appeared to be following a policy that reduced its rivals’ naval influence. The placing of an allied (Messenian) base at Naupactus at the head of the Corinthian Gulf (Thuc. 1.103), Tolmides’ attack on the Spartan docks at Gytheum (Thuc. 1.108; Xen. Hell. 6.5.2), and the several attempts on Aegina and Megara could be interpreted as putting pressure on the navies of the Peloponnesian League.15 Indeed, Pericles is made to say that the Athenians, through blockade, could even prevent the Peloponnesians from training their crews at sea (Thuc. 1.142). It is striking how the Athenians, when faced with the revolts of ship-contributing allies (notably Naxos, Thasos and Samos), took the opportunity to remove their

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independent status. The failure of these revolts became, with the hindsight of Athenian campaigning and strategy, a theoretical inevitability. The Old Oligarch noted that islands in particular were vulnerable to the projection of Athenian power, being unable to combine forces with other cities very easily across a sea controlled by the Athenian fleet. This meant that a thalassocracy was more easily maintained than a land empire, where in contrast, the combination of inland cities into enemy alliances was more dangerous ([Xen.] Ath. Pol. 2.2–3). Resources Thalassocracy also provided economic strength and resources; it enabled a state to weather local crop conditions by importing from regions of plenty ([Xen.] Ath. Pol. 2.6). A naval power could exploit and dominate access to shipbuilding materials ([Xen.] Ath. Pol. 2.11). Regions good in timber were usually poor in other materials (such as flax, copper or iron), but a thalassocracy could combine the resources of several regions, while denying its enemies access to them ([Xen.] Ath. Pol. 2.12). Herodotus, in describing the late sixth/early fifth-century BC community of Myrcinus-on-Strymon, indicates the conditions that could encourage an ambitious man, in this case Histiaeus of Miletus, to transform a community into a naval power: The site has great potential, it has silver mines and is well provided in timber for shipbuilding and making oars. The region is heavily populated by Greeks and barbarians; all would readily follow Histiaeus by night or day. (Herodotus 5.23)

Money, matériel and men – these are the primary constituents of naval power and the sinews of war. Histiaeus had been given the region by the Persians as a reward for services rendered, but his plans, whatever they may have been, were frustrated by his recall to the court of the Persian king. During the Ionian revolt, when the Persian fleet in the Aegean was in the hands of the rebels, he returned to the North Aegean and attempted unsuccessfully to establish himself at Thasos. Histiaeus, even had he been able to overcome Thasian resistance, would not have prospered as an independent power. The Persian Empire was soon back in control of the region, with a major naval base nearby on the mainland at Abdera (Hdt. 6.46). After them came the Athenians, who understood well that good sources of raw materials were essential to naval power. Ships, particularly triremes, needed very long timbers. The oak keel had to be a single beam and to be grown deliberately curved. According to Theophrastus (History of Plants 5.7.1–3; Meiggs 1982, 118), triremes were primarily built of fir and cedar, which were light

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and strong. As these woods were accessible to the Greeks in abundance only from certain regions – Macedon, Thrace, the Troad, the Black Sea region, Southern Italy and Sicily – the construction of large fleets became a logistical and diplomatic problem. The need to obtain access to these regions explains, for instance, the strategic value of the Persian base at Eion on the River Strymon in Thrace and the attempt by Greeks to establish colonies on this river, such as Myrcinus, Ennea Hodos (Nine-Ways) and later (at the same site), Amphipolis.16 Both Histiaeus and the Athenians took a great deal of interest in the island of Thasos because of its position opposite the Thracian mainland, rich in mines and markets (in timber).17 The significance for Athens of its relationship with Macedon throughout the fifth and fourth centuries BC was also due in large degree to the latter’s wealth in timber. The search for supplies of wood might also contribute to explaining fifth-century Athenian interest in Sicily, although not, perhaps, the launch of the Athenian expedition of 415 BC. In contrast, Athens’ main Peloponnesian naval rival, Corinth, had access to timber from the Adriatic, although with an Athenian base at Naupactus from c. 460 BC this source may have become unreliable in times of conflict. The Peloponnesian states could also use the relatively inferior timber of the Peloponnese (Meiggs 1982, 130, 492 n. 50) and, at times, from Sicily and Southern Italy. After their defeat at the battle of Cyzicus (410 BC), the Peloponnesians were fortunate in obtaining access both to Persian money and to the timber of the Troad. They were thus able to man and construct fleets in the Eastern Aegean of comparable quality to the Athenians. The costs of constructing and maintaining a navy would have been considerable, and to become a significant threat to other states was such a heavy undertaking that only the richest and most committed communities, and their prospective targets (where they had the resources), ever attempted it. Initial investment in any war fleet, in dockyards and ship-sheds, must have been huge: Athens boasted ship-sheds that had cost over 1,000 talents (Isoc. Areop. 7.66). Added to this were the annual costs of paying harbour guards: at Athens these numbered 500 men ([Arist.] Ath. Pol. 24.3). The organisation needed to procure raw materials and transport them to the construction points is scarcely visible in our surviving sources, but it all had to be paid for. The craftsmen, naval architects and labourers who assembled and maintained the ships also had to be paid. Only rough estimates can be made of all these costs, but if the Athenians constructed 20 to 30 ships every year, this may have amounted to between 30 and 50 talents (Starr 1989, 92 n. 23). Where money was plentiful, timber, woodcutters and naval architects were likely to become abundant enough to allow for the rapid construction of trireme fleets. The growth of the Athenian fleet in the 480s is remarkable, particularly after the discovery of rich deposits of silver at Laurium (or

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Maronea), in c. 483/2 BC. We can only wonder at where they procured the materials for this effort. In later years, the Athenians appeared to have stockpiled seasoned timber and also spare hulls and equipment. Aristophanes (Ach. 545; see p. 118) implies that Athens could, at any time, launch a fleet of 300 warships, and this is in accord with Thucydides’ view of the strength of the Athenian navy in 431 BC (2.13.8; cf. Diod. 12.40.4). After the defeat of the Sicilian expedition in 413 BC and the loss of around 173 ships (including fifty from allied Lesbos and Chios (Thuc. 6.31) and seventy-three Athenian and allied reinforcements that had arrived in 413 BC under Demosthenes’ command (Thuc. 7.42)), the Athenians very quickly seem to have outfitted another fleet and continued to conduct successful campaigns in the eastern Aegean from 412/11 onwards. However, after the near annihilation of their main fleet of 180 ships at Aegospotami in 405 BC (Xen. Hell. 2.1.20, 28), they appear to have lacked the reserves to launch another. In the fourth century, a number of key inscriptions of naval inventories (particularly 350–323/2 BC) provide us with a picture of the potential numbers and conditions of hulls that Athens possessed. Triremes appear to have been of variable quality; ships were described as ‘new’ (or ‘as if new’) or ‘old’, but in later inscriptions were classed as ‘select’ (light and swift), ‘firsts’ (good quality), ‘seconds’ (seaworthy – and the bulk of the fleet, it appears), and ‘thirds’ (poor). Hulls of all qualities were distributed to each of Athens’ three military harbours, Zea, Cantharus, and Munychia. Gabrielsen’s survey (1994, 129) of the available evidence concludes that for much of the fourth century, Athens had more than 250, and perhaps as many as 380, triremes available to launch. The greatest and most persistent financial expense involved in possessing a fleet was its daily operation on campaign, and despite the number of hulls a state possessed, this could limit the numbers it could afford to launch. It explains why the Athenians almost never had their whole fleet at sea in a single year (the exceptions being the Artemisium–Salamis campaign in 480 BC and, perhaps, the summers of 431/0 and 428 BC when over 250 triremes were in operation – Thuc. 3.17). Each trireme had a crew of 200, all of whom (including slaves) received pay. Athenian crews appear to have been relatively well rewarded. In good times, such as the early years of the Archidamian War, rowers could receive as much as a drachma per day. At this rate each ship would cost one talent per month to crew. The Segestans provided 60 talents for 1 month’s pay for 60 Athenian ships at the beginning of the Sicilian expedition, promising, but being unable to deliver, much more (Thuc. 6.8; cf. Meiggs 1972, 259). The costs of campaigns involving large fleets could very rapidly pile up. The expedition to reduce Samos in 440 BC cost over 1,276 talents (ML 55; IG I3.363). With 60 triremes involved, this works out at 2.3 talents per ship for

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each month of that campaign.18 Thucydides (3.17) stated that the siege of Potidaea (431–428, costing 2,000 talents, Thuc. 2.70.2) and the large commitments of the fleet in the early years of the war were the chief drains on Athenian revenue. The state reserves were rapidly consumed, so that in 428 the Athenians had to take measures to generate revenue through an eisphora, a special levy of tax, that raised 200 talents and by sending out 12 warships to collect outstanding tribute from the allies (Thuc. 3.19). Rates of pay also depended on the status and rank of the crewman. The kyberne-tai and the rest of the hype-resiai would also have been paid amounts greater than the oarsmen. In 415 the thranitai, the upper bank of oarsmen on a trie-re-s, also received bonuses (Gabrielsen 1994, 121–2). Pay could vary from ship to ship, with competitive trierarchs paying over the odds to get the best possible crewmen. The trierarchs, rich Athenians who were each selected to command and finance individual warships, often made up any shortfall in state provision, producing supplies and supplementing or underwriting the pay of the crews, maintaining the equipment and hulls. This office appears to have been more burdensome during the Ionian war (411–404 BC), when Athens had also to contend with the financial pressures caused by revolts among its tribute-paying allies. The average daily wage provided by the state at that point appears to have been around 2 to 3 obols.19 Persian financial support for the Peloponnesians allowed them to offer rates that the Athenians struggled to match. When Athens, in the fourth century, could no longer rely on the income from its empire, the financial involvement of the trierarchs was extensive; one general, Timotheus, secured a loan of 700 drachmas from each of his trierarchs to pay the crews.20 On top of the financial commitment, large fleets also absorbed enormous amounts of manpower. Most states would have struggled to provide this from their own reserves and could only have sustained it by using slaves, allies and mercenaries. The huge investment in manpower can be seen in the calculation that for the 100 Athenian triremes despatched around the Peloponnese in 431/0 BC, there would have been 17,000 oarsmen and 3,000 other crew (Thuc. 2.23). All had to be fed, watered and paid, and while on campaign, would not have contributed to the economic or agricultural life of the city. It has been calculated that in 431 BC Athens had a military population of 1,000 cavalry, 13,000 hoplites (an additional 16,000 were available from among the ranks of the young and old, and non-citizen metics), and 30,000 non-hoplites. The manpower requirements of the Athenian fleet were likely to have been difficult to manage on a long-term basis and, while many citizens would have been involved in naval operations, the Athenians frequently recruited foreigners into their crews. In 431 BC, the Corinthians believed that they could borrow money from the temples at Delphi and Olympia and, by offering better rates of pay, draw away the mercenary oarsmen of the Athenians (Thuc. 1.121.3).

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Indeed, in the Ionian War, Persian gold enabled the Peloponnesians to do just that (Xen. Hell. 1.5.4; Pritchett 1.18; 47). That there was, to some extent, a free market in mercenary oarsmen is indicated by the lengthy preparations (434–432 BC) undertaken by the Corinthians to equip and man a fleet of ninety triremes. This included recruiting the best-trained seamen from the Peloponnese and the rest of Greece, including, it seems, from the Athenian Empire (Thuc. 1.31, 46). The Athenian orator Isocrates (Peace 8.79), with some disgust, claimed that ‘Our ancestors assembled the laziest and most criminal men from the whole of Greece and filled their triremes with them.’ Having spent over the odds to recruit the best oarsmen from across the Aegean, Apollodorus ruefully noted that unlike other trierarchs, who had recruited citizens who would stay with their ships until their return to Athens, his men were tempted to leave him: ‘trusting in their skills as oarsmen, they went off to wherever they were most likely to be re-employed at the best rates of pay’ ([Demosthenes] 50.15–16). It seems that recruitment of crews was a matter for individual officers. Apollodorus sent his pentekontarchos to various cities to recruit rowers ([Dem.] 50.18). The competition of captains for good-quality crews is expressed in Lysias (21; cf. [Dem.] 51.6), where a trierarch offered the highest rate of pay in the fleet in order to attract the best crew and steersman. Thucydides’ account of preparations for the Sicilian expedition also reveals how the trierarchs offered extra money to attract good oarsmen (6.31). Newly recruited crews were not automatically proficient, although the more experienced the oarsmen, the quicker they became a coherent unit. It is likely that crews were disbanded at the end of an expedition so that recruitment began afresh with each campaign. There was, therefore, a necessary period of training for any trireme at the beginning of an expedition. It was difficult to row well enough to reach battle readiness, crews needed to be highly co-ordinated for speed and manoeuvre, and it would have been difficult to communicate commands in an undisciplined trireme. Well-trained crews, in the words of Phormio (Thuc. 2.89), ought to: stay at your positions in the ships, keep good order, and be on the alert for uttered orders . . . when it comes to action, put your trust in discipline and in silence, for these things count for a lot in any kind of warfare, but particularly in combat at sea . . .

It seems that the thranitai were the ones who worked hardest and maintained the efficiency of a ship. Aristophanes (Ach. 162–3) calls them the saviours of the polis, and in 415 they were given extra donatives by the trierarchs (Thuc. 6.31). Nicias alluded to such men in a despatch addressed to the Athenians:

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You all understand already that a crew is only at its most efficient for a short time and that it is only a few of the sailors who get a ship moving and continue rowing as they should. (Thucydides 7.14)

This in a polis where, as the Old Oligarch ([Xen.] Ath. Pol. 1.19–20) states, all citizens spent time at the oar when travelling; indeed, many were able to row as soon as they boarded ships, since they had practised it throughout their lives. Pericles is made to say (Thuc. 1.142) that rowing was a full-time occupation, needing constant practice, and that oarsmen should have no other vocation. The empire provided the resources to pay the wages of rowers in the Athenian fleet, and frequent training and steady income kept the crews skilled.21 In order to keep as many Athenian crews as possible in top condition, it appears that Pericles sent out as many as sixty triremes at a time on eight-month missions (Plut. Per. 11; cf. Thuc 2.13.8). Iphicrates brought his crews up to scratch in a journey around the Peloponnese to campaign at Corcyra by leaving the largest sails at Athens and using the smaller only sparingly (Xen. Hell. 6.2.27–30). By making much of the journey by oar, his crews were kept physically fit, and he kept them practised by indulging in battle exercises and races before mealtimes. Iphicrates was a strict disciplinarian who maintained a close control over his men; he even threatened his trierarchs with punishment (Xen. Hell. 6.2.34). This sort of discipline, though, was often viewed as excessive or tyrannical. The Spartan regent Pausanias made himself unpopular with the Hellenic fleet when he punished men with blows or made them stand all day bearing an iron anchor on their shoulders (Plut. Aristeides 23.2; Hornblower 2000, 59). Another Spartan general, Astyochus, raised his stick to an allied officer (Dorieus, commander of ten Thurian triremes), and was nearly stoned to death by the allied sailors (Thuc. 8.84). Even in the face of extreme danger, over-vigorous training could prove counter-productive. In 494 BC, the Ionian fleet, facing the imminent arrival of the Persian navy at Lade, nevertheless mutinied against its commander, Dionysius of Phocaea (Hdt. 6.12.3). After seven days of exercises in the hot sun, the crews exclaimed that Persian rule had to be easier. There were limits, therefore, to the amount of discipline and training that most admirals could impose on their men. Nicias lamented the decline of the crews blockading Syracuse, claiming that ‘my trouble as a general is that you are so difficult to control’ (Thuc. 7.14). Naval operations Aristophanes’ Acharnians (544–54, cf. Thuc. 6.30–2) brings out the preparations and outfitting for a major campaign:

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The ancient Greeks at war Why, you’d have instantaneously despatched Three hundred ships; the city would be filled With shouting soldiers, clamour for the skippers, With pay disbursed, with figureheads being gilded, With noisy markets, rations being rationed, With wallets, oar-loops, people buying jars, With garlic, olives, onions packed in nets, With crowns, anchovies, dancing-girls, black eyes, With the dockyard full of oar-spars being planed And dowel-pins hammered, oar-ports being drilled, With flutes and bosuns, whistles and tootle-oo. (Aristophanes, Acharnians 544–54)

The hustle and bustle of the preparations includes some payment in advance and the purchase of supplies. It seems that the provisioning on campaign was a matter for individual sailors, or their captains. Plutarch (De gloria Ath. 349a) describes how the trierarchs provided oarsmen with provisions of ‘barley-meal and a relish of onions and cheese’. At least part of the pay (misthos) received by the men was intended to allow them to purchase supplies when on campaign. Merchantmen might follow or be allocated to a fleet to convoy supplies (e.g. Xen. Hell. 1.6.37). The Sicilian expedition had thirty such ships that carried wheat, barley and bakers (Thuc. 6.22, 44). These traders were sometimes under the direct supervision of public officials. According to one source ([Arist.] Oec. 1347b), crews from Heraclea were expected to purchase all they needed from the tamiai, public treasurers, who commanded each of the merchantmen on the expedition. Fleets also relied on other sources. Local markets were often set up along the route a force would travel, as occurred at Rhegium during the Sicilian expedition (Thuc. 6.44; see p. 74–5, 151, 170). Prices may well have become inflated by the high demand such fleets generated. The traders of Lampsacus were, at one point, ordered by the state to increase prices on the approach of a large fleet – the amount of increase to flow directly into the state’s coffers.22 Higher than usual costs for supplies might explain the high rates of pay offered on some expeditions (Pritchett 1.30–52; Gabrielsen 1994, 110–14). Allies might be called upon to provide such markets, or might be expected to gather provisions for the use of the fleet. However, the requisitioning of supplies could strain diplomatic relations; according to Plutarch (Phocion 11), Athenian generals were often so heavy-handed that the allies and islanders came to regard them as enemies who ‘obstructed their harbours and forced them to bring inside their cities their women, children, slaves and herds’. In the classical period, warships under oars were capable of travelling on average fifty miles in a day. The capacity of crews to row flat-out was finite,

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and travelling by sail was an option frequently adopted. Depending on winds and currents, ships under sail might similarly travel up to around fifty miles in a day, but of course overnight travel was possible when using the wind (Casson 1995, 292–6). Many fleets may have used a combination of rowing and sailing, depending on conditions, but the sources never mention this (Morrison, Coates and Rankov 2000, 106). The journey of Mindarus from Chios to the Hellespont, 220 miles in two days, was exceptional, but perhaps reflects the upper range of a fleet moving in haste and probably rowing all the way (Thuc. 8.101; Morrison, Coates and Rankov 2000, 97). Naval travel could be affected by weather; aboard ship, it was the job of the pro-irates to watch the skies (Ar. Knights 543). Contrary winds hampered movement, although it appears that the Greeks had developed tacking by the fourth century BC. The sailing season, when the worst weather might be avoided, was from May to September (Casson 1995, 270–3), and most campaigning occurred during this time. Although triremes were very fast and agile, they were not greatly seaworthy. They were extremely vulnerable to poor weather; if caught in a storm on unprotected coastlines or in the open sea, horrendous losses could be suffered. At least one fleet was driven from Sicily to Africa where it became becalmed (Plut. Dion 25). A first Persian expedition to Greece was prevented when much of the fleet was apparently destroyed rounding Mount Athos on the north Aegean coast (Hdt. 6.44). Some 300 ships and 20,000 men were said to have perished, the men being drowned, dashed against rocks, eaten by sharks or succumbing to the cold. A canal was constructed soon afterwards so that the expedition of Xerxes could bypass this hazard (Hdt. 7.22), but one of Xerxes’ squadrons appears to have suffered greatly from a storm off the coast of Thessaly (7.188–91). Choppy water itself was enough to spread alarm among crews. Chabrias repositioned the protective leather spray sheets in his fleet to prevent the oarsmen from getting drenched and waves swamping the ships. It had the further effect of hiding the waves from their view so that they did not jump up in fear every time one rolled in at them (Polyaenus 3.11.13; Casson 1995, 88 n. 58). In the early sea-trials of the modern trireme reconstruction, Olympias, waves of only 0.85 m were enough to pose difficulties for the crew (Morrison and Coates 1986, 197). Thucydides (2.84) notes how the Peloponnesians struggled to maintain an even stroke in a swell, although the experienced Athenian crews had no trouble in the engagement. Even calm sea could be a danger – the risk of being totally becalmed and running out of fresh water was more of a hazard to ships that relied primarily on sails. Ancient ships tended to hug the coastline; the crossing of extended parts of open sea was rare, since there were poor maps and no compasses. Often, therefore, routes taken by fleets were easy to predict and could aid the enemy in detection and interception. The movement of ships

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along coasts was therefore sometimes difficult and dangerous, and only at very narrow and specially constructed points could ships transit land to avoid long journeys around peninsulas. One such a point was the Isthmus at Corinth; another was the Persian canal at the dangerous cape of Athos. Penetration to the interior of a littoral was also limited only to navigable rivers or canals. Triremes were not particularly seaworthy craft, and there was little room on board for food, water and firewood. Thus crews tried to find a friendly beach each night to cook their meals and sleep. However, they and their ships could fall prey to enemy land forces at such times. The defeat at Aegospotami was precipitated because many Athenians were away foraging for food and the force was attacked while beached (Nepos, Alcibiades 7; Xen. Hell. 2.1.27–8). Foragers, whether unarmed or aggressively plundering, were also vulnerable to cavalry, and the Spartans created a cavalry force in 425 in order to deal with the presence of Athenian sea-raiders along the south coast of the Peloponnese. Fleets preferred to operate in concert with land forces (symparapleia; see p. 76–7, 80 n. 27), or from strong bases. If those bases (such as Amphipolis) were lost, then it could be difficult to regain a foothold or operate in a region. Athens experienced this situation increasingly acutely during the reign of Philip of Macedon as he reduced Athenian strongholds and allies in the North Aegean. He waited for moments of opportunity, seizing cities while Athens was distracted and before it could react (Dem. 4.4, 17). He could afford to bide his time, withdrawing from any difficult situation as necessary, should the Athenians send a fleet north.23 Fleets were expensive and the Athenians struggled to remain long in the theatre of operations with forces of sufficient size. Philip had only to wait until the departure of the Athenians before returning to his targets (Cawkwell 1978, 77–82, 86–90). This was also the purpose of Alexander’s attacks on the coastal cities in Ionia and the Levantine coast – to deprive the Persian fleet of bases such as Halicarnassus and Tyre and in Arrian’s memorable words: ‘conquer their ships by land’ (Anab. 1.18.9; 1.20.1). Naval engagement First the floods of Persians held the line, But when the narrows choked them, and rescue hopeless, Smitten by prows, their bronze jaws gaping, Shattered entire was that fleet of ours. The Greek warships, calculating, dashed Round, encircling us; ships showed their belly: No longer could we see the water, charged With ships’ wrecks and men’s blood. Corpses glutted beaches and rocks.

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Every warship urged its own anarchic Rout; and all who survived that expedition, Like tuna or some catch of fish, Were stunned and slaughtered, boned with broken oars And splintered wrecks: lamentations, cries Possessed the open sea until the black Eye of evening, closing, hushed them. (Aeschylus, Persae 412–28)

The dramatic lines written by a Greek participant, but evoking a Persian view of the battle of Salamis for an Athenian audience that had also fought or witnessed it, reveal an appreciation of the horrors of naumachia, naval combat. Losses in naval battles might far outstrip those sustained in land battles, and it was therefore a tremendous undertaking to commit a squadron or fleet to battle.24 The specifics of naval encounters could vary greatly; some actions occurred when a moving force of ships was successfully intercepted, others when both sides sought a confrontation. Some battles occurred as soon as the fleets encountered one another, but often, where both sides found themselves convenient bases or shorelines, several days might elapse before one or both sides felt ready to engage. In this time, ships might be unloaded of their sailing tackle, such as the main masts and sails, and readied for battle. Hermocrates argued that the Syracusan fleet ought to intercept the Athenian expedition as it crossed to Italy, laden and unprepared for battle (Thuc. 6.34). Conon, after defeat at the Battle of Aegospotami in 405, made a landing and seized the main masts of the enemy fleet that had been deposited on a nearby headland (Xen. Hell. 2.1.29). Making ships ready for battle was often more complicated than removing unnecessary equipment that acted as encumbrances to manoeuvre. Despite numbering seventy-seven ships, a Peloponnesian fleet in close proximity to an enemy squadron of only twenty triremes, commanded by the formidable Athenian general Phormio, spent six days training and practising before feeling able to force an engagement (Thuc. 2.86). According to Diodorus (13.39.3), both Athenians and Peloponnesians trained their crews and rehearsed manoeuvres for five days before the battle of Cynossema in 411 BC. Some of this pre-battle manoeuvre was for purposes of intimidation and to instil confidence in the crews, but sometimes it was the first opportunity that a commander might have had to concentrate the minds of his men. According to Xenophon (Mem. 3.5.6), sailors only really became compliant when they were in fear of an imminent engagement or storm. Even so, the motivation to engage was not always very strong among the crews, even if their commanders wished it. Thucydides (7.70) implies that sometimes crews would be laggardly in following orders to go into action, and the

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generals had to keep an eye out for ships that were backing water with no justification. If the confidence of crews had been undermined, for instance by previous defeats or the reputation of the enemy, as it seems the Peloponnesians had in the face of the Athenian triremes of Phormio, then it was extremely difficult to order ships to engage. Despite a numerical advantage in ships, the Athenian oarsmen refused to re-engage the Syracusan fleet the day after being worsted in the Great Harbour. In fact, their morale was so utterly broken that they resolved to abandon the siege of Syracuse and their ships in order to withdraw by land. In naval encounters, the advantage usually lay with the better-trained crews and more skilful steersmen. Almost all battles were characterised by some manoeuvre on the grand-tactical scale: the envelopment of an enemy force, the periplous, or the attempt to sail through the enemy line, to wheel and attack it in the rear, the diekplous, were the most effective manoeuvres.25 The justifiable fear of being outflanked often induced fleets to deploy with one wing lying close to the shoreline (where friendly land forces, if available, could rescue survivors and shelter the defeated). As the fleets came into contact, vessels became involved in individual dog-fighting actions, selecting their targets, or attempting to evade enemies, backing water, even retreating to a friendly shore when hard pressed. It was here that the practice of the crews could give a decisive advantage in swiftness: ‘Why is a fully manned trireme a cause for fear in her enemies and an elation to her friends if not by her speed through the water? Why do the men on board not hamper one another? Is it not just because they are seated in order, and swing forwards and backwards in order . . .’. 26 The skills of individual steersmen (kyberne-tai) were crucial in directing this swiftness into telling manoeuvres and tactics and in avoiding the obstructions caused by the wreckage of ships or dead bodies that might impede movement and foul the oar-blades (Hdt. 8.12). The aggregate quality of one side’s steersmen and rowers might overcome the advantages in numbers, or bravery, of the other (as occurred at Cynossema in 411 BC, Diod. 13.39–40). Ramming, particularly amidships (Thuc. 7.70), and shearing the enemy oar-banks (Diod. 13.78.1; Polyb. 16.4.16) were the favoured tactics of a more skilful side. While ramming might have caused few immediate casualties to the target, perhaps only at the narrow point of impact where the timbers were broken and pierced, a badly holed ship would force its crew to evacuate, either by gaining friendly ships or by attempting to swim to safety. Shearing might potentially be more destructive to those rowers who could not draw in their oars quickly enough. The shattering and splintering of oars in such a collision must have been a traumatic experience for those oarsmen and their immediate neighbours still caught holding the blades which, if not immediately fatal, could maim and tear their unprotected bodies and limbs. The screams, convulsions and

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moans of the wounded would have affected the morale of their compatriots and would have hampered efforts to continue fighting. The need to transfer oarsmen from the undamaged rows in order to even up the sides meant that the ship might be temporarily dead in the water and a prime target for further ramming and shearing attempts. The demands on oarsmen of these impacts and the bursts of speed and stresses of combat manoeuvring would have caused considerable fatigue. Even the ships that inflicted damage on the enemy without harm, or who did not get to grips with a target at all, might have temporarily to pull out of the combat by backing water, or at least cruise with little thought of aggressive action, while their crews recovered. Localised lulls in the fighting might explain the long duration of some sea battles, such as at Abydus (411 BC), which went on ‘from morning until late afternoon’ (Xen. Hell. 1.1.5). Of course, superior numbers allowed one side to press the enemy harder, giving them little chance to recover, and ships caught between the coast and more numerous enemies might find themselves driven ashore. Less skilful or heavily outnumbered sides might try to reduce the scope for enemy manoeuvre by fighting in confined waters. This was how the Greeks had defeated the Persians at Salamis in 480 BC, and how the Athenians were defeated in the Great Harbour of Syracuse in 413 BC. In naval engagements, epibatai (marines) had a role to play by showering the enemy decks with missiles and even boarding if the opportunity arose. Although it seems almost incredible that small contingents of marines, numbering, on Athenian warships for example, as few as 10 per ship, and armed as hoplites, could overrun a crew of 200, it should not be forgotten how cramped conditions were for oarsmen. They would have had little opportunity to defend themselves from armed men who, having gained the main deck, would have the advantage of height. When men are crowded together, they often receive disproportionate casualties. It should be of little surprise, then, that 170 oarsmen might capitulate to a handful of enemy marines (backed up of course by the surviving crew of the capturing ship, perhaps including some of the rowers). The number of marines per ship was often greatly increased in battles in confined waters where manoeuvre was limited. Cimon, at the Battle of Eurymedon, may have modified his triremes so that they could carry forty marines on deck (Plut. Cim. 12), while at the final battles in the Great Harbour of Syracuse in 413 BC, both sides embarked considerable numbers of epibatai (Thuc. 7.60, 67, 69). The forces were so close that ships that moved in to attack were faced with a continual and heavy shower of missiles from all sides. Some engagements involved such intense marine fighting that they seemed to some observers to be more like battles on land than sea (Thuc. 1.49; Diod. 14.60.3). Combat aboard the rolling and swaying, and, at times, bloody decks, even in relatively calm waters, must have been a dangerous pursuit, exacerbated by the hoplite

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equipment many wore. Inevitably, some marines fell overboard or failed to jump the gap between ships while boarding (Diod. 14.60.3). The stipulation in the Themistocles decree that epibatai be drawn from the twenty- to thirtyyear-olds might reflect the need for marines to possess the agility and poise, or foolhardiness, of younger men (ML 23; L. P. Rawlings 2000, 239). Battles almost never ended in the complete destruction of an enemy fleet. While there are reports of ships being sunk, often their abandoned wrecks continued to list, partly submerged, on the surface. They were usually captured or retrieved and towed away by the victors, who set up a trophy on an appropriate headland. There are sometimes reports of the dedication of a captured ship to Poseidon (Thuc 2.84, 92). At the same time, those mariners who were unable to swim ashore might succumb to the conditions or, indeed, be killed in the water by the victors. In one engagement near Naupactus (429/8 BC), many Athenians who failed to swim ashore were killed (Thuc. 2.90), while at Catana (397/6 BC), the Greek army stationed along the shoreline watched on impotently as Carthaginian ships cruised back and forth among the wreckage of Leptines’ fleet, eliminating all they found (Diod. 14.60.5–6). Finally prisoners, sometimes in large numbers, would be killed or enslaved.27 The defeated, having broken off and fled for the safety of friendly shores, would have to request an opportunity to fish for and retrieve their dead, conceding the battle in the process. The victors too would have to make it a priority to collect their casualties (Thuc. 2.92; Strauss 2000, 267–73). This was not an easy task; the living and dead, floating in the water or washed along the shores, might become dispersed by currents and waves. The body of the Spartan general Timocrates, killed in the Corinthian Gulf, was found washed up in the enemy harbour of Naupactus (Thuc. 2.92). After the battle of Arginusae, the victorious Athenian generals were prevented by a sudden storm from collecting the men who remained in the water; except for a few carried to shore, the crews of twenty-five trie-re-s, around 5,000 men, almost all citizens, were lost (Xen. Hell. 1.6.24, 34). The generals faced the rage of their community and the assembly condemned them all to death (Xen. Hell. 1.7.1–34). After any battle, the identification of corpses would have been a harrowing task, and the practicalities of preparing them for return to the polis for burial, where possible, are not dwelt upon by our sources. Of course the strategic situation might become extremely difficult for the defeated. Although the consequences of each battle differed, the worst might be summed up by the almost dazed report to the Spartan government of the defeat at Cyzicus in 411 BC: ‘[Admiral] Mindarus dead, men starving, no idea what to do’ (Xen. Hell. 1.1.23.).

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Conclusion The forlorn despatch to the Spartan government after Cyzicus indicates how much had changed since the early archaic period. The naval expeditions of early Greeks, reflected in the story of the son of Castor’s raid on Egypt, were largely based on personal initiative and private resources. The wider community, if it was involved at all, may have given its assent or shown its anger towards those whose operations brought potential reprisals, but its support was primarily moral rather than practical. The fleets of the late archaic and classical periods, by contrast, increasingly acted as instruments of the state and were maintained by its institutions and infrastructure; so much so that, in defeat, the survivors naturally looked to their homeland for support and instructions. In fact, the defeated Spartan force at Cyzicus received aid not from Sparta, for the letter was intercepted and brought to Athens, but from the Persian satrap of Phrygia, Pharnabazus, who provided cloaks and two months’ rations and undertook to rebuild the Spartan fleet. Persian naval resources played an important role in the latter stages of the Peloponnesian War, but earlier in the century they had posed a considerable threat to autonomous Greeks poleis. The presence of the Persian navy in the Aegean had galvanised the Greeks to organise a naval league from which had arisen the Athenian Empire. At Athens, the social consequences of maintaining a powerful navy were deplored by the elite, even while they enjoyed the power, prestige and wealth that flowed to the city because of its thalassocracy. The ordinary rowers may have experienced a sense of pride in the empire and their role in it, but the reality of trireme service involved much hard labour at the oar in cramped conditions and exposed to the potential perils of weather and warfare. Notes 1 Some scholars have even suggested that it may recall seaborne military activity during the Late Bronze Age (e.g. Ormerod 1978, 86–93): the Pharaoh Rameses III had defeated a large incursion from the ‘peoples of the sea’, including Danuna (= Danaan Greeks), Nelson 1943; Albright 1950, esp. 170–3. 2 Hdt. 6.16. Festivals were a good time for kidnapping and raiding: Pritchett 5.107 n. 83; cf. Hdt. 6.138. 3 Od. 14.237–9; van Wees 1992, 174–5; see p. 31–2 above. However, it seems that members of the community might raise the matter of losses incurred when attempting to denigrate the character of a basileus – Od. 24.426–9. 4 Both sides employed leistai, pirates or privateers, in the Peloponnesian War: Jackson 1973; de Souza 1999, 31–6. 5 See Wallinga 1993, 23; Casson 1995, 80–1 suggests that development came in the seventh century BC.

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6 De Souza 1998, also see 1999. Athens in particular may have only developed its trierarchic system as late as 483/2 BC, although the balance of probability is that it had been in use earlier. The Athenian trierarchy is relatively well documented and studied for the fifth and fourth centuries BC: see Gabrielsen 1994. Other states also had systems utilising trierarchs, it seems, but there is little evidence for their roles and obligations: Gabrielsen 1994, 230 n. 12. 7 Hdt. 3.39 ff.,122; Momigliano 1944, 58; Starr 1989, 27. 8 Hdt. 3.39, 44; de Souza 1998, 282. On the predatory activities of the Samians, we have indications that this was not merely private piracy but state-sponsored activity. An inscription on the base of a statue of Hera by Aeaces son of Bryson (mid–late sixth century BC), on the island of Samos, described how the statue had been erected from the proceeds of seizures, syle-, collected in the exercise of his office: SIG 10 = Tod 1.7; Ormerod 1978, 100–1; Shipley 1987, 70–1. We hear from Herodotus (3.39.3–4) that Samian pirates had access to warships, perhaps reflecting public support or policy. One of the reasons Herodotus gives for the Spartans’ attack on Samos was for their seizure of diplomatic gifts bound for Lydia and from Egypt (3.47); Osborne 1996, 272–80; Jackson 2000. 9 The artificial harbour was admired by Herodotus (3.60); at one point, Polycrates imprisoned the families of exiles within the ship-sheds, Hdt. 3.45; de Souza 1998, 282; Shipley 1987. 10 Wallinga (1993) argues that these ships were too expensive to have been built by the Ionians themselves. 11 On the size and organisation of the early Athenian fleet see van Wees 2004, 203–4, 207–8. 12 Aristophanes’ Wasps produces a picture of war veterans addicted to jury-service and its three obols a day, and fervent and unthinking supporters of demagogues such as Cleon. 13 Momigliano 1944; Starr 1989; see also Ober 1978 for the fourth-century Attic orators’ view. 14 Thucydides (1.5) asserted that the practice of being armed in public was first abandoned by the Athenians: see van Wees 1998a. Thucydides may have included this information to indicate it as a step towards their desire to eradicate piracy, as their thalassocracy appeared to ensure. 15 Aegina: 458 BC – Thuc. 1.105; Diod 11.70.2–3, 78.3–4; 431 BC – Thuc. 2.27; Diod. 12.44.2. Megara: 461 BC – Thuc. 1.103; 431 BC – Thuc. 2.31; 427 BC (Megarian base at Minoa) – Thuc. 3.51; 424 BC – Thuc. 4.66–73. In the 450s BC, while Athens held both Megara and Naupactus, the Peloponnesian fleet was unwilling to cross the Crissean Gulf, Thuc. 1.107. The Athenian alliance with Corcyra in 433/2 was clearly a major factor in Corinthian demands that the Spartans should act, Thuc. 1.55; 68. See Morrison and Williams 1968, 229–30, on the relative insignificance of the Corinthian fleet in the Peloponnesian War. 16 The campaign conducted by Cimon against the Persian base at Eion on the Strymon was a crucial aspect of the opening of the resources of the region. He apparently turned the area over to the Athenians for settlement and exploitation. Plut. Cim. 7; Thuc. 1.98. On the settlement of Myrcinus by Histiaeus – Hdt. 5.23,

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17 18 19 20 21

22 23 24

25 26 27

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cf. Thuc 4.102 who claims it was Aristagoras; Ennea Hodos – Thuc 1.100; Amphipolis – Thuc 4.102. Hdt. 6.28; Thuc. 1.100; Plut. Cim. 14.2. See Gabrielsen 1994, 115, and 250 n. 19 for further references. Thuc 8.45; Jordan 1975, although see the reservations of Gabrielsen 1994. [Dem.] 49.11; Millet 1993, 191–4; Gabrielsen 1994, 117, 121; see p. 171 below. It was equally important to ensure, where possible, that the enemy lacked the opportunity to practise. Thucydides 1.142 has Pericles advocate denying the enemy training opportunities by naval blockade. [Arist.] Oec. 1347a. On provisioning in general see Pritchett 1.30–52. Cawkwell 1978, erratum to p. 164. e.g. Diodorus (14.60.5, cf. 14.66.4) reports that, in a naval battle against the Carthaginians near Catana (397/6 BC), the Sicilian Greek fleet led by Leptines lost as many as 100 ships and 20,000 men: ‘the whole place was full of corpses and wreckage’. Often casualty figures are frustratingly vague: for example, ‘many ships and men were destroyed’ on the third day’s fighting at Artemisium (Hdt. 8.16.3; cf. Thuc. 7.72 on the losses in the Great Harbour, Syracuse 413 BC). Losses are sometimes given in numbers of ships with no indication of what happened to crews, although on some occasions the implication is that most perished (e.g. Isoc. 8.86–7). Even when ships were captured sailors might be executed; see n. 27 below. Whitehead 1987; Lazenby 1987; van Wees 2004, 228. Xen. Oec. 8.8; Morrison and Coates 1986, 103–6; Casson 1995, 128, 280 nn. 42–4. On the killing and enslavement of ships’ crews (and prisoners of war in general) see Pritchett 5.205–45. Killing crews: Hdt. 1.167; Thuc. 1.30.1 (cf. Diod. 12.31), 2.67.4, 2.84.4, 2.90.5, 2.92.2, 3.32.1, 7.23.4, 7.41.4, 7.53.3 (cf. Diod. 13.33); Plut. Per. 23; Xen. Hell. 2.1.31 (cf. Plut. Alc. 37; Paus. 9.32.9). Enslavement: Diod. 12.3.3, 13.51.8, 13.68.2 (cf. Athen. 12.535c); Thuc. 7.41.4, 8.95.7, 8.102.3; Xen. Hell. 1.2.12, 1.5.19, 4.8.24, 15.35.2; Philochorus frg. 162 (cf. Theopompus frg. 292).

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Chapter 7

Siege warfare

The construction of defences in stone implies the perception of significant threat (real or imagined) and a social organisation capable of collective construction. The emergence of strong fortifications in Greece dates to the Mycenaean period, when kings ruled over centralised bureaucracies that oversaw the economic, military and religious activities of their communities. Mycenaean towns and palaces, such as Tiryns, Orchomenus and Gla, occupied naturally strong defensive positions that were further enhanced by circuits of ‘cyclopean’ walls. Mycenae itself had walls that averaged 5 metres in thickness, constructed of huge, but often closely fitting stones weighing up to 10 tonnes. In its defensive circuit the most eye-catching feature is the well-constructed Lion gate, a showpiece for any attackers to admire. Since portals are always potential weak points in a defensive system, by definition designed to facilitate movement into and out of the fortification, defenders made them as formidable as possible. Gates constructed of wood are susceptible to firing and battering and, once breached, allow attacking troops a thoroughfare into the position. Various methods have been used in the construction of defences to discourage storming parties from forcing gateways. The approach to the Lion gate, for instance, is overlooked by high walls on the attackers’ left side and by a massive bastion on the right. This tower allowed missile-armed defenders access to the unshielded flank of the enemy. Other parts of the circuit at Mycenae were less carefully constructed, relying more on the natural strengths of the site itself, but as part of the defensive system of walls, they would nevertheless have been imposing and difficult to assault. It might be reasonable to assume that sophisticated defences such as these perhaps imply the threat of developed siege techniques. However, it is difficult to determine the offensive capacity of Mycenaean armies in siege, as sources are extremely limited and problematic. One approach might be to consider roughly contemporary parallels from the Near East. The Hittite and Egyptian empires were capable of reducing cities by siege and assault, and the neo-Hittite and Assyrian kingdoms appear to have possessed well-devel-

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oped and complex siege techniques. In the reliefs discovered in the palace at Nimrud, Assyrian troops are depicted employing a range of technologies, from scaling ladders, ramps and mines to siege towers and battering rams (Yadin 1963). There are also large numbers of slingers and archers present to clear the battlements of defenders. A characteristic feature of many Near Eastern armies was the employment of large numbers of archers (in contrast to the predominantly spear-armed infantry armies of later Greek states). The primary emphasis of campaigning was siege warfare, with pitched battles a relatively rare occurrence and usually fought as a preamble to a decisive siege. It is possible that the Greek legend of the Trojan War, known and disseminated in the archaic period through tales and epics such as Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey, might preserve elements of earlier Mycenaean siege-craft. One of Odysseus’ epithets is ‘city-sacker’, and on his return journey from Troy, his men attacked the city of the Cicones and stormed their citadel (Od. 9.39–43, 165); we are told few other details of its defences, such as whether the lower city was walled. Homer clearly understood the need for walls: ‘Amphion and Zethus . . . built a wall because without one nobody could dwell at Thebes, no matter how strong they were’ (Od. 11.262–5). It was recognised therefore that unfortified towns were likely to fall sooner or later. While there are few indications in the Homeric poems that either Ithaca or Pylos was walled, Thebes was ‘seven-gated’, and there is a walled city depicted on the shield of Achilles, whose defending army embarks on a sortie against the besiegers’ cattle herds.1 Thebe in Cilicia is described as a well-built town (Il. 2.505) with walls (Il. 2.690) and lofty gates (Il. 6.416), although this did not prevent it from falling to Achilles, who captured its womenfolk, including Chryseis (Il. 1.365, 2.690, 6.415). However, when one examines the text of the epics for any further evidence, it is extremely difficult to identify much in the way of advanced siege-craft. There was no attempt to invest Troy itself, no circumvallation or building of ramps against walls. Attacks were direct and rudimentary. When the Trojans assaulted the Achaean camp, having crossed the defensive ditches on foot, they used their hands and ‘tore at the projections of the outworks, and broke down the battlements and shook with levers the jut of the buttresses the Achaeans had stuck in the earth on the outer face to shore their defences’ (12.257–60, cf. 397–9). The defenders ripped stones from the battlements and tumbled them down on the attackers (Il. 12.154–61, 379–86). Here and there an attacker clambered up onto the battlements, or ‘tumbled like a diver from the high bastion’ (12.385–6). Eventually, the Trojans ‘swarmed over the walls’ (12.469). One might argue that a field camp might be less strong than more permanent defences, but this was not the view expressed by Poseidon, who compared it to a town wall (Il. 12.30 ff.).

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Even Troy appeared to have been vulnerable to direct assault, for, when Patroclus tried to climb the city walls of Troy, he ‘might have taken gatetowering Ilium . . . had not Phoebus Apollo taken his stand on the strongbuilt tower . . . and battered him backwards with immortal hands’ (Il. 16.698–704). Three assaults had previously been launched at a point, marked by a fig tree, where the wall could be scaled (Il. 6.432–7). Generally, however, it seems that combat near to the city and at the Achaean camp tended to focus on gates. The women of Troy prayed to Athena that Diomedes ‘be hurled on his face in front of the Scaean gates’ (6.306–7), and Patroclus was killed by Hector in its vicinity (16.712 ff.), while in later Greek tradition, Achilles was killed by a missile striking his heel at this gate (Apollodorus 2.215). When the forces of Hector assaulted the circuit of the Achaean camp, they broke in through the gate first (Il. 12.340–1, 445–71, 13.679–80). If the Mycenaeans possessed sophisticated siege techniques, memory of them hardly appears to have survived in the oral tradition. It was once thought that Mycenaean technology was echoed in the story of the Wooden Horse itself, possibly a siege engine transformed into a giant animal effigy by the distorting process of bardic transmission. A different view, but on the same premise, was that such an engine derived not from the Mycenaean past, but from a more contemporary context: the warfare of Near Eastern states, and in particular the Assyrian empire in the ninth and eighth centuries BC. It was imagined that some Greeks, having witnessed such warfare in the Assyrian zone of influence, brought back tales of the sophisticated techniques of siege for epic composers to incorporate into their songs. Thus the Trojan Horse may have represented some form of tower or battering ram (Anderson 1970b). However, the emphasis in Greek tradition makes the battering-ram theory implausible. The horse is a stratagem; it is left by the Greeks, supposedly as a gift to Poseidon, but filled with Achaean heroes ready to spring out and open the gates of the city to the awaiting army in the dead of night.2 The Trojan Horse is an example of the combination of me-tis (cunning intelligence) and techne- (skilful craft) to gain entry to the town through deceit and stealth rather than by assault or superior siege technology.3 With no memory of it in epic and no contemporary evidence from Greece, it must be questioned just how advanced Mycenaean siege-craft actually was. While it is true that the Linear B tablets record large numbers of arrows (see p. 21) and the sixteenth-century BC silver Siege rhyton found in the acropolis of Mycenae depicts a battle outside a town involving archers and slingers (Karo 1930, 106–8, no. 481, pl. 122), there is no trace of more advanced siege techniques. The construction of Mycenaean fortifications may be due to the predatory

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nature of Late Helladic warfare, giving protection against raids and discouraging direct assaults through a show of strength, but ultimately being vulnerable to determined and concerted attacks. The monumental scale of these fortifications might also indicate the effective mobilisation of labour for a display of military and political power of king and community in a climate of peer-polity competition, with other kingdoms similarly involved in prestige monumentalisation. The lack of any firm evidence about the nature of inter-state relations in Greece in the Mycenaean period, however, makes it difficult to come to any firm conclusion. One thing seems clear: most of the major fortified Mycenaean sites experienced some form of destruction in the last stages of the Bronze Age. Evidence of defensive systems during the so-called ‘Dark Age’ (c. 1150–750 BC) is difficult to assess; many sites are difficult to date and there is virtually no other evidence concerning sieges (unless one considers the Homeric poems as reflecting Dark Age practices).4 In Crete, many low-lying settlements appear to have been abandoned in preference for relatively inaccessible sites in the mountains, such as Árvi Phortétsa and Phrátri Kephála. These probably served as refuge sites in unsettled times (Nowicki 1992). Communities situated on the spurs of mountains and hills were very common in mainland Greece, especially in Phocis, Boeotia, Locris and Thessaly (Winter 1971, 6). Such sites took advantage of slopes on three sides to form the basis of defence. Some old Mycenaean defensive positions also continued to be occupied. The acropolis in Athens remained inhabited and appears to have acted as a place of refuge throughout the Sub-Mycenaean and Geometric periods. Despite the growth of communities in the eighth and seventh centuries, fortifications continued to concentrate on the most defensible positions. What seemed to be an adequate defence for an early polis might be little more than the nestling of a community around an acropolis that could provide a refuge, as at Athens, Corinth and Argos. It appears that siege warfare remained very primitive, but the failure to develop sophisticated techniques might have been simply due to the fact that they were unnecessary; lower cities were generally unwalled and the natural inaccessibility of acropoleis to siege engines made their invention all but pointless (Winter 1971, 57). In many respects, the technology involved in the construction of defences and siting of fortifications in archaic Greece were little different from the Mycenaean period. There had been changes, however, in the social and political structures that underpinned the organisation of the construction process. No longer was there a kingly and bureaucratic system for martialling the community for civic projects. Now defences had to be organised by officials acting on behalf of the nascent institutions of the state. In

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the political communities of the archaic and classical era, public activities had to be sanctioned by the common consent of the citizens. That is to say, the state needed the willing co-operation of interested parties and, because the construction of defences was time-consuming, labour intensive and, above all, devoured vast amounts of resources (principally stone and timber that needed to be gathered together and constructed), it is quite probable that such co-operation was almost impossible to obtain without the right political and economic conditions. This may account for the relative scarcity of large-scale circuit-wall construction in Greece during the archaic period, despite evidence for the destruction of several communities by rivals.5 The earliest communities to surround their urban centres with circuit-walls were in the Aegean islands. Here the geographical constraints were such that communities faced with the threat of aggression could not easily summon outside aid or, indeed, escape into the hinterland, or overseas. This appears to have been the case at Geometric sites such as Emborio on Chios, or Aghios Andreas (Siphnos) where the earliest evidence for walls constructed to surround the whole community have been discovered (McK. Camp II 2000, 48). Similarly, systematic circumvallation was undertaken by the poleis that emerged as part of the colonisation process, particularly in the West. The walls of Sicilian Megara have been dated to the end of the seventh century BC and of those of Selinus to c. 600–550 BC.6 Circuit defences may have been part of the creation of a sense of security for these new communities, particularly since relationships with indigenous populations were not always cordial, and potential sources of support from other Greek communities were often a considerable distance away. Such walls could also be regarded as expressions of communal identity in foreign lands. During the sixth century some defences became more sophisticated and whole towns were enclosed in defensive circuits. These included the frequent use of two-storey towers, firstly at weak points such as gates, but, during the fifth century, regularly spaced towers became more common features in circuit-wall defences. In the development of defensive systems from the late archaic period, several important stimuli can be identified. Winter (1971, 58) argues that ideologically, the defensive acropolis may have become a liability, since it could provide a tyrant or faction with an unwelcome advantage in times of stasis (civic strife). Aristotle (Pol. 1330b18–23) observed that, in the topography of cities, acropoleis suited monarchies and oligarchies, while level ground was advantageous to democracies, and sites that possessed a number of strong places favoured aristocracies. That is to say, aristocracies remained stable because of the balance of power created when a number of groups had equally strong sites in a polis, while a dominant site could be the target for individuals or small groups wishing to take over. The military neglect of such sites in favour of an outer city circuit could

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therefore help to affirm the wider solidarity of the citizen body, and it may be a reason why under the democracy, the Athenian acropolis in the fifth and fourth centuries became the site of religious monumentalisation. Secondly, the growth of communities beyond their most defensible cores necessitated the inclusion of areas where terrain was less useful for defence. The need to include vital water sources within defences that met the needs of a larger population meant that flourishing cities were, in a sense, victims of their own success, and had to invest in more elaborate defences to accommodate their needs. Not every state could be as confident as Sparta that its hoplite citizens could protect the autonomia of its unwalled community. Indeed, quite the reverse, the non-existence of walls or their destruction implied vulnerability and a surrender of autonomy. Where provided with adequate walls, provisions and water, the citizens of a polis could refuse battle, defeat and potential subjugation (or at least interference with its political institutions) by remaining within the city and watching a far stronger enemy ravage and plunder their territory. Logistically, it was very difficult to keep an army, particularly of citizen farmers, in the field for any more than a few weeks (see p. 73–7, 146–7). This would have severely limited the options of any army forced to consider a hostile and fortified position. When commanders yielded to what was sometimes intense pressure from the population to march out and defend the farms from ravaging by offering battle, city walls provided an insurance against complete annihilation after defeat in the field. A further and, perhaps, decisive factor in the development of strong outer city walls towards the end of the sixth century BC was the increased and at times extremely violent and traumatic contact with Near Eastern powers such as Lydia and Persia. Such empires introduced Greek cities in Asia Minor to the sophistication of the eastern art of war (Hdt. 1.162; Winter 1971, 55). Although their troops could sometimes not stand up to Greek hoplites in pitched battle, they were extremely effective in the conduct of sieges, as cities such as Palaepaphos (498 BC), Miletus (494–493) and Athens (480), among many others, discovered. Siege warfare in the fifth century Interestingly, after 480 BC and the experiences of Xerxes’ expedition, Athens became not only the primary sea power in the Aegean, but apparently the foremost exponent of siege warfare in the region, capable of removing Persian garrisons from bases across the Aegean and beyond, such as the strongly fortified Sestus (479/8 BC, admittedly through blockade) and Eion (c. 476 BC).7 Athens’ reputation for being effective at siege warfare, it might not be implausible to suggest, was gained from its direct observation of

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Persian methods at Athens and in the Eastern Aegean and beyond. The Athenians practised their skills against fellow Greeks: not only enemies, but also uncooperative allies.8 Moreover, the expansion of Athenian naval power involved the creation of a logistical infrastructure that was also sophisticated enough to enable their armies and besieging forces to remain in the field longer that more traditional and smaller poleis. Even if the wealthier classes retained the ideology and employed the rhetoric of traditional hoplite conflict, it is significant that in 479 BC, when their city was in ruins and the defences had been downgraded by the Persians, the Athenians nevertheless rejected the Spartans’ proposal that all Greek cities should become unwalled.9 The reconstruction of Athens’ walls was a strong reaffirmation of independence (autonomia) and a rejection of Spartan hegemony and hoplite ideals. It is instructive that throughout the fifth century, the Athenians pulled down the walls of defeated enemies. The treatment, for example, of Thasos (465/4 BC, Thuc. 1.101) and Samos (440 BC, Thuc. 1.117) in just such a manner was a physical reminder of their loss of autonomy and sent a powerful message about Athenian imperial intentions. Aristotle (Pol. 1330b–1331a) argued that to ensure the autonomia of the polis, city walls were a necessary physical, ideological and political construct. A common method used to obliterate a polis in the classical period was to dismantle its circuit defences and to distribute its population into villages. This happened, for example, to Mantinea in 385 BC.10 The loss of such autonomy came as a shock to most poleis (and their free neighbours). The sophistication and effectiveness of Athenian offensive capabilities may well have helped provide a spur, if one were needed, to the development of defensive systems that occurred throughout the Greek mainland during the pentekontaetia (479–432 BC, Winter 1971, 56). Traces of a network of forts and early warning posts throughout the Eastern Megarid in the classical period suggest that Megara took the threat from its Athenian neighbour very seriously (Van de Maele 1992). How soon other states acquired the skills of the Athenians is difficult to judge: we are hampered by a lack of relevant source material. However, by the time of the Peloponnesian War (431–404 BC) both sides were capable of a good degree of sophistication and innovation. The siege of Plataea by the Peloponnesians (429–427 BC) involved a circumvallation of a double wall and ditch, the construction of ramps for battering rams, and countermining (Thuc. 2.75–8, 3.20–3). Nicias at Minoa in 427 (Thuc. 3.51.3) used ‘machines’ to assault the town. At Delium, the Boeotians even employed a primitive flame-thrower.11 Even so, sieges were long and difficult. The siege of Potidaea lasted two years and, despite various assaults, Plataea was able to hold out for a similar length of time, having evacuated non-combatants to

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Athens at an early stage. It appears, then, that a committed and skilful garrison maintained a military advantage for as long as it was sufficiently provisioned. The strategy advocated by Pericles in a famous speech to the Athenians (Thuc. 1.143), at the beginning of the Peloponnesian War, relied on a combination of Athens’ walls with a firm resolve by its citizens to weather the invasions of the army led by King Archidamus of Sparta. Long walls connected the city to its harbour and Athens’ naval power enabled the importation of supplies and allowed the polis to resist blockade. Although it appears to have caused resentment among certain elements of the population (particularly among the demes-folk of Acharnae, whose lands bore the brunt of early devastations), it appears that the policy was for the most part successful, even in the Decelean War (413–404, see p. 148–9). Although the strategy is credited to Pericles, it appears to have been a long-standing tenet of Athenian policy and, in fact, may have been conceived some thirty years earlier than Pericles’ speech in 431 BC. The ‘First’ Peloponnesian War (461–446 BC) had seen the construction of long walls by the Athenians, both at Athens (c. 457 BC, Thuc 1.107), and, indeed, even earlier for their newly acquired ally, Megara (c. 461 BC, Thuc 1.103). Megara, secured from blockade by Athenian naval domination of the Saronic Gulf, and consequently having access to the resources of the Athenian Empire, was able to resist Peloponnesian pressure for most of the war. As long as this alliance held firm, Athens was able to block incursions into Attica by controlling the Megarian forts of Nisaea (connected to Megara by the long walls) and Pagae, which together dominated the Attic end of the Isthmus. The revolt of Megara in 446 BC, combined with the rather tentative invasion of Attica by the Peloponnesian League, ended the war by demonstrating the vulnerability of the Attic countryside to a hostile Megara. However, it certainly did not discredit the importance of long wall systems backed by a powerful navy in Athenian strategy, for during the ‘Second’ Peloponnesian War, the Athenians and their allies persisted with such constructions. In 418, for example, the Athenians sent masons and other artisans to help their ally Argos to construct long walls to the sea.12 Indeed, this appears to have been a continuing policy of the Athenians even after the defeat in the Peloponnesian War, which saw the destruction of their long walls and Piraeus’ fortifications (Xen. Hell. 2.2.20). From 394 BC, they made efforts to rebuild the walls (Xen. Hell. 4.8.9), and they also helped their Corinthian allies to build long walls in 391 BC (Xen. Hell. 4.4.18). Athenian ideology, therefore, is revealed in the construction and maintenance of these defences, for they were the physical symbol of Athens’ reliance on her harbour, fleet and thalassocracy. Athens’ long walls gave her the potential, conceptually, to become an island (Thuc. 1.143), or almost. There were those who had their doubts: the Acharnians for instance, who

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demanded Pericles march the army out to save their deme (Thuc. 2.21), or the Old Oligarch (2.14) who noted that Athens would have been unassailable if it actually had been an island, but because it was not, a danger was posed by the farmers and the rich who might turn to outside influences (2.14–15). Nevertheless, while much of the population of Attica and, indeed, the city itself might have had little concern with the sea on a daily basis, and may have looked down upon the inhabitants of the Piraeus as a naval mob (nautikos ochlos), when push came to shove and Attica was invaded, or the call came for a fleet to be launched, it was to the sea and the empire that the Athenians turned (Strauss 1996, 316; Roy 1998). The central importance of naval power in defending and assailing coastal towns had been demonstrated during the Ionian revolt. Persian land forces had been unable to invest the leading rebel city of Miletus until the defeat of the confederate fleet. It was only after their naval victory at Lade 494 (Hdt. 6.18) that the Persians could undertake a full blockade and assault of the city (using mines and rams). The logistical difficulty of supplying forces large enough to besiege such major cities as Miletus, Athens and Syracuse could only be alleviated by the capacity of naval forces to provide supplies. Even if besieging forces intended merely to blockade a city, as at Athens in 404 BC, naval superiority, if not supremacy, was essential to deny the defenders outside provisions and to safeguard the arrival of their own. Athens capitulated only when it was starved into submission by the blockade of corn from the Black Sea; indeed, Lysander returned captives to Athens in order to intensify the pressures on stores (Xen. Hell. 2.2.2). At Syracuse (415–413), however, the Athenian siege failed despite a massive naval commitment and blockade. This was primarily due to the fact that the Athenians were unable to complete their circumvallation of the city. The defenders managed to construct a counter-wall and recaptured the critical fort at Labdalum, allowing them to bring in supplies and reinforcements by land (Thuc. 7.3–6). In order to secure good anchorage for the fleet, the Athenian camp had been situated near marshes to the south of the city and, as the besiegers gradually became the besieged, disease and starvation wore them down (Thuc. 7.47). Athenian problems of supply intensified as the fleet became increasingly less seaworthy through lack of maintenance and dry dock facilities (Thuc. 7.13). The severity of the position eventually forced the Athenians to retreat by land (their fleet had, in fact, been defeated and penned into the harbour by then), where they became vulnerable to enemy cavalry and harrying tactics. Syracusan resistance to the Athenian invasion, as indeed Athenian resilience to Peloponnesian depredations during invasions of Attica in the Archidamian War, was enhanced by the constant harrying of the enemy by cavalry (Thuc. 2.22, 2.192, 7.11). It limited the scope of enemy operations and it appears to have been important in maintaining the morale of the citi-

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zens. The defenders felt less helpless seeing their cavalry striking back at the invaders (Spence 1990). At Athens, this arm was effective at limiting the impact of relatively brief Archidamian incursions, but after 414/13 BC it was put under greater strain by the all-year-round presence of the Spartan fortification (epiteichismos) at Decelea. Construction of this fortress allowed the permanent force based there to threaten and dominate part of the Attic plain. As a base, it enabled the Peloponnesians to undertake raiding and the disruption of sowing and harvesting. It also helped inhibit and interdict the movement of livestock and produce throughout central Attica and into Athens, particularly by the overland route from Euboea (see p. 146–9, 173 n. 5). Its permanence had a demoralising effect and even provided a safe haven for up to 20,000 escaped slaves (Thuc. 7.27–8). Similarly, as part of the Periclean strategy, Athenian operations from a number of bases around the Peloponnese intensified the effects of the war for local communities.13 However, bases such as Pylos (Thuc. 4.3) or Methana (4.45), or the fortress at Decelea could not prove decisive in reducing the main protagonists’ capacity to resist without a committed blockade of cities themselves. Siege warfare was a major pattern of operations in the Peloponnesian War, and Thucydides records many sieges. Although sometimes only mentioned in passing, particularly in the cases of smaller poleis, for cities such as Mytilene, Scione and Melos, whose populations were faced with massacre or enslavement, the stakes were nevertheless high. Fourth-century developments After the Peloponnesian War, the techniques and technology of siege warfare continued to develop. A study produced by Ober investigated the distribution of small fortresses in Attica in the fourth century (Ober 1985). He argued that the defeat of Athens had discredited Periclean strategy, and that the incursions of Peloponnesian forces had such an effect on the morale and economy of Athens that a new strategy of preclusive defence was adopted. A ‘Maginot-line’ of northern Attic border forts to restrict enemy invasions apparently became central to Athenian planning. The defence of territory is certainly a concern of both Xenophon’s writing (Cyn. 12.2–6, 10–18; Hipparch. passim) and the tactician Aeneas Tacticus (16.16–17). Yet Athens also rebuilt the long walls and refortified the Piraeus during the Corinthian War (394–386 BC), and this indicates that the Athenian reliance on the sea had not been forgotten. Indeed the emergence of the Second Confederacy and the naval successes during the Corinthian War led to a situation where, it seems, Athenian naval prowess was not seriously challenged until the Lamian War (323–322 BC). Ober’s theory has received criticism on a number of grounds, the central

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issue being the relationship between literary texts and archaeological sources (P. Harding 1988). Firstly, it is not clear that border forts were a new idea in the fourth century: Thucydides (2.13 ff.) notes that Eleusis, Oinoe, Panactum and Oropus were garrisoned at the outbreak of the Archidamian invasions, and we have already noted a defensive system in the Eastern Megarid, which may also possibly date to before 431 BC.14 Secondly, it is problematic that any forts built in the fourth century were a reaction to the Archidamian attacks or the fortification of Decelea by the Spartans in the fifth century. It is difficult to date such fortresses accurately, and it is possible that some of the forts in Ober’s system were constructed towards the end of the fourth century. In these cases, it is less likely that they were built in response to experiences in the fifth century and their construction is more likely to have been influenced by contemporary events and policies. Ober had also linked the perceived change in strategy to social reforms; in particular, the development of the ephebic system that deployed Athenian youths at these forts on a year’s garrison service, and the allocation of a strate-gos to the defence of the cho-ra. These developments cannot, however, be reliably assigned to before the 370s BC and may be rather later. Any theory that associates these social reforms with the Peloponnesian War has to overcome a thirty-year lag. It might be more plausible to link these reforms to the growing power of Thebes in the 370s, or even to the later Macedonian threat. Furthermore, the defensive capacity of Ober’s network is unverifiable, since there was no major invasion of Attica between 403 and 322 BC. If one posits a later date for the construction of at least some of the fortifications in Attica, it also seems ironic that they were built at a time when siege technology was rendering them, if not obsolete, then certainly vulnerable to the siege trains of Philip of Macedon and others. It may have been the case that these fortresses were constructed to deal with limited incursions, rather than full-scale invasions that they would be ill-suited to resist. The fourth century appears to have been a period of increased brigandage and raiding, and although there is little clear evidence, it might seem logical to infer that such forts contributed more to the policing and internal security measures of the Athenian city-state than as the principal tool in any strategy of preclusive defence (Fisher 1999, 78–80; cf. Hunter 1994). The science of siege The fourth century saw the first systematic use by the Greeks of mechanised projectile launchers. The development of non-torsion-powered missile weapons occurred first in Sicily in the context of the conflicts with Carthage.15 The powerful tyrant of Syracuse, Dionysius I, sponsored the experimentation with siege engines and the first known deployment of

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arrow-shooting catapults occurred at the siege of the Punic base of Motya in 397 BC (Diod. 14.41.2–4, 50 ff.; Athenaeus Mechanicus 10.1). The construction of six-storey siege towers and a mole to bring them to the walls was also undertaken at this siege. It seems that the earliest catapults were developed from composite bow technology. The gastraphete-s (belly-bow) was probably a composite crossbow that increased the power and range of arrows.16 As the century progressed, a number of refinements produced larger projectile throwing devices. In 366/5 BC the Athenians deployed arrow-shooting catapults in their ten-month siege of Samos (Plut. Pel. 2.6).17 Polyaenus reports the use of stone-throwers (petrobolous me-chanas) by Onomarchus (c. 353/2 BC) during a pitched battle against Philip II of Macedon.18 The oxybele-s used twisted sinew ropes for torsion and firing spear-sized bolts; the lithobolos threw stones and was able to damage battlements, though it lacked the power to damage stronger stone structures, such as city walls. These early engines, therefore, had an anti-personnel role; they could out-range conventional missiles and thus clear the battlements of defenders so that rams and other means of direct assault could be brought to bear on the walls. The bolt-shooters at Motya achieved this very thing by intimidating the Carthaginians and keeping them from the walls. However, the city only fell after savage house-to-house street fighting once the attackers were able to gain entry.19 Once developed, this technology also came to be employed by the defenders, although as the engines became larger and more powerful, the construction of towers large enough to house them in became a burden only the richest states could afford to bear. Part of the phenomenon of the developing art of siege warfare was recorded and propagated by the writing of a fourth-century mercenary captain of the Arcadian League, Aeneas Tacticus. He wrote several manuals on various aspects of warfare, one on conducting sieges, and his surviving work, On the Defence of Fortified Positions, was concerned with the methods and counter-methods of siege: defending walls against ladders, incendiaries, countermining and suchlike. In revealing the existence of a lively Greek discourse on the scientific aspects of assault and defence in the fourth century, Aeneas is invaluable; however, the aspect that received the most detailed discussion in his work was not the technological, but the human element. The prevention of treachery was a central concern for Aeneas and reveals clearly that the most effective methods of siege warfare were still subterfuge and stratagem, the promotion of internal dissent, and the sudden seizure of cities without needing to assault their walls directly. Factionalism and stasis, which could be exploited by outside forces, had been a recurrent fear and, often, a bloody reality. The vicious in-fighting that erupted in Corcyra in 427 BC was chiefly the product of the proximity of Athenian and Peloponnesian forces, and was the subject of a vivid and candid analysis by

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Thucydides (3.70–84). In the same year, Mytilene had surrendered to the besieging Athenian force when the oligarchic faction was forced to arm the poor in order to continue resistance. However, they immediately demanded an end to the revolt (Thuc. 3.27). Even Philip of Macedon, while having the most sophisticated siege train the Greeks had yet seen, still preferred to scale city walls with gold paid to traitors.20 His financial strength was a key factor in his waging of war and the taking of cities (see p. 155–6, 160). However, as has always been the case, it seems that against a committed and skilful enemy, even the most sophisticated equipment could not guarantee a swift victory. With the most advanced siege train in the Mediterranean, naval superiority, archers, slingers and other specialists, Alexander laboured for seven months to capture Tyre (Diod. 17.46.5). It is little surprise, then, that Alexander usually preferred to negotiate the surrender of cities in advance of his arrival in the locality (Engels 1978, 40–1, 120). The fall of cities Assault could be bloody and difficult for the attackers; investment and blockade were time- and resource-consuming, and not always guaranteed to end in victory. Armies might fall foul of the elements, disease or starvation. Both Athenians and Carthaginians suffered from the poor situation of their camps outside the walls of Syracuse and were worn down by disease, the latter severely so.21 Taking on a city that had prepared itself to resist was a huge risk and a heavy commitment of time, energy, money, men and supplies. The rewards needed to be extensive. Besides the strategic gains, which varied in terms of the context of the campaign and the aims of the war, there was the more tangible reward of plunder. Booty gained from a captured city could be vast and, during the capture, the victors tended to concentrate on the most easily movable wealth. At the sack of Acragas in 406 BC (Diod. 13.82 ff.), the Carthaginians took plunder in the form of clothes, gold ornaments, oil flasks, art, paintings and statues from the homes of the wealthy and the temples. It must be remembered that, where a lengthy siege occurred, it was unlikely that the city would yield significant stores of food that could be used to feed the victors, although private enterprise in the form of merchants and traders would often be on hand outside the city to convert booty into coin and supplies (see p. 74–6, 118, 154, 170). Surprisingly rarely, it seems, were the besiegers concerned with coming to terms with the vanquished, although when this did occur, the terms usually included the payment of tribute or protection money and the taking of hostages, possibly with the execution only of the staunchest advocates of resistance. Often, however, even when a city surrendered, there was little or no mercy: the menfolk could be killed, the rest sold into slavery (this was the

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proposal for Mytilene (Thuc. 3.36) and probably happened at Scione (Thuc. 5.32)). When cities fell to assault, there might be indiscriminate killing of the inhabitants either during the sack or after, a grim and bloody activity, but one that was all too common (Pritchett 5.203). For this reason, but with the practical advantage of making supplies go further, some cities evacuated their noncombatants before investment by the enemy. Thus Plataea in 429 BC evacuated much of its population to Athens (Thuc. 2.6, 78), and Tyre in 336 sent its women and children to its old colony, Carthage (Diod. 17.41.1–2). The importance to the defenders of knowing that their kin were safe was so great that Aeneas Tacticus (10.1–2) recommended that evacuations should be at public expense. Some states were concerned to make arrangements with their neighbours long before such eventualities: a treaty dating to the 340s BC between Erythrae and Hermias, the tyrant of Atarneus, allowed the Erythraeans to send their possessions to him for safe-keeping (Tod 2.165). The treatment of those inhabitants unfortunate enough to remain in the city indicates that sieges were not entirely motivated by economic or strategic reasons. Agamemnon, it was claimed, would win the greatest fame under the sun by destroying such a large city as Ilium and killing so many men (Il. 4.415; van Wees 1992, 183–90). In the Iliad, destruction and slaughter appear to have been expressed war aims, not just an accidental result of the sack. It was aisima, (‘rule-bound behaviour’, ‘the proper thing’) to kill all men and spare none (Il. 6.62–5). The motive of vengeance, of payback, appears to have been at the root of some destructions in the classical period too, and the manner of the destruction wrought thus reveals the aims of the besiegers. The ethics of vengeance applied to Cleon’s argument for the fate of Mytilene in 427 BC (Thuc. 3.37–40; Lendon 2000, 16). Similarly, while Alexander may have allowed the destruction of Thebes in order to encourage the other Greek states into quiescence, much of that destruction was perpetrated by the Plataeans and other Boeotians who had long-standing scores to settle (Diod. 17.13.4). No other form of warfare in antiquity had the potential to exterminate an entire community: men, women and children put to the sword or scattered into slavery, ancestral homes and shrines looted and burned to the ground. It is perhaps little wonder that friendly communities might express their shock and distress on hearing of the sack of a city. When the city of Miletus fell to the Persians in 493 BC, the Athenians displayed ‘their profound grief in a number of ways and when Phrynicus produced his play, The Fall of Miletus, they burst into tears’ (Hdt. 6.21). There was much empathy for the victims of siege, exemplified by the simile of Homer: And as a woman wails and flings herself about her dear husband, who has fallen in front of his city and his people, seeking to ward off from his city and his children that pitiless day; and as she beholds him dying and gasping for

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breath, she clings to him and shrieks aloud, while the foe behind her smite her back and shoulders with their spears, and lead her away to captivity to bear toil and woe, while with most pitiful grief her cheeks are wasted: even so did Odysseus let fall pitiful tears from beneath his brows. (Odyssey 8.523–32)

Similar sentiments were provocatively advanced in Euripides’ Trojan Women, which focused on the lamentations and sufferings of the wives of Trojans on the fall of the city:‘Scamander’s valley echoes with the wail of slaves, the captive women given to their masters, some to Arcadia, or to Thessalian men, or to the lords of Athens, Theseus’ strain; while the women of Troy yet unassigned shelter beneath its walls’ (28–33). This play was first performed in front of an Athenian audience, some of whom had participated in the sack of Melos in the previous year (416 BC), while others may have visited the slave market of the Piraeus to purchase some of the women and children who were survivors of that siege (Maxwell-Stuart 1973; see p. 219–20 below). Conclusion Just as some Mycenaean kingdoms shaped their landscapes and communities by constructing impressive defences around their administrative centres, so later Greek communities expressed their own sense of identity through their walled defences. Such walls gave physical protection and acted as a reassurance that the community would continue to exist, despite sudden incursions by enemies, full-scale invasions or defeat in battles. The techniques of siege warfare began to develop once states such as Athens and Syracuse acquired the institutional, economic and logistical structures to prosecute sieges to their conclusion. Sieges, such as those of Sestus, Thasos, Samos, Potidaea and Mytilene in the fifth century, could be long and expensive, and besiegers needed to possess sufficient organisation of supplies and, usually, substantial financial reserves to maintain blockades by land and sea. The high degree of risk in such operations is evident in the disasters that befell both Athenians and Carthaginians in their sieges of Syracuse (414–413; 396/5 BC). Even the invention of siege engines, however, did not fully shift the advantage to the attackers in situations where defenders, understanding the brutal consequences of failure, maintained their commitment and energy to resist. Notes 1 Interestingly, the excavators of the Mycenaean palace at Pylos have found few traces of defences in the thirteenth century BC, although it had been walled in LH I, see Blegen et al. 1973; Winter 1971, 5. Thebes: Il. 4.406; Achilles’ shield: Il. 18.514 ff. 2 Odyssey 8.493–520, 4.271–89, 11.523–32, cf. the Cycladic relief-amphora from

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Mykonos, Fittschen 1969, 182–5 (S B99, 100–2); M. J. Anderson 1997, 182–91; Snodgrass 1998, 88–9. 3 See Detienne and Vernant 1978, for the closeness of me-tis and techne-. Here the techne- used on the horse makes it seem to be a beautiful and desirable offering to the gods rather than a formidable engine of war. 4 On the ‘Dark Age’ realities in the Homeric poems see Finley 1978 [1954], 142–58, but see now van Wees 2002. 5 For instance, eighth-century destructions are attested for Asine and Nauplia (Paus. 4.24.4, 27.8, 35.2). Seventh-century examples are Melia (Vitruvius, de Architectura 4.1.3–5); Arisbe (Hdt. 1.151); Pellene (P.Oxy 1241 col. 3.2–12). The sixth century has Cirrha and Sybaris (Aeschines 3.107–9; Hdt. 5.44–5, 6.21; Diod. 12.9.1–10, 10.23; Strabo 6.263; Athenaeus 12.521d). 6 Tréziny 1999, esp. 243. In the East, good examples of early archaic circuits are Abdera, Stageira, Smyrna: see McK. Camp II 2000, 48. 7 Siege of Sestus: Hdt. 9.115–20; Eion: Thuc. 1.98; cf. Plut. Cim. 12.1, 14.1. Diodorus 11.60.1–6 gives a general impression of Athenian anti-Persian siege operations in Ionia, Caria and Lycia in the 470s and 460s. 8 For example: Scyros and Naxos, Thuc. 1.98; Thasos, 1.100–1; Ithome, 1.102; Samos, 1.115–17. Cf. the story of Artemon, Pericles’ engineer apparently inventing the chelone- (tortoise), and krios (battering ram) for the siege of Samos: Diodorus 12.28.3; Plut. Per. 27.3. 9 Andocides 1.108; Hdt. 9.13; Thuc. 1.89. 10 Xen. Hell. 5.2.7; cf. Diod. 16.60.2 on the cities of Phocis in 346 BC. 11 Thuc. 4.100; cf. Brasidas at Lecythus, 4.115. 12 Thuc. 5.82; Diod. 12.81.1; Plut. Alc. 15.2–3. Plutarch also notes that Patrae constructed long walls with Athenian help at about this time. 13 On epiteichismos see Garlan 1974, 33–40; Hanson 1998 [1983], 28–30. 14 see also Fossey 1992. His survey of a number of Boeotian, Phocian and Opountian Locrian systems emphasises ‘site-intervisibility’, and signalling along communication networks. With the existence of fortresses along line-of-site routes, defenders are able to receive speedy warning of hostile forces and can assemble at points of strength along enemy lines of advance. 15 The effectiveness of Carthage at siege operations in 409 BC: towers and rams at Selinus, Diod. 13.54.7; mines and counter-mines were employed at Himera, Diod. 13.59.8. At Acragas in 406 BC, mounds for the towers and rams were constructed across a stream, Diod 13.86.1, 3. 16 The construction of the gastraphete-s was described in the first- to secondcentury AD treatise of Hero, Belopoeica, trans. Marsden 1971, 20–2. 17 Such bolt-shooters appear to have been stored on the acropolis: IG I2 1422 and 120 l.37. 18 Polyaenus 2.38.2; See Marsden 1971, 14, 59, who speculates that the engines, or something similar, are described in Biton. 19 Diod. 14.50–1; cf. the fall of Selinus, Diod. 13.56.8. 20 Diod. 16.54.3; Cicero, Ad Att. 1.16; Horace Odes 3.16. 21 Athenians 414/13 BC: Thuc. 7.47.2; Diod. 13.12. Carthaginians 396/5 BC: Diod. 14.70–1.

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Chapter 8

War and economy

War, for all the human suffering that it engenders, can be analysed in economic terms. War has an economic impact on states that undertake it, whether they are successful or not. Indeed, their success or failure can sometimes be explained in terms of how well their economic structures allow them to conduct the type of war upon which they have embarked. Economic motivations can play a part in the reasons for waging war and on the course campaigns take. Economic resources are consumed by war, but they are often acquired through its prosecution. Farming was at the root of much economic activity in the ancient world. It has long been recognised that the vast majority of people and labour in Greek city-states, indeed in pre-industrial society in general, were involved in agricultural activity. Much of this was at subsistence level and, in terms of economic complexity and infrastructure, relatively undeveloped. Nevertheless, there was significant diversity in the economic structures of Greek states. The economic complexity of poleis varied from the inland towns of seventh-century BC Arcadia to the populous and cosmopolitan metropoleis of fifth-century Syracuse or Athens. Yet for many smallholding individuals, even in the largest communities of the Greek world, warfare could have a direct impact on their lives, as participants and as victims. To use Aristophanes’ striking image (Ach. 86–7, see p. 6), their lives and their livelihoods might be dramatically changed by War’s tramping feet. War and agriculture Agricultural practices heavily influenced the timing of warfare, its objectives and methods. The availability of men for warfare was governed, in part, by the patterns of farming. The cycle of the seasons brought different tasks for the farming population, with sowing, pruning, harvesting and processing of crops being the chief activities. By far the greater part of campaigning occurred between the months of March and October, reaching its apogee around harvest times. In the Mediterranean, wheat and barley ripens in May,

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and this was the usual time of invasions (e.g. Thuc. 3.1; Hanson 1998 [1983], 50–1). The timing of campaigns was critical. To descend on the crops as they became ripe, but had yet to be harvested, appeared to be the aim of many attackers. In 425 BC, the Peloponnesians arrived in Attica too early; the crops were still green and could neither be eaten or easily burned, and so, after only fifteen days, they were forced to withdraw (Thuc. 4.61). The paradox facing any invading hoplite army, given that most of its soldiers were themselves farmers, was that if it marched on enemy territory during harvest time there was a danger that its own harvest would be neglected (Hanson 1998, 36 and n. 28). Winter invasions were a possibility, and could be aimed at disrupting the sowing of next year’s seed. However, although fewer people are needed to sow than to harvest, theoretically allowing a larger invasion force, the logistical problems of providing sufficient food for the invaders during such a time would limit the size, duration and thus the impact of such attacks. The Spartans appeared more formidable than other Greek states because of their seemingly utter lack of involvement in the routines of agricultural life. The Spartans argued that their concentration on military arts was the secret to their agricultural success: ‘Not by caring for our fields but by caring for ourselves did we obtain those fields’ (Plut. Mor. 214a72). Once they had subdued their Messenian neighbours and turned them into a servile helot population, the Spartans were freed from the chores of farming so that they became capable of launching attacks at any time in the agricultural cycle. However, Spartiates seldom travelled far from Sparta’s borders for long periods of time in significantly large numbers, precisely because of a latent fear of helot uprising. Their operational flexibility was also rarely exploited because Spartan forces hardly ever campaigned without allied or perioikic contingents, who themselves were tied to the demands of the farming lifestyle. A Spartan invasion of Attica in 428 BC had to be aborted mainly because the allies took too long to assemble after harvesting their own fields (Thuc. 3.15–16). As Pericles observed, most of the members of the Peloponnesian League were farmers, ‘who are usually more concerned with their property than their lives’ (Thuc. 1.141). He argued that such concerns limited farmers’ desire for long campaigns. The impact of war During the early years of the Peloponnesian War, the Megarians repeatedly suffered at the hands of the Athenians, who regularly invaded their territory (Thuc. 4.66 ff.). Attacks often came soon after the withdrawal of the annual Peloponnesian invasion of Attica, in which the Megarians themselves participated, with further Athenian invasions later in each year, aimed at disrupt-

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ing the harvest of late-sown cereals or other late-ripening crops. In its very first invasion of the Megarid (autumn 431 BC), the Athenian land army was joined by a fleet as it returned from its raiding and ravaging of the Peloponnesian coast. In Thucydides’ estimation (2.31) this was the largest force the Athenians ever assembled in one place; it ravaged ‘the whole’ territory of the Megarians and withdrew. Several years’ ravaging of Megara, combined with a guerrilla war of constant raiding undertaken by a force of Megarian exiles who were ensconced in the fort at Pagae (Thuc. 4.66) and the Athenian blockade resulting from the Megarian decree, undoubtedly created much economic hardship for the inhabitants.1 In a comedy staged in Athens in 424 BC, they were mockingly represented as destitute, lacking grain, salt and garlic and even willing to trade their daughters for supplies (Ar. Ach. 729 ff.). The Athenians had also suffered from invasion of their lands during this period. At the beginning of the Peloponnesian War, Pericles had advised the Athenians to abandon Attica to enemy devastation and to rely on supply from the sea. Athens may already have imported some of its corn, so that such a strategy might have little real impact on the availability of food within the city.2 Even so, the Athenians found the experience of witnessing the devastation of their fields by the Peloponnesians distressing (see p. 135–6). Thucydides gives the impression of a widespread impact on Attic farms and agriculture during the early invasions (2.21, 23, 65), and this led many scholars to see long-term effects on the Attic economy and even a factor in its fourth-century decline.3 However, there are problems with the picture Thucydides paints, especially when the impact of these invasions is compared to the situation in the latter stages of the Peloponnesian War. While the Athenians had been able to farm before and after the Archidamian invasions (431–424 BC), it was with the fortification of Decelea by the Peloponnesians in 413 BC that all-year-round devastation seems to have become a reality. According to Thucydides, the Athenians felt they had been driven permanently behind their city walls. The occupation of Decelea (413–404 BC), then, may have disrupted agricultural production in the central Attic plain over an extended period of time. Thucydides (7.27) also states that the Athenians lost many sheep and farm animals, and the occupation also had an impact on slave labour; up to 20,000 slaves apparently escaped to the Peloponnesian fortress. Slaves were important contributors to the Athenian war effort, for they worked in a variety of contexts – in silver mines, armouries, shipyards and on the land itself – so considerable ripples may have been felt throughout the economy with the loss of this manpower. However, if the presence of hostile forces at Decelea had as much of an impact on the economy of Attica as Thucydides states, this suggests that the

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Archidamian invasions, (as well, perhaps, as Athenian attacks on Megara), were much less effective than Thucydides himself had made them out to be. This was the observation that underlay the detailed analysis of Hanson in Warfare and Agriculture in Classical Greece (1983, 2nd edn 1998). He noted that none of the Peloponnesian devastations of Attica had lasted more than forty days and they had generally averaged only one month; indeed, the attack of 425 BC had lasted only fifteen days. Moreover, the invasions had ceased by 424, because of fear for the Spartan captives of Pylos held at Athens, so that, for the next ten years, Attica was unmolested. Thucydides himself observed that the preparations for the Sicilian expedition (415 BC) were made easier because the city had recovered from the Archidamian War (Thuc. 6.25). Hanson also analysed the ravaging of Attic territory in terms of the physical destruction wrought on crops. He demonstrated that there were four main methods of destruction adopted by armies in campaigns throughout the ancient period: 1 Occupation that prevented agricultural work was simplest and involved the least effort. The crops would eventually spoil or the time for sowing would pass, but in the long term there was no permanent damage to the land, which might even benefit from lying fallow for a season. In logistical terms, this was difficult for a large army to undertake, but smaller, more permanent forces, such as those based at Decelea, might be able to achieve this effect, albeit on a limited geographical area. 2 Seizure of the harvest itself for consumption by the attackers was possible – after all, the invading hoplites themselves were mostly farmers and the army needed to be fed – but such work was labour-intensive and forces needed to be detailed to guard the foragers from ambush, particularly from cavalry (Aeneas Tacticus 16.4–8; Spence 1993, 130–3, 167–8). If the harvest had already been gathered in, then it might be difficult to locate hidden caches or storm defended collection points (such as the Attic deme of Oinoe). 3 Burning had the potential to affect a wide territorial area, but the window of opportunity was narrow, as crops rarely burn when green and once the harvest has been collected there is little that can be done. Nevertheless it was probably the most effective and popular method of attack on agriculture, with most campaigns being timed to coincide with the mid-May to June window (cf. Thorne 2001, 230–1). 4 Trampling and cutting were also possible, especially when burning was likely to be ineffective. However, hoplites, despite being mostly farmers themselves, were vulnerable to enemy countermeasures during such activities. Targeting olive trees could have long-term effects, since they

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are slow-growing, yet Hanson noted how physically difficult it was to kill a mature olive tree: its wood is extremely hard and resistant to axes and its roots are extensive, making uprooting almost impossible. Even after burning and mutilation by the Persians, the sacred olive tree of Athena on the acropolis sprung fresh shoots (Hdt. 8.55; Paus. 1.27.2). Hanson therefore concluded that none of the methods available to Greeks were particularly effective. This, however, raised a difficult question: if it was so hard to inflict permanent or even medium-term damage to the agricultural resources of a polis, why did the defenders ever come out to fight pitched battle, and why did the attackers attempt to ravage the land? Of course, there may been short-term famine (e.g. Thuc. 8.56), and that would certainly be enough to account for the reaction of defenders in many cases. Indeed, the immediate economic impact, even for a city like Athens, may not have been insubstantial in terms of crops and animals lost and damage to installations.4 For much smaller cities, the need to avoid shortterm economic ruination and, potentially, starvation, would have been a powerful inducement to march out against the enemy, or to come to terms. However, Hanson also argued that such attacks on farms and fields wounded the pride of the defenders. As ramblers have sometimes experienced, some farmers are very touchy about perceived trespass, and this was no less the case in the ancient world, particularly as the ownership of land was frequently a prerequisite for citizenship. Invasion of land was therefore a psychological blow that struck at individual and polis identity. The phalanx was collectively responsible for the protection of the whole cho-ra; all citizen hoplites could be called upon to protect any private holdings threatened by outsiders. Not taking the field would undermine such a reciprocal understanding, without which there would be little motivation to fight and die for another’s land. Hanson’s view has been influential, but despite the limited effect of ravaging on the cho-ra as a whole, it would be wrong to underplay the impact of devastations on specific landowners. Economic losses for individuals were probably not insubstantial and were potentially ruinous. Foxhall (1993, 138–42) noted that although there might be no long-term effect on the productivity of the land, the physical damage caused could nevertheless be expensive, especially if the attackers concentrated on destroying agricultural buildings, olive-presses and wine-treading floors (cf. Xen. Hell. 6.5.22). Such attacks might have ruined subsistence farmers and even richer landowners whose estates were on the invaders’ path. The argument that devastations – even, perhaps, those of Decelea – had a limited impact on Attica during the Peloponnesian War still has much to recommend it. Attica was a big place, after all, and there were only five invasions, each lasting roughly a month,

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during the Archidamian War (431–421 BC), while the fort at Decelea, despite a much longer stay (413–404), was ringed by Athenian outposts, harried by Athenian cavalry, and had a limited range of operations.5 However, it was precisely because the hoplites were ravaging a limited area in each year that the practice could be effective. Such attacks inevitably affected some inhabitants’ farms and livelihoods more severely than others. The resulting inequalities in misfortune, especially if there was little attempt by the defenders to meet these attacks head-on, could provoke internal strife and factionalism (stasis) within a polis. Such problems led Aristotle to note that ‘In some poleis a law prohibits those whose residence is along the border from participating in debates concerning the issue of war with their neighbours since their own personal concerns prevent them from giving good counsel’ (Arist., Pol. 1330a20–3). In Athens, some of the strains caused by invasion were evident in the first year of the war. Archidamus appears to have deliberately targeted the deme of Acharnae because ‘he thought that the Acharnians, who, with their 3,000 hoplites, were an important element in the state, would not allow their own property to be destroyed, but would force all the others as well to come out and fight for it’.6 Athens proved to be more resilient than the Peloponnesians had expected: ‘The Spartans on their side had found that the war had taken a very different course to their expectations, for they had mistakenly imagined that they could destroy the power of the Athenians in a few years by merely laying waste to their land’ (Thuc. 5.14, cf. 4.85, 7.28). The Acharnians remained loyal to the democracy and endured the intermittent invasions of the Peloponnesians, although six years into the war they appear in Aristophanes’ play Acharnians as fervent advocates of continuing war, constantly demanding revenge for the ravaging of their land (Ach. 179–85, 225–32; see p. 8, 15, 63). Other communities, however, did succumb to the divisive effects of repeated agricultural devastation. By 424 BC, the economic hardships caused by repeated Athenian devastations of the Megarid and, just as significantly, by persistent raids from bases occupied by disaffected exiles, emboldened the pro-Athenian faction to try and bring it over to Athens (Thuc. 4.66).7 Although the attempt ultimately failed, it demonstrates the potentially destabilising nature of attacks directed at the polis-economy. War and acquisition After he [Agis] had made sacrifice [at Olympia], he marched on the polis of Elis, cutting down its trees and burning its crops. He seized a great number of cattle and slaves in that territory, so that, as this became known, he was joined by many Arcadians and Achaeans who came to share in the spoils. And so this

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campaign, in effect, became a restocking with provisions (episitismos) of the whole of the Peloponnese. (Xenophon, Hellenica 3.2.26)

Along with the physical destruction of enemy economic resources, Agis’ invasion of Elis produced plunder for the invaders (Osborne 1987, 137–8, 140; Cartledge 2002, 28). War has always presented the opportunity to live off the fruits of someone else’s labour and offered the possibility for enrichment at their expense. Aristotle (Pol. 1255b37, 1256b23–7, 1333b35 ff.) classified war as a form of economic acquisition, and the Greeks recognised that a ‘desire for more’ (pleonexia; cf. aischrokerdeia ‘insatiable greed’) was often at the root of violence; military force was seen as a natural means of obtaining resources.8 Military expeditions and operations might be launched whose main or sole purpose was enrichment, and at times, even states appeared to be little more than formally constituted bands of brigands (Tilly 1985; L. P. Rawlings 1999). The possibility of self-enrichment could be a strong inducement for influential individuals to pursue bellicose policies. Nicias accused Alcibiades (415 BC, Thuc. 6.16) of advocating the Sicilian expedition because he had been spending beyond his means and wished to restore his fortunes (an accusation that could have been levelled at Athens herself at this time). Similarly, Alexander the Great owed at least 200 talents at the start of his invasion of Persia and expected to repay this through war profits.9 His optimism was spectacularly rewarded, for his conquest of the Persian Empire yielded vast riches. In 330 BC he gained 9,000 talents of gold coin and 40,000 talents of unminted gold and silver from Sousiane (Diod. 17.66.1), while his share of the looting of Persepolis was reported to have been worth 120,000 talents of silver (Diod. 17.71.1). According to Herodotus (5.49, 97), the wealth of the Persian Empire and the possibility of easy pickings had earlier been held up to the Spartans and Athenians by Aristagoras when he sought support for the revolt of the Ionian cities (499 BC). Herodotus wryly notes that ‘evidently it is easier to persuade a crowd than an individual, for Aristagoras, having failed to persuade Cleomenes [the Spartan king], nevertheless succeeded with 30,000 Athenians’. Nor was the greed of the Athenian de-mos on this occasion an isolated incident. Thucydides (6.24) claimed that the majority of the Athenian people and soldiers thought that by invading Sicily in 415 BC, they would get plunder and an inexhaustible source of pay. In holding such a view, they were encouraged by past experiences and successes. The Athenian democracy had regularly benefited from its successes in war against both Persians and Greeks throughout the fifth century and the amount that could be raised from the sale of booty of a single campaign might be very significant.10 Cimon’s victory over the Persians at Eurymedon alone had financed the construction of the southern wall of the acropolis (c. 469 BC, Plut. Cim.

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13.5). The Athenians themselves were sometimes the source of others’ profit. The booty gained by the Thebans after defeating them at the Battle of Delium (424 BC) allowed for the construction ‘not only of the Great Stoa [colonnade] in the agora of Thebes, but adorned it with bronze statues; captured bronze arms (hopla) were nailed all over their temples and the colonnades in the agora, and with this money they also instituted the festival of Delia’ (Diod. 12.70.5). Plundering and trading went hand in hand. In the Iliad (7.467–75) Achaean warriors in camp exchanged their booty for wine, shipped over from Lemnos. In the fifth and fourth centuries BC, the Spartans appointed officials known as laphyropolai (booty-sellers) who dealt with traders and oversaw the process of converting booty into cash and supplies (Xen. Hell. 4.1.26; Ages. 1.18; cf. Anab. 7.7.56). It was often the case that merchants accompanied armies on the march and set up markets at suitable locations along the way (Thuc. 6.22, 44). These, it should not be forgotten, were primarily dealers in human misery. ‘Often when he was moving camp’, says Xenophon in his encomium of Agesilaus (1.21), ‘he looked after the little captive children who had been abandoned by the merchants on the roadside because they had been unwilling to carry and feed them.’ The capture and sale of enemies to such slavers was very profitable and the Greeks seemed ready to enslave one another as a result of raids, pitched battle and sieges.11 The sale of prisoners could raise huge sums of money. In 415 BC, the Athenians realised 120 talents from the slaves captured at Hyccara by trading them at nearby Segesta (Thuc. 6.62), while the 30,000 Thebans captured by Alexander the Great in 335 BC were sold for 440 talents: approximately 88 drachmas per slave (Diod. 17.14).12 Ransomed prisoners might fetch even more than this. According to Diodorus (14.111.4), when Dionysius I seized Rhegium, his 6,000 captives were put up to ransom at 100 drachmas a head. Anyone who could not raise this sum was sold in the slave markets of Syracuse. Of course, slaves created in large quantities during an action or campaign could, like any over-abundant commodity, flood a local market and lower prices. Agesilaus clearly understood this, for on one occasion during his campaign in Asia Minor he arranged for his friends to buy, on credit, large numbers of cheap slaves that his own army had recently sold to local merchants. The slaves were transported for resale to larger markets on the coast, where their value increased and his friends were able to make a profit without any initial capital outlay (Xen. Ages. 1.17–18). Honour and gain A question asked of travellers in the early Greece was ‘are you raiders?’ It expresses the ambivalence felt towards the pursuit, that there may be reper-

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cussions for entertaining such travellers who might turn nasty, or implicate the host and make him a target for the original victim’s reprisals, but it also indicates the endemic nature of the practice.13 For much of Greek history, the raiding (le-isteia) of lands for livestock, slaves and movable property appears to have been commonplace. Odysseus relates that he and his crew did not refrain from plundering the lands of communities on their route back from Troy. They succeeded in overcoming the Ismarians, but the survivors were able to gather enough allied forces to inflict substantial losses on the Greeks (Od. 9.39–61). Despite the risks, neither this Homeric basileus nor his men could refrain from making the initial attack, despite the booty they must already have gained from the Trojan War. Greed had some part to play, but it is also clear that in Homeric society these predatory pursuits were indicators of prestige and prowess, contributing to the fear and respect that such warriors enjoyed (Od. 14.234). These predatory operations were often regarded as a legitimate form of wealth acquisition, at least by those undertaking the plundering. There was psychological gratification to be had in stealing or seizing the wealth of enemies. It reassured both individuals and their fellow countrymen that prowess and martial skills had been demonstrated. Cattle rustled and slaves ‘won by the spear’ (aichmalo-tos, Pritchett 5.169), just as much as armour stripped from the slain in combat, were physical tokens of the prowess and social importance of the warrior. Thucydides (1.5) relates how, in earlier times, Greeks regarded piracy as honourable; it was the main reason, in his view, why early Greeks had gone around armed, even in times of peace (see p. 12). I led men nine times and went in fast ships against foreign peoples and gained much booty, taking out an abundance of spoils, but sharing out much too. Soon my house increased, so from that time I had fear and respect whenever I walked out among the Cretans. (Odyssey 14.229–34)

Odysseus’ story of the career of the son of Castor shows the interconnected nature of prowess, honour and violent wealth acquisition; his route to respect within his community was based on the collection of booty (van Wees 1992, 213–14). Not only did he claim that he had led raiding expeditions and had participated in the Trojan expedition, but also that ‘oar-swept ships and wars . . . to me were sweet’ (Od. 14.224–7). From a psychological perspective, this individual seems to have been fixated on a martial valuation of self-worth. He is a man who did not relish times of peace, but after only a month of domestic life sought further adventure; a product of the militarisation of early Greek society that piracy, in part, promoted.14 The community not only tolerated this state of affairs, but followed such individuals in war. It was successful and warlike men, like the son of Castor, who obtained marriages from other rich households: ‘I gained a wife from men with many

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landholdings, since I had martial excellence (arete-)’ (Od. 14.211–12). As expedition leader, he appears to have taken an abundant share, but he also emphasised his generous distribution of booty to others. Similarly, Odysseus himself claimed that when he raided the Cicones the booty was divided, ‘so that none of my men, if I could help it, would depart without his appropriate share’ (Od. 9.39–42). The distribution of booty among followers was supposed to fulfil their expectations, but it was a matter both of profit and status. Achilles, in return for his military participation, expected respect and honour from Agamemnon, as well as an appropriate share of the booty. When it became apparent to him that he was being deprived of these, he withdrew his support and resources from the campaign, saying ‘Always the greater part of the painful fighting is my hand’s labour, but when the booty is distributed, you get the greater part of the reward and I am left with just some small thing, dear to me though it is, that I take back to my ships when I am worn out by fighting. So now I am returning to Phthia . . . I no longer wish to stay here dishonoured, yet piling up your wealth and luxury’ (Il. 1.165–71, cf. 9.325–36). It is clear that status, just as much as participation, was a factor in where the spoils of warfare went. When Nestor returned home with his haul of livestock after raiding the Epeans, his father, the king, ‘took a huge share for himself and gave the rest for the people to divide among them, so that none would leave without his rightful portion’ (Il. 11.702–3). The distribution was overseen by the prominent men in the community (Il. 11.687) and many others who had not taken part in the raid were evidently allowed to claim a portion. It was not just the participants, therefore, but also the most important men and, indeed, the community in general, who stood to benefit from such predatory activity. The sharing out of portions of booty in the Homeric poems was frequently a matter of public concern; at Troy, the army of the Achaeans allocated portions to its commanders, or at least validated the sharing out by made by the basilees.15 The quarrel between Achilles and Agamemnon over booty was played out in front of a full assembly of the army. Achilles, while fiercely attempting to retain his own portion, argued that Agamemnon hardly deserved his share, partly because of his lack of involvement in the operations on which it was obtained, but mostly because of his perceived greed as commander-in-chief in taking an excessively large share (Il. 1.163–8, 225–30). By the fifth century, the public interest in the distribution of booty had become a matter of regulation and an aspect of the control that the state attempted to exert over its citizens. Accountants (tamiai) or other stateappointed officials usually accompanied generals and oversaw the collection of booty (Pritchett 1.90–2, 2.38–9). Xenophon (Lac. Pol. 13.11) observed that whenever a Spartan soldier acquired booty, he did not bring it to the

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king, but to the officially appointed booty-sellers (laphyropolai). However, just as in the Iliad, generals sometimes received prizes through state or army sanction. At Plataea, Pausanias was voted by the army ‘ten of everything’, evidently a share of the booty ten times greater than a standard portion (479 BC, Hdt. 9.81). After Olpae, the Acarnanians gave Demosthenes a personal share of the booty of 300 panoplies (Thuc. 3.114). This share was probably worth in the region of 3 to 5 talents in total, and Demosthenes dedicated much of it to various temples in Athens.16 Demosthenes’ award came from allies; it is unclear whether Athenian practice during the democracy allowed generals to be granted a share of plunder (Pritchett 5.399). However, given the regularity with which generals were accused of accepting bribes (do-reai – ‘gifts’), it seems they were capable of making profits in other ways (Pritchett 2.126–32). The presence of tamiai in their commands allowed their financial conduct to be regularly scrutinised by the state, but, equally, allowed generals accused of bribery by political rivals to produce accounts that might form a basis for a defence.17 The majority of booty gained by the Athenians in war was inventoried by the tamiai and seems either to have gone directly to the public treasury or to have been sold off in local markets. The Athenian share of the spoils of the battle of Olpae (426 BC), for example, was being shipped back to the city when it was intercepted en route by hostile forces (Thuc. 3.114). When the sale of plunder occurred in the theatre of campaign, as happened after the fall of Hyccara (415 BC, Thuc. 6.62), it often seems to have been the case that the profits were not distributed directly to the men, but spent by the generals on acquiring provisions or paying the men wages for their service (see p. 170–1). For instance, when the Spartan commander, Teleutias, was confronted with diminishing supplies and lacked money for pay, he turned his attention to raiding Athenian ferries, fishing boats and merchant ships travelling between Piraeus and Sunium, and thereby obtained enough to provide for his men for a whole month (Xen. Hell. 5.1.24). Despite state attempts to control or monopolise the collection of booty, there were opportunities for individual soldiers to acquire plunder and, indeed, to grow wealthy from it. After the destruction of Nicias’ contingent in the Athenian retreat from Syracuse (413 BC), so many prisoners were hidden by their individual captors that ‘the number of men secured by the state was not very large; considerable amounts, however, had been acquired by their captors, in fact the whole of Sicily was flooded with such slaves, as there had been no negotiated surrender’ (Thuc. 7.85). The soldier Stratophanes, who features in Menander’s comic play Sicyonios, returns from Caria with an abundance of money and slaves (Men. Sic. 393 Kassel; cf. Men. Aspis 82 ff.). Such a characterisation must have had its roots in military reality.

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The opportunities for self-enrichment were even greater for the elite. We have already noted both Alcibiades’ expectation of the wealth he would gain from leading the Sicilian expedition and Agesilaus’ attempt to enrich his friends while on campaign.18 It should not be surprising to find a king of Sparta putting the interests of his friends before others (including, perhaps, the state) or to find him praised for it by the aristocratic Xenophon. The ties of friendship (philia, xenia) among the Greeks, particularly among the elite, were secured upon a series of reciprocal relationships, both of an honorific and economic nature. The Homeric poems display a strong familiarity with such relationships and how they manifested in warfare. Achilles, for example, joined the Achaean expedition ‘not to fight Trojan spear-men, they have never driven away my cattle or horses, nor . . . did they spoil my harvest, . . . but for your sake [Agamemnon], . . . we followed, to do you a favour and to win honour from the Trojans for you and Menelaus’ (Il. 1.152–60). Achilles represented his military alliance as ‘honouring’ Agamemnon and his brother: that is to say, for personal reasons rather than for the success of the Greeks in general. Such a personal friendship between these two kings allowed them to join their military forces in a common goal and in the expectation of obtaining honour and riches. The personal and reciprocal nature of these relationships becomes even more strongly apparent in the battlefield encounter of Diomedes and Glaucus (Il. 6.215–36). They discovered that, despite being on opposing sides, their families had an ancestral guest-friendship (xenia), originally cemented with the exchange of expensive and high-status gifts – a red-dyed war-belt for a double-handled gold drinking cup. They therefore decided to avoid killing one another and reaffirmed the xenos-friendship by an exchange of armour. Homer notes that ‘Zeus, the son of Cronus, stole away the wits of Glaucus who exchanged with Diomedes, the son of Tydeus, golden armour for bronze, for nine oxen’s worth, the value of a hundred’. (Il. 6.234–6). Although Glaucus made an unequal exchange, to his economic detriment and to the poet’s evident glee, what is most significant about the exchange is that the poet could present it as happening at all (Donlan 1999). An agreement between enemies to avoid fighting followed from the act of exchange that reaffirmed their xenos-relationship, even in the midst of battle, and the poet does not condemn it. By the classical period, such elite relationships were often frowned upon, at least in the context of war between city-states. Putting the interests of one’s foreign friends before the interests of the state suggested treachery, as Demosthenes implied of the friendship between his fellow Athenian, Aeschines, and Philip II, king of Macedon (Dem. 19.314). Aeschines had received timber, grain and an estate with an alleged annual income of 3,000 drachmas from the king, and this placed him in a position where there was a suspicion that he might feel obliged to return this charis, even against the

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interests of his own state.19 Indeed, says Diodorus (16.54.4), ‘by means of “gifts” (do-reai) and by calling those who accepted his gold “guests” (xenoi) and “friends” (philoi), he [Philip] corrupted the morals of men’. The lure of the king’s money was such that in 347/6 BC, for example, Euthycrates and Lasthenes, the chief officials of Olynthus, took ‘gifts’ to betray the city (Diod. 16.52.2; Dem. 8.40, 19.265, 342). In 431 BC, during his invasion of Attica, the Spartan king Archidamus could deliberately spare the land of his Athenian xenos, Pericles, not so much out of friendship, but in the hope that it would stir up trouble for the Athenian politician, making him unpopular with those whose properties had been ravaged and casting doubt on his loyalty to the Athenian cause (Thuc. 2.13). Nevertheless, such a tactic indicates that xenos-friendships remained an integral feature of Greek warfare. Xenophon was exiled from Athens for joining his friend Proxenus on the campaign of Cyrus, who was making a bid for the Persian throne (Anab. 3.1). Proxenus had offered to introduce Xenophon to the pretender and help establish a friendship with him. Possessing a xenos-relationship with a member of the Persian royal house had the potential for great economic benefit. The Athenian Themistocles, for example, who had established a friendship with Xerxes and continued it with his son, Artaxerxes, was given three cities in Asia Minor to rule over: ‘Magnesia for his bread (and a revenue of 50 talents a year), Lampsacus for his wine (back then, it was the best vintage producing region), and Myos for his meat’ (Thuc. 1.138). One of the leaders of the Greek contingent on Xenophon’s expedition, Clearchus, described the nature of his own friendship with Cyrus during a speech to his men: Cyrus became my friend when I was in exile; he not only gave me respect but 10,000 golden darics. When I got the money, I did not keep it for myself, or for luxuries, but spent it on you. First I made war on the Thracians . . . but when Cyrus called for me, I came, bringing you with me, with the intention of helping him if he wanted it, in return for all the good things I have had from him. (Xenophon, Anabasis 1.3–4)

This relationship appears to have been based on money, and while in reality Clearchus was little more than a mercenary commander bankrolled by a Persian grandee, nevertheless the language of the arrangement was one of friendship, reciprocity and obligation, marked by the exchange of favours. Such relationships appear to have been common in the archaic and classical periods. When, for instance, Demosthenes and Eurymedon raised 150 javelin-throwers in Iapygia (414 BC), it was due to the renewal of an old friendship with Artas, the local ruler (Thuc. 7.33.4; Herman 1987, 97–105). The fact that concepts of honour, friendship and reciprocity could be used

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to describe the relationship between mercenaries and their employers, or between military allies, indicates the fundamental importance of personal relationships based on respect and mutual recognition of status in the political, economic and military structures of Greek states. War and production [Agesilaus] made a spectacle of the city in which he had based himself. For the market was filled with all kinds of things for sale, arms and horses, and the coppersmiths, woodworkers, ironworkers, tanners and painters were all busy making arms (hopla) for war, so that the whole city was like a workshop (ergaste-rion) of war. (Xenophon, Agesilaus 1.26)

As Xenophon indicates, wars can stimulate production in specific sectors, most obviously the manufacture of weapons, warships and other paraphernalia of war. People made a living, even grew wealthy, from servicing the military needs of states and individuals. The father of the fourth-century orator Demosthenes, for instance, owned a sword-making workshop staffed by 32 or 33 skilled slaves valued at 5–6 minai each, turning an annual profit of 30 minai (3,000 drachmas): a tidy sum roughly equivalent to the annual earnings of 8 to 10 skilled labourers (Dem. 27.9). Indeed, the absence of war was satirised in Aristophanes’ Peace (1209–55) as ruinous to the armssellers, who would no longer be able to charge their exorbitant fees and who would see their products converted for use in agriculture. The nature of the ancient evidence makes it difficult to quantify the numbers of people involved in the manufacture or sale of weapons, or to have any clear idea about annual rates of production, profit, turnover and suchlike in this industry. It is clear that arms manufacture was a relatively insignificant feature of economic activity as a whole. As has been seen, most people in antiquity were, in some way, involved in the agricultural sector, and farming had a fundamental influence on the nature of economic activity and on warfare itself. Nevertheless, the extensive dedications of arms and weapons in sanctuaries probably represent but a small percentage of objects made, and suggest that many armourers were kept busy throughout the archaic and classical periods. The report that Dionysius I of Syracuse ensured that he had 14,000 breastplates and 140,000 each of shields and helmets with which to arm his mercenary and citizen forces, while it is likely to have been an exaggeration, suggests the potential output of just one city at one moment in time.20 Although some materials, such as tin and copper for bronze, had to be imported, it is clear that much production was localised – there was no form of the modern international arms trade. Only the manufacture of triremes could involve financial arrangements between different states to

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assemble the necessary materials: timber of various sorts, flax for sails, hemp for ropes and bitumen for waterproofing hulls.21 War and finance On campaign, men were expected to provide their own equipment and bring their own rations, as best they could (see p. 46). Mantitheus’ show of publicspiritedness, when he provided 30 drachmas each for two of his fellow soldiers to help them buy supplies (Lys. 16.14, cf. 31.15; see p. 74), reveals that some men struggled to meet the state’s expectations of personal financing of campaigns. In a situation where men equipped themselves at their own expense, there would inevitably be a variation in the quality of arms. Not everyone could afford to provide themselves with a complete bronze hoplite panoply and accompanying weapons. Such an outfit has been estimated to cost about 75–100 drachmas.22 A drachma was equivalent to a day’s wage for those working on the building of the Erechtheum in Athens in 408–406 and it was at the higher end of the daily wage given to hoplites and oarsmen during the Peloponnesian War (see p. 114, 170–1).23 So in fifth-century Athens, a full panoply could cost the equivalent of about three months’ pay. A late sixth-century Athenian decree relating to Athenians living on Salamis required them to possess arms (hopla) to the value of 30 drachmas (ML 14; IG I3 1.8–10; Fornara 44B). This, if the inscription has been restored correctly, is somewhat less than the estimated cost of a complete panoply. The state, perhaps, recognised the reality that hoplites on campaign might not be fully covered in bronze. There were cheaper alternatives, particularly in defensive equipment: cuirasses made of linen or leather and helmets made of leather or felt. Alternatively men might wear no body armour at all (see p. 46, 55). So long as a hoplite carried a spear and a shield into battle, all other equipment was a matter of personal protection and taste.24 Alcibiades noted that most cities in Greece tended to have fewer fully equipped hoplites than they boasted of, and in Sicily, despite the large populations of the cities, ‘no one has adequate armour for his own person’ (Thuc. 6.17). Indeed, after their first defeat at the hands of the Athenians, the Syracusans, during the winter reorganisation of their hoplites (415/14 BC), ‘provided arms for those who did not have them’ (Thuc. 6.72). On the other hand, those men who could afford to do so appear to have competitively lavished money on their equipment (Thuc. 6.31.3; Xen. Mem. 3.10.9–14; Poroi 4.8). Alcibiades possessed a golden shield depicting Eros wielding a thunderbolt (Plut. Alc. 16.1–2) as part of his custom-made ensemble. The richest men might also ride horses (or chariots, see p. 39) to the battlefield, either acting as cavalry or, perhaps more as a show of status

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and wealth, dismounting to fight the battle on foot, as Xenophon had done at the battle of Cunaxa (Xen. Anab 1.8.15–17). On average, horses might cost in the region of 300–500 drachmas (Spence 1993, 272–86), though Xenophon’s was worth over 1,000 (Xen. Anab. 7.8.6; van Wees 2004, 58). Horses were probably the most expensive items of military paraphernalia that most wealthy men might possess and maintain. Few could stretch as far as Alcibiades’ father, Cleinias, who brought his own warship and crew to the battle of Artemisium (480 BC, Hdt. 8.17; Plut. Alc. 1). Any polis, in theory, could mobilise a very large proportion of its population to defend its territory or take offensive action, if the context of a conflict required it, without the expense of having to provide armour or, indeed, provisions (Hanson 1995, 301; S. Mitchell 1996, 96–7). Even the most monetarised and economically advanced states, such as classical Athens, relied considerably on the contributions of individuals to their war effort, both at a personal level and in state-encouraged or enforced contributions (epidoseis) and liturgies (see p. 111, 166–8). Of course, as Thucydides realised (1.141–2), such a state of affairs might limit the war-making capacity of the polis, unless it had the financial structures in place to provide support for those who had left their livelihoods behind. Before the development of coinage, communities offered a range of inducements to encourage men to fight for them. In the Iliad, the Trojans were joined by many allies, epikouroi, who exchanged their labours for a great portion of the Trojans’ treasures (Il. 18.288–92). Clearly, sometimes there was the need to offer something rather more tangible than the possibility of plunder and glory in order to sustain a war effort. In order to entice Achilles back into the war, Agamemnon proposed to give him seven cities and a variety of treasures from his own kingdom (Il. 9.120–57, 262–99, 19.240–48). Similarly, the mercenaries who, in the seventh century, appear to have served in the armies of the Babylonians and Egyptians, received pay of sorts. The brother of Alcaeus returned after service with an ivory-hilted sword (Alcaeus frg. 350) and the ‘bronze men’ of the Pharaoh, Psammetichus, were given land near Pelusium, probably in addition to plunder (Hdt. 2.154). One mercenary, Pedon son of Amphinoos, inscribed a statue, found in Priene in Asia Minor, with the claim that as a reward for his ‘valour’, Psammetichus had given him a ‘gold bracelet and a city’.25 In the mid-to-late archaic period, Greeks began to use coinage to facilitate their transactions and a number of states assumed, or asserted, control of minting. Although the use of coinage in this period was relatively undeveloped and cities minted coin for reasons that were not purely economic (von Reden 1997), nevertheless coinage production had a number of significant ramifications for war-making. A state’s imperial and military aspirations could be underwritten by control of sufficient mineral resources and the capacity to

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produce high-quality coin in large quantities. The military power and influence of the Lydians (who the Greeks believed had invented coinage), Persians, Athenians and Macedonians were all enhanced by their ability to finance their military operations in coin. But it is, perhaps, the case of Athens where the impact of the monetarisation of warfare can be seen most clearly. Athens had its own silver mines in Attica; indeed, a rich strike in the 480s BC had financed the dramatic expansion of the Athenian fleet. As the fifth century progressed, it also acquired control of mines in other regions, often through force.26 A dispute over a gold mine in Thrace had been a factor in the decision of Thasos to secede from the Athenian-led Delian League in 465 BC (Thuc. 1.100). After the Athenians had reduced the island, they took control of the mine (1.101). Thucydides himself had economic interests in the mineral resources of the North Aegean and had the right to work the gold mines in Thrace. This, perhaps, explains his assignment as a general to the region in 424 BC (Thuc. 4.105). Control of the mineral wealth of the Thracian littoral was later to be a significant factor in the success of the Macedonian kingdom under Philip II. The king came to command a very large income from the mines that he conquered at Damastium (358 BC), Pangaeum (357) and Philippi (356) in the North Aegean.27 He minted gold coins known as philippeioi, with which he had paid his large army of Macedonians and mercenaries, and used to bribe various states and individuals. According to Diodorus (16.53.3), Philip claimed that ‘he had enlarged his kingdom more through the deployment of gold than arms’. The silver coinage of Athens, featuring the distinctive owl of Athena, circulated widely in the Aegean and beyond (Wartenberg 1995, 6–7). This was partly due to its quality, which, for the most part, remained high, and to the sheer quantity of coins in circulation. But there may have been other reasons for its widespread usage. The Athenians, at some point in the fifth century, issued a decree regulating or standardising weights and measures throughout the empire. The decree appears to have been set up in the agora of each city of the empire, and although the measures it pronounced may have made economic and administrative sense to the Athenians, it was also an assertion of their imperial control.28 Furthermore, the decree imposed the use of Athenian coinage on the empire; it forbade the minting of local silver issues, or the use of foreign coin. That the ‘owls’ of Athens were seen as a symbol of Athenian dominance and, to some, oppression, is suggested by the treatment of Athenian prisoners captured by the Samians during the Peloponnesian War. Each had an owl branded onto his forehead. Such an action was in revenge for the earlier Athenian treatment of Samian prisoners in the aftermath of the revolt of 440 BC, who had received the mark of the locally produced samaina; a humiliation of rebels with a symbol of their lost autonomy.29

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In the fifth century BC, Athens was one of the richest and most economically diverse of Greek states and its waging of war reflected this in a number of ways. Clearly it was an important naval power and was successful in many sea battles, but it was also very effective at siege warfare. Indeed, the logistical organisation that enabled the Athenians to campaign for the prolonged periods of time necessary in overseas and siege operations derived, at least in part, from its economic resources and structures. Both naval and siege warfare could be extremely expensive and could consume resources at an alarming rate (Gabrielsen 2001; see p. 113–15 above). Samos was forced to pay an indemnity of at least 1,200 talents (Nepos Timotheus 1.2; Meiggs 1972, 192 n. 3) to cover the cost of its reduction by the Athenians in an eightmonth siege (Thuc. 1.117; Plut. Per. 28; Diod. 12.28.3–4), while an extended siege of Potidaea (431–428 BC, Thuc. 3.17) had cost Athens over 2,000 talents (Thuc. 2.70; cf. Isoc. 15.113 who claims 2,400 talents; Meiggs 1972, 259 n. 4). There is a clear recognition of the financial implications of campaigning in Thucydides (1.141), who made Pericles argue in 431 BC that, because of the lack of economic sophistication, the Peloponnesians were unsuited for the kind of war Athens was about to unleash on them: The Peloponnesians cultivate their own land themselves; they have no financial resources either as individuals or as states; they have no overseas fighting experience, nor of extended campaigning, since the wars they wage against each other are, because of their poverty, necessarily short. Such people are incapable of regularly crewing a fleet or of sending out an army if that means absence from their own land, expense from their own funds, and also because we control the sea. For wars are paid for from reserves, not a sudden increase in taxation. Those who own their land, during war-time are usually more concerned with their property than their lives; they shrewdly understand that they will survive safely, but are unsure whether their money will be exhausted, especially if, as seems to be the case, the war lasts longer than they expect.

Pericles implied that, in contrast, Athens would be able to undertake longterm campaigns and it had the necessary financial structures in place for sieges and naval operations. Such a view was also advanced by the Old Oligarch ([Xen.] Ath. Pol. 2.2 ff.) in his comparison of states that were land and sea powers. He argued that a sea power is freed from the constraints of its own location: economic hardships caused by famines and adverse conditions could be alleviated by bringing in supplies from elsewhere ([Xen.] Ath. Pol. 2.6). Indeed, while land powers have only the resources of their own locality to fall back on and they struggle to obtain the many resources needed for war, sea powers have access to a variety of produce from different regions and can deny this to their enemies ([Xen.] Ath. Pol. 2.6–7; cf. Thuc. 1.120).

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The economic prosperity and diversity of Athens is reflected in the sheer variety of imports brought into the Piraeus and agora of the city. Hermippus, in a fragment of his lost comedy the Phormophoroi (The Basket Carriers), performed during the early part of the Peloponnesian War (c. 424 BC), stated: From Cyrene, he [the god Dionysus] has delivered ox-hide and silphium, and from the Hellespont, fresh fish and many dried varieties too; while from Italy, he brings wheat and beef, not to mention scurvy for the Spartans from Sitalces [a king of Thrace] and convoys of lies from Perdiccas [king of Macedon]. Syracuse provides pigs and cheese; and I beg Poseidon to destroy those disagreeable Corcyreans in their hollow ships; all we get from them are disagreements. But from Egypt come hanging sails and papyrus, and from Syria, frankincense. Beautiful Crete has cypress wood from the Gods, while Libya has ivory for sale. Rhodes sends raisins and figs that promote good dreams. From Euboea, pears and large juicy apples come, and from Phrygia, slaves, and Arcadia, allies. Pagasae sends runaways and slaves. The Paphlagonians despatch shining almonds and chestnuts, a feast’s delight. Phoenicia grows us dates and fine wheat flour, and Carthage brings carpets and embroidered cushions.

Few of the places mentioned by Hermippus were ruled directly by Athens; nevertheless, he seems to provide support for the Old Oligarch’s (2.6) assertion that ‘imports from prosperous lands flow to rulers of the sea’. Hermippus also alluded to contemporary military affairs, for at the root of Athenian prosperity and the attractiveness of the city as a market for import were its military power and imperial concerns. The author of the Athenaion Politeia ([Arist.] Ath. Pol. 24.3) noted that the power of the empire ensured a plentiful food supply into the city. The grain supply and war were regular items on the agenda of the Athenian assembly ([Arist.] Ath. Pol. 43.4). There was even some theoretical appreciation that Athens, as a sea power, could control economic activity and trade. The Old Oligarch ([Xen.] Ath. Pol. 2.11–12) argued that ‘when a city is rich in ship timber, where will it send it without the consent of the thalassocrats? Again if a city is rich in iron, copper or flax, where will it send it without their consent? . . . they can forbid export to wherever any of our enemies are, on pain of being unable to use the sea.’ In practice too, the Athenians took some measures to exclude rivals from their markets. They included a clause in their treaty with Perdiccas that he was to only export Macedonian oars to Athens (IG I3 89.31), and they issued the highly provocative Megarian decree (433/2 BC) that excluded Megarian traders from the agora of Athens and all of the harbours of the Athenian Empire.30 But such measures were usually for strategic and diplomatic rather than economic reasons. Although the state regulated the movement of certain commodities throughout the empire, and, in the

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Peloponnesian War, it directed the supply of food into the city (Garnsey 1988, 120–33; Sallares 1991, 97), and although there was some assertion of fiscal control over economic activity in the empire, primarily through the collection of harbour dues on imports,31 nevertheless it would be inappropriate to talk about the Athenians possessing an economic policy in the modern sense (Meiggs 1972, 255). Equally, there was no fully integrated system for financing war in Athens. Resources for various campaigns were raised on an ad hoc basis, on the decision and votes of the assembly, and the money was drawn from whatever sources were available at the time. But it is significant that the Athenians, at least from the fifth century onwards, do appear to have thought of the conduct of warfare partly in terms of money. The financial resources that Athens possessed at the beginning of the Peloponnesian War were seemingly vast: Alongside other sources of income, about 600 talents of silver was paid as the annual phoros (tribute) by the allies; and there were still 6,000 talents of coined silver in the acropolis, out of 9,700 that had once been there, from which money had been spent on the Propylaea of the acropolis, the other public buildings, and on the campaign at Potidaea. Such a total did not include the uncoined gold and silver of public and private offerings, the sacred vessels for the processions and games, the spoils of the Persian Wars, and similar resources that totalled 500 talents. To this he [Pericles] added the treasures of the other temples. These were in no way insubstantial, and might fairly be used. Indeed, if they were compelled to, they might remove even the gold ornaments of Athena herself; for the statue contained 40 talents of pure gold and all of it was removable. This might be used for self-preservation, but must be completely replaced at a later time. This then was the state of their finances; surely it would be enough. (Thucydides 2.13)

At the top of Thucydides’ list comes the tribute (phoros). It had been established as the contributions of allies who made up the Delian League against Persia, and had been originally assessed by the Athenian general, Aristeides, at a total of 460 talents (478/7 BC, Thuc. 1.96; Diod. 11.47.1 claims 560 talents). It would become a more or less constant feature in Athenian warmaking and imperialism for the rest of the century. Initially, contributions were made to the alliance either in warships or in money, but, as time passed, more and more states preferred to send money, while the Athenians continued to invest the most in terms of men and ships. The phoros was administered by Athenian-appointed helle-notamiai (‘Treasurers of the Greeks’) and the common treasury of the alliance was originally based at Delos (hence the modern name for the alliance: ‘Delian League’). However, from 454/3 BC, the treasury was moved to the acropolis at Athens. We know many of the details of the contributions over the next decades because a sixtieth of the revenue was given to Athena, and this was recorded on annual inscriptions

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set up on the acropolis, detailing the contributions of each state. Although many of these inscriptions survive in a rather fragmentary condition, they nevertheless give us a level of detail not to be found in the surviving literary sources. It seems that the phoros was originally set up to provide an alternative to direct military involvement, but one that Athenians themselves encouraged the allies to choose (Plut. Cim. 11). It was primarily a monetary system; states paid their contributions in coin, or perhaps an equivalent weight in uncoined silver. This enabled the Athenians to pay the sailors of the allied fleet a wage, effectively treating the navy as a professional, even mercenary, force at their direct disposal. The crews of such ships, it seems, were a mix of Athenian citizens, allies, slaves and foreigners, who all received pay for their services. The Peloponnesians optimistically thought they would attract these men at the start of the Peloponnesian War by borrowing money from the temples of Olympia and Delphi and offering a higher rate of pay (Thuc. 1.121, cf. 1.143). In fact, this was not successful, if it was ever attempted, and competitive rates of pay only became a serious possibility for the Peloponnesians during the Ionian War, when they could draw on Persian finances (Pritchett 1.47; see p. 170 below). For the most part, the Peloponnesian League lacked the financial structures of the Athenians, although there are some indications that as the war progressed, attempts were made by the Spartans to draw resources other than men from her allies. An inscription found at Sparta and dated to the 420s or 410s BC (ML 67 = Fornara 132) listed ‘gifts’ of money from various cities and individuals, but other items are also included, such as measures (medimnoi) of corn and a quantity of raisins. Clearly the system described appears to have had to account for non-monetary contributions, but equally there is some attempt to raise money. According to Xenophon (Hell. 5.2.21–2), the Spartans in 382 BC allowed allies to send money in lieu of men, at 3 Aeginetan obols per hoplite and a quadruple rate for cavalry. The Spartans, in this instance, were also empowered to fine cities for failure to meet their quota at a rate of 2 drachmas per day. This system was put in place for an expedition against Olynthus, in northern Greece, and it is unclear whether operations of the Peloponnesian League nearer to home in this period had similar financial arrangements. The tribute paid by the Delian League to Athens appears to have been assessed to reflect the economic resources of individual states. Some of the largest contributors were islands that enjoyed particular economic advantages. Thasos, which after the revolt of 465–463 BC, appears to have retained some access to mineral resources from mines on the Thracian coast opposite the island and was also an exporter of wine, paid 30 talents from 446 BC (doubled to 60 in 425 BC).32 Aegina, which was, it seems, at the centre of a

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very profitable trade network, also paid 30 talents (ATL i. 218; Meiggs 1972, 183–4), while Paros benefited both from general trade networks and from being a source of marble (Meiggs 1972, 271), contributing 18 talents in phoros (30 in 425 BC, but 18 again in 418 BC; Meiggs 1972, 559; Osborne 2000, 93). However, the majority of states that paid tribute were assessed at less than a single talent (6,000 drachmas); indeed, many of these sent no more than 3,000 drachmas a year. The two hundred or so communities in the empire were mostly small contributors, whose individual economies appear to have been relatively insignificant (Meiggs 1972, 524–61; Osborne 2000, 89). The Athenians regularly adjusted the levels of payment throughout the League, usually every four years, and could thus take account of the changing economic circumstances of cities. They could also reflect political and military developments. The Athenians were forced to raise the tribute during the extremely costly years of the Archidamian War. In the assessments of 428 and 425 (ML 69, Crawford and Whitehead 1983, 200) the levels for much of the empire, as it had become by then, were increased significantly, with many states having to pay double or triple their earlier contributions, although this was not consistently applied to all allies. It seems from the evidence of the Tribute Lists that the phoros in the 420s BC, at least temporarily, rose from a pre-war amount of approximately 400 talents to over 1,460 talents. There were a number of complaints that the Athenians were very exacting in their demands, which made them unpopular in some quarters (Thuc. 1.99.1), but it is not clear in reality how much of a burden the tribute was for individual states (Nixon and Price 1990). The Athenians administered the system relatively rigorously, sending out ships to collect the outstanding tribute and recording on the Tribute Lists those states that were in arrears.33 In order to satisfy Athenian expectations, individual states needed to create financial systems to raise the money, although in the main it is unclear what these measures might have been. From an inscription of a decree proposed by Cleonymus, probably in 426 BC, the cities were instructed to nominate some of their citizens as ‘Collectors’ (eklogeis), to be responsible for the tribute (ML 68; cf. Harpocration s.v. eklogeis). These appear to have been the richest members of the community (Antiphon, On the tribute of the Samothracians frg. 52), but how they levied tribute from the citizens is unclear.34 At Samothrace (which generally appears to have paid 6 talents), the citizens may have registered all of their property with the Collectors and this may have formed the basis for assessments based on individual wealth (Lys. Against Aresander frg. 9). The regular income of the tribute allowed the Athenians to build up a large surplus in times of peace, which was stored on the acropolis and supervised by the helle-notamiai. It was the storage of money, rather than reinvest-

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ment, which reflected its military potential. Aristotle observed that money ‘serves as a guarantee of exchange for the future: supposing we need nothing at the moment, it ensures that exchange shall be possible when a need arises, for it meets the requirement of something we can produce in payment so as to obtain the thing we need’ (Arist. Nic. Eth. 5 1133b10 ff.; Meikle 2002, 241). In Athens, the phoros was drawn upon to finance the Athenian imperial war effort, providing wages for oarsmen and land troops. Indeed, given that it often seems to have had far more hulls in its docks than it ever deployed (see Gabrielsen 1994, 127, 253 n. 5 and p. 114 above), the commissioning of fleets was essentially a hiring of labour issue; of finding enough oarsmen and crew to man the hulls that the assembly had decided to launch. The Athenian navy probably ought not to be regarded as a permanent flotilla, cruising upon the seas in peace.35 The fleet, for the most part, appears to have remained in its ship-sheds during such periods. It could, however, be launched at relatively short notice, and the tribute, once a reserve had built up, could be drawn upon immediately to finance any such operation. In this sense, the phoros, in particular, allowed the Athenians to store their military power in a monetary form, enabling it to be deployed quickly and, indeed, for extended periods of time when appropriate. So Pericles emphasised that ‘wars are financed from reserves of money, not a sudden increase of taxation’ (Thuc. 1.141), while enemies who had no such reserves ‘are hampered by a lack of money and held up for the time it takes to raise it. Yet, in war, time waits for no man’ (Thuc. 1.142). In addition to the phoros of the allies, the Athenian democracy raised warfunds from its own population, using a variety of methods. The best known and understood system by modern scholars was the le-itourgia, a system of regular impositions of financial obligations on the rich (Gabrielsen 1994). While liturgies could include the training of a dancing team or the production of plays in the domestic festivals at Athens, the most important obligation in military terms was the trierarchy. It was an essential part of the infrastructure of Athenian naval power and at the heart of Athens’ ability to cope with the financial burden of operating triremes. Other states too appointed trierarchs, but almost no information about their financial obligations, if they had any, survives.36 In Athens, however, very rich individuals were allocated to particular triremes and were made responsible for equipping and repairing (but not constructing) the ships, partly funding the crew and often commanding them on campaign (e.g. Lys. 21.2, 6–11; Gabrielsen 1994, see esp. 105–45). Such expenditures could be quite heavy; one defendant in the Athenian law courts claimed that he had spent 6 talents in seven years as a trierarch (Lys. 21.2), while in a three-year period, a certain Aristophanes spent 8,000 drachmas (Lys. 19.29, 42). Indeed, there are a number of complaints about the burden of the trierarchy; Antiphanes (fr.

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204 = Athenaeus 3.103f) suggests that a man might, ‘when called upon to be a trierarch, hang himself ’, while Xenophon (Oec. 2.6), notes that ‘when there’s war, the Athenians impose on you trierarchies and war-taxes (eisphorai) of a size that you will struggle to afford, but whenever you fail to meet their expectations, they’ll punish you as severely as if you had been caught stealing from them’. Judging by a number of other legal cases that survive, some trierarchs chose to spend a bare minimum (e.g. Dem. 47.18 ff.; cf. Isoc. 8.125). The comic playwright, Aristophanes, in his Frogs (1063–8), caricatures how some rich men attempted to keep their wealth from the de-mos: The wealthy man no longer wishes to perform the trierarchy, But weeping, down, and rag-attired, he whines he’s too poor for it. DIONYSUS But, by Demeter, underneath he’s wearing a tunic, pure wool too; Once he’s pulled it over their eyes, he pops up lavishly buying fish in the market. AESCHYLUS

While there were some grumbles from the elite and a variety of abuses and dodges, the liturgical system of trierarchies was, on the whole, effective at making the wealthy underwrite the financial obligations of Athens’ naval activity. It had the effect of encouraging members of the liturgical class to develop measures to ensure that they could bear the expense; that is, to create cash profits from their lands and businesses (Osborne 2002, esp. 125–8). By providing a channel for some of the expenditure of the elite to practical military ends, it allowed rich men to store up a credit of goodwill (charis) with the democracy. One individual (Lys. 25.12–13) claimed that he had spent far more than was required on his five trierarchies, other liturgies and war taxes (eisphorai), so that ‘I would be better regarded by you (the de-mos), and in any trial I would be in a better situation’. Rich Athenians were also encouraged to perform epidosis – the voluntary donation of money or other resources by individuals to the state, possibly involving competitive gift-giving.37 Pasion, for example, gave 1,000 shields and outfitted five triremes,38 while Aristophanes put 30,000 drachmas at the disposal of a taskforce being sent to Cyprus.39 Such donations were entirely unpredictable, coming in response to perceptions of need, and based upon the particular patriotism of individuals. Epidoseis could not be regarded as a stable feature of the state’s budget. A similarly ad hoc measure that the Athenians also resorted to, at times, was the eisphora – an emergency tax levied on the property of the wealthy. The first known of these occurred in 428 BC and raised 200 talents (Thuc. 3.19; cf. Ar. Eccl. 823–9). This was probably a 1 or 2 per cent tax on property, as fourth-century assessments appear to have used such rates (Meiggs 1972, 257). The introduction of this tax reflected the drains on the Athenian treasury in the first three years of the Peloponnesian War; the seemingly vast reserves of money that Pericles had

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detailed had quickly been used up because of Athens’ naval commitments and the simultaneous siege of Potidaea (Thuc. 3.17). Among the Athenian resources at the start of the Peloponnesian War had been 500 talents of made up of public and private temple offerings, sacred vessels for festivals ‘and the treasures of the other temples’ (Thuc. 2.13). The Athenians evidently felt that, in times of need, they could not only draw on the money they had deposited in their temples, but also on the wealth they had dedicated to the gods, providing there was an undertaking to replace it. Indeed, one inscription (covering years 418–414 BC, ML 77) records loans for military operations from Athena’s treasury, while another inscription details over 4,777 talents withdrawn (at interest) from the goddess and over 821 talents from ‘other gods’ in an eleven-year period (432/2–423/2 BC).40 Other states might also turn to temples for loans (Pritchett 5.166–8): the Peloponnesians considered raising money from Delphi and Olympia in just such a fashion (Thuc. 1.121, 143). The wealth of such temples is evident in instances of forced seizures and looting of sanctuaries, despite the charges of impiety (asebeia) that such actions could bring (Pritchett 5.160–8). Dionysius I, for example, looted a number of temples to maintain his large military expenditure and, particularly, to pay his mercenaries (Pritchett 5.163–5). In 384 BC, he took 1,000 talents from the Etruscan temple at Pyrgi.41 The temples of Persephone at Locri (Cicero, De nat. deorum 3.83) and Lacinian Hera near Croton (Athenaeus 12.541a–b) were similarly plundered by the tyrant. The potential to draw on the wealth of Delphi was a significant factor in the struggles to control the shrine, known as the Sacred Wars. At some point, possibly in the early sixth century after the ‘First’ Sacred War that removed control of the shrine from Cirrha, an Amphictyonic league of cities was set up that was supposed to guarantee the sanctity of the shrine.42 Its effectiveness was limited, however, and the so-called ‘Second’ Sacred War of c. 449 BC had to be conducted by the Spartans to wrest control of the temple from the Phocians. Although the Spartans restored the autonomy of the temple, the Athenians intervened and temporarily returned control to the Phocians (Thuc. 1.112). When the Phocians, in 356 BC, again seized it, apparently with the support of the Spartans, their general, Philomelus was initially scrupulous in claiming that the treasures would be inventoried and left untouched. However, after the Amphictyonic council, by this time dominated by Sparta’s rival, Thebes, declared another sacred war to regain control, the Phocians were forced to draw on the treasures. Periodically melting down some of the offerings for coin enabled them to withstand considerable pressure from other Greek states, including Philip of Macedon, principally by hiring and maintaining large numbers of mercenaries (Diod. 16.25, 30, 33–5, 56.5–7; Isoc. 5.54). In all, they appear to have drawn over

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10,000 talents from the temple (Diod. 16.56.5–7). The main issue with Phocian administration of Delphi in the 350s, apart from the fact that it wrested control from the Amphictyony, was that money taken from the temple was clearly other people’s deposits and gifts to the god.43 On a number of occasions during this ‘Third’ war, when Phocians or their mercenaries fell into enemy hands, they were executed as temple-robbers (e.g. Diod. 16.35.6). At one point, the Phocians themselves turned on those who had drawn money from the temple (347/6 BC, Diod. 16.56.3–5) and punished anyone who could not render proper accounts of their expenditure. Such an action implies that the Phocians had originally intended to borrow the temple funds, but that somewhere along the line embezzlement had taken place. Diodorus (18.56.5) claims that those who had diverted the sacred properties to their own use were forced to return what they could before their execution. When Philip II finally caused the Phocians to capitulate (346/5 BC), any surviving individuals held responsible for drawing funds from the temple were cursed by the Amphictyonic council. The Phocians as a whole were disarmed and forced to repay what they had taken at a rate of 60 talents a year (Diod. 16.60.1–2). War and the mercenary market The Phocians offered, for a while, the best rates of pay of any military employer.44 In essence, their army was an organ of market forces. In this case, the use of mercenaries (misthophoroi) was demand-led: the Phocians needed troops and were willing to pay over the odds to get them. But the mercenary market in the fourth century was, at times, also supply-led. Isocrates suggested that economic and social dislocation in the postPeloponnesian War era had led to large numbers of men looking for a livelihood, and turning to banditry, piracy and mercenary service.45 Frequently, in this period, pay (misthos, sitos) was quite low, in the order of 2–3 obols per day, but there seems to have been no shortage of recruits. It is understandable why pay might be quite low when a surplus existed in the market. Surprisingly, however, low rates also appear to have been usual in the preceding century. It is possible that a surplus in manpower was still present, but invisible, not commented on by sources with other interests (van Wees 2004, 73–4), or possibly that it was absorbed, for the most part, by the huge demands of the Athenian fleet. Isocrates argued that the Athenian navy in its heyday had been crewed by a rabble of foreigners, while the citizens fought as hoplites, but that, in his own day, it was hoplites who were the mercenaries and the citizens were now just oarsmen (Isoc. 8.48; cf. 8.79; Ar. Wealth 172). It seems clear from the Peloponnesian suggestion in 431 BC, that they might take out loans to offer higher rates of pay to attract rowers from the

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Athenian fleet, that it was therefore crewed partly by a ‘market’ of sailors (see p. 115–16). But Athenian naval power was such that, for much of the fifth century, the size and frequency of operations provided a relatively reliable source of income. It was also probably perceived to be safer sailing for the most powerful and skilled fleet than rowing against it. Few would want to risk being on the losing side, no matter how good the pay might be; casualties in naval defeats could be staggeringly high (see p. 127 n. 24). When the odds had evened somewhat, during the Ionian War (412–404), with many of Athens’ allies in open revolt and a Peloponnesian fleet, at times, of comparable potency operating in the Aegean, then the market appears to have became more fluid. Tissaphernes, the Persian backer of the Spartans, initially paid the crews a daily wage of a drachma, which was twice the rate of the financially struggling Athenians (Thuc. 8.29, 45). This was soon reduced to match the 3 obol Athenian rate, but in 408, Lysander recommended that Cyrus raise it again to the drachma rate in order to encourage Athenian rowers to change sides (Xen. Hell. 1.5.4). The increasingly desperate measures adopted by the Athenians, such as the resolution to cut off the right hands (or thumbs) of captured enemy oarsmen (405 BC, Xen. Hell. 2.1.31–2; Plut. Lys. 9), or the offer to emancipate slave oarsmen (406 BC, Xen. Hell. 1.6.24; IG II2 1951.117), perhaps indicates the pressure on recruitment. In the fourth century, after Athens had lost the Peloponnesian War and had far less resources at its disposal, market conditions appear to have been even more open. Trierarchs such as Apollodorus, despite offering high rates of pay, might lose experienced rowers to the fleets of states such as Thasos and Maronea, when they offered substantial advance payments of cash ([Dem.] 50.14–16; see p. 116). For the most part it seems that pay (misthos) was offered by Athens, and indeed by other states, mostly as a compensation to support men on campaign while they were away from their daily occupations. In essence, the state exchanged money for time (rates were calculated by the day) and service, at least in the case of citizens it paid. For mercenaries (misthophoroi) there were additional factors of expertise and loyalty to be purchased, but this often did not lead to mercenaries receiving any greater amount than citizens. Instead, most of the variations in rates of pay in the fifth and fourth centuries appear particular to specific campaigns. In the Peloponnesian War, for example, campaign rates ranging from 3 obols to 1 drachma (6 obols) per day have sometimes been explained as reflecting the economic prosperity of the states offering the money. Yet it is also possible that, at least on some occasions, higher rates reflected the expected price of supplies on that campaign. The inflation of prices at army markets is a motif in some sources (Xen. Anab. 1.5.6; 3.2.2; [Arist.] Oec. 1347a). Higher rates may also have included an expectation of partial finance through booty acquired by the

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state. In 414 BC, the Thracian mercenaries who arrived in Athens too late to be sent to Sicily were deemed too expensive to use to attack Decelea. Although their rate of a drachma a day would have been appropriate for the overseas campaign to Sicily, Decelea was on Athenian home soil and there would be no opportunity to part-finance them through plunder (Thuc. 7.27). But even a drachma rate was hardly extravagant; it was equivalent to the level of pay a skilled labourer might receive (see p. 158). Often, pay was much lower and more than irregular. On a number of occasions, soldiers appear not to have received pay for several months (Hell. Oxy. 14), and were required to live off the land. The subsidies that the Spartans expected to receive from Persia in the Ionian War, at times, were so unreliable that the troops and sailors became mutinous (Thuc. 8.83–4; Pritchett 1.47–8). During the fourth century, Athenian generals were sometimes sent out with a wholly inadequate war chest (Pritchett 2.101–2). Timotheus, for instance, was expected to conduct an extended campaign against Corcyra with only 13 talents; at most, a few weeks’ pay for his fleet of sixty warships (376 BC; Isoc. 15.109). He appears to have been forced to borrow money from his own trierarchs (7 talents, [Dem.] 49.12) and, later, from among others, the banker, Pasion ([Dem.] 49.3–6, 14–16; Millett 1993, 191–4). Ten years later, his force of 8,000 peltasts and 30 triremes were entirely reliant on plunder during their ten-month siege of Samos (366 BC, Isoc. 15.111). It appears, then, that rates of pay were such that, after daily living expenses in the field, there might be little excess for a soldier to bring home. Of course, there was always the chance of a windfall of private plunder, even in the most state-regularised of campaigns, and there seems, on the whole, to have been little shortage of men willing to bear arms, whether it was for the sake of enrichment or through a sense of duty to their polis. Conclusion Xenophon, who had set out in 402/1 BC to make a fortune by becoming the friend of Cyrus and had endured the long march of the Ten Thousand mercenaries after Cyrus’ death at Cunaxa, did obtain estates, not in wealthy Persia, but in seemingly austere Sparta. Because of his military experience, he became a friend of Agesilaus and he was allowed to settle in this soldier’s state at Scillus, near Olympia (Xen. Anab. 5.3.7 ff.). There he used some of the booty he had gained in Persia to build a temple to Artemis. While it appears that he gave over much of the estate to hunting, he also seems to have bred pigs, goats and horses, exploited the shellfish and fish of its rivers, and planted fruit orchards. It is unclear what he did with his surplus, although some was certainly turned into cash and used to keep the temple in good repair, but every year he dedicated a tenth (dekate-) of the season’s

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produce to the goddess and invited the local townsfolk to a hunting festival in her honour. Perhaps this would have been a suitable place for the exmercenary Xenophon to live out his years, but events took a different turn when Spartan power collapsed, and he was forced from these estates. Although he did not return to Athens, he nevertheless turned his attention to its economic and military situation. At the time, Athens appeared to be struggling to fund its military and domestic programmes, so he wrote a pamphlet called the Revenues (Poroi) during the Third Sacred War (c. 355 BC, Xen. Poroi 5.9; shortly before his death), in which he advocated not war, but peace as the condition that most promotes economic prosperity: If any are inclined to think that a lasting peace for our city will involve a loss of her power and glory and fame in Greece, they, in my opinion, are out in their calculations. For I presume that states that are reckoned the happiest are those that enjoy the longest period of unbroken peace; and of all states Athens is by nature most suited to flourish in peace. For if the state is tranquil, what class of men will not need her? Ship-owners and merchants will head the list. Then there will be those rich in corn and wine and oil and cattle; men possessed of intelligence and money to invest; craftsmen and sophists and philosophers; poets and the people who make use of their works; those to whom anything sacred or secular appeals that is worth seeing or hearing. Besides, where will those who want to buy or sell many things quickly meet with better success in their efforts than at Athens? If, on the other hand, anyone supposes that financially war is more profitable to the state than peace, I really do not know how the truth of this can be tested better than by considering the experience of our state in the past. They will find that in the old days a very great amount of money was paid into the treasury in times of peace, but that the whole of it was spent in times of war. They will conclude, on consideration, that in our own time the effect of the recent war destroyed some of our revenues, while those that continued to come in were exhausted by the multitude of expenses; whereas the cessation of war by sea has been followed by a rise in the revenues, and has allowed the citizens to devote them to any purpose they choose. (Xenophon, Poroi 5.2–4, 11–12)

While Xenophon had aspired, after his long years of war, to settle down to a traditional lifestyle of an estate-owner, his evaluation of the problems caused by warfare and the benefits of peace are conceived in terms that reflect the diversity of the Athenian economy and the importance of financial revenue to the power of the state. While a fourth-century king like Agesilaus could offer a plot of land to his xenos that would not have seemed an inappropriate reward for valour coming from Agamemnon or Psammetichus, across Greece, states were struggling to find the coins with which to pay their citizens and mercenaries. States had increasingly sought to develop monetary systems that would enable them to store their military

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power in treasuries (and temples) and conduct war by purchasing the time, and with mercenaries, the loyalty, of soldiers. In the analyses of Xenophon’s more senior contemporaries, such as Thucydides and the Old Oligarch, there had been a clear contrast between the warfare waged by Athens and that of the Peloponnesian states. Athenian fifth-century war-making had primarily been driven by the costs of the navy and the democracy, and had been supported from the resources and tribute of the empire. The Peloponnesians, on the other hand, had relied on hoplite armies where each individual campaigned at his own expense and from what his own land produced. However, even for a state as economically complex as Athens, the financing of campaigns was haphazard and relied, at least partly, on the financial commitment of private individuals, while Sparta too had been required to develop systems to finance long-range and long-term campaigns. War has always consumed resources, but in a monetary economy it is easier to mobilise them through taxation and tribute for the state to spend on its military ambitions and needs. Much to the discomfort of observers such as Xenophon, who could reflect on the difficulties that Athens experienced and observe the rapidity with which its coin-reserves could be consumed, monetarisation meant that it had become far easier (literally) to count the cost of war. Notes 1 Similarly, during the stasis of Corcyra, the exiled oligarchs were so effective at raiding that they caused famine in the city (Thuc. 3.85, 4.2). 2 Thuc. 1.81; Xen. Hell. 1.1.35; Garnsey 1988, 87–164. 3 For a survey of the relevant scholarship see Hanson 1998, 132–7, esp. 137 nn. 17–19. 4 Thorne (2001, 249 table 2) has estimated that the average cost of a Peloponnesian invasion during the Archidamian War was in the region of 37.5 talents. 5 It is also worth noting that Thucydides emphasises that the main impact of the Decelean occupation was one of disruption to overland transportation networks, particularly from Euboea (produce landed in the plain of Marathon), which now had to be brought around the cape of Sunium to Piraeus, a slightly more hazardous and apparently rather more expensive route. The expense probably fell on those Athenians whose herds had been evacuated to Euboea (Thuc. 2.14). These had presumably been ferried back and forth across the short distance of the Euripus. Now those ships and ferries had to make a much longer journey, probably hiking prices. The impact of a revolt in Euboea was a very serious issue because of the herds kept there. Earlier, in 447 BC, Pericles had acted quickly to quell such a revolt, but at the expense of losing Megara itself, which allowed the Peloponnesians into Attica in 446 and had forced Athens to negotiate an end to the ‘First’ Peloponnesian War (Thuc. 1.114). So the economic

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impact of the fortification of Decelea during the latter stages of the ‘Second’ War struck contemporaries as particularly severe because it weakened the connection between Athens and Euboea. Indeed, the loss of Euboea through revolt in 411 BC was thought of as even worse than the losses incurred in the Sicilian expedition (Thuc. 8.96; cf. Thuc. 8.1 on the concern in Athens in 413/12 that Euboea remain loyal after the Sicilian disaster). Thuc. 2.20, 21. Archidamus also deliberately spared the land of Pericles from destruction in order to create mistrust and undermine the authority of this general among the Athenians (Thuc. 2.13; see p. 156). Pericles, however, had forestalled such a move by giving his lands to the state. As another example of the impact of fortifications on the stability of regimes, it might be noted that in 411 BC, only a couple of years after the fortification of Decelea (413 BC), the Athenians experienced their first serious challenge to the democratic regime – an outbreak of stasis, albeit not particularly violent, that led to the oligarchic government of the Four Hundred. This faction made overtures to the Spartans based at Decelea (Thuc. 8.69–71, 90), and fled there when the regime was toppled (Thuc. 8.98). This may have been partly due to the destabilisation caused by economic disruption, although other psychological, social and political factors were also at play. Taylor 2002, 105–7. Illustrative examples: pleonexia: Thuc. 3.45, 82; Isoc. 12.103; Arist. Pol. 1302b. Aischrokerdeia: Plato, Laws 831c–32a; Arist. Nic. Eth. 1122a. Cartledge 2002, 28–9. Plut. Alex. 15. Cf. Arrian Anab. 7.9.6, where Arrian has Alexander himself claim that he owed 800 talents and had marched out of poverty into lands of riches. For discussion of the attractions of wealthy Persia to Greek warriors, see Austin 1993, 206–12. On the view that the original aims of the Delian League itself included a predatory element, see Sealey 1966. e.g. Diodorus 14.111; Pritchett 1.78–82 on soldiers enslaved after battle; 5.223–45 more exhaustively and including sieges; cf. 5.245–97 on ransom. Parmenion revealed an interest in the skills that prisoners captured in Persia possessed, presumably because specialists might command a higher value; in a letter to Alexander, he wrote, ‘I discovered concubines of the king who could play instruments [numbering] 329; weavers 46: caterers 277, kettle-tenders 29, pudding makers 13, bartenders 17, wine clarifiers 70, perfume makers 14’: Athenaeus 13.608a. Od. 3.71, 9.252; cf. Thuc. 1.5. Finley 1978 [1954], 101; van Wees 1992, 207–17, 238–48. For further discussion of the son of Castor see p. 5–6, 32–4, 104–6; van Wees 1992, 207–14. e.g. Il. 1.125–6, 135–6, 162; Od. 9.159–60; cf. Van Wees 1992, 299–300, 347 n. 21, who argues that the special portions, gera, granted by the army have a high symbolic worth over and above their intrinsic value. In doing so, Demosthenes appears to have been attempting both to ameliorate democratic phthonos, public envy, at his financial gain, and also, perhaps, to

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18

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advertise his success in this battle as a counter to the defeat he had suffered at Aegitium in Aetolia (Thuc. 3.97–8) earlier in the campaign. Thucydides observes that after his success it was safer for him to return to Athens than it had been. In 356 BC, Menestheus, son of Iphicrates, defended himself by rendering full accounts, Isoc. 15.129, but cf. Antimachus the tamias of Timotheus who was condemned for embezzlement, Dem. 49.10. Thuc. 6.16; Xen. Ages. 1.17–18. Xenophon notes with approval how Agesilaus would also arrange for his friends to locate and capture booty by passing on to them information brought by deserters relating to sources of plunder. Dem. 19.145, 166–8, 18.41–2; L. Mitchell 1997, 154–7, 181–6. Diod. 14.43.2–3. Cf. the reported output of a disarmed Carthage working flatout at the beginning of the Roman siege of the city in 149 BC: ‘each day they made 100 shields, 300 swords, 1,000 missiles for catapults, 500 javelins and spears and as many catapults as they could’, Appian Libyca 8.93. So, for example, agreement about the export of materials used for shipbuilding, particularly fir, is dealt with in a fourth-century treaty between the Chalcidians and Macedonians: ‘The Chalcidians may export pitch, all building-timbers, and all ship-timbers except firs unless their authorities require them. The Chalcidian government may take out firs, provided that they report first to Amyntas and pay the prescribed dues’. Tod 2.111.10–15; Meiggs 1982, 118–19. Connor 1988, 10–11 and n. 30; Jackson 1991, 229; McKechnie 1989, 94 n. 12. Accepted by Hanson 1995, 296, 487 n. 8. On Erechtheum construction wages see for instance IG I2 374.56–74. Plut. Mor. 220a. Evidence for the price of shields is limited: one third-century inscription (IG XII.5, 647, lines 27–31) mentions shields worth 20 drachmas. These have been considered fairly expensive since they were given as prizes, see van Wees 2004, 267 n. 14. SEG 37 (1987) 994; cf. Masson and Yoyotte 1988; Kaplan 2002, 240 (as part of a wider discussion of mercenaries in the archaic period, on which see also Lavelle 1997). Hdt. 7.144; [Arist.] Ath. Pol. 22.7. Cawkwell 1978, 43–4, 47–8; Ellis 1976, 33–4, 68–9. Damastium: Strabo 7.326c; Pangaeum: Thuc. 4.108; Diod. 16.3.7, 8.3; Philippi: Diod. 16.8.6; Collart 1937, 152 ff. Coinage Decree (ML 45). A date in the 440s has often been accepted, in line, perhaps, with the shift of the league treasury to Athens and thus supposed increased Athenian control of the league. An alternative date of the 420s is also possible, contemporary with an allusion to the decree in Aristophanes’ Birds 1040–2 and to the increase of tribute in 425; it would then have been a measure to address economic stress on the Athenian financial system during the Archidamian War. See Lewis 1987; Martin 1985, 198–207; Mattingly 1987; Wartenberg 1995, 25–6; Vickers 1996. Note the dissent of Figueira 1998 (and criticism of his non-imperialist interpretation in reviews by e.g. Mattingly 1999 and Crawford 2001. Plut. Per. 26.4; Steiner 1994, 165; von Reden 1997, 174.

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30 Thuc. 1.67, 139; Plut. Per. 29–31; Diod. 12.38–9; Ar. Ach. 515–38, Schol. ad loc.; Peace 605–9, Schol. ad loc. 31 [Xen.] Ath. Pol. 1.17; Andocides 1.133–4; Meiggs 1972, 256–7. 32 Herodotus (6.46), who visited Thasos and saw the mines for himself, stated that revenue from gold mines at Scapte Hyle yielded 80 talents, and that the Thasians’ revenue from mines and its other mainland interests, without taxing their own produce, had amounted to 200 talents (300 in a good year). Dispute with the Athenians over local markets in Thrace appears to have as much importance as control of the mining in Thasos’ decision to revolt in 465 BC, Thuc. 1.100. How much of the revenues and mineral holdings were retained by the Thasians after the revolt is unclear. Thasian wine: IG XII, Suppl. 347, I and II = Fornara 169; Meiggs 1972, 257, 574. Tribute: Meiggs 1972, 551, 574. 33 Thuc. 2.69, 3.19, 4.50; but see the scepticism of Meiggs 1972, 254. On arrears, see Meiggs 1972, 237–8, 242–3. 34 Antiphon frg. 52 and Lysias frg. 9 = Harpocration s.v. eklogeis. 35 There were, however, some ships stationed at bases across the Aegean all year round, and this meant that some crewmen, perhaps, were able to pursue a fulltime career in the navy. 36 Aegina: Hdt. 7.181, 8.93; Naxos: Hdt. 8.46; Rhodes: Arist. Pol. 1304b29; Samos: Hdt. 6.14. It is unclear how such trierarchies functioned, Gabrielsen 1994, 230 n. 12, although, at its most basic, trierarch means ‘trireme-commander’ without any financial connotation. A purely military interpretation of these examples may be as far as we should go. 37 Plut. Alc. 10; Phoc. 9; Dem. 21.161–2; Athenaeus 4.164f; Theophr. Char. 22. 38 Dem. 45.85; cf. Dem. 18.115, Charidemus and Diotimus gave 800 shields. 39 Lysias 19.43. Kuenzi 1923; Pritchett 2.110–12. 40 IG I2 324+, 306 (I3 369) = ML 72; Fornara 134; Wartenberg 1995, 31–2. 41 Diod. 15.14.3–4; [Arist.] Oec. 1349b; Strabo 5.2.8. 42 Aeschin. 2.115; 3.109, 120; Athenaeus 560 b–c; Plut. Solon 11; Fornara 16; Davies 1994; van Wees 2004, 9–10, 20. 43 On the ownership of the Athenian tribute, there was clearly some debate in Athens itself. Thucydides, the son of Melesias, attacked Pericles over its use on the acropolis building projects, Plut. Per. 12, 14, 32.2; Powell 1988, 59–67; KalletMarx 1989, 252–66. 44 Diod. 16.25.1 claimed that the Phocians offered one and half times the ‘normal’ rate in 355/4 BC. This was raised to a double rate in 353/2: Diod. 16.36.1. 45 Isoc. 4.168, 5.96, cf. 8.24, 9.9, 4.115; Miller 1984, 153–4. The extent to which this was a widespread problem in reality, rather than a rhetorical trope, is difficult to judge, but see Trundle 2004, 10–39.

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Chapter 9

War and religion

The experiences and traumas of war have often been explained, perhaps even comprehended, through recourse to the divine and the supernatural. As the saying goes, there are no atheists in a foxhole. So what did the Greeks believe was the contribution of their gods to war? How did communities prepare for and come to terms with war through their methods of communication with the divine and use of rituals? This chapter will be concerned with understanding how the religious values of the Greeks influenced their conduct of wars, campaigns and battles. Gods and war The Greeks believed their gods to have been actively involved in the mortal pursuits of warfare and combat. The nature of Greek polytheism allowed for a bewildering fragmentation of the roles and responsibilities of war-gods. Olympian deities, such as Zeus, Athena and Apollo, had general and specific areas of interest and ‘expertise’. Local gods of any territory affected by war and ancient heroes who were honoured with cult by the inhabitants might also be regarded as offering support and protection in military endeavours. Furthermore, the Greeks also conceived of abstractions, such as ‘strife’, ‘fear’ and even ‘war’ itself, in personified terms: as anthropomorphised deities whom they frequently represented in art and literature, and who might even be given offerings, sacrifices and cults (e.g. Temple of Phobos (Fear or Rout) at Sparta, Plutarch, Cleom. 8–9; Pritchett 3.162–3). The Greek god most closely associated with war was Ares, who was accompanied into battle by the personifications Deimos (Terror) and Phobos (Rout) (Il. 15.119). Ares was described by Homer as ‘man-slaughtering’ (Il. 5.455, 519), ‘violent’ (e.g. Il. 5.30, 355, 454, 506, 15.127, 24.498), and ‘the bitter war-god’ (Il. 17.721). He seemed to have represented the mindless carnage of combat and, indeed, everything that was thought to have been abhorrent about war (Burkert 1985, 169). Zeus says, ‘Of all the gods of Olympus, you are the most hateful to me, Ares: strife is always dear to you and wars and slaughter’ (Il. 5.890). The Iliad often depicted him in a bad

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light, especially in comparison with Athena, who defeated him with a thrown stone (Il. 21.391–433). Even the hero Diomedes, with her help, is able to stab him in the belly and force him, bleeding, to withdraw from the fray (Il. 5.855–70). The Greeks never seemed to be comfortable with Ares and, in cultic terms, he was a rather minor deity, with few festivals and shrines (Burkert 1985, 169–70, 415 n. 13). Ares, however, was not the only god to have a function in war. Apollo was thought of as an archer-god, but was also both the healer and bringer of disease – a great killer in times of war (Burkert 1985, 143–9; Il. 1.45–53). Artemis and Pan were both believed to sow confusion and panic throughout armies.1 Athena was a goddess of stratagem and cunning wisdom (me-tis: Hesiod, Theog. 886–900; Detienne and Vernant 1978, 177–258). When armed for battle, she carried the aegis of Zeus and was gorgon-shielded – these to panic or to paralyse the enemy during combat.2 Athena and Zeus had strong associations with victory, Nike-, both in the form of a personified deity in her own right and as an epithet of these gods (e.g. Zeus Nikaios). Many gods had epithets, and these helped to define the specific aspect of war being invoked or propitiated, as in the cases of Zeus Tropaeus (Zeus the Trophy, Burkert 1985, 128; Pritchett 3.272 n. 78) and the Dioscuri, Castor and Polydeuces, who were called So-te-res (Saviours, Burkert 1985, 213). This linguistic and conceptual fragmentation of what might be termed the ‘warrior function’ was a natural product of a complex polytheistic society where differing modes of war were practised and where many of the stages of warfare received elaboration in myth and ritual. Greek conceptions of the divine in war can be seen as early as the Homeric poems. One such example is the striking representation of Eris (Strife or Hatred) in the Iliad: Swiftly Zeus sent down to the sleek Achaean ships the wearying goddess Eris, bearing the sign of battle in her hands. She alighted on the deep, hollow, black ship of Odysseus that lay in the centre of the drawn up fleet, so she could call to each flank, both to the huts of Aias, son of Telamon, and to those of Achilles; since they had both dragged their ships up at the extremes, trusting in their manliness and the power of their own hands. There the goddess took her position, and she screamed a dreadful and piercing cry that put a great might in the hearts of the Achaeans, so that they would wish to fight in battle without respite. Now to do combat became dearer to them than to return home to their beloved fatherlands in their hollow craft. (Iliad 11.2–14)

Eris, a manifestation of struggle, is described by the poet as a goddess who could inspire men to prefer violence to peace through auditory stimulation: a scream or war cry. The poet clearly recognised that battle was, in reality, a powerful auditory experience. What is also apparent is the notion that Zeus, through this agent, might have a hand in rousing men to battle, giving them

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the resolution to face combat and putting aside their instinct to withdraw from war. In the poet’s view, the emotions of men in war were open to manipulation by gods. In the Iliad, gods take sides and appear in battle, rousing the combatants to fight, encouraging fleeing heroes to rally and even engaging one another and mortals in combat. Generally, they are only visible to a select few of the heroes, sometimes taking the form of mortals to encourage or help them, as when Athena acts as Diomedes’ charioteer (Il. 5.330), or to do them harm, as when Athena deceives Hector by taking the form of Deiphobus (Il. 22.225–300). The poet also depicts their undisguised forms in anthropomorphic terms, and describes them arming for battle and driving in chariots (e.g. Ares: Il. 15.119–20). Direct interventions on the battlefield in the Iliad, however, usually only have a temporary, and never a decisive, impact on the course of the war, and the gods, with the exception of Zeus, often cancel one another out. The intervention of the gods in Homeric warfare might be rationalised as poetic embellishment, symbolising to the Greek audience certain occurrences in combat such as the lucky shot, or sudden inspiration, or misfortune. However, this feature of the Homeric narratives ought not to be explained away as a literary fancy. It appears that Homer reflected, albeit in a fictional context, a widespread notion among the Greeks that divine beings really did manifest themselves in battle. Epiphanies Gods and heroes of the legendary past are recorded as appearing in a number of battles of the archaic and classical periods. When, for example, the cult images of the Dioscuri that usually accompanied the Spartans into battle were lent to the southern Italian Locrians in their war against the men of Croton, the twins were seen fighting at the River Sagra (c. 550 BC, Diod. 8.22). The Athenians believed that Theseus himself had appeared at the Battle of Marathon (490 BC, Plut. Thes. 35). The paintings on the Stoa Poikile (Painted Stoa) in Athens described by Pausanias (1.15.4) depicted the Marathon battle scene with Theseus rising from the earth. Such epiphanies seem to be particularly common in the wars Greeks waged against barbarians (Pritchett 3.42). Athena apparently intervened in the Persian siege of Lindus in 490 BC, appearing in a dream and then sending rain to replenish the water supply of the defending Greeks (Blinkenberg 1941; Pritchett 3.22–3). Herodotus (6.105–6) relates the epiphany of Pan to the Athenian messenger Pheidippides prior to the Battle of Marathon (490 BC). He also reports the appearance at Delphi of the local heroes Autonous and Phylacus in 480 BC (8.38–9) who helped repulse the Persian army. Some two

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hundred years later, during a Gallic attack on Delphi, it is reported that Phylacus again manifested to contribute to the overthrow of these invaders (Paus. 1.4.4, 10.23.3). Such stories appear to be due to the increased trauma and terror caused by the onslaught of deeply alien and exotic barbarians. However, the occurrence of supernatural manifestations during battle, at times of extreme stress, is not unique to the Greeks. There are plenty of European examples of epiphanies, from St George manifesting for Richard Coeur de Lion at the siege of Antioch to the apparition of the ‘Angel of Mons’ during the Great War. Many Greek states set up cults after what they interpreted as divine interventions, either as thank-offerings, or to ensure the continued goodwill and protection of the deity. Strabo (6.1.10) noted that there was an altar to the Dioscuri on the River Sagra, and this appears to relate to the site of the Locrian victory. Archaeological evidence of a cult of Castor in the forum of Rome, dated to the early fifth century, may be related to the story that the Dioscuri also appeared at the Battle of Lake Regillus (c. 496 BC), and were seen watering their horses in the forum on the same day.3 The cult statue (xoanon) of a God appears, at times, to be imbued with apotropaic powers – to protect the city, as the legendary Palladium (cult statue of Athena) was thought to protect Troy, until it was stolen by two heroes beloved of Athena, Diomedes and Odysseus (Suda s.v. Palladium). In the historical period, the xoanon of Pallas Athena on the Athenian acropolis and the sacred snake that lived in the temple symbolised the goddess’s protection of the city. When, prior to the arrival of the Persians in 480 BC, the sacred snake abandoned the site, it was a seen as a sign that the city should be evacuated (Hdt. 8.41). So it seems clear that the majority of Greeks thought that their gods stalked the battlefields of men, lending aid or doing harm. But if the gods decided not to intervene personally, the Greeks nevertheless felt their influence in less direct ways, through omens and portents. This had an impact on the decisions Greeks made, how they conducted themselves in combat, and, at times, shaped their aspirations and the values by which they judged their actions. Divining war It was the view of Herodotus that: There tends to be some kind of early portent at a moment when great misfortunes are about to fall on a city or a people. Chios was not an exception, for before this occurred there had manifested some considerable signs. The Chians sent a chorus of a hundred youths to Delphi but ninety-eight died of the plague, and only two returned. Then, in the main city of the island, just before

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the naval battle, a school roof collapsed upon some children who were learning to read: only one survivor was found among the 120 children there. The god showed the Chians through these events what was to come; they were followed by the Battle of Lade [494 BC], which was a heavy blow to the state, and then by the attack of Histiaeus and a force of Lesbians, who swiftly conquered them in their enervated condition. (Herodotus 6.27)

There were many instances of divination in Greek warfare. While ancient attempts to discover the will of the gods came in many forms, these can be grouped into two main categories. Passive types of divination occurred when individuals or groups received signs in the forms of omens, portents or dreams that they then attempted to understand. On the other hand, active forms of divination were deliberate consultations of the gods, often incorporated into secular decision-making processes. There were deliberate attempts to initiate communication by visiting prophetic oracles, consulting soothsayers (chre-smologoi) or seers (manteis), who examined the flight of birds (ornithoscopy, often known by the Latinised term, augury), or the entrails of sacrificial animals (hepatoscopy, the Latinate auspicy).4 Most Greeks recognised that, whether solicited or not, a message sent by the gods needed, at some point, to be acted upon. Indeed, it seemed to them that the gods were ready and willing to offer valuable information to mortals. It was probably the case that both active and passive categories were two aspects of the same divinatory system aimed at discovering the gods’ advice and lessons about the current and future actions of men (Harrison 2000, 122–3). The historian Herodotus included examples of both active and passive divination in his narrative of the Greek wars with the Persians. It enabled him to explain how decisions had been made and what had happened when people, such as the Chians in 494 BC, had ignored or misinterpreted the will of the gods. It was, for him, a significant element in his analysis of causation and it helped to augment his discussion of the more human calculations of expediency and advantage.5 Many of the active examples recorded by sources such as Herodotus relate to consultations made by states and rulers, and detail the political and military consequences of attempting to interpret the information solicited from the gods (Parker 1985; Bremmer 1993). One approach in modern scholarship, therefore, has been to analyse divination in political terms and as a feature of ancient political activity. The current discussion will also admit such a perspective, but it is also worth emphasising that the Greeks individually and collectively attempted consultations on a wide variety of matters where they thought the gods could offer them advice, guidance and solutions. Warfare, nevertheless, was an activity particularly suited to promoting a divinatory habit. War is dangerous and fraught with death, so it would have made good sense to the Greeks to attempt to understand whether their

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gods approved of any military undertaking. This explains the willingness of individuals and states to contemplate various forms of divination, from private and personal consultations with individual soothsayers to official deputations sent by governments to oracular shrines and temples. Divinations by seers, manteis, and the utterances of soothsayers, chre-smologoi, were popular methods of attempting to gain insights into the future. During the preparations for the expedition to Sicily in 415 BC, many Athenians consulted such people and found encouragement to support and participate in the adventure (Thuc. 8.1.1). Nicias, one of the generals in command of the expedition, had a reputation for piety and for surrounding himself with personal diviners (Thuc. 7.50.4; Plut. Nic. 24). His religious convictions were to have important consequences for the expedition (see p. 186). Many diviners were consulted on an individual basis, but others appear to have been either appointed by the state or, at least, had their role in military operations formally acknowledged (Pritchett 3.60–8). Some states appear to have made special concessions to foreign manteis in order to attract and retain their expertise. An inscription records that the Athenians rewarded a mantis named Sthorys with a grant of citizenship after their victory at Cnidus in 394 BC.6 Similarly, the Spartans gave citizenship to Tisamenus because an oracle had foretold his success in ‘five great agones (contests)’ (Hdt. 9.33–5). The first proved to be the Battle of Plataea (479 BC, Hdt. 9.33–5), against the Persians. The others were at Tegea (date unknown) against the Tegeates and Argives, at Dipaea (date unknown) against the Arcadians, Ithome (c. 465–460 BC) against the Messenians and, finally, at Tanagra (457 BC) against the Argives and Athenians. His grandson, similarly called Tisamenus, was a highly influential mantis in Sparta until 397 BC (Xen. Hell. 3.3.11; Pritchett 3.50 n. 9). Oracles based at Delphi, Olympia and other cult sites were visited by representatives of states, such as the Spartan officials known as Pythioi (Hdt. 6.57; Xen. Lac. Pol. 15.5), and also by individuals acting in a personal capacity. Xenophon travelled to Delphi prior to joining the Greek mercenary force that was to march with the Persian pretender Cyrus (Xen. Anab. 3.1). He consulted the priests of the oracle as to the identity of the gods to whom he should make sacrifices in order to ensure that his participation in the expedition would be successful, and they recommended some appropriate gods. While the response was to Xenophon’s satisfaction, his friend Socrates scolded him for asking the god of the oracle to sanction something Xenophon had already decided upon. It would have been better, argued the philosopher, to have asked if he ought to go on the expedition in the first place. Clearly the phrasing of the question for a consultation was important and could be constructed to confirm an already planned action, yet the very fact that it needed to have been asked at all reveals the deep structure of

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belief in divination of Greek society. While there may have been some manipulation of the oracle by unscrupulous individuals, the right course of action for the pious was identified by Socrates. There ought to be an opportunity for the god to advise a course of action that ran against the personal inclinations of the enquirer. Despite the somewhat skewed nature of his own enquiry, Xenophon’s consultation of the oracle was by no means unusual; many people visited Delphi on such matters, and it is possible that a consultation may have provided a genuine comfort during the stresses of war. Once a response had been obtained from the gods, it needed interpretation, a not altogether straightforward task, even for experts. It is in this process of interpretation that divination often revealed its political dimension. The information garnered from a consultation could, for example, be used to focus public discussion about issues and decisions (Parker 1985; Bremmer 1993). The Plataeans appear to have been persuaded to make the attempt to break out of a desperate siege in 429 BC by the combined arguments of the soothsayer Theaenetus and the general Eupompides (Thuc. 3.20, 22). The modern controversy over the extent to which the oracle at Delphi had medised before, and during, Xerxes’ invasion of Greece and, through its pronouncements, actively encouraged other states to do likewise, rests on the likely supposition that Delphi had some influence on the foreign policy formulation of Greek states. Advice given to the Argives and Cretans to remain neutral seemed to undermine the efforts of the Hellenic league in its attempt to resist the Persians (7.148; 7.169). Yet it is possible that the oracle prudently pursued a policy of ‘confirming the consultants in their own inclinations’ (Parker 1985, 317–18). The consultation by Athens in 481 BC is illustrative of the multiple perspectives one can take. Expecting the full wrath of the Persians to fall upon their city, the Athenians sent a delegation to Delphi. They elicited the following response from the priestess: Doomed men, why do you sit here? You should flee to the ends of the earth, Leaving your homes and the heights of your city, encircled like a wheel. The head shall not linger there, nor body, Nor feet below, nor hands, or other parts; But all is ruined, for fire and on-rushing Polemos Galloping in a Syrian chariot shall ride you down. Many towers he will obliterate, but not just yours, And he will torch with pitiless flames many holy shrines, Which even now sweat and quiver in terror, While black blood gushes over the roof tops To foretell these oncoming sorrows. So rise, In swiftness from the shrine and clutch your hearts with woe. (Herodotus 7.140)

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Such a response seemed unambiguously to reflect the forthcoming situation – the Persian expeditionary forces appeared to be on such a large scale that Attica would surely fall. The pronouncement may be likened to the instructions given to the people of Cnidus, who had wished to cut a defensive channel across their isthmus as part of their planned resistance against Persian attack: ‘Do not wall the isthmus, nor dig. Zeus would have made it an island, if he had wanted to’ (Hdt. 1.174). Such advice might indicate a medising Delphi, discouraging vain resistance and encouraging an acceptance of the inevitable. However, in the case of Athens, the oracular pronouncement was not the end of the matter. The Athenian delegates, after some persuasion by a local Delphian, re-entered the temple bearing olive boughs in supplication and gained a second utterance: Pallas cannot fully diminish the resolve of Zeus on Olympus, Despite her many supplicating entreaties and the use of all of her guile; But I will say these other words, unchanging as adamant: Even as everything else will be seized in Cecrops’ realm, And in the refuge of holy mount Cithaeron, Omniscient Zeus grants Athena’s desire That the wooden wall shall not be overcome, but will aid you and your children. But do not wait for the swarm of cavalry and infantry marching from Asia, Do not be still, but turn away and retreat from the enemy. There will come a day when you can confront him head-on. Divine Salamis, women’s sons you will slay When the corn is scattered, or the harvest gathered in. (Herodotus 7.141)

Confronted by a party who were unwilling to accept the advice it had offered, it appears that the oracle came to the realisation that, ultimately, the Athenian de-mos would make its own decision. So it returned an open verdict, which, through interpretation, allowed its advice to be used in a number of ways. The Athenians were therefore able to debate in their own assembly the merits of resistance, with recourse to arguments based upon interpretations of the oracular responses. While some favoured attempting to hold the city and the wooden rampart on the acropolis, Themistocles’ counter-argument that the ‘wooden walls’ could only mean the recently constructed Athenian fleet appeared to be confirmed by an unexpected prodigy (Hdt. 8.41); the sacred snake of Athena abandoned its home on the acropolis. Thus, according to Herodotus (8.41), in their wish to obey the oracle and Athena’s omen, the Athenians were persuaded to abandon their city and man their fleet. It is implicit in his narrative that the decision resulted from a combination of solicited (active) prophecy, deliberated debate and unsolicited (passive) portent (Powell 1988, 388–92; Harrison 2000, 124, 151–2).

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The naval victory over the Persians in 480 BC at ‘Divine Salamis’ was regarded as a decisive moment in the liberty of the Greek states. The Athenians’ role, in particular, came to be celebrated by one participant in the battle, Aeschylus, who in his play the The Persians, performed in 472 BC, recognised the role of divination in the Greek success (Aesch. Pers. 388–93: the Greek paean is good-omened). Herodotus too portrayed the battle as a momentous event and reflected that it was a point when many prophecies had their resolution, such as an ancient utterance of an Athenian chre-smologos, Lysistratus, that ‘the Colian women shall cook their barley with oars’ (Hdt. 8.96). The Battle of Salamis also became surrounded by reports of signs, portents and epiphanies. Prior to the battle itself a dust cloud, from whence emanated the Iacchus song, usually sung by the celebrants of the Mysteries, was seen near Eleusis. It was interpreted as the goddess Demeter moving to help the Greeks.7 During Themistocles’ pre-battle speech, an owl flew from the right and landed in the rigging of his trireme (Plut. Them. 12); this apparently made the Athenians become eager for battle at the sight of Athena’s bird. During the battle, the hero Cychreus was said to have appeared in serpent form, swimming among the ships (Paus. 1.36.1), and even Pan himself, according to Aeschylus (Pers. 449), was thought to have come to dance the destruction of a Persian infantry force stationed on the island of Psattyleia during the battle. Of course, memorable events were bound to attract stories, and by entering popular culture, to become both refined and elaborated through the process of oral transmission. Undoubtedly it is these popular versions of prophecies and portents that were recorded by historians such as Herodotus, but some, at least, were based on the official records of consultations and events (Parke and Wormell 1956). States appear to have kept archives of prophecies, and clearly some were thought to have been of such importance as to be suppressed or kept under guard. When, for example, the Spartans occupied the Acropolis in 507 BC, they gained access to such a store of state secrets, including a number of prophecies unfavourable to the Athenians (Hdt. 5.90; cf. Eur. Heraclidae 398–405; Pritchett 3.319). Clearly one can imagine a contemporary and, as events progressed, an ongoing discourse surrounding the acceptance (or otherwise) of specific oracles and portents as significant and relevant to particular courses of action. Even events such as earthquakes, usually regarded as divine warnings that immediately cancelled military operations, as happened in 426 (Thuc. 3.89) and 414 BC (Thuc. 6.95), could be subjected to such discourse and interpreted favourably by a determined individual who held enough authority to make his views count. The Spartan king Agesipolis argued that, because his invasion of Argos was already underway, a tremor felt by his

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army was a favourable omen sent by Poseidon (Xen. Hell. 4.7.4). If the God had wished to cancel the operation he would have shown his displeasure before the border had been crossed, but, since it had occurred in Argive territory, it was the defenders themselves who ought to be prepared for disaster. Such arguments, regardless of whether they were based on clever manipulation or on earnest belief, attempted to address the widely held superstitions of the Greeks. Thus, when Themistocles (Plut. Them. 13) received the congratulation of his priest after a sneeze had been heard on the lucky right of the battle-line at Salamis, or when Xenophon (Anab. 3.2.8–9), during a speech, reinforced his point by reference to a timely sneeze that had caused the whole army to perform a proskyne-sis, an obeisance to the gods, these were a recognition of the power of belief in the divine significance of such physical outbursts (Pritchett 3.126–7). Even when Timotheus (Polyaenus 3.10.2; Front. Strat. 1.2.11) complained that sneezing was to be expected among sailors, whose profession left them susceptible to acquiring a chill, it merely displayed his exasperation at such a widespread superstition. The Athenian historian Thucydides tended to have a sceptical view of such beliefs; he rarely recorded oracles or omens, although he recognised that, while the divine might not have caused or even predicted events, the perception of seemingly supernatural portents had an influence on individual and group actions. So he reported the eclipse (7.42) on 27 August 413 BC because it had prevented the Athenian escape from a worsening and ultimately disastrous situation in Sicily. This had been due, in his view, to the excessive piety of Nicias and the army’s priests in their interpretation of the phenomenon. Thucydides’ sceptical attitude to such portents may have been unusual; most soldiers appear to have believed in the interventions of the supernatural and gods. While Thucydides blamed Nicias, it is clear from his narrative that much of the rest of the army had been persuaded of the correctness of the action, or inaction, prescribed by the priests. It was natural that soldiers and civilians alike would look for signs, since missing a divinely issued warning, it was thought, could lead to misfortune or even death. Misinterpretation of omens and oracles could, of course, be blamed for the unfavourable outcome of seemingly divinely sanctioned actions, and it was a risk those who acted as interpreters had to run. Thucydides (8.1.1) reported that, as the news of the Sicilian disaster filtered home, the Athenians blamed the many manteis and chre-smologoi in the city for building up false hopes about the expedition. Aristophanes, in his comedy Lysistrata, performed in 411, alluded to ill-omens that had been ignored in the general enthusiasm for the expedition. Apparently, during the debate in 415 on whether to send the expedition, a woman had cried from a rooftop ‘aiai Adonin’, ‘O woe Adonis’, a traditional ritual lament of the

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Adonia festival.8 This invocation, usually made in commemoration of the cult-death of this beautiful youth, just as the Athenians were deciding to send their young men to Sicily, was evidently later recalled and emphasised in the light of the expedition’s failure. It was perhaps partly through such a process of the reinterpretation and re-evaluation of signs and prophecies that people came to terms with the unexpected and unfortunate consequences of their actions. For the most part it seems that defeats were often linked with the recognition that it was ultimately the gods who gave or denied victory (Bowra 1938; Pritchett 3.89–90). Rites of war: setting out Once a decision to make war or to undertake an expedition had been made, rituals were performed at each stage of the campaign. One should not rush to the conclusion that this led to ‘ritualised war’, however, unless we are to consider all aspects of Greek society ‘ritualised’, since religious acts marked almost every stage and action in every person’s and community’s life. Often, our sources assume that their readership will understand the nature and significance of the rituals, and do not feel the need to elaborate.9 In the case of the Sicilian expedition, Thucydides describes the rituals in rather more detail than usual, yet, for us, still in a fairly cursory manner: Once the ships had been manned, and all that was to be taken on the expedition had been put on board, a trumpet called for silence, and the traditional prayers (euchai) made before setting out to sea were offered, not by each ship singly, but by all together, following the words of a herald; and wine was mixed in bowls throughout the whole expeditionary force, and from drinking-cups of gold and silver the marines (epibatai) and the officers poured libations (spondai). They were joined in their prayers by the crowds on shore, the citizens and all others who were well disposed to them. After the paean had been sung and the libations completed, they set sail, initially in column, but then they raced each other as far as Aegina, and so hurried to Corcyra where their allies were mustering. (Thucydides 6.32)

Something of the religious and political values of the Athenians can be extracted from such a description. The prayers are traditional and led by a herald in their recitation, there is singing and the gods are offered libations of wine. The rites are followed by displays of competitiveness in rowing, reflecting a wider custom that, at many religious occasions and festivals, Greeks indulged in athletic and other contests. The inclusiveness of the ritual is emphasised; the imperial armada of the democracy and the body politic (the citizen de-mos) on the shore combine with well-wishing non-citizens in their singing and praying, while the officers and richer members of the crew, the hoplite epibatai, make the libations. The rites therefore seem to

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reflect the democratic ideology of the Athenians. Similarly, the traditional rites of the Spartans as they set out on campaign reveal aspects of their political organisation and social values. The Athenian historian and soldier, Xenophon, who spent much time living in Sparta, reports that: Firstly the king makes a sacrifice at his home to Zeus Agetor (Zeus the Leader) and associated gods. If the sacrifice is favourable, the Fire-bearing Priest (pyrphoros) takes fire from the altar (bo-mos) and leads the march to the borders of the territory. There the king makes a further sacrifice to Zeus and Athena. Only when this sacrifice is acceptable to both of the gods does he step across the borders of the land. And leading the way is the fire from these sacrifices (hiera) and it is never allowed die out, and animals for sacrificial slaughter (sphagia) of every sort follow. Always when he offers sacrifice, the king begins the work before dawn, wishing to anticipate the goodwill of the god. And at the sacrifice are assembled senior officers (polemarchoi), unit commanders (lochagoi), officers of ‘fifty’ (pentekonte-res), commanders of foreign contingents (xeno-n stratiarchoi), officers in command of the baggage train (stratou skeuophorikou archontes), and, in addition, any general from the rest [i.e. the allies] who chooses to attend. Two ephors are also present, who do not interfere unless the king calls on them to, but watch over the proceedings, and ensure that all behave suitably. When the sacrifices (hiera) have been completed, the king summons all and delivers the orders of the day. And so, if could see the scene for yourself, you would think that all other men were mere dabblers in martial things, whilst only the Spartans are experts (technitai) in warfare. (Xenophon, Lacedaimonion Politeia 13.2–5)

Here the military organisation and ethos of the Spartans is emphasised. The omens are taken in the view of subordinate officers; discipline is enforced by two senior magistrates of the state, the ephors. This is a necessary step before the orders are given, and demonstrates the military expertise of the Spartans. Xenophon did not casually call the Spartans technitai in this passage. It was a term applied to manteis, who regarded the art of divination as a techne-, a science (Pritchett 3.73–8). Spartan ritual observance was, in Xenophon’s view, an integral feature of their techne- of war, and a key element in their success. It is clear from this passage, and is a strong pattern that emerges in other sources, that great importance was placed on obeying hiera, the signs derived from the sacrifice of animals. The king, who is also the military commander of the Spartans, nevertheless obtains permission for the campaign from his superior, Zeus the Leader, and again after leading his army to the border, he requires the consent of his superiors, the gods. Obedience to orders, as in any well-disciplined army, appears paramount. The Spartan king was unable to initiate a campaign without the perceived approval of Zeus and Athena, as apparently occurred on three occasions during the Peloponnesian War.10

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There are, in fact, numerous instances of armies being delayed on the march, or indeed abandoning particular invasions, by the inauspicious readings of entrails (hepatoscopy), primarily the livers of sacrificed goats or sheep.11 If the first victim was unpropitious then it seems that up to three attempts could be made on a particular day, at least in the practice of some Greek armies (Xen. Anab. 6.4.16, 19), after which a decision to delay or abandon the enterprise had to be strongly considered. Since Xenophon notes that the king conducted daily sacrifices prior to his issue of the orders for that day, quite a number of animals would have been required for any prolonged military action. In order to supply the frequent demands of this hepatoscopic science, the Spartans and others therefore drove herds of sacrificial animals on campaign and to the battlefield (Paus. 9.13.4). Disruption to the initiation and conduct of expeditions could also be caused by the ritual calendars of the Greek states. Spartans from Amyclae, when abroad or on campaign, apparently returned home to celebrate the Hyacinthia and sing the hymn to Apollo. King Agesilaus appears to have accommodated those serving with him in 390 BC by allowing them to gather together at Lechaeum prior to setting off for the festival. This position near Corinth was relatively close to Sparta and, when the time came, the Amyclaeans were escorted part of the way by a mora of 600 hoplites and a ‘regiment’ of cavalry (Xen. Hell. 4.5.11–12). We do not know what arrangements, if any, were made for those Amyclaeans serving with Agesilaus in Asia Minor a few years earlier. Commanders had to be aware that the campaigning season was filled with holy days and festivals that could interfere with their business of war. The Olympic truce was widely respected and breaches were liable to fines and exclusion from the games (Thuc. 5.49). The cessation of violence on fixed ‘holy’ days and festivals and the observance of such, even when tactically detrimental, provide evidence that religious scruples could be influential. The Spartans were unable to march to Marathon in time for the battle against the Persians because of domestic religious obligations (Hdt. 6.105). Although such obligations were often genuine, some refusals to enter a campaign were linked to suspect motives. In 480 BC, a number of states sent no aid to the Greek force gathering at Thermopylae because of the Carnean and Olympic festivals (Hdt. 7.206). Herodotus asserted that their true motives (that they had medised) became clear after these festivals had passed and they continued to remain ‘uninvolved’ (8.72–3). Some states, when threatened, were not above attempting to manipulate religious commitments by moving festival dates to disrupt enemy invasions. For this to be successful there needed to be the expectation that the enemy would respect such obligations and would not force engagements. Xenophon relates an example of this in one of the wars between Argos and Sparta. The Spartans, exasperated by this ruse, complained to Olympia and

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Delphi and asked whether they could justly ignore Argive manipulations of the calendar (Xen. Hell. 4.7.2–4). Only after a favourable response did the Spartans feel able to invade. This last example indicates a concern with the justice of war. That a cause was just, while not taken to the ritual extreme of the Roman fetial procedure, seemed to be a reason for concern in some quarters (Garlan 1976, 47). Plato, in one of his dialogues, has Alcibiades admit that ‘one who has decided to go to war with someone who was acting justly, must nevertheless not admit this is the case’ (Plato, Alc. 109c). The Spartan general, Brasidas, while attempting to persuade the Acanthian assembly to defect from Athens, reputedly called upon the gods and heroes of Acanthus to witness that he had come to help the Acanthians and would even ravage their territory to make them understand the fact (Thuc. 4.87). Although his was a rhetorical point deployed in a debate over policy, it demonstrates a concern to persuade the gods, and thus the people under their supposed protection, of the justice of Spartan intentions and actions. Similarly, Archidamus, the Spartan king, attempted to convince the gods and heroes that were believed to protect Plataea with a speech that aimed to shift the responsibility for the attack upon the defenders, whom he called oath-breakers, and who had refused the ‘reasonable’ terms of the Spartans (Thuc. 2.74–5). He called the military actions of the Spartans a just vengeance, despite the fact that they had recently condoned an attack on the city by the Thebans during a period of peace.12 Later, however, the Spartans ascribed the misfortunes they had suffered in the war to their support of this Theban attack (Thuc. 7.18). It may be that they believed the gods had remained unconvinced by Archidamus’ appeal (epitheiasmos). Pre-battle ritual It appeared good sense to Greeks not only to interpret the will of the gods, but also to make an active attempt to gain their support. The frequent performance of sacrifice as a gift to the gods, or the making of a vow (the promise of a gift), can be viewed as military tactics to gain advantage over the enemy. Such propitiatory offerings and commitments allowed the combatants to convince themselves that their cause and the gods’ interests coincided. Yet although battlefield sacrifices (sphagia) were a form of propitiation, it was still necessary to ascertain whether the sacrifices had proved acceptable and the gods had given their support, and so ultimately, propitiation was tied into the system of divination. The sphagia appear to have been blood sacrifices; the victims had their throats cut and the flow, or the colour, of the blood was somehow read to ascertain the will of the gods.13 Attempts to convince the gods to be supportive might be unsuccessful: sacrifices could

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be inauspicious and combat might not be initiated. At Plataea (479 BC), both sides delayed for ten days while attempting to obtain favourable omens from their sphagia for attack (Hdt. 9.37), and, indeed, on the day of the battle, the Spartans continued to make sphagia even as Persian arrows fell amongst them. The signs proved favourable only after the Tegeates had already charged the Persians (Hdt. 9.62) and after the Spartan commander Pausanias had invoked the goddess Hera. Most modern scholars have taken the report of unfavourable omens prior to this moment to be a ruse or a deliberate manipulation by the general in order to keep his men in check until he judged the right opportunity.14 His appeal to Hera, however, may equally have been an improvisation at a point when events, with the precipitate charge of his allies, seemed to be getting out of hand. Yet one ought not to dismiss the notion of belief, especially at such a traumatic moment (See Jameson 1991; Lazenby 1993, 241), and particularly because sacrifices made by commanders were usually interpreted by manteis who seemed fully capable of voicing the perceived objections of the gods despite the stratagems of generals.15 In this case, no less a man than Tisamenus was the mantis involved (see p. 182) and although it is possible that there was collusion between mantis and general, it is equally possible that the fortuitous sacrifice finally occurred just in the nick of time. The practice of repeating the battlefield sphagia until there was a change in the god’s verdict indicates a real belief that deities remained open to persuasion, but it also demonstrates a concern that the omens be correct before mêlée ought to occur. The fact that both sides (at Plataea, even Persians, apparently: Hdt. 9.37) performed this ritual, but, significantly, only prior to the intended advance of their phalanx, and sometimes after skirmishing by light troops had already begun, indicates a ritualistic feature of phalanx-battle.16 It appears to be one of the formalities that have sometimes given the impression that the battles were fought by arrangement. Such notions, however, need to take into account the importance of obtaining good signs before an attack commenced – signs that were not always forthcoming. The perceived interest and interference of the gods in the timing and outcome of the battle, at least from the Greeks’ perspective, took some of the elements of arrangement out of the hands of generals. Furthermore, there were other purposes to the ritual of battlefield sacrifice. For their sphagia, the Spartans would sacrifice a goat to Artemis Agrotera (Xen. Hell. 4.2.20). This appears to have been an attempt to propitiate a goddess thought capable of inducing panic and disorder – elements that were perceived as fatal to an army. The sacrifices, accompanied by flutes and with the Spartans in wreaths, attempted to promote serenity and calm, to temper the extremes of emotions to which soldiers approaching battle were vulnerable. The importance of favourable sphagia to the morale of armies can be seen in the advice offered by Onasander (10.26), that the offi-

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cers should be allowed to inspect the sacrifice and report back encouragingly to their troops: ‘For men are braver when they understand that the blessings of the Gods accompany them into peril.’ The morale-enhancing effect of the officers witnessing the morning sacrifice by their king was, perhaps, something Xenophon admired in the sacrificial techne- of the Spartans (Xen. Lac. Pol. 13.2–5, see p. 188). Another element of ritual that had potentially beneficial effects on the morale of troops as they moved into battle was the paean, a hymn sung to Apollo, Zeus (Xen. Anab. 3.2.9) or, in naval engagements, Poseidon (Xen. Hell. 4.7.4). It was performed on a variety of occasions, at festivals, or at the raising of trophies; the Spartans even sang it at mealtimes. Its main function appeared to have been to petition or thank the gods for well-being, survival or victory.17 Singing the paean in the context of the phalanx’s advance into battle probably promoted cohesion, perhaps intimidated the enemy, and was a collective release of tension for those about to engage. The auditory experience of battle was, at least for a short while, bent to the will of the participants as they collectively called upon the gods for safety and asserted their existence and their desire to continue to exist. Post-battle rituals In the fifth and fourth centuries, at the point where the enemy had been broken (trope- – lit. ‘turned’, Thuc. 2.92, 7.54) the victors set up a tropaion. This was a trophy usually made of wood decked with captured arms such as the shield of the Spartan Brasidas, obtained by the Athenians at Pylos in 425 BC.18 Where battles were indecisive or disputed, as occurred in one of the engagements at Syracuse in 413 BC (Thuc. 7.54), both sides might put up trophies at points where they had the most success. Even skirmishes and raids could be the occasion of the setting up of trophies (Thuc. 2.22.2–3, 6.94.2). The interest shown by historians, Thucydides and Xenophon in particular, in recording even somewhat trivial occasions when trophies were erected points to their importance in the fifth and fourth centuries BC, both in terms of prestige accruing to the victors and as manifestations of piety and thanksgiving for success.19 Sacrifices and a singing of the paean appear to have accompanied the raising of the trophy in a rite of epinikia. This ritual appears to have marked a formal thanks to the gods who had aided in the battle. Burkert (1985, 128) viewed this as an offering to and, possibly, a representation of Zeus Tropaeus, although naval trophies were set up to Poseidon on the nearest coast.20 Whether representations of gods, or gifts to them, trophies appear to have been inviolable and to have remained unmolested even when set up in enemy territory (Xen. Hell. 4.5.10). The construction of trophies from

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impermanent material allowed them to decay over time, apparently so that memories of enmity might fade (Plut. Mor. 273c–d). Nevertheless such monuments must have contributed to the construction of memory and to increasing the symbolic and historical resonance of the landscape. Indeed, some trophies appear to have survived for quite considerable lengths of time. The trophy set up to commemorate the defeat of the Athenians led by Tolmides at (First) Coronea in 447 BC was still visible to the participants of the battle of (Second) Coronea in 394 BC (Plut. Ages. 19.2). Other monuments, such as the trophy erected by the Thebans after their victory over the Spartans at Leuctra (371 BC), were deliberately made of imperishable material, such as bronze or stone, presumably intended as permanent markers of victory (Xen. Hell. 6.4.15). When a side had been driven from the battlefield, they would usually send heralds (ke-rykes) to make a formal request to be allowed to take up the dead (Lateiner 1977). Such a request was a recognition of the powerlessness of the vanquished to take back their fallen by force; it was an act of supplication and an admission of defeat.21 It appears to have been the general’s responsibility to make the decision to send heralds and thus admit that his side had taken enough. If the negotiations were successfully concluded and a truce agreed, then they were sealed with libations, spondai. The request and granting of such a truce was so common that it often receives little more than a passing mention in the sources, but it indicates a fundamental Greek attitude to the fallen.22 The living had an obligation to obtain and honour the bodies of the slain. While there are a handful of examples of honours paid by the victors to their fallen foes or, at least, instances of the burial of the dead for hygienic reasons, generally the onus fell on each side to attend to the collection and removal of its own killed (Pritchett 4.240–1). The retrieval of the dead was so important that the Athenian general, Nicias, despite winning an engagement at Solygia (425 BC) and setting up a trophy, once he realised that two bodies had not been collected, felt the need to return to the region and negotiate for their restoration (Thuc. 4.44). Plutarch (Nic. 6.7) cites this as an example of his piety, for ‘Nicias preferred to lose the honour and reputation of his victory than to leave two of his countrymen unburied.’ The failure to take up the dead and provide them with burial was an indication of extreme calamity and misfortune for an army. The Athenian retreat from Syracuse in 413 BC, leaving behind the wounded and the unburied dead, indicates the devastating impact of the defeat, the utter collapse of morale. It was accompanied by Athenian feelings of deep shame and self-reproach at the necessity of the abandonment (Thuc. 7.72, 75). There was no glorious death to be had in the final days of the Sicilian expedition. Those who may have recalled Nicias’ scruples at Solygia just twelve years before would have reflected on his failure to uphold them in Sicily – self-preservation,

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ultimately and humiliatingly, overcame religious and moral compulsion. Onasander (Strat. 36.1–2) explained this compulsion in terms of morale; the living needed to be satisfied that in risking death on the field their fallen bodies would be honoured. The need to conform to such an expectation sometimes came into conflict with the damage to morale that conceding defeat would have, particularly where honours were felt, by the generals at least, to have been even. Where both sides controlled enemy bodies, a waiting game might begin until one side made the first move to send heralds.23 On occasion, it is known that Spartans would even renew battle, or at least consider it an option, in order to regain control over their own dead.24 Yet whichever side sent heralds, the spondai often led to a cessation of hostilities, with both sides quitting the battlefield and returning to their respective poleis or bases. The granting of the truce was therefore in the victors’ interest, for it affirmed that the enemy had recognised their defeat. It was very rare for conditions to be attached to the granting of the request, and even rarer for the request to be rejected. On occasion, however, the refusal to allow burial was made because the defeated were regarded as having transgressed religious propriety. The Athenians, because they had occupied and fortified the temple of Apollo at Delium, were not allowed to collect their dead after their defeat in battle in 424 BC. The bodies lay unburied for seventeen days, until the Athenians were expelled from the temple by a Boeotian army.25 The Athenians, in the meantime, accused the Boeotians of being guilty of, in their view, the far more irreligious act of breaking the custom of returning the dead. Onasander (Strat. 36.1–2) indicates the devout act of reverence that burying the fallen entailed and Pausanias (1.32.5) explains that the Athenians buried their own and, indeed, the Persians killed at Marathon, because ‘it was a religious compulsion to cover a corpse with soil’. Aelian (VH 5.14) mentions an Athenian law that required all who saw an unburied corpse to throw earth on it. Such is the view of relatively late sources, but the consequences of a failure to allow this act to be performed were described vividly in Sophocles’ play, Antigone (1016–30): For the altars of our city and our hearths have one and all been tainted by the birds and dogs with the carrion taken from the sadly-fallen son of Oedipus. And so the gods no more accept prayer and sacrifice at our hands, or the burning of thigh-meat, nor does any bird sound out clear signs in its shrill cries, for they have tasted the fatness of a slain man’s blood.

This is an unambiguous expression of the Greeks’ fear of pollution (miasma), and the city becomes godless when its ruler, Creon, by denying his enemy burial after battle, sets his own decrees against divine nomos, law

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(Parker 1983, 44–8). Yet, for all its power in drama, divine retribution and pollution may not have been so keenly felt in reality, as the resolution of the Thebans in 424 BC indicates. The Athenian counter, nevertheless, rested on the fact that the laws governing access to the battle-fallen were felt to be divine, and that this, therefore, assured the justice of their case. It was a perception of the inherent rightness of the act that encouraged the Greeks to conform to religious expectations and conventions in the treatment of the war dead.26 Just as the generous treatment of the defeated was viewed as pious, the mistreatment of the defeated could be viewed as contrary to divine law. The Spartan general Lysander not only executed prisoners (Xen. Hell. 2.1.31–2; 4,000 in Pausanias 9.32.9) after his victory over the Athenians at Aegospotami, but, according to Pausanias, who regarded it as an even more outrageous act, he also denied their burial. Xenophon (Hell. 2.1.31–2) reports that the Athenians themselves had resolved to cut off the right hands (or right thumbs – Plut. Lys. 9) of enemy captives should they have won the battle, and had already drowned trireme crews before the engagement. After the battle, Lysander asked his chief captive, the Athenian general Philocles, what he should deserve for being the first Greek to perpetrate such evil. Then he ordered his throat to be cut. Lysander’s acts become justifiable, in Xenophon’s account, by converting the Athenians from vanquished enemies, prisoners of war, into vicious criminals, to be tried and dealt with as the Spartan commander saw fit. Later sources, however, viewed these executions as an atrocity. Funerals and mourning The manner in which the Greeks buried their war dead and lamented their passing reveals much about their values and social structures. Heroes in the Homeric poems show grief openly and tears fall unrestrained on the news of death and misfortune; indeed, Priam rolls in dung, tears his hair and weeps and wails for many days on hearing of the death of his son, Hector. At funerals, while the men do indeed show their grief, the display of extreme mourning falls primarily to the womenfolk (van Wees 1998b). In the Iliad, heroes who are killed are washed, anointed and cremated, and then have tumuli raised over them (7.417–36; Pritchett 4.101–2). Hector’s funeral was followed by a lavish feast (24.782–804) while that of Patroclus was an occasion for funeral games (23.257 ff.). The pressure to memorialise in the proper fashion occurs on two levels. In human terms, funerals were opportunities for the affirmation of the glory, kleos, of the deceased, a comfort to the living that their comrades have lived a worthy life and died a kalos thanatos, a beautiful death (Vernant 1991a). They were a way of coming to terms with the inevitability of death, and, for warriors, the strong possibility

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of their own future death in battle. A proper burial affirmed a hero’s claim to deathless glory (kleos aphthiton), living on in the minds of his peers and future generations (Treherne 1995). On the divine level it was believed that the gods also upheld a man’s kleos: their preservation of Hector’s body indicates this (Il. 24.18–21, 50–4). However, the attempted mistreatment of his corpse by Achilles, while condemned by gods and mortals alike, reveals another aspect: the denial of burial is not only an attack on the honour of the fallen; the consequence for the unburied is that they are unable to cross into the underworld (Il. 23.71 ff.). Vase painting from the Geometric period onwards depicts the process of lying in state (prothesis) and the funeral (ekphora) of the fallen. In the historical period there are a number of well-known burials of aristocrats and other individuals.27 Although Leonidas was buried on the battlefield of Thermopylae in a tomb topped by a Lion monument (Hdt. 7.225), the Spartans usually brought back their kings from the field preserved in honey (on one occasion, melted wax, Plut. Ages. 40). The embalming of the Spartan kings reflects concern with the beautiful death, a concern common to Spartiates in general. Herodotus (7.208–9) reports the care that Spartans took in grooming themselves before battle, and this accords with the views expressed in the seventh-century Spartan poet, Tyrtaeus, that ‘it is a beautiful thing for a man to fall in the front line and die fighting for the fatherland’ (frg. 10.1–3) and ‘for a young man it is seemly enough [to die in battle], while he has his noble and fair youth, such a wonder to look on and attractive to women, that he is equally fair when fallen in the front-ranks’ (frg. 10.27–30). Tyrtaeus’ criterion for the honouring of the dead is the reputation they have gained for courage in war. He suggests that tombs of the fallen would be remarked by the whole community, while their names and ‘shining glory’ (kleos esthlon) would never be forgotten (frg. 12.26–33). Burial was originally a private affair, a matter for the companions and kin of the deceased, but at some point, it began to be the case that the state, or the army, became responsible for the retrieval and burial of the dead. In the era of the hoplite, mass graves might be made on the battlefield itself. The Theban Sacred Band, killed to a man at Chaeronea (338 BC), had a tumulus raised over them at the point where they fell (Paus. 9.40.10). This mound was identified and excavated in the nineteenth century, and 254 bodies were found laid out in seven rows, each with a stleggis, a body-oil scraper – reflecting perhaps the athletic concerns of the soldiers and their dedication to the body perfect.28 The Spartans at Thermopylae also received burial on the field, in this instance, according to Pausanias (9.32.6), from Xerxes, the Persian king. From the burial of Spartans killed in 403 at Athens (Xen. Hell. 2.4.28–33), the Spartans appear to have inhumed their dead. In contrast to the cremation practices of the Athenians, they form a distinct

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group in the Ceramicus, situated just beyond the fringes of the public cemetery, the Demosion Sema, and are buried together in a polyandreion, marked by an inscription (IG II2 11678). Although the Spartans had the opportunity to return their dead to Sparta, it seems they chose not to (Pritchett 4.133–4). The regularity with which non-royal Spartans were buried away from home is illustrated by a discussion reported in Plutarch (Mor. 233c; Ages. 31.8). An Argive boasts that ‘there are many Spartan tombs in our country’. ‘But’, replies a Spartan, ‘there is not one Argive tomb in ours.’ The expectation was that both sides buried their dead on the battlefield; the Argives, however, are presented as having never managed to advance into Laconia. We are told elsewhere, however, that the Argive dead of Hysiae were carried as far as the friendly territory of Cenchreae (Paus 2.24.7), and, indeed, the Spartan dead of First Mantinea were taken as far as Tegea (Thuc. 5.74). This is understandable: allies might pay more attention to the graves than enemies would. The Plataeans offered annual sacrifices for all the Greeks who fell fighting near their city against the Persians in 479 BC. At the outbreak of the Peloponnesian War, the Plataeans argued that their maintenance of these rites should be a reason why Sparta ought not to help the Thebans, who had fought with the Mede in 479 BC (Thuc. 2.71). On the whole, the common practice of Greeks appears to have been for the fallen to remain at, or relatively near, the site of their collective destruction. There are good practical reasons for this; the spoilage of bodies in the hot Mediterranean summer would have made quick burial compelling in most cases (Vaughan 1991, 45). Menander’s play Aspis (69 ff.) reveals that it was difficult to identify bodies that had lain under a Lycian sun for three days. Similarly when Xenophon (Anab. 6.4.9) organised a search for Arcadian mercenaries killed over a wide area in Bithynia, many of them had to be buried where they had fallen. It was not possible to take them up because they had lain exposed for five days. It appears that the Athenians may have practised battlefield burial during their early history (Paus 1.29.14; Pritchett 4.177–9), although our earliest recorded public burial appears to have been at Marathon in 490 BC. However, during the fifth century, as their overseas and naval affairs expanded, many citizens were lost in battles at sea. These were difficult, if not impossible at times, to recover (Strauss 2000). Bodies left in the water for any length of time became bloated or damaged by marine life. Cremation on shore was a convenient way of disposal of such dead, yet the Athenians also began to return the bones and ashes to Athens. While the 192 Athenians killed at Marathon were buried on the field, those slain at the joint naval and land battle of Eurymedon in c. 469/8 BC were returned to be collectively buried in the Demosion Sema, outside the Dipylon Gate. The practice appears to have become regular from 465/4 BC after the destruction of

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Athenians in Thrace at the battle of Drabescus. The return of cremated remains to the polis served an important democratic function. It allowed private and public mourning and the bestowal of civic honours to the fallen in a collective and inclusive context, reflecting democratic ideals and circumscribed by the institutional framework of the city. Thucydides (2.34) records the Athenian funeral services in the first year(s) of the Peloponnesian War: In the same winter [431/0] the Athenians, following an annual custom, gave a public funeral (ekphora) for those who had been first to die in the war. These funerals are held in the following way: for three days before the ceremony the bones of the fallen lie in state (prothesis) in a tent set up for the purpose, and people make their own offerings to their deceased. Then there is a procession in which cypress wood caskets (larnakes) are carried on wagons. There is one casket for each tribe, containing the bones of tribal members. One empty bier is draped in coverings and carried in the cortege, for the missing whose bodies could not be retrieved. Citizens and metics, anyone who wishes, can join the procession, and the female relatives of the dead come to make lamentations at the tomb. Then they lay the remains in the public cemetery (de-mosion se-ma), which is in the most beautiful place outside the city walls. They always bury the war dead there, except those who fell at Marathon, who, because of their outstanding excellence (arete-), were buried on the battlefield. When the bones have been put in the ground, a man chosen by the polis for his intelligence and reputation makes an appropriate speech in praise of the dead. Then afterwards all depart. This is the procedure at those burials, and all through the war, when the time came to do so, the Athenians followed this ancient custom.

Here the expectations of mourners are shaped by the democratic system. The dead are assembled by tribe and a sense of inclusiveness is fostered by the public lying in state and the procession, open to all, and indeed by the mention of lamenting women. The funeral oration, loaded with images of Athens’ illustrious and legendary past, assured the community that the war dead had fulfilled their civic duty and suggested that their rewards would be a deathless kleos and frequent honours in the form of sacrifices. Along with the public oration of a prominent politician came a range of honours conferred on the deceased and on the living. The honours paid to the war dead came in the form of state sacrifices, libations and rites that resembled those of the immortals and heroes worshipped by the state (Parker 1996, 135–7). Funeral games, with horse-racing, athletic events and musical competitions, may have been annual events if Plato (Menex. 249b) is to be believed.29 This was a calendrical obligation and annual affirmation of the heroic and deathless glory of the citizen war-fatalities. The living too received some share of the glory. Games were an outlet for the competitive-

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ness of individuals, especially the wealthy, who could afford to run chariot teams and perform liturgies connected to the games. The immediate family received some benefits too: parents were protected from destitution by the state and the orphans were raised at public expense, receiving a hoplite panoply on coming of age.30 Commemoration The Athenians set up annual casualty lists, inscribed tribe by tribe, in the Demosion Sema. The monument also included a verse epigram and, judging from the surviving list for 394/3 BC, a relief depicting a battle scene.31 The raising of stelai, listing war casualties, was a public way of honouring and remembering those who had fallen for the city. Some casualty lists were set up in places other than the cemetery. Herodotus (6.14) records that the names of those Samians who stayed with the fleet at Lade and were killed fighting the Persians could be seen in his day on a stele in the agora of Samos. Such war monuments allowed the inhabitants to reflect on the human cost of war. They allowed for the dead to remain part of the city, albeit in a monumentalised form as names displayed for all to see. In Sparta, only those killed in battle received a tombstone, or rather, a cenotaph (Plut. Lyc. 27; Mor. 238d). There are relatively few surviving inscriptions of named individuals and these are found scattered across Laconia. These inscriptions are simple and contain the formula en polemo-i – ‘in war’ (Pritchett 4.244–6). Possibly they indicate those who returned to die of wounds, but the paucity of finds may reflect problems with the archaeological record and many more may either remain to be unearthed or have perished in the intervening millennia. The surviving literary sources do record some, probably exceptional, examples of Spartan funereal inscriptions. The dead of Thermopylae were listed with their patronymics at Sparta (Pausanias 3.14.1) and probably on the battlefield tomb, where Herodotus (7.228) records a series of epitaphs. Pausanias, Brasidas and Leonidas received cenotaphs in Sparta that became objects of cult and public games (Pausanias 3.14.1). Similarly, the Megarians set up an epitaph that honoured their Persian war dead and accorded them honours and sacrifices as heroes (Fornara 60). It was the need to feel included in the great struggles and sacrifices of the Persian Wars that probably motivated the Aeginetans to place an empty tomb on the battlefield of Plataea ten years after the event (Hdt. 9.85.3). The famous Serpent column at Delphi (Fornara 59) performed a similar function – listing all of those cities who ‘warred the war’. The names of the Tenians and Siphnians were added after the original dedication, reflecting developing events in the campaign against Persia after 479 BC, and the great

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desire to be recognised as contributing to the liberation of Greece. The calendars of Greek states allotted days to the celebration and remembrance of great battles. The victory of Plataea was commemorated in a variety of cities and at the battle site itself. These celebrations did not always fall on the anniversary of the engagements but came at convenient points in the ritual cycle of the city year. Such festivals served not only to commemorate the victories and thank the gods but, by the participation of the community, acted as a unifying element that reinforced civic ideals relating to military service for the state. In a way, they acted as a militarising feature, deploying the religious organisations of the city, through the processes of public sacrifices and other attendant rites, to reinforce the contribution and importance of military activity to the well-being and territorial integrity of the state. Conclusion A complex and varied series of interrelationships between religious beliefs, rituals and institutions emerge from any examination of Greek war-making. The Greek practice of warfare was often shaped by the religious values of the participants. When archaic and classical city-states fought one another, they displayed a remarkable degree of shared understanding about such values. At times, this led to the incorporation of common patterns of ritual and, indeed, ritualised behaviour in the conduct of war. Shared beliefs and religious practices, such as those involving pre-battle sacrifices or post-battle truces, helped the Greeks to understand what was reasonable and unreasonable behaviour in the course of war. Some modern scholars have argued that such common understanding created and perpetuated a ritualised form of warfare. This mode of fighting has been regarded as agonistic precisely because it is thought to have been bound by custom and religious scruples. Its apparent emphasis on a resolution of combat in a fair and circumscribed manner could be viewed as a military irrationality that retarded developments in the art of war. But the common performance of certain rituals and the shared expectations of combatants should not lead us into thinking that Greek warfare was conducted in a formulaic or even non-innovative fashion. The notions that the Greeks preferred to fight battles in a fair and sportsmanlike manner or that victory revealed whom the gods had favoured are ideals rarely realised, despite the claims and counter-claims of the protagonists. Those who wished to dispute the validity of an enemy’s triumph often made the accusation of unfair advantage gained through deceptive and impious practices, but such allegations rarely discouraged anyone from seeking those advantages during campaigning.

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Notes 1 Eur. Rhesos 34; Aen. Tac. 27; Polyaenus 1.2; Pritchett 3.45; Borgeaud 1988; Vernant 1991b, 247–50. 2 Od. 22.295; Burkert 1985, 140; cf. other so-called ‘binder-gods’ Odinn, Varuna and Balor (of the Fir Bolg): Dumézil 1939, 80, 103 n. 2; Vernant (1991c) draws a parallel between the grimace of a warrior filled with menos (‘violent spirit’, ‘rage’) and the flashing eyes of Gorgo (esp. 117–18 on the flashing of bronze armour to spread panic and paralysis, and for further references). 3 Cicero, De nat. deorum 2.6; Dion. Hal. 6.13; Plut. Coriolanus 3.4; Cornell 1995, 293–4. 4 Harrison 2000, 124. 5 See Hdt. 8.77 for Herodotus’ view on the truthfulness of prophecies, when worded unambiguously. 6 IG II2 17 = SIG 127, BSA 65 (1970) 151–74; Burkert 1985, 113. 7 Hdt. 8.65. He also reports a popular story that a phantom woman’s voice was later heard just as the fleets were manoeuvring to engage: 8.84. 8 Ar. Lys. 387 ff. Cf. Paus. 2.20.6 on the Argive Adonium where women offer the lament. 9 On the technical aspects of the sacrifice, particularly in a military context, see Pritchett 3.73–90. 10 Thuc. 5.54, 55 (both 419 BC); 5.116 (416 BC). 11 See Pritchett 3.78–81 for examples. In times of need, other animals might be substituted; Xenophon sacrificed draught-oxen at Calpe after running out of sheep, Xen. Anab. 6.4.2. 12 See Lendon 2000 on vengeance; see also p. 14–15, 30, 141. 13 Diod. 5.31.3; Ar. Lys. 203–5; Pritchett 3.84–7. 14 So Grundy 1901, 502; Nilsson 1940, 126; Burn 1962, 538; Hignett 1963, 336; Pritchett 3.78–9 notes these and other scholars. 15 Thus Aristandrus reputedly refused to allow Alexander to cross the River Tanais (Don), despite the king’s wishes and the pressure he placed on the mantis to declare the unfavourable omens otherwise, Arr. Anab. 4.4.3. 16 On the nature of pitched battle see Pritchett 2, ch. 7, ‘The challenge to battle’; Pritchett 3.88 notes that the Athenians did not have time to undertake sphagia at Amphipolis, though Brasidas may have (Thuc. 5.10.2: inside the city walls he undertakes thuesthai (‘to offer sacrifice’)); Thuc. 5.11.2 denies that this battle was a parataxis but suggests that it was an unforeseen, panic-driven, encounter. On the challenge to battle see p. 65, 81–2. 17 Il. 22.391; Aesch. Sept. 635; 252–60 for a possible model for a general’s invocation during the classical period. 18 Wooden trophy: Diod. 13.24.5–6. Brasidas’ shield: Thuc. 4.12. 19 Pritchett 3.263–71, including tables 9–11; he notes that Thucydides includes fifty-eight examples and Xenophon’s Hellenica has thirty. Since Herodotus does not mention any, van Wees (2004, 136–8, 183, 240) concludes that the trophy was a fifth-century development reflecting changes in the nature of hoplite battle after the Persian Wars.

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20 Zeus Tropaeus: Gorgias, Epitaphios frg. 6 Diels, ‘Trophies they have placed over the enemy, honouring Zeus and dedicating to themselves’; cf. Plut. Mor. 306b; Pritchett 3.272 n. 78 21 Diod. 17.68.4; Justin 6.6.9–10; Plut. Nic. 6.5–6. 22 e.g. Thuc. 1.63.3, 2.6.1, 2.79, 2.80–2, 2.94.4, 3.24, 3.98.5 etc. For a full survey see Pritchett 4.94–259. 23 As happened at Mantinea 362 BC, Diod. 15.87. 24 Xen. Hell. 3.5.19–25: after the Battle of Haliartus 395/4 BC, the general Pausanias was indicted in Sparta for not attempting to retrieve the fallen through battle, but negotiating a truce and evacuating Boeotia. Xen. Hell. 4.5.7–10: at Lechaeum, Agesilaus marched to the site of the destruction of a Spartan mora and up to the enemy walls to demonstrate that he now controlled the field. He did not throw down the enemy trophy because the Spartan bodies had been retrieved and, thus, the battle was regarded as having ended, prior to his arrival. Xen. Hell. 6.4.16 at Leuctra 371 BC the Spartans debated whether to renew the battle but decided to send heralds. 25 Thuc. 4.97–101. Cf. Diod. 16.25, Philomelus’ seizure of Delphi and the Locrians’ refusal to allow his dead to be buried. 26 The infrequent examples of lapses were recorded in the sources only because they were exceptional: Pritchett 4.236. 27 Hesiod (W&D 654–5) attended the funeral of ‘warlike Amphidamas’; Hdt. 3.55 on Archias, a Spartan killed at Samos; Thuc. 5.11.1 on Brasidas’ funeral given by the Amphipolitans offering him cult as a ‘founder’. 28 Plut. Mor. 639f – the Sacred Band trained in the palaistra. Polyaenus 2.5.1; Athenaeus 13.561f, 602a; Plut. Mor. 761b – they camped and exercised in the Cadmea. Pritchett 2.222. 29 On Plato see Parker 1996, 132 n. 36, contra Pritchett 4.118–20. Other references to ago-n epitaphios: Lys. 2.80; Dem. 60.36, cf. 13; [Arist.] Ath. Pol. 58.1; see Loraux 1986. 30 State rearing of orphans: Diogenes Laertius 1.7.55, cf. Arist. Pol. 1268a8–11; [Arist.] Ath. Pol. 24.3; Isoc. Peace 8.82. Orphans’ panoply: Plato Menex. 249a7; Aeschin. Against Ctesiphon 154. Loraux 1986, 26–7. 31 On the lists see Bradeen 1964; on the battle-relief see Brückner 1910.

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Chapter 10

War, the individual and the community

According to Herodotus (1.82.7), after the semi-legendary Battle of the Champions, ‘Othryades, the lone survivor of the three hundred, was ashamed, it is said, to return to Sparta after all the men of his company had perished, and so killed himself there at Thyrea.’ The suicide of this Spartan warrior seems to have been an instance of what might be described as ‘survivor syndrome’, where a man, because of the intense trauma of combat and strong emotional connection with his comrades, feels deep personal angst at having outlived them. Combat trauma has been a recent theme in some studies of ancient warfare. Hanson devotes much attention in The Western Way of War (1989) to the dread of battle and to the sheer violence and brutality of fighting and killing.1 Other scholars have explored the impact of such violence on the soldier after combat. Post-traumatic stress syndrome, battle fatigue, shell shock or neuralgia, as it has been variously labelled, manifests in various ways, and ancient accounts of certain individuals’ actions and careers have been analysed to reveal that this is not a new phenomenon. Shay’s work (1994; 2000) on Achilles and rage and Tritle’s From Melos to My Lai (2000) in particular have gone some way towards revealing the face of battle in the lives of survivors of combat in Greece. The Greeks recognised the personal trauma caused by war. It underpins Homer’s description of Odysseus’ reaction to hearing about how ‘he endured that grim fighting’ (Od. 8.518–9) at the sack of Troy. In a powerful simile (Od. 8.523–32; see p. 141–2) the ‘city-sacking’ Odysseus, famed for conceiving of the Trojan Horse, is compared to a female victim of a sacked city and ‘he let fall pitiful tears from beneath his brows’ (8.531–2). To some extent the re-experiencing of ‘that pitiless day’ is self-inflicted, for it had been Odysseus himself who had requested to hear about the episode from the bard Demodocus. I don’t know how we got on to it. I told this next-door neighbour of mine I’d been in Vietnam and he wanted to see my pictures. I only had a couple of beers, maybe two or three. We started looking at the album and I just flipped out. I started throwing shit [things] everywhere. I beat my wife over the head with a

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full quart bottle of beer. I threw that guy out of the trailer. They called the cops. They had two cops on each door of the trailer and I was lucky, because usually they would have just blown me away. I told them, ‘keep your motherfucking ass out of here’. I had a handful of butcher knives in each hand and I was threatening to cut them. (Baker 1982, 222)

Be they photographs in an album or the ‘rightly sung tale of the Achaeans’ expedition’ (Od. 8.488–9), remembrances of past wars might unleash a veteran’s pent-up emotions. Unlike Odysseus, who is reduced to victim status by his reaction to his own experiences, this anonymous veteran experienced a violent and uncontrollable outburst: ‘I just flipped out when I saw those pictures in that book. My head just went away. I don’t know what happened. I just lost it for a while’ (Baker 1982, 223). Some warriors posed a danger to themselves and others. Euripides’ play Heracles, performed in front of an Athenian audience who were enduring the latter stages of the Peloponnesian War (c. 408 BC), presented the archetypal strong-man falling into a rage that caused him to kill his own children. The goddess Lyssa, Fury, claimed she would possess him: Neither the fiercely groaning waves of ocean, nor the earthquake; nor the blastagony of the thunderbolt shall be like the headlong rush I will thrust into the breast of Heracles; I will burst my way through his roof and swoop upon his house, first slaying his children; nor shall their murderer know that he is killing his own-begotten children, till I release him from the madness. See him now! See how he tosses his head as it begins, rolling his eyes fiercely from side to side without a word; nor can he control his panting breath, like a fearful bull in act to charge; he bellows, invoking the Tartarus-goddess Ker [Slaughter]. Soon I will rouse you to yet wilder dancing and pipe a note of terror in your ear. (Euripides, Heracles 861–72)

The physical aspects of such a rage have been compared to contemporary accounts of some modern veterans, who through training, habit and trauma lose control both over their aggressive instincts and their faculties (Shay 1994). But the invocation of Ker and the possession by Lyssa point to differences in how the Greeks perceived and understood such violent outpourings. Sophocles’ tragedy Ajax, performed in the mid-fifth century BC, is an exploration of intense fury and its consequences. When the great warrior Aias lost out to Odysseus in the judgement of the army over who should be given Achilles’ armour, he viewed it as a theft perpetrated by his enemies through a rigged vote (Ajax 449, 1135, cf. 1241–3). He rose from his tent in the middle of the night, ‘on blind impulse’ (287), and tried to slaughter the Achaeans in their sleep. In the cold light of day, the Chorus speculated that it had been a god, Artemis or Ares (172–180), who had sent him into unseeing fury (lysso-de-s 452), but the play points its finger directly at Athena, who had misdirected Aias’ hand to slaughter not the army, but its cattle (51–65,

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cf. 953–4). After he had come to his senses, his feeling of shame was so great that he uttered ‘piteous sounds of anguish’ (317–18) and ‘taking no food or drink, lay prostrate with his evil fate’ (324). He felt ‘dishonoured by the Achaeans’ (440, cf. 427) and his enemies, ‘who laugh’ (367, 382, 454, 955–7) at his bungled act of vengeance. The despair was so great that it drove him, despite the entreaties of friends, to fall upon his own sword (815–65). Sophocles’ Aias and Herodotus’ Othryades killed themselves because of their feelings of shame, but it was socially constructed shame. Aias could not bear to live to be mocked by his peers, and the potential reality of such suicidal behaviour becomes clearer when seen in the light of two further instances, reported by Herodotus, of Spartan battlefield survival. Both stemmed from the glorious Spartan stand at Thermopylae (480 BC). In one, a certain Aristodemus missed the battle and the annihilation of his peers because of an eye infection (Hdt. 7.229) although another Spartan with the same condition had nevertheless plunged blindly into battle. Herodotus reports that Aristodemus met with such reproach and disgrace at Sparta that, at the Battle of Plataea in the following year, he rushed out of the battlelines ‘raving’ (lysso-nta) and performing great deeds before the Persians brought him down (Hdt. 9.71). Herodotus thought his actions admirable and quite the bravest of those performed by the Greeks on that day, but his reckless and suicidal fury, according to the Spartans, had only been an attempt to retrieve the honour he had lost among them, and for which he appears to have gained little additional credit. The second and, perhaps, more disturbing example (to a modern viewer), is Pantites, who Herodotus claimed had been sent away from the force at Thermopylae to deliver a message in Thessaly. In other words, he had been following orders in undertaking a potentially dangerous task behind the line of Persian advance. Nevertheless, the Spartan community subjected him to the same treatment as Aristodemus. It was a humiliation Pantites felt he could not endure and he hanged himself (Hdt. 7.232). This is not ‘survivor syndrome’ so much as peer pressure, and our sources are quite clear on what such humiliation would have entailed. Herodotus (7.231) says that Aristodemus was called the Trembler (ho Tresas) and no Spartan would speak to him, or even give him a flame to kindle his fire. Yet, as the example of Pantites makes clear, such treatment appears not to have been unique.2 Plutarch (Ages. 30.3) claimed that: ‘tremblers (tresantes) are not only debarred from every office, but intermarriage with any of them is a disgrace, and anyone who meets them may strike them if he pleases. Moreover they must never look cheerful, but are obliged to go about in a squalid condition, wearing cloaks with colourful patches, with half their beards shaved, and half left to grow.’ It is evident from these stories that some of the pressure caused by shame is externally produced. These ‘tremblers’ not only became social pariahs, but had to

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conform to a ‘uniform of exclusion’ (David 1992, 20) that served as a visible reminder to themselves and other Spartiates of their failure to live up to the ideal of bravery held by the other citizens of their community. Social pressure can be seen in the Iliad too. Hector, as his army was being driven in rout by Achilles, feared to return to the safety of the city because he claimed that he would have felt shame among the Trojans: ‘For one who is by far my inferior will be able to say that “Hector trusted in his strength and ruined his people.” Thus they will speak and, for me then, it would be much better to go face Achilles and either slay him and return, or else be killed by him in glory in front of the city’ (Il. 22.107–10). Sarpedon saw such social compulsion in terms of his reputation and a justification of his honoured status. Both he and his relative, Glaucus, were, he claimed, feasted by the Lycians and given the best cut of land; but the respect accorded to them also obliged them to fight in the van, striving for their share of honour, time-, or succumbing to the prowess of an enemy (Il. 12.310–28). He felt compelled to risk his life in battle so that ‘among the heavily armoured Lycians people will say: “these are not worthless men, who rule over us in Lycia, these kings who eat our fat sheep, drink the best of the honey-sweet wine. No, they have strength too and courage since they fight among the foremost fighters of Lycians.”’ (Il. 12.318–22). It is what people might say, the pressure of gossip and the valuations of the wider community, which motivated both Sarpedon and Hector. For both, the fear of feeling shame and being shamed appear to have been worse than risking their lives in combat. The Greeks appear to have believed that shame could manifest not only at an individual, but also at a communal level. As Herodotus represented it, the Argive defeat after the Battle of the Champions produced an extraordinary turnaround in social self-representation: The Argives, who before had worn their hair long by a fixed custom, shaved their heads ever after and made a law, with a curse added to it, that no Argive grow his hair, and no Argive woman wear gold, until they had recovered Thyrea. The Lacedaemonians made a contrary law; that they were to wear their hair long ever after, for until this time they had not worn it so. (Herodotus 1.82.7)

The Argives apparently shaved their heads in a collective expression of communal feeling and collective resolve. The symbolism of the depilation appears to have been quite complex. In Greece, head-shaving was generally performed at times of abject and intense emotion. It occurred during periods of mourning, and Plutarch (Lys. 1.2) certainly believed that the Argives had performed it because of their sorrow. It was also apparently common for people who went into exile to shave their hair in an expression of their deep

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feelings of loss and vulnerability (Plut. Lys. 1.2), so it is also possible that those who had lost their grip on Thyrea felt themselves to have become exiles in their own state. The catastrophic blow to the self-esteem inflicted on the Argives by the Spartans drove them to a form of self-mutilation, perhaps even selfpunishment, in their shame. But, like Aristodemus, it was also a potential spur on the Argives towards feats of prodigious bravery. Head-shaving might have signalled the Argive resolution to fight all the harder for the return of Thyrea. Plutarch observed that those who preferred to fight close-up and hand-tohand shaved their heads, since it denied handholds to the enemy (Plut. Thes. 5). Every man of Argos, as he went about his daily life, or when he marched out to battle would only need to put his hand on his head to feel personally the undertaking made by the state. Even if Herodotus was merely constructing an aetiological explanation for a contemporary Argive fashion by attaching the custom to the aftermath of a legendary battle, his view that the community and the individual could experience both shame and glory was one that was likely to have been held by many other Greeks. We can perceive, for example, how the exhortations of the seventh-century Spartan poet Tyrtaeus resonated at the communal and individual levels: For it is a beautiful (kalos) thing for a noble man to fall in the front line and die fighting for the fatherland, but the most wretched of things is to leave his polis and productive fields, and go as a beggar, roaming with beloved mother and elderly father, with small children and wedded wife. For loathsome is he to those he visits when burdened with want and poverty, and he shames his family, failing to live up to his noble status; but followed by dishonour and evil. So if a wanderer is so little honoured, respected, or pitied, then we must fight resolutely for this land, dying for our offspring and never shrink from death. (Tyrtaeus, frg. 10.1–14)

Each individual who fails to fight resolutely for ‘this land’ experiences dishonour and evil; he is ‘loathsome’ and brings shame to his family. Indeed, because of his failure to fight for the homeland, the whole community suffers, personified by the fact that his family (as well as, presumably, all the other families he has let down), accompany him into exile and destitution, driven and uprooted from their land. The individual and communal stakes, then, are such that all men should fight resolutely for country and kin, to the death if need be. It was not only a beautiful (kalos) thing to fall in battle; Tyrtaeus saw the rewards that came to ‘a man good in war’, whether he lived or died, in explicitly communal terms: He who falls among the promachoi and loses his sweet life, so blessing with glory (eukleia) his city, his father, and all his people (laos), with his chest and central guard of his shield and his breastplate struck through the front, why

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such a man is lamented alike by the young and the elders, and all his polis goes into mourning and grieves for his loss, and among men his tomb is well noted, and so are his children, and his children’s children, and afterwards all the race that is his. His shining glory (kleos esthlon) is never forgotten, his name is remembered, and though he lies under the ground, he becomes deathless, when one who was the bravest, standing his ground and fighting hard for his children and land has been killed by furious Ares. But, if he escapes his doom of death, the destroyer of bodies, victorious and famous for the work of his spear, all men give honour (time-) to him alike, the youth and the elders, and much joy comes his way before he goes down to the dead. Ageing, he is conspicuous among his citizens. No one tries to cheat him of honours or all he deserves; all men withdraw before his presence, and yield their seats to him, the youth and the men of his age, and even those older than he. Thus a man should endeavour to reach this place of high excellence (arete-) with all his spirit, and, so trying, never be backward in war. (Tyrtaeus, frg. 12.23–44)

The ‘trembler’ appears to have been treated in the opposite way. He had to give up his seat even to the younger; nobody gave him honour (time-), he was atimos; it was not joy but the absence of cheerfulness that was supposed to characterise his demeanour; and, like the Argives, his shame was marked by a manipulation of his hair. The physical shaming that the partial beardshaving of ‘tremblers’ induced nevertheless left a route open for their personal redemption. Through conspicuous valour on the field, such men might have been able to restore their honour and status in the community. After all, hair could grow back. In life and in death, then, the Spartan was supposed to live up to the ideals of his community. Spartan tenacity on the battlefield was due, explained Demaratus to an incredulous Persian king (Hdt. 7.104), to their obedience to the laws: ‘They are free, but not entirely so; for their master is law, which they fear more than your subjects fear you. Whatever this master commands, they do; and the command is always the same: never to retreat in battle, no matter what the odds, always to remain in formation, and to conquer or die.’ Sparta was a society that was intensely militaristic. It was a place where the values, ethos and even social structure of the state and its citizens appeared to be geared to celebrating, glorifying and perpetuating the warrior as the political, moral and social apogee. All Spartan men were, in a sense, owned by the state. At birth, the ephors examined each baby to decide if it was healthy enough, or else should be exposed (Plut. Lyc. 16.1–2). At age seven, boys were enrolled into the ago-ge-, the state education system. They lived in a boua, a ‘herd’, under the supervision of a bouagos (Plato, Laws 666e). Xenophon (Lac. Pol. 3.1), who sent his own children through the system, said that youths were never allowed to live without a master and they were subject to arbitrary beatings. They were allowed only a single cloak in the winter, they slept in dormitories and had to bathe in the River Eurotas (Plut.

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Lyc. 16.12–14). They were subject to the close attentions of the ephors, who apparently inspected their dress daily, their naked bodies one day in every ten (Athenaeus 12.550c–d). As they matured, ‘their bodily exercises steadily increased, heads closely cropped, they became accustomed to bare-footedness and nakedness’ (Plut. Lyc. 16.11–12). Although Xenophon (Lac. Pol. 3.1) states that they were not allowed to live freely as they wished, autonomoi, Isocrates (Panath. 12.215) believed that these youths were taught self-reliance, autonomia. Such statements may seem contradictory, but it is possible to see the harsh treatment of these youths in terms of a process of grinding down of the distinctions of social status and class. Adult Spartiates regarded themselves as homoioi, ‘the equals’ or ‘the uniform’, and despite some wide disparities in wealth between individuals (Hodkinson 2000), they promoted an outward facade of egalitarianism. So the grinding down of the youths’ identity during the ago-ge- facilitated the endowment of the necessary Spartan virtues in an atmosphere of harsh indoctrination. Vernant (1991d, 239–41) argues that the herd stage humiliated the youths and subjected them to a status akin to helots, who themselves had to cover their hair with a dog-skin cap, wear skins and submit to periodic beatings to remind them of their place (Athen. 14.657c–d). But the treatment of Spartan youths was not designed to instil permanent servility; on the contrary, it was to make the boys react against it. Resisting his situation, the youth was supposed to desire more keenly to make it through the ago-ge- and emerge as a fully endowed citizen. In a similar way, Aristodemus reacted against his situation and harsh treatment. At twelve, the youths were entered into a series of age groups and were given military and athletic training and instructed in the traditional songs and dances of the state.3 To supplement their meagre rations, they were encouraged to steal, but punished, so the story goes, for being caught (Plut. Lyc. 17; Xen. Lac. Pol. 11.8). This appears to have been ritualised at the shrine of Artemis Orthia, where youths attempted to steal cheeses from the altar, while young men with whips tried to prevent them (Xen. Lac. Pol. 2.9).4 At twenty, if a youth survived, he took his place in the hoplite phalanx (MacDowell 1986, 167). He was still subject to a range of restrictions, such as being required to sleep alongside other men in barracks until he was thirty, even if married (Plut. Lyc. 15.4–9). But he was able, at last, to grow his hair (Plut. Lyc. 22), and Xenophon (Lac. Pol. 11.3), who lived among the Spartans, stated that such long hair made them look taller, more terrifying and more free (eleutherioterous). The egalitarianism of the homoioi was visibly actualised by their hair; it was part of the uniform of ‘the uniform’, and it was renewed annually when the ephors, on assuming office, announced that Spartan men must shave their moustaches and obey the laws (Arist. frg. 539 Rose = Plut. Cleom. 9.3).

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The bonds between those who had survived the ago-ge- continued to be exploited and enhanced by the Spartan state. On a number of occasions, certain age groups were called upon to perform specific tasks during campaign (see p. 93). One of the central focuses of Spartan social and military life was the system of dining clubs (syssitia, phiditia). Membership of one of these state messes was a condition of membership in the citizen body of Spartiates and payment of regular dues to the syssition was necessary for continuing to enjoy the privileges of citizenship (Arist. Pol. 1271a26–37). It is possible that the syssitia were at one time the smallest divisions of the Spartan army (Hdt. 1.65), but even if they were not a formal military unit, they were nevertheless at the core of institutions that promoted military values, discipline and ultimately battlefield cohesion. In the messes, after the food had been served, the songs of Tyrtaeus were sung (Athen. 14.630c), whose martial flavour was deemed appropriate for the warriors present. Spartiates exploited the labour of their conquered helot population5 and, freed from the need to care for their fields personally, they possessed the freedom to train and practise for war. It enabled one Spartan to claim: ‘Not by caring for our fields, but by caring for ourselves, did we obtain those fields’ (Plut. Mor. 214a72). The meals in the messes were provided partly from the helots who rendered their produce to their Spartan masters.6 The contrast between the helots, who toiled with hair bound up in caps (Athen. 14.657d), and Spartans, whose were spared the labour of agriculture and whose flowing locks made them seem ‘more free’, indicates how social signifiers such as clothing or hair styles could be used by the Greeks to indicate both the common identity of certain groups and their exclusivity. Aristotle (Rhet. 1367a) claimed that one was unable to perform servile tasks with long hair; it was therefore the mark of a free man. Since it was the cheapest form of personal adornment, even the poorest of Spartiates could grow their locks (Plut. Mor. 230b). It may have ‘made the beautiful (kalos) more seemly (euprepesterous) and the ugly (aischroi) more fearsome (phobe-tos)’ (Plut. Lys. 1.2), but by doing so it also demonstrated that they had the leisure time for grooming and the freedom to devote themselves to the art of war. At Thermopylae when Persian scouts reported that the Spartans were seen grooming themselves before going into battle (Hdt. 7.208), Demaratus explained to Xerxes that ‘you are now attacking the most beautiful (kallistos) polis in Hellas and men who are the very best (aristoi)’, for, he stated, ‘it is a custom of theirs to see to their hair before risking their lives in battle’ (Hdt. 7.209). The homoioi, at the point when their battle skills and courage were to be tested, turned their attention to a central symbol of their personal and collective identity. They went into battle looking to avoid the personal and social disfigurement that would result by not living up to communal expectations, and should they fall bravely fighting in battle, those who had kept

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and recited the words of Tyrtaeus in the ago-ge-, in the syssitia and on campaign would understand that it was ‘beautiful (kalos) to fall fighting for the fatherland’ (frg. 10.1–2) and an act ‘blessing with glory (eukleia) his city, his father, and all his people (laos)’ (frg. 12.23–4). Tyrtaeus recognised that combat was a terrible experience and his words were meant to encourage those who found themselves in it to overcome their natural fears and inclinations. That there was a great feeling of dread is brought out in the anecdote that Iphicrates could joke that he could not hear the rattle of his men’s armour over the chattering of their teeth (Polyaen. Strat. 3.4.8). Wounds were ‘an ugly a sight to see and full of badness for the viewer’ (Tyrt. frg. 10.26), falling primarily on the groin, neck, chest, belly and face (Hanson 1989, 212–18). Casualties could be heavy and disproportionate where the battle-line collapsed, as happened at Leuctra, where 400 of the 700 Spartiates present were killed, along with the king and other leading men (Xen. Hell. 6.4.13–14). It therefore took a great deal of bravery to stand in close proximity to a murderous enemy and win through the blood and the trauma. However, because the Spartans belonged to syssitia where they ate and slept together, because they trained together and had all gone through the initiatory experience of the ago-ge-, because they sang the songs of Tyrtaeus together, such things contributed to creating the familiarity and trust necessary for group fighting and group survival in the phalanx. It was due to the bonding of comrades under arms that the Spartan phalanx had a reputation for extraordinary resilience, a reputation their action of fighting to the very last at Thermopylae confirmed. But in less obviously militaristic poleis, the cohesion and endurance of the phalanx was still noticeable. In states such as Athens, some degree of military bonding was created by the organisation of age groups who were expected to train and operate together in a number of ways. In the fourth century, the young men (ephe-boi) of ages nineteen to twenty each year received some military training (L. P. Rawlings 2000, 237–41) and performed a number of social, religious and military duties (see p. 215). The Athenian year groups each received an emblematic eponymous hero ([Arist.] Ath. Pol. 53.4; VidalNaquet 1986, 87). After forty-two years the age group was disbanded, the old men were no longer obliged to serve in the phalanx and the hero became available for a new generation of young men. The Themistocles decree records how age groups twenty to thirty were supposedly embarked as epibatai, marines, on the fleet that was sent against Persia in 480 BC (Jameson 1963, 389; L. P. Rawlings 2000, 239, 252 n. 28). Such a selection of young and (presumably) agile men may have been appropriate for naval combat, where maintaining balance on a moving deck in combat was at a premium; however, men of all ages fought side by side in infantry engage-

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ments on land and individuals ranging from eighteen to sixty might find themselves in the thick of fighting. Some of the Boeotians at Delium, in 424 BC, were called to remember their deeds at Coronea, in 447 BC (Thuc. 4.92.6–7). Twenty-three years on, they were still drawn up in the phalanx and had probably, in the intervening years, regularly and frequently stood their ground among the ranks. In all likelihood, there were many in the phalanx who had seen combat before and such experience would have had a settling effect on morale. Furthermore, the morale and fighting power of most hoplites did not usually originate in years, or even weeks, of drill, or a harsh military lifestyle, but in their networks of peacetime relationships. In the phalanx of most city-states, kin often stood together: fathers and sons, brothers and cousins would fight side by side. It was possible that whole families and several generations might fight together. Friends and associates too were present, table companions who shared wine and festivities at symposia, neighbours, fellow demesmen and tribesmen who would be encountered in everyday life.7 Onasander (24) observed that men fought best in a formation where ‘brother stands in rank beside brother, friend beside friend, lover beside lover’. The Theban Sacred Band consisted of 150 pairs of lovers; in defeat at Chaeronea, they were wiped out (338 BC, Plut. Pel. 18–19). A further indication of how close bonds of companionship might have been is indicated by a story Plutarch tells about Cimon. Having been exiled from Athens, he nevertheless joined the Athenian army at Tanagra (457 BC), taking his place among his fellow tribesmen in the battle against the Spartans. When the generals noticed him, however, they forced him to leave the battle-line, because of fears over his loyalty. His hetairoi (companions), numbering around a hundred, took his armour into battle with them and were all killed conspicuously and valiantly fighting as a close group during the Athenian rout (Plut. Cim. 17). So there could be an intense pressure to fight well and stubbornly because of the network of relationships that bound hoplites together. These relationships were created in the polis itself and at the end of campaigning the ties of comradeship were taken back into everyday civic life. It is highly likely that the military experiences of individuals and groups had some impact on politics, on political views and even on the voting in assemblies. The possibility that the comrades of the men who had been killed might influence the position a community adopted towards a failed general probably explains why Demosthenes deliberately stayed away from Athens after his defeat at Aegitium (426 BC, Thuc. 3.97–8), at least until he had won a victory at Olpae (426 BC) and had decorated the temples of Athens with 300 panoplies, his personal share of those despoiled after the battle (Thuc. 3.114). Similarly, it was fear of the reproaches of his fellow citizens that caused Nicias to stay

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besieging Syracuse, when it might have been better for him to withdraw: He said that many, indeed most, of the soldiers in Sicily, who now so loudly proclaimed the danger of their position, when they reached Athens would proclaim just as loudly the opposite, and would say that their generals had been bribed to betray them and return. For his own part, therefore, knowing the Athenian temper, sooner than be put to death under a dishonourable charge and by an unjust sentence of the Athenians, he thought rather to take his chance and die, if die he must, a soldier’s death at the hand of the enemy. (Thucydides 7.48.3–4)

Such fears were justified, it seems. After the naval victory of Arginusae (406 BC), a large number of Athenians whose ships had been destroyed or crippled had been left in the water to perish during a storm. The outrage felt in Athens at these losses was partly whipped up by Theramenes, who exploited the emotions of the de-mos by dressing his agitators in mourning garments, pretending that they were relatives of the dead. Six of the eight generals present at the battle returned to face the assembly, where, despite appeals for moderation from some quarters, most notably Socrates, the people condemned all of the generals to death (Xen. Hell. 1.7.7–35). There was always a potential danger that one military group might pursue its own interests too closely and seize power or come to dominate the state. This was recognised by Aristotle, who noted that the political organisation of a polis was often closely tied to the most dominant military group: There are four types of military forces: cavalry, hoplites, light infantry (psiloi) and navy. Where the terrain is suitable for cavalry, this is a favourable region for the creation of a strong oligarchy; for the inhabitants need the cavalry for their protection; and it is only the rich who can afford the expense of breeding and feeding horses. Where a territory is suitable for hoplites, a less exclusive form of oligarchy is natural; hoplites are drawn from the well-off, rather than from among the poor. Light infantry and the navy are the supporters of democracy, and presently, with navies and light forces as numerous as they are, oligarchic factions are usually beaten in any dispute in the city . . . The poor can defeat the wealthy in civil disorder (stasis) because psiloi can easily defeat cavalry and hoplites. (Aristotle, Politics 1321a19–20)

Every polis had factions and groups that might, in certain circumstances, resort to armed action, and outbreaks of violent stasis occurred in most cities at some time. There are numerous instances of guerrilla warfare waged by the losers of such conflicts, who continued their resistance to their political rivals out in the cho-ra, or from neighbouring territories.8 During the Peloponnesian War in particular, when Athens and Sparta appear to have polarised the Greek world, poleis might have to make life-or-death decisions about whom to side with, which exacerbated the political rivalries within the

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cities. Thucydides observed that: In peace there would have been neither the pretext nor the wish to make such an invitation; but in war, with an alliance always at the command of either faction for the hurt of their adversaries and their own corresponding advantage, opportunities for bringing in a foreign power were never wanting to those wishing violent changes. The sufferings which stasis brought upon the cities were many and terrible, and are of the type that have always occurred and ever will, as long as human nature is constant; though varying in severity and in their symptoms, according to the disposition of the victim. In peace and prosperity states and individuals have higher standards, because they do not find themselves suddenly confronted with harsh realities; but war makes even obtaining necessities difficult, and so proves a violent teacher, who forces many men to have a character to match their situation. (Thucydides 3.82.1–2)

The actions of the Athenian cavalry under the Thirty Tyrants were perhaps typical of the breakdown in restraint, for at a time of stasis, with democrats holding the Piraeus and the cavalry being forced to watch over the city both day and night, they rounded up some of the demes-folk of Aixone while they were fetching provisions from their farms, and the officer in command, Lysimachus, despite opposition from some of his own men, had them put to death (Xen. Hell. 2.4.24–6). The participation of the cavalry in the regime of the Thirty was remembered for many years to come and, despite an amnesty, it was clearly a central concern of Mantitheus that he avoid any association with the Thirty. Indeed, although eligible for the cavalry in 395/4, he claimed that he preferred to serve as a hoplite and had himself removed from the list (Lysias 16.13). Mantitheus displayed an acute appreciation of Athenian democratic ideology, for although clearly part of the wealthy class of hippeis, ‘the knights’, which often displayed its economic and social exclusivity through its fashion sense, he claimed that: In every other campaign or outpost I have never once failed in my duty, but have adhered throughout to my rule of marching out [as a hoplite] in the first rank and retreating in the last. Surely it is by such conduct that one ought to judge who are honour-loving (philotimos) and moderate (kosmios) citizens, and not to take the fact of a man wearing his hair long as a reason for hating him; for such habits as this do no harm either to private persons or to the public affairs of the polis, while it is from those who are ready to face danger before the enemy that you all derive advantage. (Lysias 16.18)

Mantitheus emphasised his military record over his appearance, a familiar mantra of the hippeis if Aristophanes is to be believed (Ar. Knights 577–80). In Athens, having long hair put one under suspicion of being pro-Spartan (Ar. Birds 1280–4) and of having oligarchic sympathies. So to avoid becoming odious to the community, those men who had reason to feel insecure

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often acted with conspicuous generosity and commitment to their fellow citizens and the state both in peace and, especially, in war. While not constructing its social organisation and ethos to be an armed camp like Sparta, Athenian democratic ideology did have its militaristic elements.9 Although those who qualified for hoplite service kept their arms in their houses, either in stores or on display (and accessible), the bearing of arms in public came to be restricted by custom, if not law (van Wees 1998a). Thucydides (1.5) linked the wearing of arms in everyday life explicitly to the practices of predation endemic in earlier times (and the need for self-defence). The Athenians, he claimed, had abandoned this practice for good laws relatively earlier than other peoples, but most of the rest followed, so that in his day it was only the most backward communities who still thought it honourable to indulge in raiding and piracy and to conduct daily life with weapon in hand. Nevertheless, even Athens revealed itself at certain times of the year as a society under arms. The assassination of the tyrant Hipparchus occurred during the Panathenaea, a festival when the male population paraded with their weapons.10 Xenophon observed that the cavalry paraded and performed throughout Athens on regular occasions; he even offered suggestions on some exercises and military manoeuvres for events held in the hippodrome at the Anthippasia (Xen. Hipp. 3.10.13). During their first year of military service, the young men of the city, the ephebes, were frequently involved in military and nonmilitary displays at various times in the calendar (Parker 1996, 254–5). To commemorate the Battle of Salamis, the ephebes rowed to the island, made a sacrifice to Aias and sailed to the battle trophy erected at Cynosura.11 A land procession appears to have been made to the tomb of the war dead at Marathon, where the ephebes offered sacrifice to ‘those who died on behalf of freedom’ (IG II2 1006, 26–7 and 69–70). Ephebes also participated at the funeral games in honour of the Athenian war dead held at the Academy (Pritchett 3.183–4). Interestingly, even the Great Dionysia, a festival at which dramatic competitions were staged, had its militaristic aspects (Goldhill 1987, 60–5). The ten generals poured libations to the god Dionysus in the theatre and, on one occasion (468 BC), were appointed judges of the dramatic competition (Plut. Cim. 8.7–9; cf. IG II2 1496). In the fifth century, the tribute of the allies was brought into the theatre and laid out for the audience to see, while the war orphans were also paraded on stage.12 The orphans, according to Aeschines (3.154) were clad in panoplies and a herald announced: These young men, whose fathers showed themselves to be brave men and died in war, have been supported by the state (de-mos) until they have come of age. Now clad in full armour (panoplia) by their fellow citizens, they are sent out with the prayers of the city, each to go their own way, and they are invited to

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seats of honour in the theatre.

The militarism of the moment is evident; the democracy is stressing that the connection between it and these young men is a martial one. Their fathers fell fighting for the city and the state has raised their offspring to take their place in the phalanx (Goldhill 1987, 68). Clearly this festival provided an important context for a public display of the imperial power (the tribute) and military commitment of the citizen body, directed at the citizens themselves and the wider Greek world.13 Processions and martial elements in festivals not only had an immediate effect on the participants and audience; they also created memories and associations in the landscape of the city. Furthermore, battlefields such as Marathon, with their trophies and, sometimes, mass burials of the fallen, as well as the landscape through which campaigns were fought, helped in the construction of identity and memory. So the physical location of Thyrea, once Argive, then Spartan – raided, fought in and fought over for centuries – helped perpetuate the antipathy between Sparta and Argos, and helped Greeks like Herodotus to create aetiological explanations for the antithetical customs of both communities. The countryside and city were themselves militarised not just by the movement of groups through them, but by the construction of the physical architecture of war: forts, viewing posts and walls have clear military functions; even during peace, their presence is hard to ignore. Other constructions and buildings also reflected the war-making of the community. The regular presentation of captured armour to temples made them rather martial environments to visit and in which to offer sacrifice and worship. There were also memorials such as the Stoa Poikile, where a painting of the Battle of Marathon was made soon after the battle, or the casualty lists and cenotaphs in the Demosion Sema, or statues and temples set up throughout the city to celebrate achievements of war, such as the statue of Athena Promachus that stood on the acropolis, visible in her armour far out to sea (Paus. 1.28). Such war monuments left enduring memories in the fabric of the cities of Greece. Pausanias, writing in the second century AD, could walk around Athens and remark on many of these tokens of Athens’ military past. In describing such landmarks (be they cenotaphs, statues, altars or other features), he often provides an explanation of how they had been created or of the individuals and communities associated with the sites; frequently these aetiologies have a martial dimension that recalls the exploits and events of the military past. It is clear that the conceptual topography of the polis – that is to say, how people thought about and related to the places they frequented – was partly moulded by the routes taken by processions, by the presence of monuments

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of military victories, and by the aetiologies explaining their existence. Such activities, monuments and recollections would have had a far more immediate impact on those who had participated in the wars and conflicts that produced them, and thus were rather emphatic realisations of the military ideology of the community. The other community: women and war Herodotus records that when the Argives shaved their heads after the Battle of Champions, the women too had to play their part: no Argive woman could wear gold until Thyrea was recovered. Although not present at the battle, or indeed active participants in the conflict, they were nevertheless to mark its effects on their bodies. On another occasion Argive women, through their clothing, marked military events that unfolded elsewhere. Along with the women of Aegina, they apparently took to wearing longer dress pins in celebration of the outcome of an ill-fated Athenian attack on Aegina in which Argive hoplites had played a part. The Athenians had been wiped out, but for one survivor, who, when he returned home, was mobbed by the widows of the fallen who stabbed him to death with their dress pins, ‘each asking him where her husband was’ (Hdt. 5.88.3). Thereafter, the Athenians made their wives wear dresses of Ionian style, which had no need for such dangerous accessories. Although we might dismiss such a story as another instance of Herodotean aetiology, it should be recognised that Herodotus and his audience thought that their women were capable of sharing in the martial fortunes of the state, and of displaying their reactions in a collective manner. According to another story in Herodotus (9.5.3), Athenian women ‘on their own impulse’ had lynched the wife and children of a certain Lycides, who had suggested accepting peace from the Persian general Mardonius (479 BC). We must not forget that combat has been an activity most frequently conducted by men; women have generally not been involved in fighting, except in times of emergency when there was a direct threat to the household.14 At such times they could undertake the practical roles of preparing food (Thuc. 2.72), tending the wounded, fetching and carrying (Diod. 13.55.4–5), repairing defences (Thuc. 1.90.3; Diod. 13.108–11) and even throwing missiles, such as roof tiles, to help repulse enemy assaults on a city.15 But these were acts of desperation; normally, women were not expected to involve themselves in combat. The Greeks believed there were physiological reasons why women ought not to be asked to fight (Xen. Oec. 7.22–5). Aeneas Tacticus reported that:

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The people of Sinope in their war with Datamas, when they were in danger and in need of men, disguised their most able-bodied women and armed them like men, giving them in place of shields and helmets their jars and similar bronze utensils, and marched them around the wall where the enemy were most likely to see them. But they did not allow them to throw missiles, for even a long way off a woman betrays her sex when she tries to throw. (Aeneas Tacticus, On the Defence of Fortified Positions, 40.4–5)

While rarely directly involved, they often appear to have helped to reinforce the martial values of society. Plutarch’s collection of the sayings of Spartan women, even if not authentic, at least reveals Greek expectations about the role women played in the inculcation of martial spirit. He related that one woman, when seeing her wounded son returning on all fours, full of shame at his condition, apparently said ‘Son, wouldn’t it be better to rejoice in your courage, than to feel ashamed at being laughed at by idiots?’ ‘Another woman, as she was handing her son his shield, to encourage him said “Son, either with this or on this”’ (Plut. Mor. 241.15–16). That the Spartans, at least, understood the contribution of women to their military values is indicated by Agesilaus, who, soon after the defeat of Leuctra, exhorted his fellow Spartiates to recover their bravery against the Argives and Arcadians so that ‘we will no longer feel shame before our children, wives, elders and strangers (xenoi)’.16 Evidently women could put pressure on their husbands if they felt them to be falling short of the ideals of bravery, and partly through a desire to look their wives in the eye, the men could draw upon it for inspiration in war. When the news of the defeat of the Spartans at Leuctra (371 BC) was brought to the ephors, they instructed the women to avoid making any cries of lamentation. Xenophon (Hell. 6.4.16), who may have been present in Sparta when the news was announced, relates that on the following day, the relatives of those who had been killed looked happy, while those whose men had survived the defeat went about with sorrowful expressions on their faces. So it seems that on this occasion, the Spartan women not only complied with the policy of the state, but also amplified it.17 Nicias, at a point when the Athenian forces besieging Syracuse were in danger of being defeated, urged his men to fight for the sake of their families (Thuc. 7.69.2). Thucydides thought such appeals overused, ‘and which, with little alteration, are made to serve on all occasions alike – appeals to wives, children, and gods of the state – without caring whether they are thought commonplace, but loudly invoking them in the belief that they will be of use in the consternation of the moment’. His view is perhaps over-sceptical, for undoubtedly men in battle were concerned that they might never live to see their families again, and might even spare a thought for the pain of the loss they would cause, although whether this had a positive impact on how they fought is not easy to judge. The fate of the women, when they were

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directly under threat by an aggressor, however, was something that Thucydides did appreciate. The Spartan general Gylippus asserted to his besieged Syracusan allies that the Athenians planned to do ‘indecent things’ to their women and children (413 BC, Thuc. 8.68.2). Thucydides includes this as a contrast to Nicias’ speech, in order to guide the reader towards a judgement of the justness of the Athenian expedition. But the statement of Athenian intentions appears logical, given their actions in other campaigns. If he needed examples, Gylippus could have pointed to the surrender of Melos in 416 BC, which had led to the enslavement of all the women and children and the execution of the men (Thuc. 5.116), while in the following year, in Sicily itself, the Athenians had fallen upon the town of Hyccara and enslaved its inhabitants (6.62). There is little doubt that women so enslaved could end up as sexual partners of their conquerors. This is the fear of the female Chorus in Aeschylus’ Seven Against Thebes (333–5, 362–8), and the fate of the captives of Troy in Euripides’ Trojan Women (203–4, 252–5, 310–416, 484–6, 565–7, 658–72, 1138–40), both plays reflecting and playing upon the expectations of their Athenian audiences.18 After the sack of Olynthus by Philip II, the Athenian ambassador, Philocrates, allegedly ‘brought back for dishonour (hybris) free-born Olynthian women’ (Dem. 19.309, cf. 196 ff.). He appears to have used such women to gratify both his own desires and those of his associates. Athenians were not alone in such practices. Isocrates complained that roving armies committed outrages against women and children, ‘dishonouring’ the most beautiful and stripping the clothing from the rest (Isoc. Lett. 9.10). Herodotus (8.33) reported how the Persians, ‘pursuing the Phocians, captured them near the mountains, and killed some of their women through mass rape’.19 On the fall of Thebes in 336 BC, ‘children, women and the elderly who had fled into the temples were torn from sanctuary and subjected to unlimited outrage (eschatos hybris)’ at the hands of the Macedonians and their Greek allies.20 Rape in such instances is often described as hybris, a term that implies a deliberate intention to shame the victim, while providing the rapist with pleasure through the violence of the act (Fisher 1992, 104–7). It was a way to violate the relationship a woman may have had with her husband. Quite apart from the physical and psychological trauma of the act, it introduced the possibility of the woman bearing the rapist’s child, and was thus a direct assault on the family bloodline. Furthermore, the woman’s humiliation was also the husband’s or father’s – a demonstration of his inability to defend his kin from such abuse.21 Some women might have preferred death to such dishonour, but the sources rarely mention female suicide as a result of war.22 For the most part, women were either unwilling or unable to take their own lives (Eur. Tro. 1282–6), and, if their captors desired it, they could be forced

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into sexual use. Indeed, for some, it was a means of survival (Scodel 1998, 140). Unpalatable as it might seem, sex might create a bond between victim and abuser, slave and master. ‘Forget what happened to Hector,’ Andromache is urged, ‘tears cannot save you now. Obey your new master and use your ways to entice his heart into loving you’ (Eur. Tro. 697–700). Acceptance of her new status might increase a captive’s chances of survival, and acquiescing to future sexual acts could create a sense of obligation (charis) in the captor. Such situations were dramatised on the Athenian stage. Tecmessa, the slave-concubine of Aias, is made to exclaim, ‘Your spear ravaged my country to nothingness . . . What homeland, then, could I have without you? What wealth? My welfare is entirely in your hands. So remember me, too. A true man should cherish the memory if anywhere he takes some pleasure. It is a charis that begets charis’ (Soph. Ajax 516–22). The transfer of loyalty, to modern eyes, is shocking and the Greeks, too, recognised it as deeply problematic – an ideal which new masters might wish for, but which was not straightforwardly achieved. It is central to the dilemma facing Andromache, who ‘hates and loathes the woman who casts away her once beloved’ and regards it as a treachery to her dead lover, but who recognises that clinging to the past would earn her master’s hatred (Eur. Tro. 661–8). The reality for most women might be reflected in the Homeric observation that when mourning openly over the corpse of Patroclus, the slave-women also took it as an opportunity to weep for their own sorrows.23 It is revealing that when Herodotus (1.146.3) attempted to explain why Milesian women would never sit at the table with their husbands or address them by name, he attributed the custom to their maternal ancestors’ resentment at enforced marriage to the very men who had conquered and killed their fathers, husbands and sons. It is not so much the plausibility of the aetiology itself that is significant, but the underlying recognition that women forced into such unions could harbour rancour towards their new partners. Conclusion War created and confirmed gender-roles: for the Greeks the spear was supposed to be man’s accoutrement, the distaff woman’s (Il. 6.490–4). In warfare, however, the stakes for women were, at times, just as high as for men. They may not usually have risked their lives on the battlefield, but the consequences of the defeat of their men could fall upon them nonetheless. They faced the loss of family and kin and the overturning of their world, even being forced to toil for and to consort with their previous enemies. Consequently, women were held up as an inspiration for their men not to fail in battle, and women appear to have encouraged their men to act bravely and not let them fall into the hands of the enemy.

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At the root of communal militarism, whether it was manifested in the actions and reactions of combatants and non-combatants or in their dress and demeanour, or whether it was fostered through harsh indoctrinatory education or was implicit in the everyday relationships of civic and domestic life, was a harsh reality. In terms of self-identity, freedom and survival, the stakes were high. For those who survived the personal brutality and trauma of combat, the social pressure could be intense. For those who succumbed to defeat, there was the real possibility of humiliation, enslavement or death. Notes 1 Hanson drew on the insights of John Keegan’s Face of Battle (New York, 1976). 2 Plut. Mor. 214a73 records how the ephors attempted to annul the custom after the Spartan rout at Leuctra, since too many Spartiates were affected. 3 Plut. Lyc. 21; Athen. 14.631c; Vernant 1991d, 227–9. 4 This strange and brutal ritual became a tourist attraction in the Roman period, and a test of endurance rather than agility by the first and second century AD, as youths submitted themselves to a straightforward flogging at the altar, Plut. Lyc. 18.1–2. 5 Tyrt. frg. 6–7; Athen. 14.657d; Plut. Lyc. 24.2; Plut. Eth. 239d–e. 6 It was supplemented by the wild game caught by Spartan hunting parties. Indeed, according to Xenophon (Lac. Pol. 4.7), all Spartan men had to go hunting regularly because of its benefit in keeping men agile and fit for war. On the military value of hunting cf. Cyn. 12.1–4; L. P. Rawlings 2000. 7 Thucydides 6.98 noted that the Athenian army was organised by tribes. 8 e.g. Thuc. 1.24 Epidamnian oligarchs, 3.85 Corcyrean oligarchs, 4.66 Megarian oligarchs, 4.76 Boeotian democrats; see Jackson 1973, 242 ff.; Macdonald 1984; McKechnie 1989, 102. 9 For Sparta as an armed camp, see Plut. Lyc. 24. 1–2. 10 Thuc. 6.56; but cf. [Arist.] Ath. Pol. 18.4, which claims that the militarisation of the festival occurred under the democracy. 11 It appears that competitive boat races were included in the event, Pritchett 3.174–5, and nn. 75–7. 12 Isocrates 8.82. The display of tribute must be later than 454 BC, when the league treasury was transferred to Athens: Goldhill 1987, 62. 13 Other festivals too could have militaristic elements. Plutarch (Mor. 349d–e) provides an extensive list of military victories that received festivals in Athens and he notes also the spoils and trophies that decorated the city. 14 On women in Greek warfare see Schaps 1982, Loman 2004. 15 Thuc. 2.4.2, 3.74.1; Plut. Pyrrh. 34; Paus. 1.13.8; Polyaen. 8.68; Barry 1996, 66–74. 16 Xen. Hell. 7.1.30; cf. Lac. Pol. 9.5, where it is imagined that the ‘trembler’ has to maintain his daughters at home, and explain to them why they cannot get husbands.

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17 However, when the Thebans invaded Laconia in 370 BC, the Spartan women were thrown into such a panic that it rendered them worse than useless, Xen. Hell. 6.5.28; Arist. Pol. 1269b; Powell 2004. 18 On fear, rape and marriage in Aeschylus’ Seven Against Thebes, see Byrne 1997. On concubinage and non-consensuality in Trojan Women, see Scodel 1998. see also Euripides’ Andromache, which explores the fate of a spear-won slave, who has shared the bed of her captor and borne him a child; cf. Cassandra in Hecuba. On the contemporary resonances of Euripides’ Trojan Women, see MaxwellStuart 1973, 397 ff.; Scodel 1976, 139–40. 19 On this episode see Harrison 1997, 188–9. 20 Diod. 17.13.6. Plutarch (Alex. 12), displaying his local knowledge, relates how, during the sack, a certain Timoclea managed to kill her violator by luring him to a well and pushing him in (cf. Polyaen. 8.40). 21 Scodel 1998, 142. For a general discussion of ancient rape see Doblhofer 1994. 22 Schaps 1982, 200–2; Loman 2004, 43–4. Equally rare are the resolutions by men to kill their women and children rather than let them fall into enemy hands. Although there are several examples from the Hellenistic period, earlier examples tended to be of non-Greeks such as the Babylonians (Hdt 3.150.2), Boges (Hdt. 7.107), Croesus (Bacch. 3.30–5), and Sardanapalus (Diod. 2.27.2). The proverb ‘Phocian desperation’ referred to a resolution made in a war against the Thessalians in the archaic period by the men (or by the women and children, Plut. Mor. 244a–d) to burn their families and possessions if defeated, but the Phocians won the battle, and so did not have to carry through their decision (Paus. 10.1.6–10). 23 Il. 19.301–2. Scodel (1998, 141 n. 7) observes that in lamenting for Patroclus, Briseis also remembers her own lost husband and family (Il. 19.287–300).

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Any study of Greek warfare reveals but a fraction of the vast array of human experience of war. It is a vast and complex subject that often daunts even the expert and defies categorisation and reduction. The material, epigraphic, iconographic and literary sources are sometimes complementary, but often they are frustratingly contradictory. This is not just because they are incomplete – only a fraction of what the Greeks themselves had to hand survives for the modern investigator – but because, in antiquity, people had different views and interpretations of how and why war took the forms that it did. State inscriptions that were set up to honour the war dead or to detail the specific relationship between communities in alliance clearly served a different purpose from graffiti carved into the statues of Egyptian pharaohs by passing Greek mercenaries: they each said something different about the nature of war. Arms and armour deposited in the temple at Olympia had a symbolic value that transcended its functional form: we can see the material remains of this dedicatory habit, but in order to understand the meanings it might have had, we generally turn to literary sources. They mention dedications to the gods as part of the division of booty, often with little comment, but sometimes we are led to infer motives other than piety. When, in 426 BC, Demosthenes, who earlier that year had suffered a heavy defeat in Aetolia, dedicated his share of victory booty from the Battle of Olpae in various temples in Athens, Thucydides (3.114) wryly observed that it was now safer for him to return to Athens than it had been. We are left to speculate on Demosthenes’ own motivations – thanksgiving to the gods, personal advertisement, conspicuous euergetism, an act of contrition to defuse envy at his personal good fortune (the Athenian state’s share of the booty had been captured by the enemy while in transit), or some other reason? We shall never fully understand, although we can perceive the slant that Thucydides attempted to put on it. The veiled motives of our narrators and their attempts to interpret and understand, in their own ways, their own experiences of warfare, underpin the problems facing the modern observer. It is also at the root of why modern scholars themselves often disagree: they are

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wrestling not only with ancient representations and perceptions, but also with their own. This study has attempted to show the complexity and the diversity of Greek experiences of war. Any attempt to draw together such a broad range of materials and divergent ancient and modern representations and insights is bound to be partial and selective. However, there have been a number of recurrent themes that are worth emphasising here. Most Greek states relied on the personal resources of individuals in order to prosecute their wars. Soldiers equipped themselves from their own means, which meant that the social and economic differences inherent in Greek society were manifested on campaign and in battle. This was often at the expense of what modern observers might consider military efficiency. Most armies contained large numbers of poorly armed light infantry. For each hoplite present at Plataea there was also a light infantryman, except in the case of the Spartans, who brought seven helots each with them to the battle (Hdt. 9.29) – but in our battle accounts they hardly have a decisive importance and their military effect is considerably downplayed. In most engagements, there were also rich horsemen, some of whom dismounted to fight with the hoplites, while others acted as true cavalry. However, because of the expense of horse-rearing in Greece, there were rarely considerable enough numbers of cavalrymen to make much of a difference to the course of battle. The most ideologically important infantry from the seventh to fourth centuries were the hoplites, but hoplite equipment was no real constraint to individual action, and could be variable in quality and extent. From the period of the Persian Wars, Greek states did begin to organise their fighters into formations that could operate as discrete units on the battlefield. In the fifth and fourth centuries, cavalrymen were increasingly selected and organised by their states, while psiloi were separated out from the phalanx. Hoplites were sorted into units (lochoi, taxeis, morai), often based on local or tribal affiliations, that acted as semi-autonomous divisions of the phalanx in battle and independent forces in other campaign contexts. Combat on plains was attractive to farmers because it was a landscape that they understood and knew how to get the most out of in terms of forage and plunder, but they often had to operate in other terrain. Hoplites were military all-rounders; they possessed the potential for individual and tactical flexibility that allowed them to operate in a variety of combat contexts: in battles, ambushes, skirmishes and sieges. Hit-and-run raids and pitched battle engagements by land and sea were part and parcel of many Greeks’ experience of war. Greek land campaigns were generally brief, because of the reliance on personal forms of supply and procurement. However, the increasing monetarisation of war in the fifth century BC enabled some states to pay for

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troops and keep them in the field longer than the traditional summer window of operations. Pay enabled soldiers to purchase supplies and foodstuffs from merchants who either followed the army or met them on the way at designated or improvised markets, although most armies had recourse to pillage, where available and diplomatically appropriate; it was frequently a necessity for survival. The clearest development of military forces as instruments of the state came at sea, where navies were constructed from state-owned ships, commanded by state-appointed officials and crewed by men who, from about 480 BC, were paid a wage for their service. Navies were expensive and needed systems to procure materials for the construction and maintenance of warships and the resources and revenues to pay for craftsmen, labourers and crews. Naval warfare encouraged and was enhanced by fiscal structures, although even the richest and most economically diverse of Greek poleis, Athens, relied on its very wealthy men to perform trierarchies from their own resources. Persia provided the impetus for the creation of large trireme fleets in the Aegean and the development of a naval league to oppose it. Athens was a major force within this Delian League, due to the foresight of its leaders, the commitment of the democracy and the wealth from silver mines in Attica. It leapt ahead of its rivals to create an Aegean-wide empire because of the dedication and continual practice of its crews, its control over the purse-strings of the allied fleet through Athenian appointed helle-notamiai, and by taking the lion’s share of spoils and conquered territories. Athenian imperialism took its citizens on campaigns throughout the Aegean, such as the one led by Sophanes, who was killed in Thrace, ‘fighting for gold-mines’ (Hdt. 9.75). The empire made the city richer and kept the navy at a high state of efficiency. To match it, the Peloponnesians eventually had to turn to Persia for financial support. Greek military encounters with foreigners (barbaroi) started early. The Homeric poems already depicted a world where heroes and their followers travelled the Mediterranean, sacking cities in Asia Minor, calling in at Sidon and raiding Egypt, to cite some of the less fantastic destinations. From the seventh to the fourth centuries, many Greeks found themselves fighting against, but also serving in the armies of Near Eastern states and empires. It should be remembered that at the Battle of Salamis, the Persians employed many ships crewed by Ionian Greeks, while at Plataea, they fielded significant numbers of allied and subject Greek hoplites. When Alexander invaded Persia, he faced several armies that had significant contingents of Greek mercenaries. On the other hand, Greek poleis sometimes had occasion to employ barbarians in their own forces. From the sixth century, Athenians possessed a corps of Scythian archers and employed Thracians during the Peloponnesian War, while Dionysius, tyrant of Syracuse, briefly lent the

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Spartans some of his Spanish and Celtic mercenaries (Xen. Hell. 7.1.20, 31). It is probable that some Athenian metics, who served as hoplites or in other military capacities, were originally of non-Greek stock, as were some, if not most, of the slaves who were brought on campaign by their masters. Greek conceptions of the military inferiority of barbarians, which appear to have arisen in the fifth and fourth centuries BC, arose from these complex contacts. They were given a strong impetus by major victories over the Persians in 490 and 480–479 and in the successes of the Delian League of the 470s and 460s, and were confirmed, in the minds of some Greek writers, by episodes such as the survival of the Ten Thousand in 400 BC, the limited success of Agesilaus’ campaign in the 390s, and, finally, the conquests of Alexander the Great. Such thinkers, although they often deplored the subservience of some Greeks to their barbarian neighbours or overlords, tended to overlook the military successes that barbarians had achieved against Greeks. Communal interest and support was often an important factor even in privately organised operations: the motives for violence were often reprisal and revenge just as much as honour and gain. The Greeks possessed notions of honour, shame, glory and cowardice, which were socially constructed, but nevertheless open to interpretation and re-evaluation in the light of actions and achievements. There were ideals about the conduct of war that many claimed to follow, but few abided by. Winners justified their conduct as glorious and honourable, while losers complained that it was shaming and hybristic. In reality, it seems, the lying Odysseus was just as important a paradigm for emulation as the angry Achilles, not least because Odysseus was just as capable of putting his enemies at a disadvantage through deception as standing forth and killing them directly in the heat of battle. Consequently, few armies had any qualms about winning victory by exploiting any advantages they could identify; they were limited only by their capacity to organise themselves to exploit such advantages. From Agamemnon to Alexander, the evidence suggests that at no time were the Greeks ever constrained by a sense of agonism to conduct their wars in a fair and sportsmanlike fashion. At Sepeia, for example, the Argive army had been attacked and defeated while having their midday meal (Hdt. 6.78), and the survivors were burned to death after they had fled into a sacred wood. ‘Thefts of war’ were not unique; neither were the brutal killings of survivors by all possible means. Rubbing shoulders with honour and glory were their martial corollaries: killing, wounding, blood, death and trauma. The epics and poets never shy away from juxtaposing them, even if some, like Tyrtaeus, made exhortations to men to look to ideals in order to get through the realities. Military engagements were attempts to destroy the enemy, an assertion of the dominance of

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one group over the other, or a return for an aggressive assertion of hybris perpetrated in the past. While victors might revel in their destruction of the enemy, boasting of their exploits and talking in terms of glory, such violence had the effect of compelling the defeated to accept the power of the victors to do as they wished: to sell, enslave or execute prisoners, to allow burial or (in theory, if rarely in practice) to deny it, and to take what they could lay their hands on from the lands of the defeated. Thucydides’ lesson ought never to be forgotten: War is a violent teacher, who forces many men to have a character to match their situation. (Thucydides 3.82)

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Wheeler, E. L. 1983, ‘The hoplomachoi and Vegetius’ Spartan drill-masters’, Chiron 13, 1–20. —— 1987, ‘Ephorus and the prohibition of missiles’, TAPA 117, 157–82. —— 1988, Stratagem and the Vocabulary of Military Trickery, Leiden. —— 1991, ‘The general as hoplite’, in V. D. Hanson (ed.), Hoplites: The Classical Greek Battle Experience, London, 121–72. Whitehead, D. 1977, The Ideology of the Athenian Metic (PCPS Suppl. 4), Cambridge. —— 1981, ‘The archaic Athenian zeugitai’, CQ 31, 282–6. —— 1987, ‘The periplous’, G&R 34, 178–85. —— 1991, ‘Who equipped mercenary troops in Classical Greece?’, Historia 40, 105–13. Wickersham, J. 1994, Hegemony and Greek Historians, London. Will, E. 1955, Korinthiaka. Recherches sur l’histoire et la civilisation de Corinthe des origines aux guerres médiques, Paris. Willetts, R. F. 1959, ‘The servile interregnum at Argos’, Hermes 87, 495–506. Wilson, J. R. 1989, ‘Shifting and permanent ‘philia’ in Thucydides’, G&R 36, 147–51. Winter, F. 1971, Greek Fortifications, Toronto. Worley, L. 1994, Hippeis: The Cavalry of Ancient Greece, Boulder, Col. Yadin, Y. 1963, The Art of Warfare in Biblical Lands in the Light of Archaeological Study, 2 vols, London.

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Index Note: ‘n.’ after a page reference indicates the number of a note on that page.

Acarnania 10, 62n.37, 89, 93, 154 Achaea 17n.11, 149 Acharnae 8, 15, 17n.3, 63, 135–6, 149 Achilles 5, 19, 28–35, 41n.23, 61n.30, 75, 129–30, 142n.1, 153, 155, 159, 178, 196, 203–6, 226 Aegina 106, 109, 111, 126n.15, 164, 176n.36, 187, 199, 217 Aegitium 86, 174n.16, 212 Aegospotami 110, 114, 120, 121, 195 Aeneas 30, 37–8, 41n.22 Aeneas Tacticus 71, 137, 139, 141, 217–18 Aeschylus 47, 101n.5, 120–1, 167, 185 Aetolia 83, 86, 100, 110, 174n.16, 223 Agamemnon 28–33 passim, 36, 141, 153, 155, 159, 172, 226 age groups 93, 209–11 Agesilaus 72, 74, 81–2, 89, 97–9, 151, 155, 171–2, 175n.18, 202n.24, 218 Agesipolis 185 aggression 9–10, 12, 23, 29, 74, 96, 120, 123, 132, 204, 227 Agis 84–5, 91, 149–50 agonism see war agriculture 6, 9, 16n.1, 17n.7, 48, 60n.14, 73–6, 137, 144–9, 155, 157, 184, 210 crops 6–7, 48, 60n14, 63, 118, 130, 144–8, 156, 162, 185 see also economy; farmers; livestock Aias 35, 37, 60n.14, 178, 204–5, 215, 220

Alcaeus 43–6 Alcibiades 99, 150, 155, 158–9, 190 Alexander the Great 1, 42n.36, 68, 73–7, 88, 91, 99, 103n.32, 120, 140–1, 150–1, 174n.9, 201n.15, 225–6 allies 7–18 passim, 30, 32, 41n.20, 67, 72, 78, 109–12, 117–18, 120, 134–5, 152, 154, 157, 162–6, 170, 197, 219, 225 allied contingents 70, 78, 83–5, 88, 91, 94, 100, 114, 145, 159, 187–8, 191 see also friends; treaties; tribute Amphictyonic League 168–9 Amphipolis 17n.5, 96, 113, 120, 127n.16, 201n.16, 202n.27 anger 31, 35–7, 93, 124–5, 201n.2, 203–5 annihilation 1, 4, 29–30, 51, 64, 70, 87, 90, 93, 97, 119, 124, 141, 143n.5, 154, 198, 212, 217, 226–7 Apollo 5, 130, 177–8, 189, 192, 194 Apollodorus 60n.20, 116, 170 Arcadia 84, 95, 139, 149–50, 162, 197, 218 archers 21, 23–5, 40n.11, 55–6, 61n.30, n.33–5, 66–8, 78n.5, 82–3, 86 horse-archers 78n.5, 87, 92–4, 129–30, 140, 178, 225 see also bows; Scythians Archidamian War 8, 17n.7, 73–4, 114, 136–8, 145–9, 165, 173n.4, 175n.28

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see also Peloponnesian War Archidamus 135, 149, 156, 174n.6, 190 Archilochus, 47–8, 56, 59n.7, 99 Ares 37, 48, 54, 177–9, 204, 208 arete- 54, 100–1, 153, 198, 208 Arginusae 124, 213 Argos 26, 45, 65–6, 70, 78, 83, 85, 90–3, 102n.9, 131, 135, 182–90, 197, 201n.8, 206–8, 216–18, 226 Aristodemus 100, 205–7 Aristophanes, playwright 6–17 passim liturgist 166–7 Aristotle 42n.36, 53, 58 armour see corselets; greaves; helmets; hoplites; shield army mobilisation 10–12, 22, 30–3, 50, 60n.13, 70, 73, 78, 86, 107, 115–16, 148, 156, 159, 169–70, 187 wings of armies 14, 83–5, 88, 91, 178 see also battle; formations; logistics Artemis 65, 92, 171–2, 178, 191, 204, 209 Artemisium 64, 77, 107, 114, 127n.24, 159 aspis see shield Assyria 128–30 Athena 29, 48, 67, 130, 177–80, 184, 188, 204, 216 Athenian cult 44, 148, 163–4, 168, 180, 215 owl 160, 185 snake 180, 184 Athens passim, acropolis 25, 50, 133, 143n.7, 148, 150, 163–5, 176n.43, 180, 184–5, 216 assembly 7, 11, 110, 124, 162–3, 166, 184, 213 democratic ideology 110–11, 133, 135–6, 167, 187–8, 216 empire 13–14, 110, 116–17, 160–5, 225 see also Attica; navy; Pericles atrocity 195, 214 Attica 73–4, 87, 135–8, 145–9, 173n.5, 225

see also Acharnae, Athens, Marathon Babylon 21, 43–4, 159, 222n.22 baggage, 69, 71, 73, 102n.18, 188 mules 75, 77 wagons 75, 198 barbarians 74, 86, 93, 112, 179–80, 225–6 see also Celts; Persia; Scythians battle advance 34–7, 86–8, 91, 96, 192 charge 22, 38, 56, 87–96 passim, 191 danger zone 37–8, 53, 95–6 decisiveness 66, 68–71, 192 deployment 22, 48, 53, 81–91 passim, 96, 101n.5 doratismos 47, 53 lulls 94–5, 123 o-thismos 53, 61n.27, 90, 93–7, 103n.24 outflanking 58, 82–5, 87–91, 96–7, 104 pursuit 39, 54, 65, 85, 87, 90–1, 97–9 rallying back 85, 87, 96 reserve forces 61n.28, 84, 91, 114 rout 5–6, 35, 39, 47, 52, 54, 60n.14, 84–100 passim, 102n.13, 120–1, 124, 177, 192, 206, 212, 221n.2 see also formations; phalanx; skirmishing; surprise; tactics boasting 37, 53, 99, 158, 197, 227 Boeotia 7, 8, 17n.9, 68, 71–2, 78n.2, 79n.17, 83–94 passim, 106, 131, 134, 141, 143n.14, 194, 212, 221n.8 booty 6, 28–33, 67, 69, 75–6, 140, 149–54, 159, 170–1, 175n.18, 223–4 see also prisoners; raiding; trade borders, 44, 48 crossing, 65, 186, 188 see also forts bows 23, 40n.9, 47, 56, 139 arrows 5, 21, 38, 40n.11, 61n.35, 72, 99, 130, 191 gastraphete-s 139, 143n.16

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Index see also archers Brasidas 68, 72–3, 83, 143n.11, 190, 192, 199, 201n.16, 202n.27 bravery 5, 23, 33–4, 92–4, 99–101, 103n.33, 192, 196, 205–11, 218, 220 breastplates see corselets bribes see gifts burial see funerals calendars 17n.7, 189–90, 200, 215 seasonal activity 69, 119, 144–5, 189 see also festivals camps 66, 80n.27, 89, 91, 97, 129–30, 136, 140, 151 huts 178 Caria 74, 104, 109, 143n.7, 154 Carthage 80n.27, 105, 107, 124, 127n.27, 138–9, 140–2, 162, 175n.20 casualties 4, 37, 53, 64–5, 72, 77–8, 84, 97, 99, 119, 123–4, 125n.3, 127n.24, 152, 170, 211, 213 casualty lists 110, 199, 216 Catana 124, 127n.24 cavalry 39, 42n.36, 53, 67–8, 70–73, 76, 79n.16, 80n.27, 81–97 passim, 115, 120, 136–7, 147, 149, 158, 164, 184, 189, 213–15, 224 Celts 41n.16, 86, 180, 226 Centaurs 29, 33 Chaeronea 196, 212 Chalcis 17n.5, 45, 65, 67, 79n.6, 175n.21 challenges 37, 65, 71, 81–2 single combat (monomachia) 24, 35–7, 39, 44, 53, 59n.2, 66, 78n.2, 100 see also battle; champions champions 37, 81–2, 100 Battle of the Champions 65–6, 203, 206–7, 217 chariots, charioteers 20–7, 31, 39, 40n.11, 42n.35–7, 158, 179, 183, 199 children 1, 5, 60n.14, 104, 118, 141–2, 151, 181, 184, 204, 207–8, 217–19 Chios 67, 105, 109, 114, 132, 180–1

247

cho-ra 2, 48, 63, 138, 148, 213 Cicones 30, 41n.20, 26, 129, 152–3 Cimon 109, 123, 126n.13, 150, 212 citizenship 2, 44, 53, 148, 182 exclusivity 15, 49–50, 58, 162, 189, 205–6, 210–14 landowning 48–50, 148 civil conflict see stasis Clearchus 156–7 Cleon 83, 126n.12, 141 Cnidus 182, 184 colonisation 44, 132 communication, battle 91, 116 lines 74–5, 143n.14 salpinx 91, 187 signals 32, 91, 96 companions (hetairoi) 6, 32–3, 37–8, 104–5, 196, 212 the Companions 88 conquest 1, 4, 18n.20, 44, 47, 54, 67, 68–9, 76, 93–4, 107, 150, 160, 225–6 Corcyra 14, 106–7, 126n.15, 139, 162, 171, 173n.1, 221n.8 Corinth 14–15, 70, 72, 78, 80n.29, 83, 90, 96–7, 106–8, 111, 113, 115–16, 120, 124, 126n.15, 131, 135 Corinthian War 12, 137 Coronea 92–3, 97–8, 193, 212 corpses 90, 98, 194, 196 at sea 120–4, 127n.24 bones 99, 121, 197–8 retrieval 37–8, 96, 193–4, 198, 202n.24 spoilage 48, 194, 197 see also funerals corselets 21, 24–5, 36–8, 40n.11, 45–7, 103n.22, 157–8, 207 cowards 31, 33, 47, 60n.11, 100, 106, 226 see also fear; tremblers Crete 28–9, 32, 83, 86, 104–5, 131, 152, 183 Croton 107, 168, 179 Cunaxa 92, 159, 171

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Cyprus 1, 39, 42n.37, 167 Cyrene 39, 42n.37, 162 Cyrus 156–7, 170–1, 182 Cyzicus 113, 124–5 dancing 58, 88, 118, 166, 185, 204, 209 Darius III 76, 88 death 5, 19, 33, 36, 54, 181, 187, 194–5, 217, 226 beautiful 195–6, 207 penalty 11–12, 124, 213 see also casualties, corpses, funerals Decelea 137–8, 146–9, 171, 173n.5, 174n.7 defeat 4, 65, 77, 82–3, 94, 98–100, 102n.22, 103n.34, 105, 108, 110, 113–14, 120–5 passim, 133–8 passim, 142, 158, 170, 174n.16, 187, 193–5, 206–7, 212, 218–21, 222n.22, 223, 227 defence, mobile 71, 79n.19, 136–7, 147 objectives 11, 49, 63, 77–8, 133, 148 systems 20–2, 79n.16, 128–39 passim, 143n.14, 216–18 see also forts; guards; siege; walls Delian League 2, 9–10, 12, 17n.10, 160, 163–4, 174n.10, 225–6 Delium 71, 85–6, 88, 90, 92, 96–8, 101n.4, 134, 151, 194, 212 Delphi 46, 168–9, 179–84, 189–90, 202n.25 Demaratus 47, 94, 208, 210 democracy see Athens Demosthenes, general 83, 100, 114, 154, 156, 174n.16, 212, 223 Demosthenes, orator 155, 157 Dicaeopolis 7–8, 11, 15–16, 74 Diomedes 5, 31, 34, 130, 155, 178–80 Dionysius I 80n.27, 102n.22, 138, 157, 168 Dionysus 7–8, 162, 167, 215 diplomacy 2, 8–10, 12, 44, 64–6, 74, 83, 113, 118, 126n.8, 140, 154, 162, 173n.5, 202n.24, 225 heralds 98, 179, 193–4, 202n.24

see also allies; treaties disease 136, 140, 178, plague 50, 65, 70, 79n.21, 180 display 23, 99, 103n.33, 128, 131, 158–9, 187, 195, 199–200, 205–17 economy 144–76 economic activity 115, 128, 157–8 impact of war 137, 146–50, 169, 173n.5, 174n.7 profit 12–13, 79n.22, 150–4, 157, 164–5, 167, 172 resources 49, 112, 132, 158–65 structures 2, 142, 159–68, 172, 225 status 45, 49–53, 155–7, 214, 224 see also agriculture; finance; trade egalitarianism 49, 52–3, 63, 209–10 Egypt 22, 33–4, 43–5, 67, 70, 76, 80n.27, 93, 104–5, 159, 162, 223 ekdromoi 93, 102n.21 Elis, Epeans 12, 30, 83, 149–50, 153 elite troops 72, 85, 88, 91 see also companions; Sacred Band Epaminondas 89, 95 ephebes see youths Ephesus 74, 92–3, 105 ephors 188, 208–9, 218, 221n.2 Epidaurus 8, 78, 83 Eretria 65, 67, 78n.6, 93 Eris 177–9 Erythrae 79n.17, 82, 141 Etruscans 105, 168 Euboea 65, 83, 137, 162, 173n.5 Euripides 142, 204 Eurymedon, general 156 river 109, 123, 150, 197 evacuation 134–5, 141, 173n.5, 180 refugees 51, 105 executions 127n.24, 140, 169, 195, 219 see also atrocity exile, exiles 28–9, 44, 51, 59, 60n.21, 67–8, 90, 126n.9, 146, 149, 156, 173n.1, 206–7, 212 families 5–6, 28–31, 60n.11, 92, 99,

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Index 126n.9, 141, 155, 195–9, 207–8, 212–13, 215–16, 218–20, 222n.22, 23 farmers 2, 7–8, 15, 16n.1, 17n.7, 48–52, 60n.14, 73–6, 136, 145–9, 224 ethos 48–9, 52–3, 58, 63 farms, 59, 63, 77–8, 133, 146–8, 214 fatigue 6, 82, 95, 97, 123, 153 fear 12–13, 16, 22, 28, 31, 54–5, 98, 109, 119, 121–2, 145, 152, 177, 180, 183, 204, 208, 210–13, 219, 222n.18 panic 82, 87–90, 104, 178, 191, 201n.2, n.16, 222n.17 see also cowards; tremblers ferocity 23, 82, 96, 100, 204 festivals 9, 17n.7, 105, 125n.2, 151, 166, 168, 171–2, 178, 186–7, 189, 192, 200, 215–16, 221n.10, n.13 see also calendars; religion finance 115, 158–73, 175n.28 flutes 61n.30, 92, 98, 118, 191 see also communication followers 28, 32–4, 41n.26, 52, 105, 153, 225 e-qe-ta 21–22 see also companions food see meals, supply foraging 75–7, 79n.26, 120, 147, 171, 224 see also supply formations 21, 25, 34–5, 39, 53, 56–8, 83–7, 91, 95, 98, 102n.13, n.18, 208, 210, 212, 224 disorder 56, 88–92 passim, 105, 178, 191 embolon 88 enomotia 84–5 eutaxia 52, 58, 100 lochoi 84–5, 96, 101n.7, 102n.18, 224 morai 84–5, 102n.8, 189, 202n.24, 224 taxeis 53, 72, 84, 87, 96, 101n.5, 221n.7, 224 see also elite troops; officers; phalanx forts 51, 68, 72, 134–8, 143n.14, 146–9, 216 see also defence; guards; walls

249

freedom 6, 30, 50, 109, 111–12, 125, 133–4, 160–1, 168, 208–10, 215, 221 friends, friendship 6, 9–11, 28, 32, 54, 65, 74, 76, 82–3, 85, 98–9, 105, 122, 141, 151, 155–7, 175n.18, 212 see also allies; companions; guestfriendship funerals 6, 98–9, 103n.33, 124, 193–9, 202n.27, 216, 227 commemoration 110, 187, 193–200 passim, 215 games 195, 198, 215 graves 22–3, 26, 38, 45–6, 61n.31, 102n.10 mourning 195–8, 206, 208, 213, 220 orations 198 gates 19, 51, 62n.37, 128–32, 197 Lion Gate 128 see also walls Gaugamela 88, 91, 102n.14 Gedrosian desert 77 gender roles 217–20 generals 7, 11, 44, 54, 64, 80n.27, 83–5, 91–2, 98–101, 103n.33, 107, 115–24 passim, 153–4, 168, 171, 182–3, 188, 190–5, 201n.17, 202n.24, 212–19 passim see also officers; strategy gifts 12, 30, 74, 90, 99, 126n.8, 155, 167 bribes 154, 156, 160, 213 euergetism 10, 17n.14, 158, 214–15, 223 see also guest-friendship Glaucus 5, 155, 206 glory 5, 35, 44, 81, 141, 195–9, 203–11 passim, 226–7 graffiti 43, 223 Granicus 88, 102n.15 greaves 35, 45–7 guards 7, 69–72, 104, 113, 147, 185 bodyguards 84, 102n.22 garrisons 50–1, 82, 85, 133–5, 138 rearguard 77 guest-friendship 19–20, 39, 155–7, 171

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see also allies; friends; gifts hair 19, 30, 98, 195, 206–11, 214, 217 Haliartus 62n.37, 74, 96, 202n.24 harbours 50–1, 76, 78, 105–27 passim, 135–9, 162–3, 176n.35 see also navy; Piraeus hatred 14–15, 178–9, 220 Hector 19, 30, 35–7, 130, 195–6, 206, 220 Helen 19, 29–31, 41n.23 Hellenic League 109, 117, 183 Hellespont 93, 113, 162 helmets 21–4, 34, 45–6, 50, 55, 61n.30, 62n.39, 103n.22, 157–8, 218 helots 70, 84–5, 145, 209, 210, 224 Heracles 30, 48, 54, 89, 204 Hermippus 162 Herodotus 66, 78n.3, 176n.32 heroes 1, 5, 19, 27, 31, 35–9, 53, 130, 177, 179–80, 190, 198–9, 225 see also champions; promachoi hetairoi see companions Histiaeus 112–13, 126n.16, 181 Hittites 22, 128–9 Homeric poems 6, 27–42, 52–7, 64, 104–6, 141–2, 143n.4, 152–5, 220, 225 homosexuality 212 honour and dishonour 6, 9, 12–16, 31, 52, 54, 66–7, 98–101, 151–7, 160, 193–9 passim, 205–9, 216, 219, 221, 223, 226 see also glory; hybris; shame hoplites combat 93–7 development 42n.36, 52 equipment 26, 35, 38–9, 43–64 passim, 69, 92, 99–100, 102n.20, n.22, 123, 154, 158–9, 199, 202n.30, 206, 211–12, 215–16, 224 ethos 48–9, 52, 63–5, 68, 71, 74, 77–8, 134, 148, 224 military roles 35, 50–73 passim,

79n.10, 81–5, 89–93, 110, 123–4, 146–7 numbers 69–71, 86, 102n.7, 22, 115, 149, 224 social status 48–52, 145, 148, 169, 199, 209, 214–15 see also battle; formations marines; phalanx hoplon see shield horses 5, 25, 27, 34–5, 42n.36, 75, 77, 87, 104, 155, 157–9, 171, 180, 198, 213, 224 Wooden Horse 34, 130, 203 see also cavalry; chariots hunting 23, 60n.16, 71, 171, 221n.6 hybris 14, 15, 29–31, 74, 104, 219, 226–7 Hyccara 151, 154, 219 Idomeneus 28, 32, 37–8, 105 imperialism 4, 13, 69, 76, 107, 110–11, 134, 150, 159–63, 175n.28, 216, 225 see also thalassocracy India 1, 77 infantry see archers; hoplites, peltasts; psiloi; slingers interception 106, 119, 121, 125, 154 intimidation 1, 7, 93, 109, 121, 139, 192 see also display Ionia 12, 67, 90, 93–4, 104–5, 108–9, 120, 126n.10, 143n.7, 217, 225 Ionian revolt 67, 92–3, 108, 112, 117, 136, 150 Ionian War 115–16, 164, 170–1 Iphicrates 79n.7, 96, 100, 117, 175n.17, 211 Issus 76, 88, 102n.15 Italy 1, 23, 86, 113, 121, 162 Ithaca 29, 31, 106, 129 Ithome 143n.8, 182 Ker 204 kings 6, 12, 21, 128, 131, 155, 162, 172 Homeric basilees 29, 32,125n.3, 152–3, 155, 206 Macedonian 91, 155–6, 160, 162,

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Index 174n.12, 201n.15 Persian 9, 43, 94, 112, 196, 208 Spartan 47, 67, 77, 84–5, 94, 135, 150, 154–6, 185, 188–92, 196 Wanax 21–2, 40n.5 Knossos 21–5 kyberne-tai 104, 110, 115–16, 122 Lacedaemonians see Sparta Laconia 13, 50, 197, 199, 222n.17 Lade 105, 108, 117, 136, 181, 199 law 2, 11–12, 15, 44, 67, 149, 206–9, 215 courts 166–7 divine 194–5 jurors 93, 110, 126n.12 justice 6, 111, 190, 195, 213, 219 lawlessness 111 natural 8–9 punishment 48, 167, 169, 209 Lechaeum 86, 102n.8, n.21, 189, 202n.24 Lelantine War 65, 67 Leonidas 77, 96–7, 196, 199 Leptines 124, 127n.24 Lesbos 43–4, 107–9, 114, 181 see also Mytilene Leuctra 90, 95, 100, 193, 211, 218, 221n.2 light infantry see psiloi Linear B script 21–5, 40n.3, n.11, 130 livestock 71, 118, 162, 171, 173n.5–6, 189, 191, 208–9 cattle 12, 30, 41n.26, 75–6, 129, 149, 152, 155, 172, 204–5 oxen 35, 75, 155, 201n.11 sheep 30, 37, 60n.14, 146, 189, 201n.11, 206 see also agriculture; baggage; horses; raiding; supply Locris 12, 18n.17, 78, 94, 131, 142n.14 Italian Locrians 168, 179–80 logistics 3, 4, 69, 73–7, 113, 133–6, 142, 145, 147, 161 see also army; baggage; supply luck 179, 186, 204, 223

251

Lycia 143n.7, 197, 206 Lydia 12, 126n.8, 133, 160 Lysander 96, 136, 170, 195 Macedonia 1, 64, 68, 76, 88, 113, 120, 138–40, 155, 160, 162, 168, 175n.21 Mantinea 8, 82–8 passim, 91, 97–8, 100, 134, 197, 202n.23 Mantitheus 72, 74, 158, 214–15 Marathon 56, 70, 84, 89–94 passim, 101n.5, 102n.17, n.20, 108, 173n.5, 179, 189, 194, 197–8, 215–16 Mardonius 64–5, 81, 88, 100, 217 marines 50, 76, 83, 110, 123–4, 187, 211 meals 67, 105, 117–18, 120, 192, 210, 226 feasting 7–8, 29, 33, 162, 195, 206 symposia 6, 212 see also supply; wine Megara 14–16, 51, 60n.21, 68, 70, 72, 80n.29, 111, 126n.15, 134–5, 138, 145–7, 149, 173n.5, 199, 221n.8 Megarian decree 16, 18n.21, 162 Melos 137, 142, 203, 219 Menelaus 29–32, 37, 155 mercenaries 40n.10, 43–5, 59n.3, 67, 86–7, 92–3, 102n.22, 116, 139, 156–60, 168–71, 172–3, 175n.25, 182, 197, 223, 225–6 see also oarsmen Messenia 54, 67, 145, 182 see also helots; Ithome; Naupactus metics 51, 59, 60n.18, 70, 115, 198, 226 Miletus 107–8, 112, 133, 136, 141 militarism 152–3, 200, 208–16, 221n.13 Miltiades 92, 99 Mindarus 119, 124 mines 108, 112–14, 129, 136, 143n.15, 146, 160, 164, 170, 175n.27, 176n.32, 225 money see finance morale 73–4, 86–7, 122–3, 136–7, 191–4, 212 Munychia 62n.37, 89, 114 Mycale 88, 109

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Mycenae 20–7, 32, 39, 40–1, 128–31, 142 Mytilene 137, 140–2 Naupactus 111, 113, 124, 126n.15 navy, combat manoeuvres 80n.27, 106, 112, 122–4 deployment 21, 122, 166 engagements 64, 79, 105, 108, 110, 120–7, 136, 181, 192, 213 finance 107, 112–15, 161–7, 170, 225 mob 109–111, 116, 136, 169–70, 213 operations 28, 30–1, 68, 78n.6, 87, 104–6, 117–20, 125, 136–7, 161, 171 squadrons 76, 107, 119, 121 symparapleia 76–7, 80n.27, 136 wreckage 121–4, 127n.24 see also harbours; marines; oarsmen; sailors; ships; siege; thalassocracy; triremes Naxos 9, 93, 108–9, 111, 143n.8, 176n.36 Near Eastern warfare 21–2, 27, 39, 40n.8, 43–4, 94, 128–30, 133, 225 Nemea 70, 83–4, 88–92 passim, 97 Nestor 12, 29–34 passim, 153 Nicias 8, 74, 89, 116–17, 134, 150, 154, 182, 186, 193–4, 212, 218–19 night operations 34, 51, 66, 72, 79n.19, 82, 112, 119, 130, 204, 214 Nisaea 51, 72, 135 non-combatants 134, 186, 221 see also children; slaves; women oarsmen 21, 50, 107, 110, 114–19, 122–3, 125, 158, 166, 169–70 see also navy; ships; triremes obedience 91, 184, 188, 208–9, 220 Odysseus 19, 24, 28–34, 41n.19, 23, 67, 104, 129, 142, 152–3, 178, 180, 203–4, 226 as murderer of Orsilochus 28, 34 as son of Castor 5–6, 30, 32–4, 41n.26, 104–5, 125, 152–3, 174n.14 officers 21, 42n.36, 75, 102n.22, 116–17,

139, 187–8, 192, 214 lochagoi 6, 85, 91, 101n.7, 188 pentecontarchoi 85, 116 taxiarchoi 84 see also generals; trierarchs O-ka 21–2, 25 old age 7, 29, 37–8, 63, 70, 85, 89, 93, 98, 115, 126n.12, 208, 211, 218 oligarchy 49–51, 110–11, 132, 140, 173n.1, 174n.7, 213–14, 221n.8 Olpae 10, 82–3, 90–1, 98, 154, 212, 223 Olympia 46–7, 164, 168, 182, 189, 223 Olympias 119 Olynthus 17n.11, 156, 164, 219 oracles see religion orphans 199, 202n.30, 215 Othryades 66, 203, 205 paean 88–9, 96, 99, 185, 187, 192 Pagae 72, 135, 146 Pan 178–9, 185 panic see fear Pantites 205 Paris 29–30, 37, 61n.30 Pasion 167, 171 patriotism 47, 63, 167 Patroclus 35, 130, 195, 220, 222n.22 Pausanias, general (395/4 BC) 202n.24 regent 91, 109, 117, 154, 191, 199 writer 179, 194–6, 216 pay 110, 113–18, 150–76 passim, 224–5 see also mercenaries; tribute peace 2, 4–18 passim, 44, 65, 74, 152, 165–6, 172, 178, 190, 212, 214–17 Peace of Nicias 8–9, 12, 17n.7 Pedon 159 Peisistratus 66–7 Peloponnesian League, 14, 111, 113 operations 7, 17n.11, 69, 72–4, 89, 98, 115–22 passim, 126n.15, 134–9, 145–9, 173n.4 organisation and resources 2, 10–11, 67–8, 161, 164, 168–70, 173, 225 Peloponnesian War, ‘First’ (461–446 BC), 10, 14, 80n.29, 135, 173n.5

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Index ‘Second’ (431–404 BC) 2, 8–17 passim, 51, 69–70, 109, 125n.4, 134–8, 145–9, 158–64, 168, 173n.4, 197–8, 204, 213, 225 peltasts 82, 86–7, 93, 96, 100, 102n.10, 171 see also psiloi Pelusium 43, 73, 93, 159 Perdiccas 162 Pericles 15, 69–70, 111, 117, 135, 146, 156, 161, 166–7, 173n.5, 174n.6, 176n.43 the Younger 71 Persepolis 150 Persia 13, 43, 47, 112–16, 133–4, 141, 143n.7, 148, 156, 164, 171, 174n.12, 194, 199, 219, 224–6 army 56, 72–6, 79n.23, 80n.27, 87, 91–6 136, 185 Empire 1, 12, 67–8, 86, 107, 113, 126n.16, 150 fleet 107–9, 112, 117–23 passim, 125, 185 invasion of Greece 2, 9, 64, 71–2, 77, 81–2, 88, 108, 179–83, 191, 197, 205, 210–11 Persian Wars 6, 89, 94, 109, 163, 199–200, 224, 226 phalanx 47–58, 92–7 classical formations 53–4, 84, 88, 92 depth 83–4, 88 Homeric phalanges 34–5, 39, 60n.14 membership 50–3, 85, 148, 209–12, 216, 224 phalanx-battle as warfare 63–4, 69, 78 proto-phalanx 54–8, 100 see also formations; hoplites Philip II 68, 88, 99, 103n.32–3, 120, 138–40, 155–6, 160, 168–9, 219 Phocis 12, 71–2, 78, 94, 131, 143n.10, n.14, 168–9, 176n.44, 219, 222n.22 Phoenicians 28–9, 80n.27, 107, 162 Phormio 116, 121–2 Piraeus 86, 103n.30, 108, 110–11, 135–7, 142, 154, 162, 173n.5, 214

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Pittacus 44, 78n.2 Plataea 51, 59, 60n.20, 70, 92, 94, 141, 197 battle 14, 62n.40, 64, 70, 75, 81–96 passim, 100, 154, 182, 191, 199–200, 205, 224–5 siege 134, 141, 183, 190 Polycrates 66–7, 107, 126n.9 Poseidon 35, 124, 129–30, 162, 186, 192 Potidaea 14, 70, 99, 115, 134, 161, 163, 168 prisoners 79n.21, 124, 126n.9, 127n.27, 151, 154, 160, 195, 219 prizes 99, 100, 154, 175n.24 promachoi 5, 34–9, 53–5, 57, 95, 207 prostitutes 15, 71, 118 Psammetichus I 43, 46, 59, 67–8, 104, 159, 172 Psammetichus II 43 psiloi 51, 58–9, 60n.21, 68, 70–2, 76, 81–90 passim, 93, 97, 100, 102n.10, 191, 213, 224 gymne-tes 49, 52, 55, 61n.30 see also archers; peltasts; slingers Pylos 12, 20–3, 30, 34, 78, 82–3, 86, 129, 137, 142n.1, 147, 192 raiding 4, 8, 12, 18n.17, 30–4, 51, 64–78 passim, 80n.27, 104–5, 111, 120, 125n.2, 133, 137–8, 141, 146, 149–54, 168, 173n.1, 192, 215–16, 224–5 piracy 14, 26, 67, 76, 105–6, 125n.4, 126n.8 rape 30, 219–20, 222n.18 see also hybris; women ravaging and destruction 9, 69, 77, 133, 146–9, 156, 190, 220 see also foraging; raiding reciprocity 18n.14, 148, 155–7 see also gifts; revenge religion 177–202 divination 82, 90, 162, 179–88, 190–1, 194, 201n.5, n.15 divine intervention 90, 178–80, 185,

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195, 204–5 oracles 9, 43, 89, 181–6 prayer 90, 130, 187, 194 piety and impiety 168, 182–3, 186, 192–5, 200, 223 rituals 39, 178, 186–95, 209, 221n.4 sacrifices 71, 86, 92, 103n.33, 104–5, 149, 181–2, 188–94, 197–201, 215–16 see also Delphi; temples revenge 12, 14–15, 18n.17, 29–30, 33, 78, 105, 125, 141, 149, 152, 160, 190, 201n.12, 205, 226 revolt 109, 111–12, 115, 135–6, 140, 160, 164, 170, 173n.5, 176n.32 see also Ionian revolt Rhegium 80n.27, 118, 151 Rhodes 86–7, 162 Rome 175n.20, 180, 190 rowers see oarsmen running 37–8, 53, 56, 58–9, 61n.33, n.35, 69, 90–3, 102n.20 Sacred Band 90, 196, 202n.28, 212 sailors 115–18, 121, 164, 169–71, 186 see also oarsmen Salamis 64, 77, 109, 114, 121, 123, 158, 184–6, 215, 225 Samos 12, 14, 107–11, 114, 126n.8, 139, 142, 143n.8, 160–1, 171, 176n.36, 199, 202n.27 see also Polycrates Samothrace 165 Sarpedon 5, 206 Scione 51, 89, 137, 141 Sciritae 84–5, 91 Scythians 56, 61n.35, 66, 78, 79n.10, 225 sea power see thalassocracy Sepeia 70, 226 Sestus 133, 142, 143n.7 shame 14, 29, 31, 47, 52, 100, 193, 203–8, 218–19, 226 see also honour and dishonour; hybris shield 16, 26, 34–6, 38, 41n.14, 45–62

passim, 63, 79n.10, 89, 93–8, 103n.22, 157–8, 167, 175n.20, n.24, 176n.38, 178, 192, 201n.18, 207, 218 Boeotian 57–8 Dipylon 26–7, 42 n.35, 57 figure-eight 23–4, 27, 42n.35 of Achilles 29, 129, 142n.1 pelte- 86 tower 23–4 ships 5, 19, 21, 26, 29–35 passim, 68, 75, 104–6, 152–3, 157, 173n.5, 178, 225 biremes 106 ‘Catalogue of Ships’ 32, 34, 105–7, 111, 119–21, 126n.8 equipment 5, 104, 106–7, 112, 117–22 passim, 125, 158, 162, 185 merchantmen 76–7, 80n.27, 118, 151, 154, 172 penteconters 106–7 see also harbours; navy; oarsmen; sailors; triremes; wood Sicilian expedition 18n.20, 50, 61n.21, 87, 114, 116, 118, 147, 150, 155, 171, 174n.5, 182, 186–7, 193–4, 212–13, 219 Sicily 1, 74, 105, 113, 119, 127n.24, 132, 138–9, 158 Sicyon 83, 90 sieges assault 128–31, 134, 136, 139–41, 147, 217 blockade 111, 127n.21, 129, 133, 135–7, 140–2, 146 engines 134, 136, 138–40, 175n.20 ladders 129, 139 sack 31, 93, 129, 140–2, 154, 203–4, 219–220, 222n.20, 225 street fighting 68, 139, 217 works 86, 89–90, 129, 132–6 skirmishing 54, 64, 68, 85–7, 191–2, 224 slaves 29, 47, 71, 104, 114–15, 118, 124, 127n.27, 137, 140–2, 149, 152, 164, 174n.11, 219–21, 222n.18, 227 escaped 137, 146, 162

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Index freed 170 slave labour 146, 157 slingers, slings 23, 40n.9, 62n.39, 83, 86–7, 129–30, 140 Socrates 71, 96, 98, 182–3, 213 Solygia 96–7, 193 Son of Castor see Odysseus Sparta ago-ge- 208–11 ideology 6, 13, 47, 55, 83, 100–1, 133–4, 145, 188–9, 194, 196, 203–211, 218 military system 84–5, 91–3, 188–9 perioikoi 50, 145 syssitia 55, 210–11 see also helots; Kings; Laconia; Messenia; Peloponnesian League; tremblers; Tyrtaeus; youths spears 5, 21–8 passim, 36–41 passim, 45–7, 50–62 passim, 68, 79n.10, 88–9, 93–8 passim, 142, 158, 208, 220 javelins 21, 23–4, 40n.5, n.9, 55, 87, 89, 156, 175n.20 speeches 32, 64, 135, 156, 185–6, 190, 198 Sphacteria 82–3 spondai 8, 187, 193, 198, 215 see also religion; treaties; wine stasis 9, 44, 51, 79n.11, 132, 139–40, 149, 162, 173n.1, 174n.7, 213–15 stones 48, 55–6, 60n.14, 62n.37, 89–90, 96, 129, 178 strate-goi see generals strategy 64, 69, 73, 83, 88–9, 112–13, 137–8, 140–1, 146, 162, 189 deception 71, 82–3, 101n.3, 139, 226 Periclean strategy 69, 135–7, 146 strategic mobility 76, 111 Strymon, river 72, 112–13, 126n.16 suicide 203–5, 219 suitors 29, 31, 41n.23, 106 supply 25, 30, 77, 113, 135–6, 140–2, 146, 151, 154–5, 158, 161–3, 170, 189, 224–5

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equipment 21, 25, 39, 100, 114 hunger 15, 75–7, 79n.25, 124, 148, 161, 173n.1 rations 7, 74–7, 115, 118, 125, 209 water 82, 179 see also baggage; foraging; trade surprise 67, 72–3, 82, 101n.3 ambush 1, 33–4, 64, 68, 71, 78, 79n.10, 83, 86, 90–1, 98, 106, 147, 224 see also night operations; strategy swords, 21–8 passim, 36, 43, 45, 47, 55, 59n.7, n.9, 97, 157, 159, 175n.20, 205 Sybaris 9, 143n.5 syngeneia 10, 16, 18n.20 see also families Syracuse 14, 79n.7, 82, 86–90, 100, 102n.18, 22, 117, 121–3, 136–44 passim, 151, 154, 157–8, 162, 192–3, 213, 218–19 Great Harbour 122–3, 127n.24 tactics 22, 53, 56, 67, 71, 82–3, 87–92 passim, 102, 105–6, 136–7, 139, 141, 156, 190, 218, 224 tamiai 118, 153–4, 175n.17 helle-notamiai 163, 165, 225 Tanagra 72, 182, 212 taxation 60n.18, 161, 166–7, 173, 176n.32 eisphora 51, 115, 167 liturgies 111, 126n.6, 159, 166–7, 199 see also finance; tribute techne- 130, 188, 192 technology 22, 26, 67, 106–7, 129–31, 137–9 Tegea 14, 83–5, 182, 191, 197 temples 17n.7, 46, 65–7, 89, 115, 140–1, 151–72 passim, 177–8, 182, 194, 209, 216, 219 Athenian 44, 67, 133, 150–1, 154, 158, 163–5, 168, 180, 183–5, 212, 216, 224 dedications 46, 66–7, 97, 124, 154, 157, 168–72, 190–2, 223

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see also Delphi; Olympia; religion Ten Thousand, the 69, 75, 79n.24, 86–7, 92, 102n.18, 171, 226 terrain, 22, 24, 54, 56, 64, 73, 75, 82, 88–90, 133, 136, 224, 226 bridges 71–2 eschatia 48–9 high ground 26, 72, 89, 92–3, 96–7 ideology 48–9, 88, 132, 213 mountains 29, 89, 131, 219 passes 7, 63, 71–3 topography 26, 75, 88–9, 132, 216 water 76, 88, 120 thalassocracy 107–12, 125, 126n.14, 133–6, 161–3, 170 see also imperialism; navy Thasos 109, 111–13, 134, 142, 143n.8, 160, 164, 170, 176n.32 Thebes 19–20, 32, 78, 79n.17, 85, 88–90, 96–7, 129, 138, 141, 142n.1, 151, 168, 190–7 passim, 212 Themistocles 101n.5, 108, 156, 184–6 decree 124, 211 Thermopylae 64, 71–2, 77, 82, 88, 96, 100, 189, 196, 199, 205, 210–11 Thersites 35 Thespians 79n.17, 97, 103n.34 Thessaly 67, 71–3, 94, 142, 205, 222n.22 thetes 49–50, 60n.13, 110 Thrace 36, 73, 86, 93, 108, 113, 156, 160–4, 170–1, 176n.32, 198, 225 Thucydides 2–3, 160 Thyrea 65–6, 203, 206–7, 216–17 Timotheus 115, 171, 175n.17, 186 Tisamenus 90, 182, 191 grandson 182 Tolmides 111, 193 trade 50, 71, 109, 111, 113, 118, 140, 146, 157, 162–5, 169–72 markets 7, 15, 74–5, 79n.22, 118, 142, 151, 154, 167, 170, 176n.32, 225 see also economy training 4, 58, 73, 83, 85, 97, 100, 102n.9, 107, 111, 116–17, 121–2, 127n.21, 166, 202n.28, 209–11

trauma 4, 122, 133, 177, 180, 191, 203–5, 211, 219, 226 treachery 139–40, 155–6, 213 medism 183–4, 189 see also gifts treaties 7–13 passim, 16, 17n.9, n.11, 65–7, 72, 74, 78, 98, 141, 162, 175n.21, 189, 193–4, 202n.24 see also allies; diplomacy tremblers 100, 205–8, 221n.16 see also cowards; Sparta tribute 9, 109–12, 115, 140, 163–6, 175n.28, 176n.32, n.43, 215–16, 221n.12 trierarchs 107, 111, 115–18, 126n.6, 166–7, 170–1, 176n.36, 225 triremes 76, 88, 107–25, 157, 166–7, 171, 185, 195, 225 trophies 66, 97–9, 103n.33, 124, 178, 192–3, 201n. 18–19, 202n.24, 215 Troy, Trojan War 5, 16, 19–20, 28–41, 75, 105, 113, 129–30, 142, 152–3, 155, 159, 180, 203–4, 206, 219 Trygaeus 9, 17n.7 tyrants 44, 92, 94, 117, 132, 138, 141, 215 Athenian Empire as a tyranny 109, 111 Thirty Tyrants 49–51, 60n.21, 110–11, 214 see also Dionysius I Tyrtaeus 54–8, 67, 97–8, 100–1, 196, 207–8, 210–11, 226 uniforms, uniformity 21, 24–5, 206, 209 units see formations veterans 51, 84, 126n.12, 204 victory 4, 14, 66, 71, 81, 94, 97–9, 103n.33, 110, 124, 136, 140–1, 150, 182–95 passim, 200, 213, 216–17, 221n.13, 223, 226–7 Vietnam 203–4 walls 71–2, 90, 150, 184, 216

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Index city 23, 34–5, 39, 82, 89–90, 130–43 passim, 146, 198, 201n.16, 202n.24, 218 cyclopean 20, 128–9 long walls 135, 137, 143n.12 towers 128–32, 139, 143n.15, 183 see also gates war agonal 64–7, 71, 77, 91, 200, 226 art of war 55, 71, 79n.26, 133, 139, 200, 210 border wars 4, 12, 14, 48–9, 60n.14, 66–71, 78n.1 causes 6, 10, 13–16, 78, 181 declaration 8, 10–14, 64, 168 definition 4–7 demographic consequences 49–50, 70–1, 99, 121, 213 escalation 12, 15, 29–31, 69, 78 patterns 8–9, 12, 15, 28–30, 63–5, 68, 137, 152, 215 predatory 20, 26, 30, 33, 67, 69, 107, 126n.8, 130–1, 152–3, 174n.10, 215 private 11–12, 15, 29, 31, 78, 105–6, 126n.8, 226 psychological 77, 82, 148 Sacred Wars 143n.5, 168–9, 172 status warfare 31, 33 weather 72–7, 104–5, 117–19, 121, 124, 179 wine 6–8, 47, 72, 76, 99, 148, 151, 156, 164, 172, 176n.32, 187, 206, 212

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drunkenness 6–7, 15, 29, 93 kottabos (drinking game) 15 see also meals women 5–6, 16, 19, 23, 29–31, 36, 60n.18, 104–5, 118, 129–30, 141–2, 152–3, 186, 196, 201n.7, 203–4, 206–7, 217–20, 221n.14, 222n.17 see also gender roles; rape wood 24, 48, 56–7, 90, 107, 112–14, 120, 128, 132, 148, 155, 157–8, 162, 175n.21,192, 198, 201n.18 wounds 5, 24, 36, 38, 58, 97, 103, 122, 193, 199, 211, 226 head wounds 29, 94, 99, 118, 160, 203–4, 211 treatment 99, 217–18 see also disease Xenophon 3, 6, 74–5, 86–7, 98, 102n.22, 156–9, 171–2, 182–3, 186, 188, 197, 201n.11, 209, 218 Xerxes 59n.3, 72, 77, 80n.27, 94, 109, 119, 133, 156, 196, 210 youths 15, 70, 115, 124, 180, 187 ephebes 48, 70, 138, 211, 215–16 Spartan 93, 98, 100, 196, 208–9 zeugitai 48, 60n.13, n.17 Zeus 15, 19, 48, 54, 104, 155, 177–9, 184, 188, 192, 202n.20 Zimri Lim 21, 40n.4