Brill's Companion to Sieges in the Ancient Mediterranean 900441374X, 9789004413740

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Brill’s Companion to Sieges in the Ancient Mediterranean

Brill’s Companions in Classical Studies Warfare in the Ancient Mediterranean World Series Editor Lee L. Brice

volume 3

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/wamw

Brill’s Companion to Sieges in the Ancient Mediterranean Edited by

Jeremy Armstrong Matthew Trundle†

LEIDEN | BOSTON

Cover illustration: Wall panel from the throne room (Room B) of the North-West Palace of Assurnasirpal II at Nimrud, panel 18 (photo Soerfm—Wikimedia Commons; courtesy of the Trustees of the British Museum) Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Armstrong, Jeremy, editor. | Trundle, Matthew, 1965- editor. Title: Brill's Companion to Sieges in the Ancient Mediterranean / edited by Jeremy Armstrong, Matthew Trundle. Description: Leiden ; Boston : Brill, [2019] | Series: Brill's companions in classical studies. warfare in the ancient mediterranean world, 2452-1493 ; volume 3 | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2019040236 (print) | LCCN 2019040237 (ebook) | ISBN 9789004373617 (hardback) | ISBN 9789004413740 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Siege warfare–Mediterranean Region–History. | Siege warfare–History–To 1500 Classification: LCC UG443 .B78 2019 (print) | LCC UG443 (ebook) | DDC 355.4/40937–dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019040236 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019040237

Typeface for the Latin, Greek, and Cyrillic scripts: “Brill”. See and download: brill.com/brill‑typeface. ISSN 2452-1493 ISBN 978-90-04-37361-7 (hardback) ISBN 978-90-04-41374-0 (e-book) Copyright 2019 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Brill Hes & De Graaf, Brill Nijhoff, Brill Rodopi, Brill Sense, Hotei Publishing, mentis Verlag, Verlag Ferdinand Schöningh and Wilhelm Fink Verlag. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill NV provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change. This book is printed on acid-free paper and produced in a sustainable manner.

For Matthew Freeman Trundle 1965–2019

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Contents Acknowledgements ix List of Maps, Figures and Tables Abbreviations xii Notes on Contributors xiii Maps xvi

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Sieges in the Mediterranean World 1 Jeremy Armstrong and Matthew Trundle

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The Landscape of Siege Gwyn Davies

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The Nature of Siege Warfare in the Neo-Assyrian Period Luis R. Siddall

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Images of Assyrian Sieges: What They Show, What We Know, What Can We Say 53 Davide Nadali

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The ‘Development’ of Egyptian Assault Warfare (Late Predynastic Period to Dynasty XX) 69 Brett H. Heagren

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The Defence of Egypt in the Fourth Century BC: Forts and Sundry Failures 111 Alan B. Lloyd

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The Introduction of Siege Technology into Classical Greece Matthew Trundle

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Women on the Walls? The Role and Impact of Women in Classical Greek Sieges 150 Jennifer Martinez Morales

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Demetrius the Besieger (and Fortifier) of Cities Thomas C. Rose

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169

35

135

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Sic Deinde, Quicumque Alius Transiliet Moenia Mea: Early Roman Fortifications and Sieges 191 Jeremy Armstrong

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Voluntarii at the Gates: Irregular Recruitment and the Siege of Veii 217 James Crooks

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Siegecraft in Caesar 241 Duncan B. Campbell

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Procopius on the Siege of Rome in AD537/538 Conor Whately

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Afterlives of the Ancient Siege: Echoes and Epic Josh Levithan

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Epilogue: Ancient Sieges and Modern Perspectives Fernando Echeverría Index of Individuals 343 Index of Peoples and Places General Index 348

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Acknowledgements Professor Anthony Spalinger launched this project with a workshop entitled ‘Ancient Fortifications and Sieges’, held at the University of Auckland in September 2013. The presentations at that event provided the core of the present volume—although, in the years which have passed since that initial investment, the project has (rather like a set of siege works itself) evolved, expanded, and gotten ever more complex. However, we would first and foremost like to acknowledge Professor Spalinger’s contribution to this project, his vision in instigating it and forming the core, and to thank him for allowing us to take it forward to completion as an edited volume. Furthermore, we would like to thank our incredibly patient contributors—and particularly those who were there from the beginning, all those years ago, and who have suffered through every change and delay—without whom this project would obviously not have been possible. We also owe a number of debts of gratitude to our colleagues in Classics and Ancient History, and to the School of Humanities and Faculty of Arts at the University of Auckland, for their support in various aspects of the project. In particular, we would like to thank the School of Humanities Research Fund for their generous funding to obtain maps and image permissions. We would also like to thank the anonymous reviewer for Brill, as well as the series editor Professor Lee L. Brice, for their many helpful comments and support in bringing the project to publication. Many thanks as well should go to Lindsay Holman and the Ancient World Mapping Center for their excellent work in producing the maps for the volume. Finally, the volume in your hands also owes much to the tremendous editorial assistance of Neda Bawden, Ashley Flavell, and Thomas Cain, whose work in the final stages helped bring this project to fruition. Jeremy Armstrong and Matthew Trundle Auckland, New Zealand

Post Script: As the present volume was entering its final phase in September 2018, Matthew Trundle was diagnosed with Acute Lymphoid Leukemia. After a valiant fight for almost a year against the disease, Matthew passed away peacefully on 12 July 2019, surrounded by friends and family. As his colleague, coeditor, and (most of all) friend, I can only begin to express my tremendous gratitude to Matthew and my immense grief that he was taken from us so early. In addition to being an outstanding scholar, he was a thoughtful mentor, soci-

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able colleague, and incredibly generous and gregarious soul who brightened every room he entered. He will be deeply missed. Jeremy Armstrong July 2019

Maps, Figures and Tables Maps 1 2

The Western Mediterranean xvi The Eastern Mediterranean xvii

Figures 4.1

4.2 6.1 6.2 6.3 6.4

Wall panels from the throne room (Room B) of the North-West Palace of Assurnasirpal II at Nimrud, slabs B 4–3 (photo author; courtesy of the Trustees of the British Museum) 62 Wall panels from Room F of North Palace of Assurbanipal at Nineveh, slabs 1–2 (photo author; courtesy of the Trustees of the British Museum) 62 The eastern Mediterranean and Near East during the first millennium BC (after Gardiner [1961] 341. Courtesy OUP) 113 Syria-Palestine in the fourth century BC (after Maier [1994] 318. Courtesy CUP) 115 The defensive line on the Pelusiac Branch (after Smoláriková [2008] 49. Courtesy the Czech Institute of Egyptology) 117 Northern Egypt showing the likely course of the branches of the Nile in the fourth century BC (after Bowman [1990] Fig. 1 [slightly modified]. Courtesy the author) 118

Tables 11.1 An outline of the Servian Constitution as given in Livy and Dionysius of Halicarnassus. After Armstrong (2008) 62 220 11.2 Outline of the late republican forms of the three comitia which were supposedly present in the Roman system at the beginning of the republic. Based directly on a table from Taylor (1966) inset between pages 4 and 5 221 12.1 Siege strategies in the age of Caesar 250 13.1 Troop figures in Procopius’ description of the siege of Rome 268

Abbreviations BM KRI

British Museum. Kitchen, K.A. (1982–1990) Ramesside Inscriptions: Historical and Bibliographical I–VIII. Oxford. RIK Nelson, H., et al. (1986) The Epigraphic Survey, Reliefs and Inscriptions at Karnak. Chicago. SAA (1987–2003) State Archives of Assyria 1–18. Helsinki. Urk Urkunden des ägyptischen Altertums.

Ancient abbreviations follow those in the Oxford Classical Dictionary, 4th edition. Journal abbreviations follow those of L’Année Philologique.

Notes on Contributors Jeremy Armstrong Jeremy Armstrong earned his BA in History and Classical Studies from the University of New Mexico, and his MLitt and PhD in Ancient History from the University of St Andrews. He is now a Senior Lecturer at the University of Auckland where he specialises in the social and political history of archaic Rome, as well as early Roman warfare. Duncan B. Campbell Duncan B. Campbell was, until recently, Tutor in Archaeology in Glasgow University’s Centre for Open Studies. He received the degree of PhD in 2002 for his thesis on ‘Aspects of Roman Siegecraft’, and has published widely on the subject, and on ancient warfare in general, in academic journals, and popular magazines. James Crooks James Crooks recently completed his PhD at the University of St Andrews, having completed his undergraduate and honours degrees at the University of Auckland and his Masters at Oxford University (Brasenose College) in Greek and/or Roman History. He specialises in the study of archaic Rome and central Italy, especially the development of the Roman military, the state and civic identity. Gwyn Davies Gwyn Davies obtained his PhD from the Institute of Archaeology, UCL, and has been teaching at Florida International University since 2001, where he is an associate professor. His main research interests concern the Roman army and the mechanisms of imperial security in under-urbanised upland/desert areas. His book Roman Siege Works (Tempus, 2005) and several other publications reflect his interest in tracing the archaeological correlates of Roman sieges ‘on the ground’. Fernando Echeverría Fernando Echeverría is Lecturer in Ancient History at the Complutense University of Madrid. His research interests include war and warfare in Archaic and Classical Greece, Homer and the poetry of the Archaic period, the classical historians, military iconography on black-figure vases, and emotions in military contexts. He is the author of a monograph on the scholarly

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debate around the ‘hoplite revolution’ (2008) and of several papers on Greek warfare and politics. Brett H. Heagren Brett H. Heagren earned his PhD in Ancient History from the University of Auckland. Presently based at the Auckland University of Technology, Heagren has published widely on various aspects of ancient Egyptian warfare. Josh Levithan Josh Levithan earned his PhD from Yale University in 2007 with a doctoral dissertation entitled ‘Siege Warfare and Combat Motivation in the Roman Army’. A writer, Levithan is the author of the University of Michigan Press’ 2013 Roman Siege Warfare and the blog ‘A Century Back’, and was formerly Associate Professor of Humanities at Kenyon College. Alan B. Lloyd Alan B. Lloyd earned his MA and DPhil from Oxford and is currently Professor Emeritus in the Department of Ancient History, Classics, and Egyptology at Swansea University. Elected FSA 1987, currently President of the Egypt Exploration Society, and author or editor of many publications on Egyptological and Classical subjects, most recently A Companion to Ancient Egypt (WileyBlackwell, 2010) and Ancient Egypt: State and Society (Oxford University Press, 2014). Jennifer Martinez Morales An Honorary Research Fellow of the University of Liverpool and Senior Thesis Faculty at Holderness School, Dr. Jennifer Martinez Morales completed her MA in Archaeology and her PhD in Classics and Ancient History at the University of Liverpool. She works on ancient Greek warfare, women and war (ancient and modern), classical archaeology, and museum collections. She is currently working on a long-term project on the rationalisation of atrocities in the ancient and modern world and has two upcoming chapters in edited books, one on women and diversity off the battlefield and the other on the economics of women following armies. Davide Nadali Davide Nadali received his PhD in 2006 in Near Eastern Archaeology at the Sapienza University of Rome working on Neo-Assyrian bas-reliefs of the seventh century BC. Between 2008 and 2010 he was a postdoctoral fellow at the Istituto Italiano di Scienze Umane in Florence with a research project on

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warfare in Early Dynastic Mesopotamia. In the years 2010–2011, he has been taught Near Eastern Archaeology at the University of Parma. Since 2012 he has been a tenure-track researcher at the Sapienza University of Rome within a European funded project on the restoration and valorisation of archaeological sites (namely Ebla in Syria). Thomas C. Rose Thomas C. Rose is an Assistant Professor of Classics at Randolph-Macon College in Ashland, Virginia. His research focuses on the Successors of Alexander and the development of Hellenistic kingship and ruler cult. Luis R. Siddall Luis R. Siddall, PhD (2011), SOAS, the University of London, is a History Master at Shore and the Director of the ‘Cuneiform in Australian and New Zealand Collections Project’ (@ProjectCANZ). He has published The Reign of Adadnīrārī III: An Historical and Ideological Analysis of An Assyrian King and His Times (Brill, 2013) and articles in scholarly journals on Assyrian history, historiography, and the Amarna Letters. Matthew Trundle† Matthew Trundle was Chair and Professor of Classics and Ancient History at the University of Auckland. His research interests were primarily in ancient Greek history. He is the author of Greek Mercenaries from the Late Archaic Period to Alexander (Routledge, 2004), and edited volumes entitled New Perspectives on Ancient Warfare (Leiden, 2010) and Beyond the Gates of Fire: New Perspectives on the Battle of Thermopylae (Pen & Sword, 2013) as well as authoring numerous chapters and articles on Greek social, economic and military history. Conor Whately Conor Whately is an Associate Professor of Classics at the University of Winnipeg. His main areas of research specialisation include Roman, late antique, and Byzantine military history, frontiers, and historiography. He is the author of two books, Battles and Generals (Brill, 2016), and Exercitus Moesiae (BAR, 2016), and is in the process of finishing books on Procopius, the Roman army, and ancient military manuals (with James Chlup), among others.

map 1

The Western Mediterranean

Maps

map 2

The Eastern Mediterranean

maps

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chapter 1

Sieges in the Mediterranean World Jeremy Armstrong and Matthew Trundle†

Urban warfare in the Middle East today is characterised by the increasing use of an ancient form of urban warfare: the siege. In 2016, eastern Aleppo was subjected to a well-known siege that lasted 190 days; the obstruction of humanitarian assistance caused massive suffering among civilians in many other Middle Eastern towns and cities as well, such as Fallujah, Taiz, Deir Ezzor, Foua, Kefraya and Madaya. In the Syrian Old City of Homs, which was under siege from May 2012 to May 2014, cart seller Abu Hani says that his family gathered firewood in the streets at night, as there was no diesel or gas to be had and they could not move around during the day because of the fighting. Because of shortages of food, he adds, people tried to grow their own vegetables but they often had to resort to eating partially rotten lentils and plants growing in the street that, in normal circumstances, were not considered edible. ‘We lost a lot of weight [during this time],’ Hani says. ‘One does not think about food when one is afraid, one meal is enough.’ In some cases, cities in conflict are virtually under siege because of the extreme difficulty of taking goods in or out. The partial siege imposed on Taiz since the summer of 2015 has brought the local economy to the point of collapse. ‘Most markets in the city have closed, and in those that still have some food, the prices are so high that people do not have enough money to buy anything,’ says Nancy Hamad, who runs the ICRC’s office in Taiz. ‘Malnutrition cases have gone up very sharply, especially among children.’ ‘People are eating from the garbage because they can’t get food,’ she adds. ‘We’ve seen women boiling tree leaves just to give children some hot soup.’ Fighting in or around a besieged city can also cause the destruction of harvests in fields within the city or on its outskirts, or make the fields inaccessible. At one camp for internally displaced people, children who had recently left a city under siege recall times of bitter hunger. ‘I can’t remember the last time I saw a chicken or a sheep,’ says one child.1

1 ‘I saw my city die’—International Committee of the Red Cross (2017).

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2019 | doi:10.1163/978

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No other military encounter comes as close to a ‘total war’ experience as the siege of a major city. While, in some instances, civilians are able to evacuate a settlement in advance of (or during) a besiegement, in many cases both civilians and soldiers are thrust together into the heart of the conflict. Indeed, even in cases where evacuation is possible, displacement offers its own, very real, dangers—as recent refugee crises illustrate. Starvation, oppression, and loss of freedom and identity are not only dangers for those who remain within the city. The siege threatens the entire community and involves every member of society directly in war. It is not a distant battlefield encounter between adult, male soldiers. Women, children, and (in antiquity) slaves stand side by side with men, both rich and poor, against attack—indeed, even the term ‘noncombatant’ (at least amongst the defenders) becomes problematic in these contexts. For all the defenders, the siege is an absolute moment of survival or destruction—an encounter which decides life or death, slavery or freedom. Though, arguably, the women and children suffer far more than their male counterparts if the city falls. Unlike a battle on an open field, defeat following a siege typically offered little chance for escape—there was often nowhere to run. The siege is the ‘hell’ of war brought home. These points are as true today as they were in antiquity. One hot and sticky evening in July, in the dying days of the battle for Mosul, a group of Iraqi army officers sat for dinner in a requisitioned civilian house not far from the ruins of the mosque where, three years earlier, the leader of Islamic State had announced the creation of a new caliphate … Over the previous eight months, since the commander and his men had started fighting in Mosul, the caliphate had shrunk to a tiny sliver of the Old City squeezed between the River Tigris and advancing columns of army and police forces. Thousands of ISIS fighters, who captured the city in 2014, were now trapped, living without running water or electricity, with dwindling supplies of food and medicine, being bombed day and night by US drones and jets. Caught in the siege with them were thousands of civilians. The few who were managing to escape came out filthy, emaciated and crazed by thirst and the constant bombing. The officers at dinner that night were all veterans of the war against ISIS, but nothing in their long years of fighting compared to what they had experienced over the past few weeks in Mosul, one of the fiercest urban battles since the Second World War. They fought in narrow alleyways, old stone houses and dense networks of tunnels and basements. Their advance was sometimes measured in meters, and their casualties were mounting.2 2 ‘After the liberation of Mosul, an orgy of killing’ The Guardian, 21 Nov 2017.

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On the other side of the coin, besiegers, encamped in what is often enemy (or at least contested) territory, also exposed themselves to disease, counter-attack, and counter-encirclement. Their position was often known and their mobility limited by the besiegement. The static circumstances of the besiegers would have exacerbated all of the threats which normally confronted an army on campaign. An army besieging a settlement was often at its most vulnerable and exposed. Famously, both the Athenians at Syracuse in 413BC and the Germans at Stalingrad in 1942/3 saw the tables turned as besiegers became besieged and invasion became disaster. The tension, stress, and frustration of maintaining a siege must have been immense—something perhaps seen in the often savage behaviour of soldiers within a city once the walls had been breached. The expending of their pent-up rage. Alexander [after capturing the city of Tyre] gave orders that all except those who had taken refuge in the temples should be slain and the houses set on fire. Although this order was proclaimed by heralds, yet not a single armed man could bring himself to seek aid from the gods; boys and maidens had filled the temples, the men stood each in the vestibule of his own house, a throng at the mercy of the raging foe … But how great the bloodshed was may be calculated from this alone, that 6000 armed men were butchered within the city’s ramparts. After that the king’s wrath furnished the victors with an awful spectacle; 2000 men, for the slaying of whom frenzy had spent itself, hung nailed to crosses along a great stretch of the shore.3 The siege transformed warfare, and particularly ancient warfare. It turned what was typically a short, seasonal endeavour, defined by brief but intense actions between groups of men, into what was often a long and gruelling struggle involving a much wider segment of the population. It redrew social divisions and reshaped social and cultural norms. Indeed, sieges represent an area of warfare where many of the normal ‘rules of war’ are subverted. In modern times, these circumstances have often led to atrocities and war crimes. In antiquity, the same was also likely true—although not formally defined as such. Additionally, even broad cultural norms were often inverted, with military innovation being lauded, and not despised, and trickery, strategy, and technology all becoming accepted in siege contexts. There was also a fundamental breakdown of social and political order brought about by the need to

3 Curt. 4.4.13–18 (trans. Rolfe).

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fully mobilise the population and the unified nature of the threat. Women and children could kill kings, as Plutarch notes—‘But Lysander threw away his life ingloriously, like a common targeteer or skirmisher, and bore witness to the wisdom of the ancient Spartans in avoiding assaults on walled cities, where not only an ordinary man, but even a child or a woman may chance to smite and slay the mightiest warrior, as Achilles, they say, was slain by Paris at the gates.’ (Plut. Comp. Lys and Sull. 4.3, trans. Perrin). Similarly, Pyrrhus of Epirus died from a roof-tile thrown by an ‘old-woman’ in street fighting in the city of Argos in the Peloponnese (Plut. Pyr. 34.2). A siege was (and is) chaotic, brutal, and terrifying for all involved. Given its abnormal character and intense ‘total war’ aspect, it is unsurprising that sieges play a central role in the history, myths, and legends of ancient peoples. Sieges stand out in communal memory. They are not easily forgotten—although their intrinsic memorability obviously does not mean they are not also reshaped in the collective memory. Sieges could be symbolic, for instance of either a god’s pleasure or wrath. The Hebrews remembered the walls of Jericho falling to the trumpets of Joshua, divinely endorsing their entrance into the ‘Promised Land’. Jerusalem, a talismanic centre of identity, fell time and again to assault with each instance laden with meaning, including to the Romans in AD70—an event famously recalled on the ‘Arch of Titus’ in the Roman Forum. And of course, Jerusalem was not the only city to fall to the Romans: Capua fell in 211 BC, New-Carthage in 209 BC, and Carthage itself in 146BC. Indeed, sieges were both a mechanism and expression of earthly power as well. Caesar’s siege of Alesia in 52BC effectively ended Gallic freedom. The Assyrians stamped their mark on antiquity with impressive siege machines and their ability to assail city walls through technology. Assyrian kings depicted this technology in fabulously detailed bas-reliefs on the walls of their palaces. Sieges ranked among Alexander’s greatest achievements, and the capture of the island fortress-city of Tyre stands in particular as a fantastic feat of engineering and ingenuity. Sieges were also, perhaps paradoxically, foundational. The Romans recalled the siege of Veii as a defining moment in their past, followed soon after by the equally formative siege and fall of their own city to the Gauls of Brennus c. 390BC, leading to the ‘rebirth’ (‘secunda origine’ Livy 6.1.3) of Rome. Most significant of all, the Trojan War represented for both the Greeks and the Romans not only a ‘total war’ experience, but also a paradigmatic foundation myth for both peoples. Homer’s great epics, the Iliad and Odyssey, are part of a cycle of poems concerned with the siege of Troy—the greatest event of the Heroic Age. Troy’s siege combined elements of blockade and assault. The Trojan Horse represents perhaps the most famous war-machine (or ruse de guerre?) made in

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antiquity. It was a device designed to deceive the enemy, to penetrate the walls through guile. The sack of Troy resonated with pathos, the murder of Priam, the destruction of his city, and the enslavement of women and children continue to provide material for art and literature even today. The return of the Greeks to their homes and even the flight of the survivors under Aeneas to Italy gave the aftermath of siege an afterlife. Like their ancient counterparts, sieges from subsequent periods also often seem to rise above the parapets of the narrative in the minds of writers and artists. The medieval period saw the construction of fantastic castles, built to withstand the most ferocious attacks; imposing crenelated walls confronting any who would attack them across daunting moats. Castles dominated the landscape of Europe and, as the crusaders moved east, so their castles dotted the Mediterranean and the Middle East. These structures (and assaults upon them) defined the narrative for and depiction of (as well as the later reception of) the warfare of the age. Moving later still, the Second World War presents a series of major encounters on the eastern front that defined the struggle between Germany and Russia from Stalingrad, to Leningrad, and Berlin. Each of these have been the subject of major and bestselling histories. In more recent times, the sieges of Homs, Mosul, and other Middle Eastern cities have also dominated the headlines—putting a human face on the Syrian civil war and the international fight against Daesh (ISIS). The suffering of these cities, and of the refugees who fled from them, has served to define the conflicts. The terrible and wide-ranging impact of the siege seems to have lost none of its vigour over the millennia. Indeed, as cities have grown larger and more complex, the impact of sieges has arguably grown more profound. Sieges could take on many forms and did not always involve heated battle. Many sieges were concluded without a blow being struck—although not, perhaps, without a life being taken. At the core of a siege is the concept of blockade, and notions of blockade and deprivation/starvation go hand in hand with wider strategic concerns of military planning and logistics in complex wars. The horrors of these aspects of siege warfare are just as visceral as that of combat, if not more so. As Deuteronomy 28:53–57 suggests, in the first account of a siege in the Bible, starvation and cannibalism were clear threats: And thou shalt eat the fruit of thine own body, the flesh of thy sons and of thy daughters, which the Lord thy God hath given thee, in the siege, and in the straitness, wherewith thine enemies shall distress thee: So that the man that is tender among you, and very delicate, his eye shall be evil toward his brother, and toward the wife of his bosom, and toward the

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remnant of his children which he shall leave: So that he will not give to any of them of the flesh of his children whom he shall eat: because he hath nothing left him in the siege, and in the straitness, wherewith thine enemies shall distress thee in all thy gates. The tender and delicate woman among you, which would not adventure to set the sole of her foot upon the ground for delicateness and tenderness, her eye shall be evil toward the husband of her bosom, and toward her son, and toward her daughter, and toward her young one that cometh out from between her feet, and toward her children which she shall bear: for she shall eat them for want of all things secretly in the siege and straitness, wherewith thine enemy shall distress thee in thy gates.4 Jeremiah (19:9) also picks up on this theme of the horrific results of the blockades associated with a siege (‘And I will cause them to eat the flesh of their sons and the flesh of their daughters, and they shall eat every one the flesh of his friend in the siege and straitness, wherewith their enemies, and they that seek their lives, shall straiten them.’ KJV). This is furthered in the account of Ben Hadad of Aram’s siege of Samaria, the capital of Israel in the 790s BC (IIKings 6:25). As the siege continued, famine in Samaria became so great that a donkey’s head was sold for the outrageous price of eighty shekels of silver, and one-fourth of a kab of dove’s dung for five shekels of silver. The siege is therefore a rather blunt instrument of war, which typically inflicts the greatest harm on the weakest members of society. It deprives soldiers of provisions, but also the civilians. And those who are often first and most affected by the sufferings inflicted by sieges (as in other cataclysmic events) will be those who are lowest on the socio-economic ladder; those with little power and few resources. It is important to realise that sieges were products not just of attack, but of defence. A siege often (although not always) resulted when there was an imbalance of military power, with the weaker side eschewing direct engagement and compensating for its lack of strength through the use of technology and static defences. Fortifications offered a way to accumulate and stockpile military power, albeit in a fixed location. The emergence of walled cities likely developed, in many contexts, in tandem with the ability to assault them. Thus, technologies of assault—from simple ladders to impressive siege towers and ballistae—often emerged and evolved in response to, and in dialogue with, improved defensive structures. There was a natural symbiosis between walled

4 Deut. 28:53–57 (KJV).

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cities and the technology used to attack them, although these facets did not exist in isolation. Nor were they always evident. In archaic Italy, for instance, fortifications seem to have developed well before the ability to mount full-scale besiegements, and indeed before widespread urbanisation.5 In this context, walls may have served as limited protection from raiding—a refuge in times of need. Social and cultural considerations also always underpinned and shaped the relationship between warfare and society. Indeed, as often noted in discussions of the great walls of Mycenae, fortifications were rarely if ever intended strictly as means of defence against an attack. Walls are symbolic. They separate ‘us’ from ‘them’ and help to define civic entities. Their scale and construction also offer an overt expression of wealth and power. Although a siege may impact those lowest on the socio-economic spectrum the most, the walls which help to protect the soldiers (and arguably prolong the siege), represent those at the other, and highest, level. A crucial question also remains concerning the extent to which a siege stands aloof from other forms of military action; from raiding, or pitched battles, and long-ranging campaigns. Sieges often involved, or were part of, all of the above. Similar, and yet somehow different as well. And returning to the concept of a ruse de guerre, one must also consider the role which trickery and bribery played in the conclusion of so many sieges. These engagements were often low-intensity and involved the two sides facing each other for many days, weeks, possibly months, and even years. In this time, negotiation and interaction often occurred. Indeed, the number of times where bribery and subterfuge proved decisive indicates that this was not limited to strict official channels. There was likely quite a bit of interaction between the two sides of a siege which did not involve combat. Taken as a whole then, the siege is curiously both ubiquitous and anomalous in the Mediterranean basin. It is what happens when an activity that is typically meant to occur outside the bounds of civilised society violently reenters that sphere—bringing the horrors of war to an entire community. In this regard, siege warfare was rarely desirable, for either side. And indeed, those that seem to invite it—as with Periclean Athens—often live to regret the decision. However, despite its seemingly unnatural character, sieges have been common in the Mediterranean, with its long history of urbanism.6 With early evidence from Egypt and the Near East, as long as we have had stable communities, we seem to have had assaults on communities. The study of siege warfare then,

5 See Fontain and Helas (2016) for discussion. 6 For the link between urbanism and fortifications see Butterlin and Rey (2016) 23–33.

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allows an insight into the nature of both warfare and society. Sieges seem to push the boundaries of ancient norms, and the way they do that can be illuminating. Interestingly then, ancient siege warfare has not, perhaps, enjoyed as prominent a place in the modern historiography of ancient warfare as one might expect. This point is made clearly in the most recent study of sieges in the ‘Near East’. Israel Ephʿal in his 2009 book The City Besieged: Siege and Its Manifestations in the Ancient Near East rightly states that ‘To date, there has only been limited discussion of the phenomenon of siege warfare in the ancient Near East.’ (p. 3). This is remarkable given that, for example, peoples like the Assyrians are so well known for, and connected to, siege machines; their iconography illustrates vividly their abilities to overcome walled cities with tunnels, rams, and towers. Historically, Greco-Roman sieges and the related subject of fortifications have been served slightly better with several important studies. F.E. Winter’s Greek Fortifications provides an excellent introduction to the subject. More recently still Rune Frederikson’s study of Greek fortifications in the archaic age and Matthew Maher’s The Fortification of Arkadian City States in the Classical and Hellenistic Periods explore a number of aspects of the fortifications of the poleis of the central Peloponnese from the midfifth century onwards, from both a literary and archaeological perspective.7 These works shed light on the nature of Greek community formation and development through the longue durée of Greek history. Finally, 2016 also saw the publication of an important survey of numerous fortified sites across the ancient world entitled Focus On Fortifications: New Research on Fortifications in the Ancient Mediterranean and the Near East.8 Generally, and perhaps more indirectly, siege operations in Greece have also enjoyed several good discussions through a focus on artillery and siege engines. The most notable of these remains Marsden’s masterful 1969/1971 Greek and Roman Artillery, and more recently Duncan B. Campbell’s analysis of ancient missile technology provides further details.9 It is only in recent years that the subject of ancient siege warfare has increasingly seemed to take its proper place in the scholarly consciousness. Studies like Kern’s 1999 Ancient Siege Warfare and sections in the The Cambridge History of Greek and Roman Warfare seem to have laid some of the foundation for a recent surge in interest seen, most notably, with works like Levithan’s 2013 Roman Siege Warfare and Peterson’s 2013 Siege Warfare and Military Organization in the Successor States (400–800AD). These 7 Frederikson (2016) 251–266 and Maher (2017). 8 Frederiksen, Müth, Schneider, and Schnelle (2016). 9 Campbell (2003).

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have been supplemented by an increased understanding of the archaeological context of sieges—most notably in works like Davies 2006 Roman Siege Works and articles by Theocharaki, Bernard, Valbelle, and others exploring the nature of forts and circuit walls.10 Several important works on Italian fortifications in particular have also emerged in recent years, most notably Paoletti’s 2008 La città murata in Etruria, Bartoloni and Michetti’s 2014 Mura di Legno, mura di terra mura di pietra: fortifi cazioni nel Mediterraneo antico and Fontaine and Helas’ 2016 Le fortificazioni arcaiche del Latium vetus e dell’Etruria meridionale (IX–VI sec. a.C.). There have also been analyses of ancient texts devoted to the topic—as with Whitehead’s 2016 study on Philo Mechanicus: On Sieges. As these works have shown, the relative lack of scholarly interest in the topic was not due to a lack of evidence. Fortifications offer some of the most visible and durable forms of archaeological evidence and ancient writers regularly offered advice on siege warfare, both from the perspective of the besieger and the besieged. The fourth-century BC writer Aeneas Tacticus (the Tactician) wrote a treatise on How to Survive Under Siege to assist a city’s defenders.11 Some evidence suggests he also wrote a Poliorcetica advising besiegers. Later writers provided manuals on engineering works including siege machines. We are also blessed with a great deal of indirect information from historians like Herodotus and Thucydides. The former was well aware of the abilities of the Persians to undertake enormous engineering works to undermine city walls or cross moats and Thucydides describes in detail the dangers presented by traitors within cities who might betray their own communities to attackers. Operations around Corcyra and more extensively at Syracuse involved both negotiations, circumvallation, and much intrigue on either side. The fourth century BC witnessed great strides in siege technology. Philip and Alexander undertook impressive sieges whereby cities were assailed by storm. Perhaps most famously and impressively of all, Tyre fell to a combination of an enormous mole and siege towers erected on ships. The subsequent Hellenistic world saw ancient siege technology reach its highest point. This is perhaps not surprising as not only did military resources maximise power, but the combination of Greek, Macedonian, and Persian intellectual developments produced a flourishing of applied military technology. In tandem with siege works and siege machines, fortresscities emerged displaying the most advanced defensive systems. The symbiosis between defence and attack can be seen clearly in this age.

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Theocharaki (2011); Bernard (2012); and Valbelle (2001). See Pretzler and Barley (2017) for recent discussion.

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Heirs to such technologies, as we have noted briefly above, the Romans captured multiple cities across the Mediterranean. Polybius (especially 10.15.1–5) describes Roman violence in sieges as second to none and details several significant Roman sieges in his account. He was present at the fall of Carthage in 146BC and he famously recalled the words of his friend, the Roman commander Scipio Aemilianus, on the eve of the city’s destruction quoting Homer (Hom. Il. 6.448–449; App. Pun. 19.132.): ‘That day will come when Holy Troy shall fall, and Priam Lord of spears and Priam’s folk.’ Caesar’s work The Gallic War culminates with the great siege of Alesia that finally broke the back of Gallic resistance. Alesia represents both a battle and a siege clearly. The Roman besiegers became besieged themselves and the fighting was less about breaking into a city than surviving the Gallic assaults. At Alesia, battle and siege came together in one contest. Plenty of historians of Rome focused on sieges through the Imperial period. We are not starved of source material for the siege in antiquity. Additionally, as touched on previously, the development of archaeology has opened still further avenues for the study of sieges. The nature of fortifications at sites is now increasingly clear, as is the development of siege works. From Hadrian’s Wall in Britain to the sand of the Near East, the physical reality of fortifications and sieges are coming into focus. Indeed, looking to the east, excavations like that at Dura-Europos—where the preserved remains of fully equipped soldiers who died fighting in siege tunnels during the siege of Shapur I in AD 256 have been unearthed—have offered a physical context for the vivid narratives offered by the ancients.

∵ This volume offers a wide-ranging overview of current directions in the study of ancient sieges, from ancient Egypt and the Near East, through Greece and the Roman Empire, and ultimately the reception of ancient sieges in later literature. This volume cannot hope to be comprehensive in its coverage, but it does strive to be roughly representative of the way scholarship is moving in this area—and indeed, it is moving. What was once a somewhat intellectual and abstract field of study—dominated by literary tropes, tactical ideals, and moral exempla—is increasingly becoming more ‘concrete’, through the application of archaeology and modern parallels. The following chapters divide neatly into several sections commencing with an overview discussion of the role of topography and geomorphology in the decision-making of commanders charged with besieging stubbornly-held targets in the Greco-Roman world. Here Gwyn Davies examines the way in which the landscape served to condition the adoption of a particular reductive ap-

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proach. Davies investigates how the terrain as well as its underlying geology were major components in deciding upon the suite of siege works constructed by the assailant as well as the make-up of these works and their tactical siting (such as the ready availability of stone over timber or the desirability of suppressing the defenders’ access to extramural water sources). The chapter explores the importance of provisioning and the readiness of attackers to engage in the sieges of difficult targets in challenging environmental conditions. The author considers whether such approaches could be construed as deliberate and symbolic assertions of power over the defenders and their ancestral landscape rather than the product of a purely utilitarian calculation of the ‘least-cost solution’ to the task in hand. Indeed, Davies concludes that the successful siege of an ‘impregnable’ target could be represented not only as a triumph over the defenders, but one over Nature itself. The volume then continues in a roughly chronological fashion, following the rise and fall of great empires in the Mediterranean basin as the locus of power moves slowly from east to west. The first of these chapters therefore focuses in the Near East and Egypt. Luis R. Siddall discusses the development of siege warfare in the Assyrian military system and so examines the development of siege warfare as a tactic in Assyrian militarism. Many existing studies have looked at Assyrian sieges synchronically, whereas this study aims to identify how it developed over time. The descriptions of the use of sieges in Assyrian royal inscriptions and art remain the primary focus of this chapter, though archaeological material also provides important information. Complementary to Siddall’s chapter, Davide Nadali examines Assyrian bas-reliefs (ninth to seventh century BC) as a fundamental source for the study and comprehension of siege in warfare. Many images depict the Assyrian army while involved in the operation of besieging and conquering fortified enemy cities in different environmental and geographical contexts. Nadali sees the images as following a precise ‘iconographical canon’. As such, the images of warfare, and sieges in particular, reproduce, on the surface of slabs in the Assyrian palaces, what the Assyrian army effectively did in the field; on the other hand, they also reproduce what the Assyrian artists have seen and therefore their (re)interpretation of the action following the needs of clarity in the visual narratives. Nadali aims at analysing, in a diachronic perspective, the representations of siege by combining different sources (iconography, texts and archaeology). His study seeks to investigate how images of sieges were organised, what they showed, and finally what we can say about the Assyrian siege technique through the only observations of what the Assyrian artists wanted to show and disclose to us. The chapter suggests that the results of the choices of Assyrian artists were an attempt to represent the complexity of (often simultaneous) actions that

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occurred during a siege from Assyrian bas-reliefs. The final result will be a balanced analysis between what the images show and what we can therefore say, passing through a consideration of what we are able to know from the combination of other sources. Turning to ancient Egypt, Brett H. Heagren’s discussion of ‘Assault Warfare’ in Egypt examines a multitude of temple reliefs and numerous royal and private textual accounts in order to challenge the impression of a static, if not archaic, military machine that was timeless and unchanging. In one area of Egyptian military activity especially, the conduct of assault warfare on fortresses or towns, he argues that we see a remarkable sense of continuity in the pictorial and textual evidence. Heagren concludes that far from supporting the idea of a stagnating war machine, sieges demonstrate key developments in the practice of warfare. The techniques that the Egyptians favoured show a clear preference for low cost and low attrition warfare, especially where limited time and resources were clearly an overriding concern. These elements clearly manifested themselves in Egyptian military activity at the operational level. In short, Heagren suggests, Egyptian preferences of attack reflect a high level of military sophistication, which is not at first apparent. Staying in Egypt, though looking at a later period, Alan B. Lloyd’s analysis of the defence of Egypt in the fourth century BC shows how campaigns were won either by depriving the enemy of the will to fight or by depriving them of the means to do so. In this paper he focuses specifically on the defence of one country (Egypt) in a specific time-frame (the fourth century BC), but against both Persian and Macedonian invaders. Defence may proceed either by an offensive stance against an actual or potential aggressor, by holding a static position, or by a combination of the two. Fortifications, whether designed for attack or defence, can play a major role in such a process, but, like all instruments of war, they form part of a series of approaches for bringing force to bear effectively on the enemy and ensuring that the enemy cannot reciprocate effectively in kind. As such, they cannot be treated in isolation, and their success or failure will depend on a complex interplay of factors many of which are of general validity in the practice of the science of war. Matthew Trundle explores the introduction of siege technology into the Greek world in the fifth century BC. Three factors appear crucial to his study in the development of the machinery required to prosecute aggressive siege warfare beyond time-consuming and often intensive circumvallation. The first was the influence of the peoples beyond the Greek world, like the Persians and Carthaginians, on the Greek mainland and Sicily respectively, behind both of whom lay the Assyrians. Secondly, money in the form of coins provided the ability to coordinate and centralise operations so that states like Athens could

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prosecute bigger and more aggressive, intensive warfare. Thirdly and finally, the centralisation that political cohesion provided through the mechanisms of the polis (as at Athens) or through tyrants (Syracuse) or kings (the Macedonians) ultimately enabled the prosecution of more professional and specialised warfare, which included technical siege warfare and the machinery that enabled armies to overcome walled cities more quickly and effectively than previously possible through circumvallation. Jennifer Martinez Morales takes up the civilian aspect of Greek sieges, looking at the role of women within the defending population. Scholarship has traditionally addressed the wartime representation of women like Andromache through a mythical lens. This chapter, by contrast, addresses historical women and historical sieges, conflicts such as the Carthaginian siege of Gela in 405 BC, and the Peloponnesian War. Focusing on women’s roles in sieges, ranging from combat, to supply, subterfuge, and wall-building, it explores the direct contributions of women to siege warfare. In this chapter Martinez Morales emphasises how women, as members of the community, were an integral part of any city under siege, and places them in their appropriate wartime contexts. Demetrius the Besieger is best known for his spectacular, but ultimately unsuccessful assault on Rhodes, an epic siege that earned him the sobriquet Poliorcetes, ‘Besieger of Cities’. Despite Demetrius’ military reputation and ‘surname’, Thomas C. Rose examines the career of Demetrius as a fortifier of cities rather than a city-taker. The mammoth siege towers and warships that Demetrius turned against the defences of cities and harbours have long been objects of fascination, but his construction of fortifications designed to be impregnable has received far less attention. As such, and as a good illustration of the symbiosis of attack and defence in the context of siege-warfare, his chapter examines Demetrius’ innovative approach to both the attack and the defence of cities and doubles as a portrait of the state of the poliorcetic arts in the decades that followed the death of Alexander. Shifting our gaze to the Roman world, Jeremy Armstrong’s chapter investigates the origins of fortifications and siege warfare in archaic central Italy. Although fortifications and sieges form an important part of the literary narrative for early Roman history, the archaeological evidence offers a more ambiguous picture. While limited fortifications, typically of the agger and fossa variety, have been found in the region dating back to the early Iron Age, the wide scale use of full circuit walls seems to have been a relatively late development in the region, with most (including Rome’s famous ‘Servian Walls’) only appearing in the late fifth and early fourth centuries BC. This is problematic, as the early types of fortification would not have offered the sort of continuous and defining civic boundary which Livy and other late republican historians seem to have

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envisaged, and would also not have represented a significant hurdle to an army attempting a determined siege or assault, as only portions of the community’s perimeter would have been protected. Taking a holistic view of Roman society and warfare during the late sixth, fifth, and early fourth centuries BC, Armstrong argues that Rome’s changing approach to, and use of, fortifications, was a direct reflection of a wider shift in central Italian warfare from a low-intensity, clanbased raiding ethos towards a high-intensity, state-focused approach. James Crooks’ chapter explores a key aspect of the narrative for early Roman sieges, the siege of Veii c. 400BC, and how the intense atmosphere of a siege may have helped spark military (and social) innovation in Rome. The siege of Veii has always been remembered as a major turning point for the Roman military. It represents the first time that the Roman army is recorded as conducting and maintaining a supposedly continuous campaign over the course of multiple years to enact a single goal—the capture and sacking of their closest major military and economic rival. The central aspect of this campaign, a long-term siege of a major city, created a new set of challenges for the Roman army— most notably their ability to keep enough soldiers in the field for such a long period of time. This chapter argues that, in the context of the siege, the Romans began to increasingly use irregular forms of recruitment which did not seem to have required the calling of an official dilectus. These irregular troops, typically volunteers (literally voluntarii), were the key to Rome’s victory, and their utilisation here may have laid the grounds for further Roman military developments in the following century. Moving to the late Republic, Duncan B. Campbell analyses some of the most famous siege narratives in Roman history, those of Caesar. In this study, Campbell argues that while modern summaries of Caesar’s siegecraft often concentrate on the example of Alesia, this siege was actually atypical. However, and paradoxically, there has been a simultaneous tendency amongst researchers to emphasise more aggressive assaulting strategies and to downplay any Roman willingness to engage in a blockade. In this chapter Campbell presents the detailed accounts of 29 sieges carried out in the years 58–45 BC, in a methodical investigation into Roman besieging practice in the Caesarian period, which emphasises the ability of the Romans to use their technological and engineering skills in assessing which strategy to deploy in a particular siege context. In the final chapter looking at the Roman world, Conor Whately discusses Procopius’ account of the siege of Rome in AD537/538, reinforcing the civilian involvement in, and reception of, sieges. This siege, which came in the early stages of the East Roman conquest of Italy, involved the defence of Rome by the general Belisarius against Wittigis and the Ostrogothic forces. The siege takes

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up nearly an entire book of Procopius’ eight-book Wars, running from 5.18.1 to 6.10.20, and serves as the high mark of the text in terms of both tension and literary flair. Additionally, by all accounts the historian Procopius himself was a witness to the extraordinary events that he describes and so, by the standards of ancient historiography that held personal autopsy in such high regard, this account should rate highly. The epic nature of the description of the siege, however, raises concerns about the usefulness of the narrative to modern scholars interested in the late antique siege. This chapter examines the utility of Procopius’ account for our understanding of the general course and experiences of a late-antique siege and whether his literary proclivities impinged upon his historical accuracy. Moving towards an overview of the siege and its later history, Josh Levithan discusses the reception of the classical siege in later periods, down to the nineteenth century. Levithan sees the Italian Renaissance as a crucial way-station between the ancient and modern worlds. Improving guns for example from the sixteenth to nineteenth centuries—more effective, now, against walls than the catapult/battering ram/trebuchet technologies of the past—forced a new arms race. Fortifications were adapted, and the new balance which stretched from the sixteenth through the early nineteenth century featured siege assaults surprisingly similar to those from those of the Roman era. There was a parallel struggle of literary adaptation in the same period, as epic poetry returned attention to the siege, both real and imagined. After examining the influence of the classical siege on two epic accounts, Ariosto’s Orlando Furioso and Tasso’s La Gerusalemme Liberata, Levithan’s study concludes with a look at the continuing influence of Roman siege narratives. The epic tradition, the indirect influence of the Roman handbook writer Vegetius, and Caesar’s ubiquity in the modern Latin curriculum meant that the representation of Roman sieges continued to shape the writing of modern siege warfare. Finally, Fernando Echeverría offers an overview of the study of sieges in the ancient Mediteranean, specifically as represented by this volume. He highlights the important role of comparative studies concerning all ancient history, and indeed in military history more generally. At the same time he warns against modernising tendencies when considering ancient sieges generally. Of course, he is well aware of the challenges of our evidence and in marrying both the literary sources and archaeological ones. Echeverría rightly notices that our impressions of ancient siege warfare mirror the state of our sources, and thus he rightly stresses, alongside several chapters in the volume, that early historical events (and indeed some later ones) are shrouded in mystery and maybe the absence of evidence is not necessarily evidence of absence for early siege technology. Early societies may well have developed significant defensive struc-

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tures alongside contemporary siege techniques. In this way, he raises important questions concerning the relationship between our evidence and ancient realities, between pictorial and archaeological images of sieges, and the textual evidence we have for them—and, of course, ultimately between fiction and reality. Finally, he warns against seeing the siege as a stand-alone and, therefore, isolated military experience. He rightly, we think, sees sieges (like the great setpiece battles of antiquity) as simply part of a continuum of ongoing warfare, an extreme moment, but an event deeply interconnected with both ongoing military action and the wider societies engaged in it.

∵ As noted previously, this volume cannot hope to—nor does it attempt to— present a comprehensive overview of the ancient seige. While an effort has been made to offer a broad coverage, there are obviously significant holes and ommisions. That stated, we hope this breadth of coverage will contribute to the understanding of ancient siege warfare in the context of military encounters and society more generally. The word ‘Companion’ in the title, should therefore not be taken as an indication of comprehensiveness, but rather in a more corporate sense. In conclusion, the editors would suggest that sieges should be seen as an integral part of the wider military experience and of course as the paradigm of total war from an ancient perspective. As Fernando Echeverría points out, it is dangerous to isolate sieges from other kinds of military experience, and dangerous too to see the siege in a vacuum and separated from other forms of organised violence. This volume demonstrates that, from earliest antiquity to the later Roman Empire and its Renaissance legacy, the siege was integral to social, economic, and military activity in antiquity. It was social in that it required the community to come together in defence (and perhaps even to lay the foundation for sustained attack); economic in the use of enormous resources to prosecute sieges successfully; and militarily as an example of the high level of technical, engineering, and military skill employed to take cities by circumvallation and by storm. It should come as no surprise to anyone, given the importance of the city to ancient societies, that the siege and ancient civilisation go hand in hand from Troy to Jerusalem to the sack of Rome and Constantinople.

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Bibliography Ballmer, A., Fernandez-Götz, M. and Mielke, D.P. (eds.) (2016) Understanding Ancient Fortifications: Between Regionality and Connectivity. Oxford. Bernard, S. (2012) ‘Continuing the Debate on Rome’s Earliest Circuit Walls’, PBSR 80: 1–44. Butterlin, P. and Rey, S. (2016) ‘Mari and the Development of Complex Defensive Systems in Mesopotamia at the Dawn of History’, in Frederiksen, Müth, Schneider and Schnelle (2016) 23–33. Campbell, D. (2003) Greek and Roman Siege Machinery 399 BC-AD 363. Oxford. Fontaine, S. and Helas, S. (eds.) (2016) Le fortificazioni arcaiche del Latium vetus e dell’Etrurie meridionale (IX–VI sec. a.C.): stratigrafia, cronologia e urbanizzazione. Rome. Frederikson, R. (2016) ‘Fortifications and the Archaic City in the Greek World’, in Fontaine and Helas (2016) 252–266. Frederiksen, R., Müth, S., Schneider, P.I., and Schnelle, M. (eds.) (2016) Focus On Fortifications: New Research on Fortifications in the Ancient Mediterranean and the Near East. Oxford. Maher, M. (2017) The Fortification of Arkadian City States in the Classical and Hellenistic Periods. Oxford. Pretzler, M. and N. Barley (eds.) (2017) Brill’s Companion to Aineias Tacticus. Leiden. Theocharaki, A.M. (2011) ‘The Ancient Circuit Wall of Athens: Its Changing Course and the Phases of Construction’, Hesperia 80: 71–156. Valbelle, D. (2001) ‘A First Persian Period Fortress at Tell el-Herr’, Egyptian Archaeology 18: 12–14. Winter, F.E. (1971) Greek Fortifications. Toronto.

chapter 2

The Landscape of Siege Gwyn Davies

The decision to mount a siege of a defended centre in the classical world was not one to be taken lightly. Given the commitment of time and resources that might be necessary to obtain a successful outcome, the commensurate gain to be derived from the successful prosecution of such an operation would need to be weighed carefully, particularly in the context of those wider conflicts where the assailant may have faced other pressing strategic necessities. After all, should a commander fail in seizing the centre under attack, he would face certain criticism from his peers, and the morale of his troops would suffer while the enemies’ spirits rose correspondingly.1 Therefore, a sensible commander, when faced with the decision of whether or not to mount a siege, would want to satisfy himself that the challenge was surmountable and that the target was, indeed, susceptible to reduction. Various factors would have contributed to this decision, including the respective strength of the forces engaged, the strength of the fortifications, the technical skills and experience available to the besieger, and the logistical provision that would be necessary to maintain an army for the duration of the operation.2 Furthermore, once the decision to mount a siege had been taken, the besieging general might also be concerned about the dangers of a relieving force marching against him, of his supply lines being compromised, and of the enemy forcing the abandonment of the operation through indirect pressure exerted elsewhere.3

1 Indeed, even where the commander obtained a successful result (or series of such results) he might be criticised for expending time and resources over such inglorious enterprises as fixed siege operations. A good example can be seen when T. Quinctius Flamininus lambasted M. Acilius Glabrio for wasting the campaigning season of 191BC over the methodical reduction of Heraclea and Naupactus (Livy 36.34.9–10). For the impact of morale in Roman siege warfare see Levithan (2013) particularly chapter 2. 2 For the logistical challenges of Roman military operations generally see Roth (1999). The same author also discusses the case study of Masada to stress the importance of pressing ahead swiftly with operations mounted under adverse conditions, see Roth (1995). 3 The construction of outward facing lines of circumvallation must amount to prima facie evidence for the first concern as at Cremna in AD 277/278; at Clunia in 75BC, Sertorius forced the combined besieging armies of both Pompey and Metellus Pius to abandon the operation by ambushing their supply columns (Plut. Sert. 21.3–5); while at the Pompeian siege of Acylla

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2019 | doi:10.1163/978

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But of all these weighty matters, the besieging general had to be cognizant in particular of environmental considerations. First, topographical realities might influence his decision to engage in the operation in the first place and, thereafter, would determine the choice of siege system to be employed and both the placement of fieldworks and the constructional composition of the same. On a broader scale, the environment in which the siege was to be mounted might determine the season in which an action could be commenced, the feasibility of obtaining raw materials and supplies from local sources, and the preservation of the health of troops locked into a static operation—possibly for months at a time. Although there are ample examples where sieges were undertaken without any evidence of a deliberate precursor attempt at a ‘cost benefit analysis’,4 there are several cases where our sources provide us with confirmation that some commanders at least, engaged in this sort of calculation before embarking upon their operations. In the course of this chapter, we will look at the evidence for how environmental and topographic considerations factored into the decision making of generals planning or executing classical sieges—although most of the examples discussed are firmly situated within the Roman world of the late Republic and early Empire.

1

Climate and Other Large-Scale Environmental Factors

Although engaging a target located in an exceptionally hostile environment may have presented serious difficulties for the assailant, it does not seem that this challenge alone was necessarily sufficient to deter a motivated besieger. Remote strongholds established in the depths of the desert or astride a particularly wild range of mountains were not immune from attack, but their reduction would require careful preparation before being attempted. That this type of operation was unlikely to have been an ad hoc affair, or hastily extemporised, would have been predicated on the fact that the assailant would usually have been aware of the difficulties ahead of him. The necessary level of planning would have typically involved the provision of a long-range supply system to provide for the necessities of life that were otherwise unobtainable in in 46 BC, Considius Longus abandoned his attack on the Caesarian garrison despite having constructed large-scale siege works when he received news of the reverse suffered by the Pompeian army at Uzitta (Caes. BAfr. 43). 4 Trajan’s hastily extemporised attempt to overawe Hatra in AD117 being one (Cassius Dio Epit. 68.31).

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the immediate vicinity of the target. A fine example is provided by the siege of Thala, a town located in the high, semi-arid country of western Tunisia. Jugurtha, the Numidian ruler, had chosen this remote location to safeguard both his treasury and his family, confident in the strong artificial and natural fortifications of the place and, moreover, by the fact that the nearest extramural water supply was fifty miles distant. Nonetheless, Q. Caecilius Metellus was not deterred by the situation and in 108 BC he besieged the town resolving ‘to surmount all difficulties, and to conquer even Nature herself’ (Sall. Iug. 75.2) with a work of circumvallation and a siege mound on which he emplaced turrets (and presumably bolt-firers) to protect his men as penthouses and rams were advanced against the walls. The vigorously prosecuted operation took forty days to bring to a successful close and was only made possible by Metellus loading his baggage train, stripped of all non-essential supplies, with both water and with wood (presumably for his siege works) and by directing Numidian civilians to bring up as much water as they could transport (Sall. Iug. 75–76).5 Although not nearly as remote as Thala, the Pompeian defenders of the Spanish city of Urso in 45BC sought to bolster their powerful defences by felling all timber within a six-mile radius and stockpiling the same within their walls to deny their use to Caesarian forces. Nonetheless, the siege was prosecuted with considerable determination, despite that the fact that the attackers had to bring up timber for the engines and siege works from Munda several miles away, and the attackers also had to transport water from sources that were also over eight miles distant (Caes. BHisp. 41). Such an operation was clearly predicated on an efficient organisation of the commissariat and on detailed prior planning with a knowledge of the prevailing conditions. As an interesting counterpoint to these examples of deliberate and accurate calculation on behalf of the besieger, in 79BC Metellus Pius decided to attack the Lusitanian town of Langobriga, despite it being deep inside enemy-held territory. This decision would appear to have been based upon the intelligence he had received that there was only one intramural well and that the other water sources were located outside the walls and therefore would be easy to cut off. However, Sertorius had anticipated the problem and contrived to send water skins to the defenders via little used mountain paths and also evacuated the ‘useless mouths’ via the same routes. Accordingly, when Metellus Pius arrived before the walls, his calculation that he could force a surrender within two days proved hopelessly

5 See Roth (1999) 122 for the use of cullei (leather bags), utres (skins or bottles), and vasa (wooden barrels) for transporting water.

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optimistic and, with his own force ill-prepared for sustained operations, he was forced to retire ignominiously when Sertorius ambushed his foraging parties (Plut. Sert. 13.4–6). Although we have no explicit information concerning the precise timing of the Roman siege of the desert fortress of Masada, the last rebel stronghold of the First Jewish Revolt, a persuasive argument has been advanced that this operation was mounted in either the winter/early spring of either AD 72/73 or (more likely) 73/74.6 The crucial factor for making this determination is that this was the only time of year when the local springs would have contained enough water to furnish the besieging army with a sufficiency of supply (even then the nearest source in the nearby Wadi Seiyal would have required supplementing by water transported from En Boqeq 12km to the south or En Gedi 16 km to the north). Of course, in terms of temperature, an operation mounted over the winter months would have proved less arduous for troops tasked with the largescale labour that would be necessary to bring Roman arms within striking range of the enemy walls. Thus, to ensure the success of his final suppressive action, against particularly determined opposition, it is logical to assume that Flavius Silva would have delayed attacking until the conditions were most favourable for his cause. If, in the case of Masada, we have to extrapolate as to the time of year in which the siege was undertaken, in other examples our sources are more explicit, although usually such references are adduced in order to explain the failure of operations. Thus, at Numantia in 140BC, Q. Pompeius Aulus decided to overwinter with his army, largely composed of raw recruits, because he wished to restore a reputation tarnished by earlier setbacks. Unfortunately for him, inadequate provision had been made both for the provisioning of his force and for the furnishing of weather-proof hibernacula for his men who, ‘being exposed to severe cold without shelter, and unaccustomed to the water and climate of the country, fell sick with dysentery and many died’ (App. Hisp. 13.78). As a result, Aulus was obliged to contract peace terms with the defenders, although the arrangement was later disavowed by the Senate. At Atrax in 198 BC, T. Quinctius Flamininus was more circumspect. After his attempts to force a breach had proved unsuccessful, the consul, deciding that the local conditions were unsuitable for overwintering given that the town was ‘far from the sea and in a region wasted by the calamities of war’, cut his losses and moved away (Livy 32.18.2). In rare instances however, severe weather conditions may have proved advantageous to the assailants, as at the siege of an unnamed city of the Spanish

6 Roth (1995) 95; for the date of the operation see Davies (2011) 65–66 n. 1.

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Ausetani in 218 BC. As Cn. Cornelius Scipio’s army pushed ahead with a thirtyday blockade his men were faced with blizzard conditions, but the four feet of snow cover on their mantlets and penthouses rendered enemy firebrands ineffective. Faced by the grim determination of their assailants, the defenders sought terms (Livy 21.61.10). These examples are indicative of how a besieger could face formidable environmental obstacles that the careful application of prior planning and meticulous attention to the organisation of supply might still overcome. Other episodes also demonstrate how even the most impressive of natural defences might prove insufficient in the face of an assailant with sufficient determination and resources to press ahead with his operation. Thus, the Persian siege of the Athenian expeditionary force encamped on the Nilotic island of Prosopitis was brought to a close in 454 BC by the drastic expedient of digging canals to divert a channel of the river so that Megabyzus thereby ‘made the island part of the mainland’ (Diod. Sic. 11.77.2; see also Thuc. 1.109). The Persian commander, whose siege had been stymied in eighteen months of fruitless blockade (as the Athenian warships had kept the river open to supply), deployed his large army to effect the re-engineering of the landscape to make the enemy target accessible and to negate the Greek naval superiority.7 Perhaps the best narrated example of the triumph of massive force to conquer nature, however, can be seen in Alexander the Great’s famous siege of Tyre in 332 BC. Tyre’s location four stades (nearly 750m) offshore in water up to three fathoms (c. 5.5 m) deep, made the city’s reduction a serious undertaking and involved the expenditure of much time and energy to bring to a close.8 The extension of the mole from the mainland to the island was fraught with hazard and, after the initial effort had been wrecked by the combination of incendiary attack and south-westerly gales, Alexander ordered the replacement work to be aligned facing directly into the prevailing wind so that the sides of the structure were less exposed and large trees felled in the Lebanese mountains were sunk ‘branches and all’ as a form of breakwater to absorb some of the wave impact (Curt. 4.3.6; Diod. Sic. 17.42.6). Nonetheless, despite their prodigious toil, until such time as the 7 A similar, if less dramatic, solution was resorted to in Julian’s siege of Aquileia in AD361. Here, after all other efforts had proved unsuccessful, the attackers cut the aqueducts and diverted the River Natesio (through a ‘mighty effort’) to force the issue through thirst. Nonetheless the defenders were able to sink sufficient wells within the walls and sustain themselves until such time as they received confirmation that Constantius was dead (Amm. Marc. 21.12.17). More aggressively, at Mantineia in 385 BC, the Spartans diverted the course of a nearby stream with ‘great dykes’ so that it was turned to run through the city. As the stream had been swollen by heavy winter rain, the resulting flooding caused the defenders to surrender (Diod. Sic. 15.12.1). 8 For the offshore location of the island city see Arr. Anab. 2.18.3.

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Macedonians were able to wrest naval superiority, the Tyrian defenders continued to delay the completion of the works and, had Darius made any move to relieve his loyal subjects, Alexander would surely have been obliged to raise his siege.9

2

Provisioning and Resource Acquisition

Although the location of a target in an extreme landscape may have sometimes forced a besieger to make advanced provision for his army before commencing his attempt at reduction, it is also clear that less inimical environments would also force an attacking general to make logistical choices, either at the outset of operations or while they were in progress. These, too, were contingent both upon local resource availability and the determination of the assailant. It is interesting that we have some examples where our sources are explicit in confirming that the intended besieger had satisfied himself in advance that there would be adequate local raw materials available to him before commencing his attack. Thus in 189 BC, M. Fulvius was recommended by his Epirote allies to demonstrate before Ambracia, either to draw the Aetolians into a pitched battle or to mount siege should it prove necessary. The role of the environment was crucial to this plan as the Epirotes advised Fulvius that there was an abundance of local raw materials to construct his engines and that the river Arachthos was navigable (allowing ease of supply), perennial (and therefore could be used for watering the army during summer), and also well-placed to provide a screen for construction parties in the event of a hostile sortie (Livy 38.3.11; Polyb. 21.26.4). Before directing three Roman armies to besiege Capua over the winter of 212/211BC, the Roman consuls took great care to re-fortify local strongholds and establish secure granaries, filled by the diversion of the Sardinian grain fleet (Livy 25.20.2–3). These precautions were deemed necessary because of the gravity of the task at hand, the necessity to deploy a very large army, and the certainty that Hannibal would seek to relieve the siege by manoeuvring nearby. With the scale of the operation, it was clearly impracticable to expect the troops to live off the land and foraging parties sent far afield were likely to be ambushed by Hannibal’s field army. 9 For similar enterprises to defeat a coast-bound city see Dionysius of Syracuse’s attack on Motya in 397 BC (Diod. Sic. 14.48.3) or the attempt to thwart blockade runners at Lilybaeum in the First Punic War by filling in the harbour channels, albeit that all that was achieved here— because the ‘waves and the force of the current dislodged and scattered everything that was thrown in’—was the raising of a low reef that proved a major navigation hazard (Polyb. 1.47.4).

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As we have seen in some of the examples already mentioned, apart from the demand for adequate food and water, one of the primary concerns for any besieger was access to sufficient construction material and, particularly, suitable timber. Wood was vital for the fabrication of siege engines, such as towers, mantlets and penthouses, and was equally important for the erection of siege works, such as palisaded ramparts and battlements, corduroy tracks for the deployment of belfries, revetments for mounds, or props for tunnelling. A substantial amount of wood might also be consumed for cooking purposes or for the production of charcoal used in the besieger’s smithies. Accordingly, it was important for an attacking general to bring up adequate stocks of timber (as at Thala or Urso above) prior to the commencement of the action, or to source fresh supplies in the vicinity of the target. Although the lamentable track record of earlier Roman armies deployed against the Spanish town of Numantia provided little comfort to Scipio Aemilianus, this familiarity with the local conditions at least prepared him for the bare landscape of the surrounding hills. Consequently, at the start of his siege in 134BC, he had ensured that each soldier carried seven stakes to the battlefield so that he might have some stock of pre-cut timber for his works (Flor. 1.34.10; Livy Epit. 57.2). At Jerusalem in AD70, Titus undertook siege work construction on an enormous scale so that at least 17 separate assault ramps and a circumvallatory wall thirty-nine stades (c. 7.2km) long were built. The rapid depletion of local timber was such that by the time the ramps were being advanced against the Temple Portico (which, though not the last phase of the operation, is the last time Josephus gives us this specific information) the army had to procure timber from a hundred stades (c. 18.5km) away (Joseph. BJ 6.151). Sometimes it would seem that Roman siege commanders were unable to scavenge to such good effect. At Bezabde in AD 360, Constantius made a serious attempt against a city recently seized by the Persians. However, although he expended a great deal of effort in bringing up the great Persian ram previously used against Antioch (and later abandoned at Carrhae), it seems that he had insufficient materials with which to build sturdy siege works. Although he did manage to construct two siege mounds (to act as artillery positions for bolt-firers tasked with sweeping the defenders from their parapets), it seems clear that these were relatively flimsy structures built of the branches of various trees, rushes, and bundles of cane (Amm. Marc. 20.11.23). After one of these mounds was burnt to the ground during a sortie in which the defenders succeeded in inserting live coals into its interstices, the siege lapsed into a passive blockade which was given up at the onset of the rainy season. The shortcomings in planning in this case are suggested by the delay in bringing up the Persian ram (which only made an appearance ten days into the siege), the

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lack of foresight in transporting timber to make a solid revetment for the siege mounds, as well as the failure to equip the army for the necessities of a lengthy campaign forcing the abandonment of the siege prior to the onset of winter. As was the case at Urso, the defenders of centres that anticipated an imminent attack might take preclusive measures to deny an attacker the harvest of local resources. At Avaricum in 52BC, the Arverni had adopted a scorched earth policy prior to Caesar’s approach and had undertaken the precautionary torching of nearby settlements and the devastation of the immediate hinterland (Caes. BGall. 7.15, 7.17). This certainly caused some difficulties for the besiegers, particularly as their ostensible allies were tardy in sending up supplies. In a similar demonstration of will at Xanthus in 42BC, the townspeople demolished their own suburbs prior to the approach of Brutus’ army so that he would be unable to cannibalise them in his siege works (App. BCiv. 4.76).10 Apart from the practical benefits of resource denial, there may also have been some psychological advantages that accrued to the defender from the self-demolition of their ancestral buildings rather than witnessing their despoliation at the hands of the enemy.11 In this way, we might say that the human geography of the target area could be as important as its natural setting.

3

Siege System Selection and Composition

Apart from influencing the decision as to whether a siege was possible in the first place, or how it was to be sustained, environmental factors might also have a major bearing on both the siege strategy that was to be adopted and the type and nature of the siege works that might then prove necessary.12 In certain circumstances, the natural topography or the underlying geology might determine the type and axis of any attack, while the nature of the terrain and its relationship with the target’s defences would almost always have a bearing on the besieging general’s tactical decision-making. A good example of resource availability having an immediate bearing on generals’ calculations can be seen in 254 BC when Roman armies descended on 10

11 12

For examples where besiegers made good use of extra-mural structures see Cassius’ attack (43 BC) on Laodicea (App. BCiv. 4.60) where houses and tombs were recycled in his assault ramp, or the archaeological soundings of the Lydian assault ramps at Old Smyrna (c. 600 BC) where the quantity of mud brick, worked stone, and structural timber suggests extensive demolition of extra-mural buildings to provide the dump horizons for King Alyattes’ work. See Nicholls (1958/1959) 89, 128, n. 112, and Fig. 27. See Davies (2001). For Roman siege works generally, see Davies (2006).

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Panormus (Palermo) in a sudden amphibious landing. The decision was then taken to invest the city with a palisade and trench as the ‘countryside is heavily wooded right up to the city gates’ (Diod. Sic. 23.18.4). The implication here is clear: that it was the ready access to timber (not to mention the size of the force at their disposal) that allowed the consuls the confidence to hermetically seal the landward approaches to their target by extending their investment line from sea to sea. Presumably this easily obtained wood also allowed the construction of the ramps that would have been necessary to bridge the outer ditches and to deploy the rams (and their housings) that effected a breach in the city’s walls. In districts where timber was less easy to procure, the siege commander would have to turn to stone and dumped earth construction for his siege structures. At Masada, for example, the survival of the Roman siege system is partly due to its (formerly) remote location and the fact that Flavius Silva was obliged to make extensive use of dry-stone walling for his circumvallation and camp construction, and earth and stone to fill the core of his assault ramp. Nonetheless, the ramp did require some revetment (a form of timber box framing seems most likely) and the wooden elements for the same made use of desert species, such as acacia and tamarisk, which seem to have been sourced from En Gedi and/or from Jordanian wadis across the Dead Sea.13 Accordingly the rather spindly remains of the wooden supports that today protrude from the flanks of the assault ramp probably reflect this scarcity of supply with better quality timber, presumably being reserved for the construction of the siege tower and the track for the same that would have capped the ramp. At Masada (as at many sites), basic topography meant that there was only one practicable line of attack if the target was to be reduced by a breaching assault rather than by blockade. Here, the fortress, on its isolated mesa top, could only be approached from the west, where a hard chalk and marl layer (Josephus’ leukê) projects upward to form a spur against the cliff-face. This provided a ready-made embankment that the Roman engineers heightened to allow their siege tower, and its integral ram housing, to gain access to the enemy wall.14 Again, at Avaricum the Gallic oppidum was surrounded by both a river and extensive marshland leaving only a narrow frontage available for forward operations. As the site precluded the construction of a circumvallatory scheme (perhaps the circuit would not have been economical either, in terms of its requisite length or because it would have been too labour-intensive 13 14

For the assault ramp at Masada more generally see Davies (2011) 76–79; for the wood sourcing see Lev-Yadun, Lucas, and Weinstein-Evron (2010). See Gill (1993) for a geological explanation of the ramp and Davies & Magness (2017) for further discussion.

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to prepare the waterlogged ground), Caesar decided to press ahead with the construction of a massive timber-framed ramp with two towers on the only narrow corridor of firm ground that gave access to the target (Caes. BGall. 7.17). Albeit far more modest in terms of scale, the Roman reaction to the practice of Jewish rebels in the Bar Kokhba Revolt to conceal themselves in subterranean galleries or inaccessible caves/cliff shelters, was also heavily conditioned by the prevalent topography. At Nahal Hever, one of the deepest canyons in the Judaean Desert, resistance fighters had taken shelter in caves located high on the canyon’s flanks. In response, the imperial authorities constructed two small camps on the north and south banks that overlooked the cave mouths and set in the opposite cliff-faces. These forts allowed surveillance of the cave entrances and could have exchanged signals to warn of any rebel attempt to break-out along the narrow paths leading to the plateau top. As the occupants could not descend the sheer slope to the wadi bottom, these carefullypositioned camps not only would have prevented any attempt at exfiltration from the caves but would also have severed access to the only possible water source, rendering the enemy position untenable after only a short period of time.15 That tactical decisions might not always be grounded in the best appreciation of the terrain, or the overall strategic situation, can be seen in the ambitious (perhaps foolhardy would be better) attempt by Caesar to besiege Pompey’s field army to the south of Dyrrachium in 48 BC. By dint of forced marching, Caesar had managed to interpose his army between Pompey’s much larger force and its primary supply base at Dyrrachium. The Pompeians now entrenched themselves above a convenient anchorage on the otherwise exposed coastline while the Caesarians dug in on a line of hills to the north. Filled with confidence, Caesar now began a competitive race to seize the heights to the east of the Pompeian position, but because of the superior numbers of the enemy (who also operated on interior lines of communication), his forces were driven further out as they extended their line to the east and the south. In his rather unconvincing explanation of events, Caesar claimed that this attempt to hem in the Pompeian army, with its back to the coast, was designed to allow his men to forage without risk of interception by the numerous Pompeian cavalry, to deny forage in turn to the Pompeians, and to diminish their commander in the eyes of his subordinates as he was seemingly unwilling to commit to a pitched battle (Caes. BCiv. 3.43). That this post-action justification amounts to little more than a fig leaf to cover Caesar’s embarrassment, when his overexten-

15

Yadin (1963) 13.

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ded army was defeated, is very apparent when it is remembered that at no time had Pompey lost command of the sea and could therefore bring in supplies and reinforcements at will. The ostensible role that morale played in Caesar’s calculation at Dyrrachium is perhaps best demonstrated elsewhere by reference to Flavius Silva’s engineering ‘overkill’ at Masada. Here, the Roman legate encircled the fortress with a robust work of circumvallation which Josephus tells us was designed ‘to make it difficult for any of the besieged to escape’ (Joseph. BJ 7.275–276). Although Silva may have been keen to prevent any of the trapped sicarii from escaping to rekindle trouble elsewhere, it is clear that the resulting encirclement was not primarily a work of military necessity, insofar as the line sometimes ran across terrain that was not susceptible to any escape attempt. Perhaps this is most obvious on the south east front where the line climbs the shoulder of the mountain south of the deeply-cut canyon of the Wadi Sebbe which would have been completely inaccessible to even the most desperate exfiltrator. The provision of two artillery turrets in the same sector reinforces the idea that this was a work of intimidation, intended to demonstrate to the defenders (and possibly any client forces present) the determination of the Roman state to expunge resistance regardless of the material cost. Silva was imposing his will on nature, and, by doing so, was consciously reifying the power of the Roman state.16 One specific category of siege work that was particularly susceptible to the impact of terrain (and its underlying geology) was tunnelling. Mines, whether intended to topple wall circuits, allow surreptitious access to the target, or sever underground water sources, required suitable conditions to drive forward. We are specifically told that Alexander the Great sank galleries to undermine the walls of Gaza in 332BC because the soil conditions were favourable for such works and that Pyrrhus’ abortive siege of Lilybaeum in 276 BC failed not least because the rocky ground thwarted his miners (Curt. 4.6.8; Diod. Sic. 22.10.7). Perhaps the best example of a mining operation designed to bring about the fall of a city was that employed at Uxellodunum in 51 BC. Here, faced by a stronglyfortified oppidum, Caesar drew a circumvallation around the target but, with intelligence to hand that the defenders had access to ample foodstuffs (and the site being impracticable to assault), he decided that the best approach would be to deny the enemy access to water (Caes. BGall. 8.40–43). We are told that although the river that ran around the base of the hill could not be diverted by

16

An argument also advanced by Luttwak (1976) 3–4, albeit that his idea of a three-year operation is misguided.

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trenches because of the prevalent topography (suggesting that an attempt at such diversion would have been made if the terrain had been more favourable), watering parties from the town had to descend a precipitous path to gain this source, so that the careful siting of both catapults and archers proved sufficient to deny access. However the defenders could still use an extra-mural spring immediately below the town walls and this became the next target for Caesar’s denial strategy. Notwithstanding the difficulties of the ground, a siege mound was raised with a tower emplaced on top of it to overlook the spring and to interdict the water carriers so that the task for the Gauls, though not impossible, was now fraught with hazard. Unknown to the defenders however, and covered by penthouses that concealed the mine-head, Caesar simultaneously advanced an adit in an effort to sever the feeder channel to this spring and, remarkably enough, the remains of this gallery were uncovered in the course of nineteenth century excavations. Although these excavations were conducted with more élan than archaeological probity, they revealed that the miners did not drive their tunnel directly at the springhead, but rather, followed the most favourable strata (a bed of limestone) with at least one re-orientation having been prompted by an encounter with more resistant geology.17 Eventually these efforts were crowned with success and, faced with the sudden and mysterious drying up of their perpetual spring, the defenders surrendered.

4

Tactical Factors Influencing Siege Work Construction and Placement

When a siege commander had decided on the most effective approach to adopt for the reduction of his intended target, he was still faced with making tactical choices over the siting of the various components of his siege system. After all, it was in his interest to ensure that the terrain should be harnessed to maximum benefit to confer local advantage to the attacking force and to render enemy sorties, breakouts, or external relief attempts less attractive to contemplate. Considering both the realities of the ground and the constraints of the available manpower (for initial construction and for economical manning thereafter), the besieger would normally be concerned to build no more and no less than what was operationally necessary (although, as we have seen at Masada, strict necessity cannot always be thought of as an absolute guide). A good case study is the impressive set of works extended by Caesar around Alesia

17

Napoleon III (1866) 345–346; Labrousse (1966) 567.

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in 52 BC, where Vercingetorix had enticed him to set a siege with the intention of crushing the Roman force between the Gallic army within the walls and a huge relief force gathering nearby. Caesar was well aware of the dangers he faced but, with the prospect of trapping and destroying the leader of the Gallic Revolt, he accepted the challenge and surrounded the target with inward and outward facing lines of investment. Caesar’s descriptions of his army’s prodigious labour around Alesia are well-described by the general’s commentaries and the results of this work have been extensively tested by excavation, both in the nineteenth century and more recently.18 Accordingly, we now have a much more complete view of one of the most complex ensembles of siege structures ever built by a Roman commander. Caesar’s narrative provides a detailed description of the measures he undertook to protect his men from the double threat, but excavation has demonstrated that the monolithic character of the works described by him amounts to a disingenuous exaggeration intended to impress his audience back in Rome (Caes. BGall. 7.72–74).19 Instead, different sectors of the lines received different suites of obstacles and defences depending both on the level of anticipated threat and the nature of the terrain. Therefore, on the most vulnerable sector, where the lines crossed the flat ground of the plaine des Laumes, the obstacle field in front of the rampart line reached its greatest depth and sophistication. Here, the contravallation was fronted by three protective ditches of varying profiles with the outermost (nearest Alesia that is) having a trough-shaped base covered in waterborne silt, suggesting that it was deliberately flooded from its junction with the stream of the Ozerain as far as the topography would allow.20 Here, too, can be found traces of the stimuli and cippi mentioned by Caesar but not the lilia, the pits of which may have been difficult to maintain in the damp ground.21 That this was the most vulnerable area to a concerted attackin-force was not lost on the Roman general and the measures taken here for the defence of the line reflected both the threat faced and what the ground may have allowed. Elsewhere, in sectors less likely to be attacked, such as the course of the circumvallation on the montagne de Bussy, a dense barrier of cippi fron-

18 19 20 21

For the nineteenth-century excavations see Le Gall (1989); for the modern work at site see Reddé and von Schnurbein (2001). For Caesar’s propagandist turn more generally see Welch and Powell (1998). The term ‘contravallation’ usually refers to the inward-facing line in any system of double investment. Stimuli were spikes inserted into logs and buried in the topsoil; cippi were interlaced sharpened branches bound together in a form of early barbed wire; and lilia were mantraps comprising deep pits in which sharpened wooden stakes were embedded.

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ted the single ditch in front of the rampart.22 These branches bedded in four parallel slots in the ground, would have concealed the fact that the ditch behind them, although 3.5m wide, was remarkably shallow and would not have acted as a serious obstacle. Clearly, creating the impression of strength allowed for an economy of labour and the effort invested presumably reflected the anticipated degree of threat along this part of the line. The extant remains of a number of Roman siege systems suggest that generals (or the subordinates who executed their broad instructions in the field) were alert to the subtleties of terrain to make the best possible use of the ground. This is particularly clear when we look at the laying out of lines of circumvallation where the objectives of surveillance, defence, and the provision of fire support positions were intimately interconnected. Thus at various sites where the evidence survives on the ground, there are ample indications that construction crews aligned the course of their investment wall (and the placement of any related turrets) to seek advantage from the local terrain. At Machaerus (Herod’s former fortress palace in Moab reduced in AD72), for example, this is apparent along the south western sector of the circumvallation where the blockade wall is laid out immediately behind a gully that descends to the southern Wadi elMišneqa. This natural obstruction acted similarly to an artificial ditch, and the added reinforcement to the line (which, further upslope, forms a proper fighting platform, as it is much wider than at any other point in the system) suggests that this sector was thought to be most vulnerable to a breakout attempt along the wadi bottom, given the relatively gentle slope descending from the enemy citadel.23 The conclusion that the sector was considered tactically exposed is also indicated by the provision of artillery platforms in Camps E and F above the wadi, that only make sense for local point defence in the event of some such sortie attempt. Of course, such tactical selections might not always have proved to be ideal and might subsequently require revision. At Alesia, it has been argued that the initial line chosen for Caesar’s contravallation was less than satisfactory and was abandoned for a better-suited alignment.24 However, this modern appreciation may not be fair to Caesar as the site has ample evidence for the provision of screening works dug to protect the legionary work details from sudden raids by the large cavalry force at Vercingetorix’s disposal, a concern

22 23 24

In a double investment system, the term ‘circumvallation’ usually refers to the outwardfacing line. See also above, n. 20. Davies (2006) 75 and 83. Harmand (1967) 119–126.

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that Caesar himself refers to in his account.25 At Carthage in 149 BC, when the initial Roman attacks were repulsed, the two consuls encamped separately and began more methodical approaches. In order to widen an approach path for the two enormous rams that he had brought up, Censorinus filled in part of the lagoon between his fortified base and the city walls and commenced the work of battery. So far so good. But when the Carthaginians succeeded in destroying his rams and his men were driven back from the partial breach, Censorinus seemed to have run out of ideas. The drawback to siting his base camp next to the stagnant lagoon now became apparent, as his men started to sicken and the consul was forced to relocate his fort to the healthier environs of the seashore (App. Pun. 97–98). Had Censorinus succeeded in gaining access to the city via his breaching engines, this initial tactical selection would have proved justified, but once the attack had been repulsed, the long term consequences of a poor camp site began to manifest themselves. At Masada, we have another example where the original siege system may have received modification in the course of the reductive operation. Here, the odd shape of Camp G, which sits on sloping ground above the junction of the Nahal Masada and the Wadi Sebbe, is hard to explain unless this was a two-phase work. A conjectural explanation is that its ‘D’-shaped upper third represents an initial castellum subsequently expanded by the addition of an elongated southeastern extension.26 This expansion may have been prompted by the realisation that the garrison of Camp G would have been responsible for a lengthy (if generally unassailable) section of the circumvallation and the initial design may have failed to fulfil these requirements by enclosing too limited an area for the troops involved. Furthermore, by being sited too far upslope, the shoulder of the hill would have masked lateral fire along the Nahal Masada. Both of these shortcomings would have been overcome by the elongation of the camp.

5

Conclusion

The foregoing suggests some of the ways in which the environment (whether on a macro or micro scale) may have played an important, sometimes crucial, role in the decision-making of besieging commanders. With their forces needing water, food, cooking supplies, and shelter, and their siege works and engines consuming a prodigious quantity of timber and other raw materials,

25 26

For the screening works see Bénard (1987) 38–39; Davies (2006) 37, 41, and Pl. 5. Davies (2011) 75.

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it behoved responsible generals to make an accurate appreciation of the practical requirements of any siege—ideally before commencing the operation in the first place. Clearly, with sufficient force at hand and through sufficient planning and maintaining the security of his logistical tail, a well-prepared besieger could be confident of tackling even the most intimidating of targets and enjoy every expectation of success. But even ad hoc sieges, where the decision to attempt a reduction was made as an auxiliary to overall operations (rather than being selected as a deliberate tactical objective in its own right), could still be prosecuted with confidence by the careful harnessing of local environmental and topographic factors to the assailant’s advantage. When such factors were disregarded or downplayed, the outcome for the attacker frequently proved far less congenial. This said, it should be emphasised that it would be a mistake to treat the contingent aspects of the ‘landscape of siege’ in a rigidly deterministic manner. Sometimes besieging generals ignored or took scant account of environmental considerations in their enthusiasm for the task at hand or, indeed, may have resolved to proceed in ways that were neither strictly utilitarian in terms of military necessity nor based upon any conventional notion of military probity. Although such actions might still be crowned with success, sufficient evidence exists for us to make the confident claim that issues of topography, environment and climate did factor into the siege calculus in most cases resulting in the adoption of tactics and approaches that were better tailored to the landscapes in which these campaigns played out and securing commensurate gains for those responsible.

Bibliography Bénard, J. (1987) ‘César devant Alesia: les temoins sont dans le sol’, Revue Historiques des Armées 2: 29–55. Davies, G. (2001) ‘Siege Works, Psychology and Symbolism’, in Davies, Gardner, and Lockyear (2001) 69–79. Davies, G. (2006) Roman Siege Works. Stroud. Davies, G. (2011) ‘Under Siege: The Roman Field Works at Masada’, BASOR 362: 65–83. Davies, G., Gardner, A., and Lockyear, K. (eds.) (2001) TRAC 2000: Proceedings of the Tenth Annual Theoretical Archaeology Conference held at the Institute of Archaeology, University College London, 6th–7th April 2000. Oxford. Davies, G. and Magness, J. (2017) ‘Recovering Josephus: Mason’s History of the Jewish War and the Siege of Masada’, SCI 36: 55–65. Gill, D. (1993) ‘A Natural Spur at Masada’, Nature 364: 569–570. Harmand, J. (1967) Une Campagne Césarienne, Alésia. Paris.

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Heurgon, J., Seston, W., and Charles-Picard, G. (eds.) (1966) Mélanges d’archéologie, d’épigraphie et d’histoire offerts à Jérôme Carcopino. Paris. Labrousse, M. (1966) ‘Au dossier d’Uxellodunum’, in Heurgon, Seston, and CharlesPicard (1966) 563–585. Le Gall, J. (1989) Fouilles d’Alise Ste Reine, 1861–1865. Mémoires de l’Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres. Paris. Lev-Yadun, S., Lucas, D.S., and Weinstein-Evron, M. (2010) ‘Modeling the Demands for Wood by the Inhabitants of Masada and for the Roman Siege’, Journal of Arid Environments 74: 777–785. Levithan, J. (2013) Roman Siege Warfare. Ann Arbor. Luttwak, E. (1976) The Grand Strategy of the Roman Empire from the First Century CE to the Third. Baltimore. Napoleon III. (1866) Histoire de Jules César. Tome II. Guerre des Gaules. Paris. Nicholls, R.V. (1958–1958) ‘Old Smyrna: The Iron Age Fortifications, Etc’, ABSA 53–54: 35–137. Reddé, M. and von Schnurbein, S. (2001) Alésia. Fouilles et recherches Franco-Allemandes sur les travaux militaires Romains autour du Mont-Auxois (1991–1997), Vol. 1: Les Fouilles. Mémoires de l’Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres 12. Paris. Roth, J.P. (1995) ‘The Length of the Siege of Masada’, SCI 14: 87–110. Roth, J.P. (1999) The Logistics of the Roman Army at War (264B.C.–A.D.235). Leiden. Welch, K. and Powell, A. (eds.) (1998) Julius Caesar as Artful Reporter. The War Commentaries as Political Instruments. Swansea. Yadin, Y. (1963) The Finds from the Bar Kokhba Period in the Cave of Letters. Jerusalem.

chapter 3

The Nature of Siege Warfare in the Neo-Assyrian Period Luis R. Siddall

Siege warfare was a constant of ancient Near Eastern military activity. From the earliest accounts of military campaigns we find that sieges were a common means for one kingdom to bring another to submission. The dominance of siege warfare in the ancient Near East has left its legacy in the imagination of the modern West, no clearer than in the continual retelling of famous Near Eastern sieges in stories for children and in history curricula at schools, such as the siege of Troy, the Hebrews and their God bringing down the walls of Jericho, Alexander’s siege of Tyre, and the Christians’ siege of Jerusalem during the First Crusade. The other chapters in this volume provide clear testament to the legacy of ‘siege’ in antiquity and beyond. A cursory glance at these famous clashes is informative, for each demonstrates consistencies in the experiences of both the besiegers and the besieged: the long, protracted nature of the conflicts; the great difficulties in overcoming walled cities; and, most importantly, the need for ingenuity and great military strength in order to succeed. It is against this backdrop that we should appreciate the Neo-Assyrian period (745–609), which saw great success in siege warfare.1 The reasons for Assyria’s triumph in this method of warfare was the effective use of sieges as a part of a broader system of militarism, which saw the use of different tactics concurrently (blockade, direct assaults on city walls, and skirmishes), quality battering rams, mastery of psychological warfare, and an ability to provide supplies and support to the besieging troops.

1 All dates are BC. Historians use the term ‘Neo-Assyrian’ to denote different periods of time in the first half of the first millennium. It is common to find ‘Neo-Assyrian’ referring to the period of from Tiglath-pileser III to the end of the empire (745–609), which saw the greatest expansion and military success. Others, however, quite legitimately, consider the reign of Ashurnasirpal II (883–859) or Aššur-dān II (934–912) as the birth of the ‘Neo-Assyrian era’. This essay follows the more common designation (745–609) because it is in this era that the source material is most abundant.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2019 | doi:10.1163/978

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Assyrian Imperialism and the Problems of Evidence

At its imperial height in the seventh century, Assyria controlled the region from the Zagros Mountains in modern day Iran in the east to the Mediterranean coast in the west; the northern border was demarcated by the Taurus Mountains in Anatolia and Assyrian influence was felt as far south as the delta region in Egypt. Hitherto, no other empire had managed to control such a vast territorial expanse, which is all the more impressive since the Assyrian heartland comprised a comparatively small region in the upper Tigris Valley. The Assyrians acquired their territorial domination over a period of just under 200 years, at times in fits and spurts of military conquest and, during particularly successful reigns, by a systematic imperial programme comprising military aggression, diplomacy, domination of client kingdoms, and efficient administration of provinces with an emphasis on redistribution of resources, tax collection, and political loyalty.2 This imperial system was multifaceted and increased in sophistication during the heyday of Assyrian imperialism from 745 to the 630s, yet the enduring image of the Assyrian empire was its militarism and terrifying brutality. This is unsurprising, as might and cruelty were central traits which the Assyrian emperors themselves promoted in their royal inscriptions and palatial reliefs. Further, both the textual and archaeological resources demonstrate that failure to comply with Assyria’s imperial interests resulted in swift and heavy military responses. When cities attempted to defend themselves against Assyrian might, siege warfare usually followed. The imperial success of the late eighth and seventh centuries was matched by an increase in textual, artistic, and archaeological sources in the form of royal inscriptions and palatial art, administrative documents and letters, and the remains of royal and administrative buildings. The survival of the textual and artistic materials is by virtue of them being inscribed on non-perishable materials, such as fired clay and stone. In most cases, the deposition of the texts in the foundations and the fabric of the walls of palaces and temples kept them safe from the tooth of time. In terms of establishing a narrative of significant sieges, the Assyrian royal inscriptions and palatial art are the most important. However, there are obstacles in coming to a detailed understanding of this aspect of Assyrian militarism. The royal inscriptions were commissioned by the king and intended to glorify his deeds and achievements, often with a generous pinch of hyper-

2 For concise overviews of the process of expansion and Assyria’s system of imperialism see Postgate (1992) and Grayson (1995).

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bole.3 What is more problematic for the historian is the particular approach taken to reporting on military campaigns: the Assyrian king is at the centre of the action and victory, often directed and supported by the chief deity, Ashur, and/or the goddess, Ishtar; he embodies his army and his divinely supported power is juxtaposed with the foolishness and weakness of his enemies, and as a result he is always victorious.4 Such an approach leads to a prioritising of pitched battles over sieges because the former lends itself to a narrative of two kings leading their armies in combat, of course with the Assyrian winning in a heroic fashion. When these pitched battles occur, the royal inscriptions offer considerable detail about the event. Sieges, on the other hand, are treated in a more cursory manner and used chiefly to denigrate the enemy who hides behind his walls. The description of sieges were commonly reduced to formulaic phrases: I besieged (lawû) city x and I conquered it (kašādu); I burned (šarapu) their cities, I tore them down (napālu); I destroyed them (naqaru); I turned the cities into mounds of rubble and ruins (ana tilli u karmi turrû).5 Further, Mario Liverani has shown the imbalance goes beyond the interest in the style of battle and comes to influence the entire narrative: the Assyrians are always the aggressors and never suffer a siege, and one needs to read between the lines to find evidence of abandoned sieges. Even the mention of the enemy’s ‘strong walled cities’ is less of an admiration of the magnificence of the cities, but rather used to bolster the image of the Assyrian king who can overcome such obstacles—a motif Liverani coined as the ‘difficult path’ in the 1970s.6 The palatial art of the period, displayed in relief on the walls, often depicts the Assyrian army engaged in siege warfare—usually at the moment the walls are overcome.7 These ‘snapshots’ are rather informative of Assyrian siege tactics and of particular interest is the depiction of the soldiers of the Assyrian army gaining victory, rather than the king.8 This most likely has much to do with the fact that these scenes were often placed in the reception halls and

3 On the nature of Assyrian royal inscriptions and historiography see the overview by Tadmor (1997). 4 See Weeks (1983) and Tadmor (1997). The exception is found in the inscriptions of Sennacherib, who once admitted defeat, but blamed it on his officials (Sennacherib 1:22 in Grayson and Novotny [2012] 33). On another occasion he admitted that the snow of the Zagros Mountains was too heavy to continue the military campaign (Sennacherib 22: v 6–11a; 23: iv 77–v 3, in Grayson and Novotny [2012] 181 and 198). 5 Liverani (2017) 126–128; see also Ephʿal (2009) 8–9. 6 See Liverani (1973), (1979), and (2017) 128–129. 7 Liverani (2017) 129. 8 See Nadali’s contribution in this volume for more on this topic.

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rooms of the palace that had a far wider audience than the royal inscriptions, which would have included members of the officialdom and military, as well as foreign dignitaries.9 For further details on the nature of an Assyrian siege, the historian has to glean information from other textual sources and archaeological remains, but in each case these sources are also limited. There are some useful descriptions of siege warfare in the oracular inquiries, in particular from the reign of Esarhaddon (681–669). Prior to a campaign, the Assyrian kings would consult the sun god, Shamash, about the possible occurrences and outcomes of their actions, and in doing so these inquiries offer some descriptive insights into how sieges were undertaken.10 The archival documents of the imperial administration also offer information on the experience of siege warfare, but because these texts were composed for the closed audience of those in the dayto-day business of administering the empire, seldom do they offer information beyond descriptions of the conditions faced by the officialdom.11 Thus, even the non-royal documents fall far short of a treatise on Assyrian siege warfare. Indeed, of the hundreds of thousands of cuneiform tablets excavated in Mesopotamia, we know of no ‘Aeneas Tacticias’ from the Assyrian empire or indeed any other period of Mesopotamian history. However, there are important passages in the Hebrew Bible, especially the accounts of Sennacherib’s siege of Jerusalem (701). In many respects, the depiction of the Assyrians in the biblical text mirrors Assyrian propaganda: Sennacherib and his army are a powerful host, impossible to defeat without the direct intervention of Yahweh (II Kings 18–19; IIChronicles 32; Isaiah 36). These passages are particularly useful for examining the experience of Assyrian siege warfare from the perspective of the besieged. In terms of archaeological remains, there is rather limited evidence for siege warfare in this period. No remains of siege engines have been discovered and the evidence from sites themselves is difficult to interpret. As G. Ernest Wright pointed out many decades ago, a destruction layer does not identify who was involved in the conflict any more than it can demonstrate that it was a battle 9

10 11

Liverani (2017) 130. On the deliberate positioning of military themed reliefs in reception areas of Sennacherib’s palace at Nineveh, see Russell (1991) esp. 241–262. For a broader discussion about the possible audiences for Assyrian royal inscriptions and art see Siddall (2013) 134–149 and the literature cited there. The oracular inquiries have been collected and edited by Starr (1990). Their usefulness is summarised in Ephʿal (2009) 19–23. Editions of these texts are published in the series State Archives of Assyria (1987-on) under the general editorship of Simo Parpola, most of which is now available at http://oracc .museum.upenn.edu/saao/corpus.

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that caused the ash and soot over against an accidental fire or another hazard.12 The evidence that has been positively identified from the period covered by this study is limited to two Levantine sites: the siege ramps and remains at the site of Lachish, dating from Sennacherib’s attack in 701, and the large number of human remains that date to the attack of Sargon II in 711 at Ashdod. Having highlighted the evidentiary limitations, in the pages that follow we will glean salient points from the ancient evidence and present as complete a picture of Assyrian siege warfare as is possible.

2

The Nature of Siege Warfare and Its Role in Assyrian Militarism

During the reign of one of Assyria’s most militarily aggressive rulers, Tiglathpileser III (745–727), the army developed into one of the most professional and proficient fighting units in ancient history. The army comprised a core of elite soldiers who made up the royal guard, a full-time standing army, and battalions made up of both native Assyrians and subject peoples settled in Assyria, together with battalions from client kingdoms. Such military strength meant that only the strongest and most brazen enemies met Assyria in pitched battles, and this was often done after forming coalitions. An unintended consequence of Assyria’s might was that the rulers of cities and states who challenged Assyrian authority tended to fall back behind the walls and fortifications of their cities as a defensive strategy. Thus, it was often not that the Assyrians actively sought out siege warfare, but this course of action was precipitated by the actions of their enemies.13 The Assyrians engaged in two forms of siege warfare: blockade and breakthrough. The decision as to which course of action to take depended on the geography of the besieged city, the strength of the city’s fortifications, and the resources available. The following excerpt from an oracular inquiry about attacking the city of Amul follows a common formula found in such texts and outlines the main means to besiege a city: [Shamash, great lord], give me a firm positive answer [to what I am ask]ing you! [Should Esarhaddon, king of] Assyria, send Ša-Nabû-šū, the chief eunuch, [and the army] at his disposal [to take the road, and] to go to capture the city Amul? If they go and set up ca[mp be]fore [that

12 13

Wright (1971) 73. Ephʿal (2009) 1.

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ci]ty, [Amul], will they, be it by means of war, [… o]r by force, or through tun[nels and breaches, or by means of ramps, o]r by means of battering rams, or through fri[endliness or peaceful negotiation]s, or through insurrection and rebellion […], [or through any ruse of] capturing a city, [capture] that city, Amul, enter [that city], Amul, [conquer that city, Amul]?14 Other oracular inquiries mention the use of siege towers and scaling ladders.15 In all, this series of options put to Shamash correlates well with what is recorded in the royal inscriptions and art, and thus can be conveniently considered a catalogue of siege tactics.16 Further, Fabrice De Backer has developed a plausible sketch of the phases of besieging a city based on the scenes in the palatial reliefs.17 He suggests that there was an initial reconnaissance of the region by scouts and light cavalry;18 followed by a process of encirclement of the target city and securing the strategic areas advantageous for military and communications activity; after which skirmishes with archers and redoubts tested the enemies’ defences; and finally an attack by various means against the city’s walls and fortifications. However, despite the seemingly systematic process for besieging a city and the variety of assault tactics, a siege was the least preferred option for a standing army as strong as that of Assyria. In an age prior to the advent of artillery, armies had great difficulty in bringing down or breaching a city’s defensive walls.19 There is also scant evidence of troops who were specially trained in siege combat. It seems that all soldiers were expected to adapt to siege conditions when need arose, which makes good sense given how frequently the Assyrian army engaged in this style of warfare. However, in the time of Sargon II and Sennacherib, heavy infantry men (zūk šēpē) were called on to breach walls with pikes and spears, or to do the work of ‘sappers’, tunnelling under or tearing out the foundations of walls (which is discussed further below).20 Additionally, besieging a city put tremendous strain on the army’s resources and the difficult living conditions for soldiers over a prolonged period of time made famine and disease natural allies for the defending city.21 This was most 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21

SAA IV 63: 1–9, in Starr (1990). See the composite text, based on SAA IV 43, in Ephʿal (2009) 20–23. So Ephʿal (2009) 20. De Backer (2009–2010) 273–283. This initial phase is well evidenced, see the study of Dubovský (2006). On the development of artillery in Near Eastern sieges in later periods, see Ephʿal (2009) 103–105. Fales (2009). Fuchs (2011) 391.

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likely the outcome in Sennacherib’s siege of Jerusalem in 701, when according to the biblical accounts (and the classical and medieval sources inspired by the Hebrew Bible), an epidemic broke out in the Assyrian camp,22 and probably provided Hezekiah the opportunity to sue for peace as indicated in the Assyrian records.23 There are also cases when a siege lasted longer than a year, such as Sennacherib’s and Ashurbanipal’s sieges of Babylon which lasted 15 and 22 months, respectively.24 To support such efforts, the Assyrian imperial administration was able to redirect resources from across the empire. There are hundreds of letters and administrative documents from this period that detail the systems of redistribution, for instance, texts from the reign of Sargon II record the movement of cavalry, mustering of chariots belonging to the magnates, arranging reserve troops, redistributing food from regional towns, guarding grain depots of chariot troops, and distributing cloaks to soldiers.25 During lengthy sieges, it is certain that similar operations would have been undertaken to support the troops blockading a city.

3

Siege Tactics: Blockade and Breakthrough

A hallmark of Assyrian warfare in this period was the success in bringing cities to surrender through debilitating blockades. Unlike armies of New Kingdom Egypt and Rome, the Assyrians did not engage in hermetic blockades. Rather they undertook an ‘outpost’ style of blockade whereby the army either seized or erected fortified stations in areas which enabled them to isolate a city from its support network of neighbouring towns and villages and removed its ability to obtain resources and reinforcements.26 One of the more illuminating descriptions of the aims and effects of a blockade comes from the reign of Ashurbanipal during his siege of Tyre: … I marched against Baʾalu, the king of Tyre who resides in the middle of the sea. … I set up blockades against him. To prevent his people from leaving, I reinforced (its) garrison. By sea and dry land, I took control of (all of)

22 23 24 25 26

II Kings 19:35; II Chronicles 32:21; Isaiah 36:36; Hdt. 2.141; Joseph. AJ 10.17–23; and Taʿrīkh Al-Yaʿqūbī (in Ebied and Wickham [1970] 96). For instance Sennacherib 4: 55–58, in Grayson and Novotny (2012) 65–66. Dalley (2017) 528. SAA I 22, 49, 91, 172, 181, and 193 in Parpola (1987) 22, 48, 79, 135, 142, and 152. Ephʿal (2009) 36–37; Nadali (2009) 137–138; Fuchs (2011) 387; and Liverani (2017) 126.

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his routes (and thus) cut off (all) access to him. I made water (and) food for the preservation of their lives scarce for their mouths. I confined them in a harsh imprisonment from which there was no escape. I constricted (and) cut short their lives. I made them (the people of Tyre) bow down to my yoke.27 However, a blockade required considerable time and, were the Assyrian army to spend an entire campaign season at one location, Assyria’s control of the broader region could have been disrupted and provided opportunities for subject cities to form coalitions and revolt. To counter the corrosive effects of such lengthy stalemates, the kings and their generals devised an effective strategy of setting up a blockade of capital cities while leading raids, skirmishes, and even conquests of the surrounding areas at the same time. The Assyrian king would lead the main army elsewhere while a small number of troops under an Assyrian magnate maintained the blockade. These troops were positioned in forts and towers that had been set up around the besieged city prior to withdrawal with the aim to continue the harassment until the city surrendered, probably with an administrative camp in the immediate vicinity.28 Tiglath-pileser III, Sennacherib, and Esarhaddon describe this style of siege warfare in their respective accounts of the attacks on cities of the Levant. In the cases of Tiglath-pileser and Sennacherib, they refer to the blockaded foes as being imprisoned in their cities ‘like a bird in a cage’, which might not have been mere rhetoric, but the actual Assyrian terminology for this style of siege warfare.29 While Tiglath-pileser held Rezin captive in the capital of Damascus for 45 days, his armies rampaged through the 16 surrounding districts and sacked 591 smaller cities.30 Similarly, while Sennacherib’s magnates confined Hezekiah in Jerusalem, he led his army about Judah and conquered 46 fortified cities as well as capturing other members of the Judean king’s coalition.31 Esarhaddon’s blockade against the Tyrian ruler, Baʿalu, after the latter had formed anti-Assyrian alliances with the Pharaoh of Egypt, Taharqa, is also informative. Esarhaddon’s blockade was successful in reducing Baʿalu’s power until he sur-

27 28 29 30 31

Ashurbanipal 3: ii 38–49, in Novotny and Jeffers (2016). Nadali (2009) 137. An Assyrian camp has been discovered at the site of Jerusalem, see Ussishkin (1976). So Nadali (2009). For the relevant texts are Tiglath-pileser III 20: 11′, in Tadmor and Yamada (2011) 59; and Sennacherib 4: 52, in Grayson and Novotny (2012) 65. Tiglath-pileser III 20: 13′–14a′, in Tadmor and Yamada (2011) 59. Sennacherib 4: 39–54, in Grayson and Novotny (2012) 64–65.

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rendered, but he also states that he was able to break the Tyro-Egyptian alliance by campaigning as far as Memphis in northern Egypt while Tyre was still under blockade.32 A further tactic of the Assyrian blockade was the destruction of the enemy’s orchards. This practice seems to be reserved for times when a siege needed to be abandoned and Assyria could not impose its authority over the rebellious territory. As noted above, a driving force behind Assyria’s imperialism was economic wealth through the imposition of tax and tribute payments on subject kingdoms, so it was only on rare occasions that the army would destroy a resource as precious in the Near East as orchards. Hence, cutting down the fruit trees of a besieged city aimed to inflict long-term economic damage on a community that was likely to be already suffering from social strife, famine, and disease, as well as compounding psychological damage.33 Assyria engaged in other forms of psychological warfare during blockades which aimed at bringing a quicker end to the conflict by convincing local populations to turn on their superiors and surrender to the Assyrians. The two main methods were persuasive speeches propagating the benefits of being subjects of Assyria and, in stark contrast, terrifying public acts of cruelty that inspired fear of the consequences of resisting Assyrian authority. The best known example of Assyrian persuasion is the artful speech of the Assyrian official, the Rabshakeh (Akkadian: rab šaqê), to the people on the walls of Jerusalem, recorded in the Hebrew Bible (IIKings 18: 19–35; Isaiah 36: 4–20). The most pertinent part of this speech, delivered in Hebrew, propagates the benefit of the Assyrian deportation system to the Judean officials and the local population who were in dire straits: (27) … ‘Was it only to your master and you that my master sent me to say these things, and not to the people sitting on the wall—who, like you, will have to eat their own excrement and drink their own urine?’ … (31) ‘Do not listen to Hezekiah. This is what the king of Assyria says: Make peace with me and come out to me. Then each of you will eat fruit from your own vine and fig tree and drink water from your own cistern, until I come and take you to a land like your own—a land of grain and new wine, a land of bread and vineyards, a land of olive trees and honey. Choose life and not death!’34

32 33 34

Esarhaddon 34: 12′-r8′, in Leichty (2011) 87–88. Cole (1997) and Ephʿal (2009) 53–54. II Kings 18: 27, 31–32 (NIV).

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Scholarly views on the historicity of this event are wide ranging.35 However, there is support for the basic accuracy of this speech in letters of the Assyrian imperial administration. A letter dated to the reign of Sargon II documents the use of the motif of building a house and working a plot of land to persuade the subject peoples to remain loyal to Assyrian authority, while another letter written during Tiglath-pileser III’s siege of Babylon reports on Assyrian messengers confirming with the local population that, should they support the Assyrians against their Chaldean leader, the Assyrian king would continue to honour their protected status and exemptions from taxes.36 Such ‘friendly persuasion’ alone, even when set against the hardships the besieged were experiencing, might not have been enough to convince a city to surrender. As a result, the Assyrians were sure to let the people on the other side of the wall know what was in store for them were they to take control of the city by force, through committing cruel public atrocities. The Assyrian royal inscriptions and wall reliefs are filled with accounts of mutilating and executing rebels and the public display of their bodies around their home cities and towns, with impaling of both elites and soldiers being a favourite of the Assyrian kings. Such ‘calculated frightfulness’ aimed to inspire a lack of confidence of leaders in the local populations and bring them to revolt.37 Yet, on no occasion are we informed, in a detailed way, of a population turning on their leaders and opening their gates in surrender. While it is difficult to determine why this is, one suspects it is a reflection of Assyrian historiography with its emphasis of the might of the king and his army. That is, the lack of heroics on the part of the Assyrian ruler in the capitulation and voluntary opening of the besieged gates would have seen the Assyrian scribes subsume such events into the summary narratives that state only that various cities were ‘besieged’ and ‘captured’. Of course, the Assyrians also laid siege to cities with the aim of overcoming their walls through direct military action. Essentially, there are three strategies to force your way into a besieged city: scaling the walls, breaching the walls, or tunnelling under the walls. It is certain from the Assyrian annals and palatial reliefs that different tactics could be used simultaneously. Indeed, the intensity of an Assyrian siege assault using different tactics concurrently is captured in Sennacherib’s account of his attack on Hezekiah’s domain:

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The literature is vast on this topic and for examples of contrasting views see Ephʿal (2009) 12, n. 10 and Tadmor (1976). The letters are SAA V 210 in Gallagher (1994), and SAA XIX 98 in Luukko (2012) 104. See also Cogan and Tadmor (1988) 242 and Ephʿal (2009) 45. The term ‘calculated frightfulness’ was coined by Olmstead (1918). See also Ephʿal (2009) 43–57.

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I surrounded (and) conquered forty-six of [his] fortified walled cities and small(er) settlements in their environs, which were without number, by having ramps trodden down and battering rams brought up, the assault of foot soldiers, sapping, breaching, and siege engines.38 The reliefs depicting this siege from Sennacherib’s palace at Nineveh parallel the account in his annals, with chaotic scenes of Assyrians and the soldiers of Lachish trading fire between archers, slingers, battering rams attacking walls, and prisoners being captured and led away, while others are being impaled outside the city. As noted above, which combination of assault tactics were to be engaged seems to have been decided in response to the nature of the defensive structures and their geographical settings. The fastest method for overcoming the enemy’s defences was to scale the city’s walls. Common in the wall reliefs are scenes of Assyrian soldiers scaling walls using incredibly long ladders. If the reliefs are accurate, it appears that the Assyrian siege ladders were set at gradual incline of about 25°–46° which allowed troops to scale the walls with free arms to hold shields and wield weapons.39 Certainly this would allow the Assyrian soldiers greater agility when they engaged in hand-to-hand combat with enemy troops at the top of the walls. However, despite the speed of such an attack, the soldiers climbing the ladders required considerable protection and reliefs from the reigns of Tiglath-pileser III, Sargon II, and Sennacherib show supporting archers on the ground and in siege towers firing arrows to cover the men on the ladders.40 Attack by ladders was often used in combination with other means of assault. For instance, scenes from the reigns of Tiglath-pileser III and Ashurbanipal that show sappers undermining foundations at the same time as other soldiers are using ladders to scale the walls.41 Reliefs from the reign of an earlier Assyrian ruler, Ashurnasirpal II (883–859), show sappers using two distinct methods to attack the foundations of walls. The first is a team of sappers above ground with pikes and spears removing bricks, presumably to collapse the wall and the second shows Assyrian troops tunnelling beneath the wall.42 Like the soldiers attempting to scale the walls, the sappers required protection from archers and siege towers.

38 39 40 41 42

Sennacherib 4: 49–50, in Grayson and Novotny (2012) 65. Ephʿal (2009) 68–72. For examples of such reliefs see Collins (2008) 65; Tadmor and Yamada (2011) 71; Melville (2016) 111 and Fig. 9; and Nadali (2002–2005). See Collins (2008) 65 and 108–109. See Ephʿal (2009) 76–77 and Collins (2008) 50–51.

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Siege ramps were also an effective way for enabling troops to gain access to the top sections of the walls. An account of the use of a siege ramp in this fashion is found in Esarhaddon’s Letter to God. Ironically, it appears that the defenders’ failed attempt to burn down Esarhaddon’s ramp actually opened up a breach at the top of the city’s walls and enabled the Assyrian troops to cross over the wall and defeat the soldiers of Uppume.43 Esarhaddon describes the construction of the siege ramp as a piling up of dirt, wood, and stones,44 which matches the archaeological assessment of the Assyrian siege ramp excavated at the site of Lachish.45 Well-constructed siege ramps were used not only for heavy infantry, but also for the hallmark of Assyrian siege warfare: the battering ram. The Assyrian battering ram reached its height of development during the reigns of Sargon II and Sennacherib, and by this stage it comprised a long central ram pole with an iron boss head. It was protected by wicker shields with an open top for archers, and was mounted on a four- or six-wheeled base for mobility.46 This structure combined the mobility needed for ascending the ramps, protection for its operators, and the iron boss on the ram was particularly effective in destroying dried mud bricks, which were the main building material in the ancient Near East.47 It is for these reasons that the Assyrian texts and reliefs regularly include the battering rams as an integral feature of assaults on walled cities.

4

Experiences of the Besieged

Much of the attention has thus far been given to the Assyrian king and his army. However, we know something of the experience of the besieged before, during, and after the Assyrian assault on their cities. What is most apparent from the ancient evidence is how difficult life was for people being besieged. To say that those under siege experienced severe hardship may seem an obvious point to make. However, the textual and archaeological evidence provides unique insights into some of those hardships. 43 44 45

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Esarhaddon 33: ii 4–9, in Leichty (2011) 82–83. Esarhaddon 33: i 37, in Leichty (2011) 82. Melville and Melville (2008) 152. Archaeologists have also uncovered a counter ramp within the walls of Lachish designed to repel the Assyrian attack, as well as other items such as human remains, sling stones, and arrow heads. See Ussishkin (1982) 49–58; Ephʿal (2009) 84–87; and Keimer (forthcoming). On the development of battering rams in this period, see Scurlock (1989); Ephʿal (2009) 82–83; De Backer (2014); and Keimer (forthcoming). Ephʿal (2009) 91–93.

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To withstand an Assyrian siege by blockade, a local city needed extensive preparations, in terms of food and water, material resources, man power, infrastructure, and time in which to gather and redistribute these resources. The best attested preparation and defence of a city is Hezekiah’s formation of a Syro-Palestinian coalition of resistance in the late 700s. II Chronicles 32: 1–7 outlines the measures Hezekiah took to best defend his capital: cutting off the water supplies leading up to the city, fortifying the city by repairing walls and erecting towers, and stock-piling shields and spears. While the short description in IIChronicles concentrates on the capital, recent archaeological research in the wider Judean region reveals that Hezekiah’s attempts to prepare his entire kingdom for the invasion were undertaken in two distinct phases. The first began years in advance of the rebellion, possibly as early as the 720s, and consisted of defensive network of forts and towers that suited the terrain and guarded key Judean sites and resources, as well as stockpiling supplies; once the revolt was declared after the death of Sargon II in 705, Hezekiah spent four years intensively preparing by manoeuvring troops and redistributing supplies to important defensive centres.48 While Judah suffered a loss of 46 cities, the importance of Hezekiah’s planning and preparation was that his capital, Jerusalem, which was the primary goal of Sennacherib’s attack, withstood the siege long enough to be able to sue for peace. The extent of the hardship of the besieged during an Assyrian blockade was described in a series of documents from the cities of Babylon and Nippur known as ‘siege documents’.49 These texts were legal documents written during times of siege and characterised by descriptions of everyday life in frank terms. For instance, the texts from the time of the siege of 650–648 between Ashurbanipal and his brother who ruled Babylon, Shamash-shumu-ukīn, regularly state that ‘famine and hardship were established in the land’,50 while some go further and add information about the resulting break down of societal and familial structures,51 starvation and an increase in mortality rate,52 and

48 49 50 51

52

Keimer (2011) esp. 244–251. For a broader treatment of the siege documents see Oppenheim (1955) and Ephʿal (2009) 118–135. See Frame (1999). BM 113235, ll. 62–64: ‘At that time, famine and hardship were established in the land and a mother would not open (her) door to (her own) daughter’, in Frame (1999) 105. Note that this phrase is used in the literary and mythological text to describe turmoil, see Oppenheim (1955) 78. BM 47366, ll. 18–21: ‘At that time, the enemy was besieging the city; famine and hardship [were established] in the land; [and] people were dying from lack of food’, in Frame (1999) 105.

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rising costs of basic commodities.53 Indeed, documents dated to the year 649 show that the price of barley increased by sixty times the normal rate.54 There are other siege documents from the time of Sîn-sharru-ishkun’s assault of Nippur in the 620s that reveal the deplorable situation where the city’s poor were selling their children to businessmen and the slave-trader, Ninurta-uballiṭ.55 These texts demonstrate the dreadful effects long-term blockades had on the besieged populations which saw complete impoverishment and family breakdown on the one hand, and opportunism and exploitation on the other. The gravest experiences of the besieged occurred once the Assyrians had breached the walls of a defended city. The surviving members of the elite were often killed or taken as prisoners, and members of the military and civilians who continued to resist were rounded up and executed. For the main body of the population, deportation was a common outcome. The Assyrian empire viewed subject populations as a potential resource, both in terms of a labour force and as a means for recruiting specialists for industries such as the professional guilds and the army.56 Assyrian royal inscriptions make it clear that deportees were not slaves, rather they were ‘counted among the Assyrians’.57 The deportation system broke up communities, but kept family units together and transferred them to regions of the empire that required human resources. The author of IIKings summed up the fate of the deported Israelites well: The king of Assyria invaded the entire land, marched against Samaria and laid siege to it for three years. In the ninth year of Hoshea, the king of Assyria captured Samaria and deported the Israelites to Assyria. He settled them in Halah, in Gozan on the Habor River and in the towns of the Medes.58 The city of Ashdod, which Sargon II besieged and conquered in 711 in retaliation to repeated rebellions, reveals the grim outcome for the population of an

53

54 55

56 57 58

BM 33537, ll. 43–45: ‘At that time, the enemy was encamped against the city; famine was established in the land; and the market rate was three qû of barley for one shekel of silver, purchased in secret’, in Frame (1999) 105–106. Frame (1999) 101. For editions of the texts see Oppenheim (1955). Cole (1996) 80, n. 78 has raised the possibility that the siege might also be at the hands of Nabopolassar, who had contested for authority over Nippur in the years prior. See the landmark study by Oded (1979), with other treatments by Dalley (1985) and Cogan (2013), esp. 34–53 and 118–133. Oded (1979) esp. 75–115. II Kings 17: 5–6 (NIV).

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obstinate city whose walls had been breached. The skeletal remains of approximately 3000 people, a number of whom were children, have been found in mass graves with some cases of decapitations and many others with post mortem mutilation.59 These archaeological findings confirm the grizzly images of post-battle scenes on the wall reliefs in Assyrian palaces, as well as descriptions in the royal inscriptions such as Sennacherib’s account of his conquest of cities that supported Hezekiah’s revolt: I surrounded, conquered, (and) plundered the cities Eltekeh (and) Tamnâ. I approached the city Ekron and I killed the governors (and) nobles who had committed crime(s) and hung their corpses on towers around the city; I counted the citizens who had committed the criminal acts as booty; (and) I commanded that the rest of them, (those) who were not guilty of crimes or wrongdoing, (to) whom no penalty was due, be allowed to go free.60

5

Conclusion

It has been demonstrated that during the heyday of the Assyrian empire, the army was adept in siege warfare and used it to bring numerous defiant cities and states under the authority of the Assyrian kings. This was due to the Assyrian king’s ability to direct an enormous, well supplied army that was capable of inflicting a variety of assault tactics at the same time, including the highly effective use of siege ramps and battering rams on the one hand and the propagating of artful speeches to the local population on the other. When the Assyrians were unable to overcome defensive walls, they established blockades of the more resilient cities and commenced concurrent assaults of neighbouring regions and the besieged city’s allies. The ferocity of Assyrian siege warfare is starkly evident in the accounts of the besieged that record the effects of famine, poverty, and social breakdown among the local population, as well as the mutilated human remains from the aftermath of Assyria’s conquest of Ashdod. In sum, through power, force, intimidation, and persuasion, the Assyrians were able to bring sieges to a satisfactory conclusion more consistently than their contemporaries and those armies that marched across the Near East before them.

59 60

Ephʿal (2009) 31–32; Melville (2016) 149–150; and Elayi (2017) 58–60. Sennacherib 4: 46–47, in Grayson and Novotny (2012) 65.

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Bibliography Berlejung, A., Michèle Daviau, P.M., Kamlah, J. and Lehmann, G. (eds.) (forthcoming), The Encyclopedia of the Material Culture in the Biblical World. Tübingen. Cogan, M. (2013) Bound for Exile: Israelites and Judeans Under Imperial Yoke. Documents from Assyria and Babylonia. Jerusalem. Cogan, M. and Tadmor, H. (1988) IIKings: A New Translation, Introduction and Commentary. New York. Cole, S.W. (1996) Nippur in Late Assyrian Times c. 755–612BC. Helsinki. Cole, S.W. (1997) ‘The Destruction of Orchards in Assyrian Warfare’, in Parpola (1997) 29–40. Collins, P. (2008) Assyrian Palace Sculptures. London. Dalley, S.M. (1985) ‘Foreign Chariotry and Cavalry in the Armies of Tiglath-Pileser III and Sargon II’, Iraq 47: 31–48. Dalley, S.M. (2017) ‘Assyrian Warfare’, in Frahm (2017) 522–533. De Backer, F. (2009–2010) ‘Some Basic Tactics of Neo-Assyrian Warfare: Siege Battles’, SAA 18: 265–286. De Backer, F. (2014) ‘Notes sur les machines de siège néo-assyriennes’, in Neumann, Dittmann, Paulus, Neumann and Schuster-Brandis (2014) 69–86. Dubovský, P. (2006) Hezekiah and the Assyrian Spies: Reconstruction of the Neo-Assyrian Intelligence Services and its Significance for 2Kings 18–19. Rome. Ebied, R.Y. and Wickham, L.R. (1970) ‘Al-Yaʿḳūbī’s Account of the Israelite Prophets and Kings’, JNES 29/2: 80–98. Elayi, J. (2017) Sargon II, King of Assyria. Atlanta. Ephʿal, I. (2009) The City Besieged: Siege and Its Manifestations in the Ancient Near East. Leiden. Fales, M.F. (2009) ‘The Assyrian Word for “(Foot) Soldier”’, in Galil, Geller and Milard (2009) 71–94. Frahm, E. (ed.) (2017) A Companion to Assyria. Malden, MA. Frame, G. (1999) ‘A Siege Document from Babylon Dating to 649B.C.’, Journal of Cuneiform Studies 51: 101–106. Fuchs, A. (2011) ‘Assyria at War: Strategy and Conduct’, in Radner and Robson (2011) 380–401. Galil, G., Geller, M., and Millard, A.R. (eds.) (2009) Homeland and Exile: Biblical and Ancient Near Eastern Studies in Honour of Bustenay Oded. Leiden. Gallagher, W.R. (1994) ‘Assyrian Deportation Propaganda’, SAA 8/2: 57–65. Grayson, A.K. (1995) ‘Assyrian Rule of Conquered Territory in Ancient Western Asia’, in Sasson (1995) 959–968. Grayson, A.K. and Novotny, J. (2012) The Royal Inscriptions of Sennacherib, King of Assyria (704–681BC), Part 1. Winona Lake, IN.

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Keimer, K.H. (2011) ‘The Socioeconomic Impact of Hezekiah’s Preparations for Rebellion.’ PhD dissertation, UCLA. Keimer, K.H. (forthcoming) ‘Siege’, in Berlejung, Michèle Daviau, Kamlah, and Lehmann (eds.) (forthcoming). Larsen, M.T. (ed.) (1979) Power and Propaganda: A Symposium on Ancient Empires. Copenhagen. Leichty, E. (2011) The Royal Inscriptions of Esarhaddon King of Assyria (680–669BC). Winona Lake, IN. Liverani, M. (1973) ‘Memorandum on the Approach to Historiographical Texts’, Orientalia 42: 178–194. Liverani, M. (1979) ‘The Ideology of the Assyrian Empire’, in Larsen (1979) 297–317. Liverani, M. (2017) Assyria: The Imperial Mission. Winona Lake, IN. Luukko, M. (2012) The Correspondence of Tiglath-Pileser III and Sargon II from Calah/ Nimrud. Helsinki. Melville, S.C. (2016) The Campaigns of Sargon II, King of Assyria, 721–705B.C. Norman, OK. Melville, S.C., and Melville, D.J. (2008) ‘Observations on the Diffusion of Military Technology: Siege Warfare in the Near East and Greece’, in Ross (2008) 145–167. Nadali, D. (2002–2005) ‘Sennacherib’s Siege, Assault, and Conquest of Alammu’, SAA 14: 113–128. Nadali, D. (2009) ‘Sieges and Similes of Sieges in the Royal Annals: The Conquest of Damascus by Tiglath-Pileser III’, Kaskal 6: 137–149. Neumann, H., Dittmann, R., Paulus, S., Neumann, G., and Schuster-Brandis, A. (eds.) (2014) Krieg und Frieden im Alten Vorderasien: 52e Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale/International Congress of Assyriology and Near Eastern Archaeology. Münster, 17.–21. Juli 2006. Münster. Novotny, J. and Jeffers, J. (2016) RINAP 5: The Royal Inscriptions of Ashurbanipal, Aššuretel-ilāni, and Sîn-šarra-iškun, http://oracc.museum.upenn.edu/rinap/rinap5/. Oded, B. (1979) Mass Deportation and Deportees in the Neo-Assyrian Empire. Wiesbaden. Olmstead, A.T. (1918) ‘The Calculated Frightfulness of Ashur Nasir Apal’, JAOS 38: 209– 263. Oppenheim, A.L. (1955) ‘Siege-Documents from Nippur’, Iraq 17: 69–89. Parpola, S. (1987) The Correspondence of Sargon II, Part I: Letters from Assyria and the West. Helsinki. Parpola, S. (ed.) (1997) Assyria 1995. Helsinki. Postgate, J.N. (1992) ‘The Land of Assur and the Yoke of Assur’, World Archaeology 23: 247–263. Radner, K. and Robson, E. (eds.) (2011) The Oxford Handbook of Cuneiform Culture. Oxford. Ross, M. (ed.) (2008) From the Banks of the Euphrates: Studies in Honor of Alice Louise Slotsky. Winona Lake, IN.

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Russell, J.M. (1991) Sennacherib’s Palace Without Rival at Nineveh. Chicago. Sasson, J. (ed.) (1995) Civilizations of the Ancient Near East, 4 vols. New York. Scurlock, J.A. (1989) ‘Assyrian Battering Rams Revisited’, SAA 3/2: 129–131. Siddall, L.R. (2013) The Reign of Adad-nīrārī III: An Historical and Ideological Analysis of an Assyrian King and his Times. Leiden. Starr, I. (1990) Queries to the Sungod: Divination and Politics in Sargonid Assyria. Helsinki. Tadmor, H. (1976) ‘Rabshakeh’, Encyclopaedia Miqraʾit 7: 326–329. Tadmor, H. (1997) ‘Propaganda, Literature, Historiography: Cracking the Codes of the Assyrian Royal Inscriptions’, in Parpola (1997) 325–338. Tadmor, H. and Yamada, S. (2011) The Royal Inscriptions of Tiglath-Pileser III (744–727BC) and Shalmaneser V (726–722BC), Kings of Assyria. Winona Lake, IN. Ussishkin, D. (1976) ‘The “Camp of the Assyrians” in Jerusalem’, IEJ 29: 137–142. Ussishkin, D. (1982) The Conquest of Lachish by Sennacherib. Tel Aviv. Weeks, N.K. (1983) ‘Causality in the Assyrian Royal Inscriptions’, OLP 14: 115–127. Wright. G.E. (1971) ‘What Archaeology Can and Cannot Do’, The Biblical Archaeologist 34/3: 69–76.

chapter 4

Images of Assyrian Sieges: What They Show, What We Know, What Can We Say Davide Nadali

Assyrian bas-reliefs show many aspects of life in Assyrian society, and particularly concerning the king and his court entourage.1 It is, however, undeniable that the majority of depicted scenes deal with the wars waged by the Assyrian king and his army. In fact, in the seventh century BC, the Assyrian empire covered an area that reached from the Zagros Mountains to as far as northern Egypt during the reigns of Esarhaddon and Ashurbanipal. And amongst the pictures of war, sieges are prominent: a prominence also reflected in the literature of the Assyrian kings, particularly that preserved in their inscriptions, when referring to the movement of the army and the laconic description of the action in the field (‘the city x I besieged, I conquered, I carried off its spoil’). But the question remains, to what extent did Assyrians really found their military power upon sieges? Was there a precise military strategy deployed? Or do the images and inscriptions detailing sieges actually hide the difficulties of the Assyrian army in facing their enemies in open field battles? Indeed, all these questions probably have a positive answer: it is true that Assyrians used sieges to conquer enemy cities and establish their power and control upon the new conquered territories; it is true that sieges were planned military actions that required a precise strategy and a deposition and employment of specialised units of the Assyrian army;2 and finally, it is true that Assyrians tried mostly to avoid confrontation with enemies in open field battles.3 Battles are less represented in the bas-reliefs, and even in the inscriptions they are poorly documented—presented in a way which clearly seems to point to the fact that open field encounters were in fact the last option and they mostly depended

1 Reade (1972). 2 Sappers and the corps of engineers were employed during siege operations to build up special structures—ladders, battering rams, ramps, and tunnels—to overcome and undermine the fortification walls of the enemy fortified cities (Nadali and Verderame [2014] 557). 3 For a suggestion to the contrary, where the Assyrians preferred open battles, see Siddall in this volume.

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on a first choice by the enemies.4 That is, the Assyrians allow the action to be dictated by their enemies who, for instance in the words of Assurnasirpal II, ‘trusting in the massiveness of their chariotry, troops, and might, mustered 6000 of their troops and attacked me to wage war and battle’.5 Briefly, one could assume that siege was the preferred Assyrian military option since the Assyrians were particularly well-trained in managing these kinds of military operations—which often resulted in limited casualties, on one hand, and a collection of goods that could be pillaged from the conquered enemies’ centres, on the other. Indeed, the representations of sieges on the walls of the Assyrian palaces, from the ninth to the seventh centuries BC, precisely reflect the preference Assyrians granted to sieges and blockades. However, at the same time, it has also been shown that a careful and analytical reading of the Assyrian sources, starting particularly from the letters of the officials that were in the field or ruling the region where the Assyrian army was operating, reveal that even sieges were not always successful. The final outcome of the conquest was not always the result of a clear military action with ladders, ramps, and battering rams to overcome the enemy line of defence. On the contrary, even in sieges where the Assyrians felt confident, they tried to avoid direct military confrontation—preferring to convince the enemy to withdraw and surrender or, in case of a first failure, to force them to finally give up through a hard and painful total blockade of movement of people and goods.6 But what do the Assyrian depictions of sieges show? All the reliefs, from the ninth to the seventh centuries BC, deploy a similar pattern of representation and narration of the military events involved in attacking and sacking an enemy city. Beyond military changes and improvements in the organisation of the army in the field, as well as the use of more sophisticated war engines— battering rams of the time of Sennacherib being perhaps more advanced, as may be seen in the wall reliefs depicting the siege of the city of Lachish—scenes of sieges seem to be based on recurrent coded representations, that reveal the fixed strategic and tactical arrangement of the troops on the battlefield and the targeted role of each unit.7 Instead of a simple repetition of a figurative canon, on the contrary, siege reliefs illustrate the high level of sophistication that the Assyrian army reached in managing an apparently simple situation— confronting a stable enemy that, at least theoretically, had the advantage of 4 Nadali (2010). 5 The episode refers to the military events in the regions of Suhu, Laqû, and Hindānu. See Grayson (1991) A.0.101.1: iii 31b–44a. 6 On the degrees of action in sieges by the Assyrians, see Fuchs (2008). 7 Barnett, Bleibtreu, and Turner (1998) Pls. 331, 430c and Nadali and Verderame (2014) 559.

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being protected within the city.8 Indeed, this initial advantage finally transforms into a weakness, since the defensive position makes it impossible to manoeuvre and react to the besiegers’ attacks and blockade. Are the images of siege all the same? Of course they are not, at least not in the general organisation of the space to be sculpted and the arrangement of attackers and defenders. But even in this last case, sieges of the ninth century BC differ from representations of the seventh century BC, depending not only on a question of style but also on the geography in which the Assyrian army had to operate.9 The idea of canonical representations that do not show any type of originality is based on aesthetic judgments and evaluations of the Assyrian sculptures made in the nineteenth century and indeed even more recently. Instead of looking at simply what Assyrian images of sieges actually show, but exploring the choices which artists made—that were allowed by the strict confines of the medium—we can reveal more depth and nuance, or what Assyrian images of siege wanted to emphasise. Of course, ideological and deeply imbued political implications have been advanced, pointing to the precise willingness of the Assyrian king to present himself and his army as invincible. It is, however, incorrect to advance too-simplistic conclusions focused entirely on the mere political and propagandistic meanings of the Assyrian images in general, and more specifically of those depicting the military achievements of the king. The results of the choices of the Assyrian artists can be conceived as an attempt to represent the complexity of (often simultaneous) actions which occurred during a siege. Assyrian bas-reliefs are a historical source for the writing of Assyrian history and in this respect they contribute to the writing of an Assyrian military history. At the same time, images must be compared with other Assyrian sources and contextualised in the time and place where and when they have been used and displayed, according to an emic view of the material culture by the society that in fact has produced, shaped, and enjoyed it. The final result will be a balanced analysis between what the images show and what we can therefore say, passing through a consideration of what we are able to know from the combination of other sources. It is impossible to deny totally any political purpose or use for the images of war in the Assyrian society, but it is vitally important to contextualise them— where they were displayed and by how many people they could eventually be seen and understood. At the same time, one should also explain the political meaning the images were intended to foster. Historical and archaeological

8 Fuchs (2011) 396. 9 Nadali (2002–2005) 116.

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evidence, moreover, suggests that the Assyrians were indeed very efficient in conquering cities through sieges—the archaeological evidence at Lachish is particularly impressive10—so one might conclude that images, even if adapted to express a political meaning, shaped by stylistic choices of the sculptors, and organised to tell a story, are not entirely unrealistic representations exclusively deployed as propaganda.11 Indeed, the few examples of problematic sieges are indicative—it is not probably by accident that the siege of Damascus by Tiglath-pileser III, as well as the siege of Jerusalem by Sennacherib, were not represented in the palaces of the two kings. Royal inscriptions point out that the military conquest of Damascus and Jerusalem were not easy or quick, as might be concluded from the use of the metaphor of blockading the enemy king ‘like a bird in a cage’, which demonstrates both the lack of a heroic assault and possible the difficulty in maintaining the efficacy of the Assyrian blockade and attack. If literature can deploy metaphors to help describe a situation, how do sculptors use comparable devices to represent sieges that, perhaps realistically, never occurred?12 These exceptions seem to prove that, even when additional elements could be added to increase the power and prestige of an Assyrian military action, images were nevertheless based on a historical reality and were not used to ‘rewrite history’, but to emphasise the outcomes of the battle. In dealing with Assyrian images, one must adopt a more systematic perspective. Images of war cannot be simply considered to be the transformation of the desire of the Assyrian king and the translation of his words into pictures. At the same time, ideological implications must be taken into account: for example, why have some sieges not been represented? With the cases of Damascus and Jerusalem, it might have been because it would be nearly impossible to translate into pictures something as abstract as a blockade that did not involve physical activity in the field—such as the construction of ramps, the use of battering rams and ladders and the operation of the specialised troops of sappers. As a result, the representation of the sieges of Damascus and Jerusalem, being perhaps beyond the capacity of the sculptors or the medium to represent accurately, would have resulted in the creation of entirely fictitious images without any relation to historical reality—instead likely based upon the usual coded scenes and recurrent motifs that can be found in other examples of sieges.

10 11 12

Ussishkin (1990). Fuchs (2011) 385. Nadali (2009).

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If we take for granted that all images of sieges were based, at least in part, upon a historical context and event,13 we should therefore avoid considering those representations as ‘fake’, strictly formulaic, or simply the result of an imposed, top-down, propagandistic view of the Assyrian king. Indeed, beyond the political aspects—which cannot be totally discerned and understood without clear information on the type of audience to which those images were intentionally addressed14—the pictures of Assyrian sieges can plausibly be used to try to reconstruct the Assyrian art of siege warfare, and the apparently simple and quick militarily technical aspects of these operations. This is due to the detailed information they provide on the geography of the places and the types of troops involved. Of course, in order to gain a complete representation this information must be integrated with other data, specifically the content of the daily letters and dispatches that were sent by the provincial governors and military officials to the king and his magnates in the capital cities of the empire. The entire set of data gives a vivid and quite realistic picture of the situation of the army on the battlefield, integrating what we can see in the images with moments of the battle that precede and follow that assault. In this respect, the pictures of sieges in the Assyrian palaces work as ‘photos of war’, that is they are iconographic reports of the final moment of the military action when the Assyrian soldiers are already climbing on ladders, battering rams are in use, and enemy soldiers are reacting while civilians are leaving the city to be counted as prisoners of war and part of the booty by the officials of the Assyrian army. As ‘photos of war’, the Assyrian bas-reliefs of sieges focus on only a few elements of the entire scene, and mostly they operate through a selection of single episodes that are set up together by the Assyrian artists to tell the story of the siege—the process of the action and the simultaneous activity of the Assyrian army, the intervention of sappers to open breaches, the construction of war engines, the enemies, and the prisoners of war. Taken as a single ‘photo’, or snapshot, Assyrian representations of sieges are indeed a wide catalogue of information from which one can gather the types of weapons used, the soldiers involved, and the basic strategies applied to overcome the line of defence of the enemy cities. In this respect, although a similarity of actions can be recog-

13

14

In this respect, it is important to stress the hypothesis, first advanced by Madhloom (Madhloom [1970] 121–122), that Assyrian artists followed the Assyrian army during the campaign: in fact, Madhloom suggests that the Assyrian official with a scroll, usually represented outside the battlefield and when the fight is already over, could be identified as an artist making a sketch of the scene. See also Reade (2012). Bagg (2016).

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nised, each scene introduces different elements that must to be adapted to the architecture of the cities under attack, and the environmental context that, of course, forced the Assyrian army to choose the most correct and efficient manoeuvre and arrangement of soldiers. From a technical point of view, Assyrian images of sieges give quite an impressive amount of information that seems to have been purposefully selected by the Assyrian artists to tell the story. At the same time, while images show many aspects of a siege, they also hide other aspects that are not useful for the comprehension of the narrative, but which—as we know from other sources— were nevertheless important and essential to achieving the final goal of the conquest of the cities. Indeed, images of war in Assyria hide much more than they show.15 Having this in mind, one should eventually change the general consideration that sieges are more static actions than open field battles. The opposition between static (siege) and dynamic (open field battles) is no longer valid when one looks at the siege operations in a wider perspective that goes beyond the limit of the single picture provided by the Assyrian artists which, by necessity and the conventions of the medium, had to concentrate and summarise in a few slabs a story with multiple actions, moments, and places.16 Therefore, the real comprehension of the Assyrian siege reliefs must necessarily encompass not only what the pictures show, but also what we can know from complementary sources that explain and disclose the hidden aspects of the preparation and organisation of a siege. If sieges have a static nature, this in fact depends on the long-term actions of blockade, encircling, and the patience the attackers must show to wait for the capitulation of the enemy. Only if the city does not fall as a consequence of the encircling or blockade, does the Assyrian army have to resort to a direct assault on the walls to achieve conquest. Compared with the organisation and arrangement of the troops for open field battles, sieges required different numbers and categories of soldiers, and even a different selection of weapons and war engines. Simplifying the question, one can state that open field battles saw the involvement of all the units of the Assyrian army; infantry, cavalry, and chariotry would have been mobilised with specific roles and interventions and would typically be present on the battlefield with a coordinated simultaneous operation of attack or alternating actions. A unit would precede the intervention of another, and in fact would prepare the field for a more efficient incursion against the enemy. Although representations of open field battles are rare, we can gain some understand-

15 16

Nadali (2016). Fagan (2010) 95.

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ing of the mechanisms of the enrolment and arrangement of the troops that could be described as ‘holistic’, with manoeuvres by the cavalry and chariotry acting in support of the final attack of the infantry, which represented the primary element and core force of the Assyrian army.17 For this reason, and the quick movement of units, open field battles appear to seem to possess a dynamic nature. Attacks to the front line and wings of the enemy were the most common tactic used by the Assyrian army, and the figurative and highly symbolic language of the royal inscriptions which detail these manoeuvres not only helps us understand them, but also reveals some of the issues which the Assyrian generals faced in deploying them.18 For example, this is clear in the battle at Dur-Yakin on the Euphrates by Sargon II against the Babylonians and their Elamite ally c. 709BC, and in the even more problematic Battle of Halule by Sennacherib against the Babylonian rival supported by the Elamites about 691BC.19 The description of this battle given in the royal account actually refers to both a frontal attack and flanking movement to push the enemy troops into a position with no possibility of escape. However, these manoeuvres were evidently ineffective, and this failure is actually confirmed by the use of metaphors in the royal accounts to describe the cowardice and flight of the enemy.20 The enemies did not, in fact, fall into the trap of the encircling movement of the Assyrian army and were able to escape, making the Assyrian army pursue them.21 Sieges did not have fewer problems than their land-battle counterparts. Although they are often represented in bas-reliefs, this does not mean that all siege operations were successful. It has already been pointed out how some problematic sieges were in fact ignored by the Assyrian artists in the figurative programmes of the royal residences. At the same time, royal inscriptions, as well as dispatches sent to the king, reveal that an outright assault was often only employed as a last resort when all efforts to convince the enemy to surrender had failed.22 This suggests that sieges were ultimately simple operations and that the decision to finally assault the city was taken after a long time and as the last option. This, of course, gives sieges a static dimension. Often, sieges can be defined as a war at a border—that is, defenders and attackers stand on either side of the defence-wall and confront each other in a long-

17 18 19 20 21 22

Nadali (2010). Scurlock (1997); Fuchs (2012). On these problematic battles claimed by the Assyrian kings, see Grayson (1965). Liverani (1992) 149–150; Nadali (2010) 136. Marcus (1977); Fales (1982); Melville (2016). Fuchs (2008).

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lasting and exhausting stand-off. Indeed, the position of the attackers precisely relies upon the calculation of how long the defenders can resist, sheltered as they are inside the city in a tactical position that, at the beginning at least, can in fact be favourable to them. The operation of the Assyrian army, outside the city, must work to diminish the safety of the enemy and the idea that the defenders can trust in the unassailability of their walls—the nearlyimmovable presence of the Assyrian army at the foot of the defensive walls of a besieged city works as a psychological pressure that ultimately would lead to the surrender of the town. Even during the problematic sieges of Damascus and Jerusalem, it is clear how the Assyrian army operates. While part of the army held a position under the walls of the city, next to the camp, another contingent was involved in the plunder and conquest of smaller towns and villages to weaken the main centre and to cut off the supply of any incoming goods.23 This blockade aimed specifically to cause famine and disease within the main city with severe consequences for the civilians and population within the city walls.24 Indeed blockade and assault could work together, as two distinguishing moments or two phases of the military action. Based on the Assyrian images, it is natural to speak of assault—since pictures precisely represent the soldiers climbing on ladders and battering rams working to demolish the masonry of defensive walls with the interventions of sappers and the use of fire and water.25 Pictures of sieges show the exact moment of the final assault when all diplomatic work to convince the enemy had already been used without success and therefore the Assyrian army decided to pass from the passive moment of waiting (blockade) to the active employment of force to capture the city.26 Because the moment of the assault was typically the moment emphasised by the Assyrian artists, sieges can all too often be simplistically judged as quick actions and incursions by the Assyrian soldiers. In this respect, what the images do not show is a fundamental counterpart of sources and information that are required to explain the complexity of organising a siege and to decide the very moment of passing from the passive blockade to the active assault. When looking at the images of sieges, the difference to the open field battles is striking, not only for the context (background, landscape, and environmental condition), but also for the organisation and deposition of the troops on the battlefield. In particular, while open field battles encompass either simultaneous or alternat23 24 25 26

Ussishkin (1979). Zaccagnini (1995); Ephʿal (2009) 57–68. Fuchs (2008) 55–56. The texts of the queries to the Sungod collect the methods to conquer a city (Starr [1990]). Wernick (2016) 374.

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ing intervention of the three units of the army, sieges, on the contrary, exclusively involve the infantry, with, as we have noted several times, the participation of special corps such as sappers, corps engineers, and specialised civil personnel that worked for the infrastructure and the assembly of the war engines.27 We still need to ask whether the absence of chariots and cavalry in the representations of sieges should be taken as serious evidence that they were not involved in these operations. For sure, chariots and cavalry did not have a direct role in the final assault of the siege, at least not a role in the front line. Indeed, since Assyrian images of sieges represent the front line of the action, with the soldiers at the foot of the walls or on ladders and battering rams, the rear of the Assyrian contingent—where chariots and cavalry were working—is invisible. Chariots were surely used for the transport of men and materials to support the siege.28 At the same time, chariots and cavalry were likely involved in the patrol of the territory around the besieged city, to prevent reinforcements or other aid, or to bring soldiers to and take the wounded from the zones of fighting.29 They may have also been involved in the conquest of smaller settlements in the region of the main urban centre during the phase of the blockade, when the movement of troops would be facilitated by the employment of chariots and horses. An indirect use of chariots and horses can be seen in some scenes of siege (Figs. 4.1–4.2 below). Chariots and horses stand by the side of the besieged city behind the first rank occupied by the infantry, at the margin of the real battle—as if they have been used as means of transport to reach the place of the fight. In some instances (Fig. 4.2), soldiers in the chariots or mounted on horses are represented shooting arrows from a safer and higher position, as to cover the most exposed first ranks of the Assyrian army. It should also be noted that cavalry was the most suitable unit to make quick incursions in the territory to scout the enemy city and plan the military operations. Of course, the Assyrian siege reliefs hide all these preparatory phases, but this is something we can reconstruct from the daily dispatches and letters and the general evaluations of the organisation of a military operation, based on studies of the art of warfare. All military operations need careful preparation, with preliminary investigations of the region, the territory, the geographical characterisation, and the presence of specific features in the line of defence

27 28 29

Nadali and Verderame (2014) 559–560. Nadali and Verderame (2014) 559. For that reason, the Assyrian camp was built at a reachable distance from the besieged city. See the case of Lachish: Ussishkin (1979) and (2006) 352; Barnett, Bleibtreu and Turner (1998) Pls. 322 and 347. Also Tiglath-pileser III states that he built his camp around Damascus for the entire duration (45 days) of the military operation (Nadali [2009] 139–140).

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figure 4.1 Wall panels from the throne room (Room B) of the North-West Palace of Assurnasirpal II at Nimrud, slabs B 4–3 photo author; courtesy of the Trustees of the British Museum

figure 4.2 Wall panels from Room F of North Palace of Assurbanipal a Nineveh, slabs 1–2 photo author; courtesy of the Trustees of the British Museum

or in the landscape (hills, rivers, or other elements that can either be exploited for the siege operation or, conversely, might be an obstacle). Corps of engineers were involved in the tactical study of the use of the most suitable device according to the nature of the place and the number of soldiers at the disposal of the Assyrian army.30 At the same time, the Assyrian military intelligence worked to collect important information about the size of the enemy troops, the characteristics of the territory, and the shape and level of defence of the cities that the Assyrian army had to face during the campaign.31

30 31

Deller (1966). Dezsö (2014) 228–231. See for example the letter SAA XV 136 that seems to provide evid-

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The high level of consideration and preparation evident in the work of the Assyrian generals to plan a military campaign is also reflected in the different images of sieges in the Assyrian palaces. If, as already stated, a basic canon can be recognised, this may actually reflect the well-established strategy used by Assyrian central command, who definitely elected siege as the most efficient system to conquer cities and territories. This, in fact, gave the possibility of keeping the city after the conquest, while total destruction happens only occasionally and primarily for political reasons.32 A careful analysis of reliefs also shows that, for example, conquests of cities in the eastern regions provided for the use of ladders with no battering rams. Rams were, on the contrary, largely employed in the sieges of cities in the Levant, to the west.33 If images reflect the employment of a well-studied tactic to capture a city, therefore, they also distinguish features which point to an intentional choice of war-engines (depending on a preceding study of the architecture of the enemy city and its surrounding landscape) and to a predefined arrangement and organisation of the materials that were travelling with the army to the site of the battle. This does not preclude some engines being built on the battlefield using wood from trees cut locally—if not to build battering rams and ladders, at least to repair them.34 Ladders needed to be high enough to reach the top of the enemy walls, and so perhaps were either built in advance thanks to information provided by spies, or on the spot according to necessity. The analysis of Assyrian depictions of sieges, and of warfare in general, should proceed through different levels of observation and consideration. First of all, the general layout of the figurative composition must be taken into account according to the principles the Assyrian artists applied to telling a story through a process of selection, transformation, and adaptation to the visual supports (one slab or several slabs) and the place where the scene was finally set and displayed.35 A consideration of the physical space devoted to pictures is also useful in understanding how Assyrian sculptors worked through a detailed process of selection that, more often than not, resulted in the elimination of supplementary details that were considered useless and pleonastic. Indeed,

32 33 34 35

ence for the study of the defensive walls of the enemies (Nadali and Verderame [2014] 559 n. 39). See also Melville (2016) 66. Kreimerman (2016) 235–236. Nadali (2002–2005) 116. Cole (1997) 34; Nadali (2005) 178; Dalley (2017) 528; contra De Backer (2012) 11. See also Maeir, Ackerman, and Bruins (2006). At the same time, one should not forget the impossibility in Assyrian sculptures of distinguishing between operations and attacks carried out during the day from those that were more favourably operated during the night (Ephʿal [1984] 63–64).

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these details can only be reconstructed thanks to the information provided by texts and derived from the study of the organisation of a military formation. In this respect, although chariots and horses are not represented in the pictures of sieges, they must be counted as part of the arrangement of the Assyrian troops even during siege operations. Artists simply hid their presence, because their interest was the central position and importance of the final assault led by the infantry. Working in the rear or along the flanks, there was no space for the representation of chariots and horses in the bas-reliefs. In fact, the sides of the slabs were occupied with the representation of Assyrian soldiers climbing onto ladders and battering rams on artificial ramps. The position along the side of the besieged city must not be implicitly interpreted as a real position of both ladders and ramps.36 Actually this depends on the requirements of Assyrian artists who were attempting to display all elements of the architecture of the city next to one another on the horizontal level—the position of the city gates, usually on one side of the represented city, is the result of a projection and overturning of ninety degrees to give each architectural feature the highest and clearest visibility.37 Once we have understood what the Assyrian sculptors wanted to tell and represent, one should move to the question of what we want to learn from the Assyrian images of sieges. Indeed, sometimes one imposes what one wishes to see in those images that the Assyrian artists did not. This happens when, for example, we pretend that bas-reliefs work as ‘photo reportage’ of war, that is they depict the reality of events and they can be used to precisely identify places, situations, and even categories of people that are involved in the fight. Conversely, sometimes, bas-reliefs are considered too simple and repetitive representations of battles trying to diminish the historical and, in this context, the military-historical contribution the Assyrian images can provide. For example, since texts are silent on details and terms of professions of the army, it can be easily concluded that bas-reliefs are generic representations with anonymous people that are differently involved and used according to the occa-

36

37

In siege operations, the groups of enemies fighting on the top of the walls look in opposite directions since they have to respond to both a right and a left Assyrian attack (concentric and convergent attack): for this reason, ladders and ramps, which the Assyrian soldiers are climbing, are placed by the Assyrian sculptors on two sides of the city, directed towards the centre and the same groups of besieged (Ephʿal [1984] 60–61). In fact, archaeological excavations at Tell ed-Duweir/Lachish revealed that the artificial ramps built up by the Assyrians during the siege have been raised in the south-west corner of the city, by the gate (Ussishkin [1980] 189). Micale (2008) 448–449.

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sion and circumstance.38 Moreover, if everything is viewed through the lens of an imposed top-down ideology, propaganda, and bias that belong to the analysts more than the agents of the images, one runs the risk of giving erroneous interpretations and categorising the images as the replica of a coded figurative language that reflects nothing more than a political and ideological opinion. A free observation of the Assyrian images of war and of sieges in particular can actually disclose the real possibility of writing a military history of ancient Assyrian warfare, with a special focus on the strategy deployed for sieges that, in the Iron Age, seems to become the most frequent military operation. At the same time, personal intervention of sculptors—as well as the personal judgment of the Assyrian king—finally shaped the last version of the bas-relief. It would be, on the other side, likewise erroneous to deny any political interest and meaning of the sculptures in the royal residences. What seems particularly important is that even this heavy implication does not deny the historical value of Assyrian bas-reliefs. Assyrian images of sieges are a fundamental historical source for the writing of the military evolution of techniques, strategies, and the evaluation of the role of specialised corps of the Assyrian army that definitely contributed to the progress of the art of war. I would argue that while Assyrian annals briefly report facts and events, the bas-reliefs extensively tell those facts and events with a narrative style. This is the main reason why Assyrian images of war operate through a process of selection, choosing to show or not aspects, details, moments of the battle from, sometimes, unexpected perspectives. The art of war on one hand offers the possibility of studying the skill of the Assyrians in preparing for, moving to, making, and eventually winning war. On the other hand, the consideration of the craft of Assyrian artists in making pictures of war, inventing models and ways that are, in the end, the production of a canon since it aims to represent the normality and ordered methodology of any military operation that needs to be planned in advance and follow systematic directives to achieve the goal.

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Dalley (2018) 528.

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Battini, L. (ed.) (2016) Making Pictures of War. Realia et imaginaria in the Iconology of the Ancient Near East. Oxford. Barnett, R.D., Bleibtreu, E., and Turner, G. (1998) Sculptures from the Southwest Palace of Sennacherib at Nineveh. London. Cole, S.W. (1997) ‘The Destruction of Orchards in Assyrian Warfare’, in Parpola and Whiting (1997) 29–40. Dalley, S. (2017) ‘Assyrian Warfare’, in Frahm (2017) 522–533. De Backer, F. (2012) L’art du siège néo-assyrien. Leiden. Deller, K. (1966) ‘Die Schreibungen des Wortes etinnu ‘Baumeister’ im Neuassyrischen’, Revue d’Assyriologie 60: 59–70. Dezsö, T. (2014) ‘Neo-Assyrian Military Intelligence’, in Neumann, Dittmann, Paulus, Neumann, and Schuster-Brandis (2014) 221–235. Di Ludovico, A. and Nadali, D. (eds.) (2005) Studi in onori di Paolo Matthiae presentati in occasione del suo sessantacinquesimo compleanno (Contributi Materiali di Archeologia Orientale X). Rome. Ephʿal, I. (1984) ‘The Assyrian Siege Ramp at Lachish: Military and Lexical Aspects’, Tel Aviv 11: 60–70. Ephʿal, I. (2009) The City Besieged. Siege and Its Manifestations in the Ancient Near East. Leiden. Fagan, G. (2010) ‘“I Fell upon Him like a Furious Arrow”: Toward a Reconstruction of the Assyrian Tactical System’, in Fagan and Trundle (2010) 81–100. Fagan, G. and Trundle, M. (eds.) (2010) New Perspectives on Ancient Warfare. Leiden. Fales, F.M. (1982) ‘The Enemy in Assyrian Royal Inscriptions: “The Moral Judgment”’, in Nissen and Renger (1982) 425–435. Frahm, E. (ed.) (2018) A Companion to Assyria. Malden, MA. Fuchs, A. (2008) ‘Über den Wert von Befestigungsanlagen’, Zeitschrift für Assyriologie 98: 45–98. Fuchs, A. (2011) ‘Assyria at War: Strategy and Conduct’, in Radner and Robson (2011) 380–401. Fuchs, A. (2012) ‘Wissenstransfer und -anwendung im Bereich des Heerwesens und der Militärtechnik des neuassyrischen Reiches’, in Neumann (2012) 31–59. Ganor, S., Kreimerman, I., Streit, K., and Mumcuoglu, M. (eds.) (2016) From Shaʿar Hagolan to Shaaraim Essays in Honor of Prof. Yosef Garfijinkel. Jerusalem. Gitin, S., Wright, J.E., and Dessel, J.P. (eds.) (2006) Confronting the Past. Archaeological and Historical Essays on Ancient Israel in Honor of William G. Dever. Winona Lake, IN. Grayson, A.K. (1965) ‘Problematical Battles in Mesopotamian History’, in Güterbock and Jacobsen (1965) 337–342. Grayson, A.K. (1991) Assyrian Rulers of the Early First Millennium BC I (1114–859BC) (The Royal Inscriptions of Mesopotamia Assyrian Period. Vol. 2). Toronto.

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Güterbock, H. and Jacobsen, T. (eds.) (1965) Studies in Honor of Benno Landsberger on his Seventy-Fifth Birthday. Chicago. Howe, T. and Brice, L.L. (eds.) (2016) Brill’s Companion to Insurgency and Terrorism in the Ancient Mediterranean. Leiden. Kreimerman, I. (2016) ‘Siege Warfare, Conflict and Destruction: How Are They Related?’ in Ganor, Kreimerman, Streit, and Mumcuoglu (2016) 229–245. Kühne, H., Czichon, R.M., and Kreppner, F.J. (eds.) (2008) Proceedings of the 4th International Congress of the Archaeology of the Ancient Near East 29 March–3 April 2004, Freie Universität Berlin. Volume 1: The Reconstruction of Environment: Natural Resources and Human Interrelations through Time. Art History: Visual Communication. Wiesbaden. Lanfranchi, G.B., Morandi Bonacossi, D., Pappi, C., and Ponchia, S. (eds.) (2012) Leggo! Studies Presented to Frederick Mario Fales on the Occasion of His 65th Birthday. Wiesbaden. Liverani, M. (1992) Studies on the Annals of Ashurnasirpal II. 2: Topographical Analysis. Rome. Madhloom, T. (1970) The Chronological Development of Neo-Assyrian Art. London. Maeir, A.M., Ackerman, O., and Bruins, H.J. (2006) ‘The Ecological Consequence of A Siege: A Marginal Note on Deuteronomy 20: 19–20’, in Gitin, Wright, and Dessel (2006) 239–243. Marcus, D. (1977) ‘Animal Similes in Assyrian Royal Inscriptions’, Orientalia 46: 86–106. Melville, S.C. (2016) ‘Insurgency and Counterinsurgency in the Assyrian Empire during the Late Eighth Century BCE’, in Howe and Brice (2016) 62–92. Micale, M.G. (2008) ‘Considerations about the Architectural Representations on Balawat Gates: The City in the Narrative of the Conquest’, in Kühne, Czichon, and Kreppner (2008) 445–458. Nadali, D. (2002–2005) ‘Sennacherib’s Siege, Assault and Conquest of Alammu’, SAAB 14: 113–128. Nadali, D. (2005) ‘Assyrians to War: Positions, Patterns and Canons in the Tactics of the Assyrian Armies in the VII Century B.C.’, in Di Ludovico and Nadali (2005) 167–207. Nadali, D. (2009) ‘Sieges and Similes of Sieges in the Royal Annals: The Conquest of Damascus by Tiglath-Pileser III’, Kaskal 6: 137–149. Nadali, D. (2010) ‘Assyrian Open Field Battles. An Attempt at Reconstruction and Analysis’, in Vidal (2010) 117–152. Nadali, D. (2016) ‘Images of War in the Assyrian Period: What They Show and What They Hide’, in Battini (2016) 83–88. Nadali, D. and Verderame, L. (2014) ‘Experts at War. Masters Behind the Ranks of the Assyrian Army’, in Neumann, Dittmann, Paulus, Neumann, and Schuster-Brandis (2014) 553–566. Neumann, H. (ed.) (2012) Wissenskultur im Alten Orient Weltanschauung, Wissen-

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schaften, Techniken, Technologien. 4. Internationales Colloquium der Deutschen Orient-Gesellschaft 20.–22. Februar 2002, Münster (Colloquien der Deutschen OrientGesellschaft 4). Wiesbaden. Neumann, H., Dittmann, R., Paulus, S., Neumann, G., and Schuster-Brandis, A. (eds.) (2014) Krieg und Frieden im Alten Vorderasien. 52e Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale International Congress of Assyriology and Near Eastern Archaeology Münster, 17.–21. Juli 2006 (Alter Orient und Altes Testament 401). Münster. Nissen, H.J. and Renger, J. (eds.) (1982) Mesopotamien und seine Nachbarn. Politische und kulturelle Wechselbeziehungen im Alten Vorderasien vom 4.–1. Jahrtausend v. Chr. (XXV Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale, Berlin 1978). Berlin. Parpola, S. and Whiting, R.M. (eds.) (1997) Assyria 1995. Proceeding of the 10th Anniversary Symposium of the Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project. Helsinki. Radner, K. and Robson, E. (eds.) (2011) The Oxford Handbook of Cuneiform Culture. Oxford. Reade, J.E. (1972) ‘The Neo-Assyrian Court and Army: Evidence from the Sculptures’, Iraq 34: 87–112. Reade, J.E. (2012) ‘Visual Evidence for the Status and Activities of Assyrian Scribes’, in Lanfranchi, Morandi Bonacossi, Pappi, and Ponchia (2012) 699–717. Scurlock, J. (1997) ‘Neo-Assyrian Battle Tactics’, in Young, Chavalas, and Averbeck (1997) 491–517. Starr, I. (1990) Queries to the Sungod: Divination and Politics in Sargonid Assyria (State Archives of Assyria IV). Helsinki. Ussishkin, D. (1979), ‘The “Camp of the Assyrians” at Jerusalem’, IEJ 29: 137–142. Ussishkin, D. (1980) ‘The “Lachish Reliefs” and the City of Lachish’, IEJ 30: 174–195. Ussishkin, D. (1990) ‘The Assyrian Attack on Lachish: The Archaeological Evidence from the South-West Corner of the Site’, Tel Aviv 10: 97–175. Ussishkin, D. (2006) ‘Sennacherib’s Campaign to Philistia and Judah: Ekron, Lachish, and Jerusalem’, in Amit, Ben Zvi, Finkelstein, and Lipschits (2006) 338–357. Vidal, J. (ed.) (2010) Studies on War in the Ancient Near East Collected Essays on Military History (Alter Orient und Altes Testament 372). Münster. Wernick, N. (2016) ‘Ancient Near Eastern Battering Rams. Questioning their Penetrative Power and Target Location’, UF 47: 371–413. Young, G.D., Chavalas, M.W., and Averbeck, R.E. (eds.) (1997) Crossing Boundaries and Linking Horizons. Studies in Honor of Michael C. Astour. Bethesda. Zaccagnini, C. (1995) ‘War and Famine at Emar’, Orientalia 64: 92–109.

chapter 5

The ‘Development’ of Egyptian Assault Warfare (Late Predynastic Period to Dynasty XX) Brett H. Heagren

There is no doubt that by the start of the New Kingdom (c. 1570BC) the Egyptians possessed a sophisticated military force capable of undertaking what would be considered today as deliberate operational level actions with clear adherence to the criteria used by modern military doctrine to identify instances of true Operational Art.1 This is evident in the integration and interaction of light and heavy infantry alongside more mobile elements, notably the chariotry, the ability to conduct sequential and simultaneous operations within a particular theatre of war, and the effective utilisation of time, force, and space to achieve the greatest possible strategic reach. This paper examines one aspect of Egyptian military activity—assault warfare—and ascertains how this tied into their Operational Art, and the impact this had on their ability to effectively wage war. The term ‘assault warfare’ is used here to describe an attack on a fortified target, whether city or fortress, and should be considered distinct from ‘siege warfare’ proper, which refers to the investment of a military target which may or may not involve direct military assault.2

1 For the specific criteria, see the U.S. Army’s Field Manual FM 100–105: Operations (1993) 6.2– 6.3. As ‘Operational Level’ is a fairly recent addition to the ever-growing corpus of military terminology, publications dealing specifically with this level of war, as well as the associated concept of ‘Operational Art’, are still few. Notable studies include Vego (2003) 119–136; Vego (2000); Jablonsky (1987) 65–76; Cohen (1986) 149–155; and Luttwak (1980/1) 61–79. The realisation that such a term was needed to describe this ‘intermediate level’ of war has been acknowledged for some time, and J.C.F. Fuller, followed by Basil Liddell Hart, wrote of ‘Grand Tactics’, a concept first introduced in the 1830s by Baron Jomini. This concept, however, was never developed further by the British military, see Kiszely (2005) 38–39. The American variant has, on the other hand, gained far more acceptance and is now considered a key element of U.S. military doctrine, see especially U.S. Army (1993); and U.S. Army’s Field Manual FM 100–107: Decisive Force (1995). I would like to dedicate this study to my Father, David John Heagren, who recently passed away. 2 Schulman (1964) 12–21. Alan Schulman (1982) 179 rightfully makes the distinction between a siege ‘surrounding of a fortified place by an army attempting to take it by a continued blockade and attack’ and an assault.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2019 | doi:10.1163/978

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When faced with a fortified target, there are five timeless methods that can be employed.3 These include scaling the walls; breaching the perimeter; penetrating from below (sapping); surrounding the city or fortress completely (which was time and resource consuming); and trickery (difficult to accomplish).4 For the purposes of this discussion we can add two additional methods: use of intimidation;5 and the employment of an ‘indirect approach’ where instead of attacking fortresses or cities directly, other more vulnerable locations could be targeted in the hope of forcing the enemy to abandon their strongholds.6 As noted in the preceding chapters on Assyrian warfare, these methods were not always mutually exclusive and in many cases a combination of two or more techniques may have been required. In terms of the three core military dimensions of time, force, and space, each of the above methods had unique advantages and disadvantages. Scaling, breaching, and the use of trickery and intimidation all had the potential to produce quick victories while requiring limited time and force. The employment of an indirect approach, an important component of operational art, likewise could allow for a similar outcome albeit on a wider temporal and spatial scale. Sapping, on the other hand, was time intensive and was not always practical given the nature of the target under attack. Proper siege warfare, which involved surrounding and blockading a site, was often the most demanding of all, requiring a significant investment of time and force. There was no way of knowing how long the siege could last, and it was therefore necessary to ensure sufficient resources were available to see it through to a successful conclusion. Further difficulties included the possibility of fighting off relief forces or counter attacks originating from the besieged target, and combating disease and declining morale. There was also the added problem that a siege tended to tie down significant forces for an undetermined period of time, when they could not be used elsewhere. Overall, where an army had only limited force

3 Yadin (1963) 16–18. 4 Abraham Malamat (1983) 25–35 believed that deceit was an important element used by the early Israelites to offset their military weaknesses with respect to siege warfare. The Spartan general Brasidas, likewise compensating for inferior military forces and siege doctrine, successfully employed oratory as well as traitors to capture seemingly impregnable cities, Wylie (1992) 80–81 and 85. 5 Intimidation, as the Assyrian and Mongol armies discovered, was an effective way of taking a city without bloodletting. For Mongol practices, see May (2007) 77–80. The use of fear as a means of achieving victory was an important aspect of Mongol warfare, see especially Linebarger (1954) 15. 6 The Mongols, for example, employed this ‘indirect’ method to bypass especially difficult fortified targets (May [2007] 78).

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and time at their disposal, and were obligated to project their presence over a significant geographical space, we would expect to see a greater reliance on quick, high(er) risk, assault tactics as opposed to time intensive, high attrition encounters.

1

Late Predynastic Period—Old Kingdom (c. 3200–2181 BC)

The Late Predynastic period to the end of the Old Kingdom was arguably the most significant era in Egyptian history, as it saw not only the unification of the country under a single monarch, but its subsequent establishment into a highly centralised state. Given that this unification was achieved through military action, it is not surprising that even during this early period we find pictorial evidence of assault warfare. This evidence is admittedly a more mythic nature, and so perhaps of limited value, in that instead of human actors we see insects or other animals hacking away at iconic enemy cities or fortresses.7 Nonetheless they do serve to introduce some of the key motifs and features that are found repeatedly in our later evidence.8 In her analysis of these images, for example, Regine Schulz noted that collectively these early images appear to present three distinct stages of attack. First, where the wall of the city remains intact, we see indications of an open battle prior to the attack on the fortress or city, as seen most notably on the Bull palette.9 Second, the attack against the city or fortress itself commences. On the Town palette, seven enemy cities, each shown in plan view and surrounded by a fortified wall, are being attacked by hoe wielding animals.10 Within the walls, various signs serve to indicate the name of each target under attack and thus provides some historical authenticity.11 In the final stage, the walls of the city have been breached, as dramatically illustrated with the enemy city found on the Narmer palette which has succumbed to an attack by a bull.12 A fortress with a smashed wall is also seen on four ebony ‘year labels’ dated to the reign of King Den of Dynasty I (c. 3000– 7

8 9 10 11 12

Schulz (2002) 19–20. The symbolic nature of these images has served to discourage the notion that they could in fact be seen as reflecting actual events, but see Gilbert (2004) 99 who is not so dismissive. For early warfare in general, see Gilbert (2004) and Campagno (2004) 689–703. Schulz (2002) 22–23 and Fig. 11. In the palette in question, a bull attacks a luckless foreign enemy outside the unbroken walls of a hostile city. Schulz (2002) 20; and Vogel (2004) 11–12. Schulz (2002) 22. As Gilbert (2004) 99 noted, this is not part of any foundation ceremony; see also Sliwa (1974) 105.

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2890BC).13 The identification of these three distinct stages is important, as they will be repeated to varying degrees in our later images. With the state firmly established by the Old Kingdom period (c. 2686– 2160BC) our evidence for assault warfare, while still limited, appears to be focused on external rather than internal threats. We also see important artistic transformations with our evidence which allows for greater comment and analysis. Scenes from the tombs of Khaemhesy at Saqqara and Inty at Deshasheh, both dated to Dynasty VI (c. 2345–2181BC), depict assaults on what are either cities or fortresses possibly located in Asia.14 The battle scene of Inty marks a transition from the earlier stylistic assault images to what will become commonplace later. In this scene, Egyptian soldiers are depicted attacking a fortified location which is shown in plan view.15 The interior of this fortress, however, is presented conventionally and we are able to see how the luckless inhabitants react to the attack.16 The Egyptians, for their part, are depicted assaulting the city with the aid of a ladder which has been placed against the ‘side’ of the fortress city and is held in position by a single Egyptian soldier.17 Three other soldiers, armed with battering poles, attempt to break open the gate (or walls).18 While this two-pronged tactical assault takes place, covering fire is provided by either Egyptian or Nubian archers, who were likely depicted in the topmost register (now partially damaged). We see, for example, that a number of the city’s defenders have received multiple arrow hits. In addition, Egyptian infantry, armed with axes, are also engaged in heavy hand-to-hand fighting with enemy troops who have already been subjected to arrow bombardment. As we shall see, covering fire, provided by either Egyptian or auxiliary troops, is a recurring theme in their assault warfare scenes. The fortress or city from the tomb of Khaemhesy at Saqqara is depicted in side view, although we are still able to see the action taking place within.19 The scene is of particular interest in that this is the first and only time we see an

13 14 15 16 17 18

19

Gilbert (2004) 97. Schulman (1982) 165 and Smith (1965) Figs. 14 and 15. For recent analyses of these early siege scenes, see Schulz (2002) 25–34 and Vogel (2004) 41–44. For a detailed discussion of the visual elements of this scene, refer to Schulz (2002) 29–34 and Shaw (1996) 256–257. Gaballa (1976) 31 and Schulz (2002) 30–31. Schulz (2002) 31. Shaw (1996) 256 and Schulz (2002) 31. Schulman (1964) 14 has also suggested that the soldiers in this particular scene may be engaged in sapping. See also Gaballa (1976) 31 who follows this view. Smith (1965) 149. For a detailed description of this scene and its composition, see Schulz (2002) 25–28, esp. 26–27 for an Asiatic identification for the inhabitants.

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assault ladder equipped with wheels at its base being used to attack a fortress.20 Three soldiers scale the ladder while two others are near the top.21 At the base of the ladder, we find two additional soldiers who, like in the Inty scene, are depicted armed with long poles. It is possible that they are either engaged in some form of sapping or are using ‘battering poles’ to breach the walls. This interpretation is supported, at least somewhat, by the reaction of the two male figures in the lowest register inside the shelter who may be listening to their progress. This two-pronged assault (utilising battering poles and assault ladders) is therefore similar to the activity that takes place in the Inty assault scene. An alternative interpretation is that our two Egyptians are instead attempting to secure the mobile ladder in order to stop any backward or forward movement.22 Another peculiarity is the ladder itself. Was it the artist’s intention to actually represent a siege tower? Also of interest is the fact that the two Egyptian soldiers at the top of the ladder are attempting to breach the walls of the fortress/city with hand axes. This is one of our earliest representations of this particular type of assault.23 Unlike the previous scene, there is no open battle nor is there any indication of supporting fire being provided by archers.24 An additional observation worth noting is one of the fortress inhabitants is driving cattle into what is possibly an underground shelter in order to seek safety from the Egyptian attack.25 Cattle could either be slaughtered or captured by enemy soldiers and therefore had to be safeguarded. Of all the assault images that we know of, this one is problematic in that many of the key elements often found in other Egyptian assault scenes are missing. Along with the visual evidence, we have a limited number of textual accounts of assault warfare from this period. The Palermo Stone, dated to Dynasty V (c. 2494–2345BC) records historical military actions alongside more peaceful endeavours. Mention is made, for example, that King Den smote or captured the town of Werka, while the Dynasty II (c. 2890–2686 BC) King, Ninetjer, hacked up the fortresses of Ha and Sherma.26 It is worth noting that the attack against Werka is indicated by the hieroglyph of a stick-wielding man 20 21 22 23 24 25 26

Senk (1957) 207–211 and Schulz (2002) 27. Smith (1965) Fig. 15. As convincingly argued by Senk (1957) 210 and Schulz (2002) 27. Schulman (1964) 14. Some type of ‘combat’ does appear to take place in the form of a struggle between unarmed individuals. Smith (1965) 149. Gilbert (2004) 97 argues Ha may have been a Delta fortress (as suggested by the papyrus plant determinative). The same may also have been true of Sherma although a locale in Palestine is also possible.

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whereas against the fortresses, the hoe hieroglyph alone is used. Therefore, it is likely the town was unfortified (the name is not surrounded by a fortification wall) and specialised siege weaponry was not required. A second useful textual source is the autobiography of the private official Weni as this provides us with an indication of the strategic reach of Egypt’s armies at this time.27 Weni was not only able to conduct a number of campaigns into Asia (possibly on a regular basis), but if his account is to be believed, his army also possessed the ability to sack (sšn) Asiatic strongholds (wn(w)t).28 Unfortunately, no details are provided as to the methods employed. Despite this limited evidence it is clear that even during this early period fortified establishments were attacked within Egypt, and that following the wars of unification Egypt had the ability to project sufficient force to assault fortified targets beyond its borders. From the images we also note some of the more important assault techniques were already being used: covering fire provided by archers; an open battle preceding the actual assault; the employment of multiple assault weapons; and a preference for scaling. With respect to the last point, it must also be noted that breaching the walls appears to have been a commonly employed method especially in the early Dynastic period. Likewise, from a pictorial narrative perspective, many of the key episodes commonly found in later Egyptian assault warfare images are for the most part in place by the end of the Old Kingdom. These include the initial advance, open battle, the assault itself, and the eventual capitulation.29 The later images will tend to incorporate some if not all of these episodes with only minor variations.

2

First Intermediate Period—Middle Kingdom (c. 2160–1650 BC)

Following the collapse of central authority at the end of the Old Kingdom, Egypt was plunged into political disunity (First Intermediate Period, c. 2160– 2055). The result was a prolonged struggle between the Theban based rulers in the south and the Herakleopolitian leaders in the north. Thebes eventually extended its control over the entire country, capturing Herakleopolis and ush-

27 28

29

For the complete text, see Sethe (1903/1933)=Urk I 98.1–110.2. The determinative used for the strongholds is a fortress wall with buttress or tower like protrusions which is not too dissimilar to the fortress represented in plan view from the tomb of Inty, Urk I 103.12. There remains the difficulty, nonetheless, as to whether these campaign accounts did in fact reflect historical reality. Schulz (2002) 34.

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ering in a new period of political stability which was soon accompanied by renewed military activity abroad. From the subsequent pictorial and textual accounts we are provided with a wealth of information on assault warfare techniques. Beginning with the pictorial evidence from the tomb of General Inyotef dated to Dynasty XI (c. 2125–1985BC), Egyptian and Nubian soldiers are shown assaulting an Asiatic city or fortress with the aid of a moveable siege tower.30 Unlike with the Khaemhesy scene, there is no ambiguity here. What we see is clearly a siege tower complete with fighting platform on the top. There also appears to be some sort of protruding bridge which would have enabled the soldiers to cross from the tower and over to the enemy walls. It is telling that this weapon is never again depicted in any other extant battle scene. While this assault takes place, covering fire is provided by Nubian archers.31 Also dated to Dynasty XI are fragments that were uncovered at the temple of Mentuhotep II at Deir el-Bahri which depict an assault on a city or fortress.32 While the fragments show little, we do see part of an assault ladder being climbed by at least two Egyptian soldiers (one of which is armed with a socketed battleaxe), while at the same time enemy soldiers are seen tumbling towards the ground.33 Little can be ascertained concerning the fortress in this scene, but the wall appears to have been supported by a buttress. Schulman, in his analysis of the fragments, believed the assault that was pictured here was not too dissimilar to the Beni Hasan scenes (see below), namely, a fortified city being surrounded and attacked on all sides by Egyptian soldiers supported by Nubian archers.34 The assaulting troops may also be making use of a ‘battering ram’.35 It is, however, impossible to determine the general location of this

30

31 32 33 34

35

Arnold and Settgast (1965) Fig. 2; Vogel (2004) 50–54; Cohen (2002) 34–35; Gaballa (1976) 38–39; and Grajetzki (2009) 102–103. See also Schulman (1982) 168–170, 182–183, and n. 23. Schulman has suggested that this was not an Asiatic town being attacked, but rather a distorted representation of the capture of Herakleopolis. This argument, however, has not received much support, see for instance Shaw (1996) 247–248. Schulz (2002) 40 on the other hand, argues the locality may even be in Nubia. Schulz (2002) 36; Vogel (2004) 52; and Bietak (1985) 87. Bietak noted that Nubian auxiliaries likely constituted a significant percentage of the Theban army. Smith (1965) Fig. 185; Vogel (2004) 54 and Fig. 9; and Cohen (2002) 35. In addition, see also Naville et al. (1907) Pls. XIV (‘D’ in particular) and XV. Reconstructed by Smith (1965) Fig. 185 with analysis by Schulman (1982) 170–176. Schulman (1982) 172–176. The attackers probably occupied two registers on each side of the city with the archers providing covering fire for the advancing Egyptian troops (Schulman [1982] 175). The presence of archers at this battle is supported by fragment ‘D’ in which we see falling enemy soldiers that have succumbed to multiple arrow wounds (Naville et al. [1907] Pl. XIV). Naville et al. (1907) Pl. XV and Schulman (1982) 173.

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fortress or city although the defenders appear to have been Asiatic.36 Asiatic prisoners are also seen being led away from their doomed city whereas others flee from the Egyptian troops.37 The next group of assault scenes of note are found in four private tombs at Beni Hasan. The tombs belonging to Khnemuhotep (no. 14), Baket III (no. 15), and the nomarch Khety (no. 17) are dated towards the end of Dynasty XI and the beginning of Dynasty XII whereas the tomb of Amenemhet (no. 2) is dated to the reign of Sesostris I (c. 1956–1911BC).38 They are believed to represent the same event and as such have generally been discussed as a unit.39 The fortresses under assault, for instance, differ only slightly in two of the scenes (nos. 15 and 17) but substantially more so in the third (no. 2). While the geographical location of these fortresses (or single fortress) remains uncertain, the defenders have been identified as Egyptian and Schulman has further argued that what is represented may in fact be the final Theban assault against the city of Herakleopolis.40 The fortresses are also assaulted in essentially the same manner, again indicating this is the one same event. The Egyptian attackers are making use of a type of ‘battering ram’ under the protection of a mantelet.41 In the scenes from tombs 15 and 17, the ram is manned by three Egyptians, whereas in tomb 2, it is manned by only two Egyptians. Bruce Williams has argued quite convincingly that a ram used in such a way would have had only a minimal impact on the walls of a fortress.42 Instead of a weapon for breaching walls, this device may have been used to probe for imperfections along the wall in order to pick out hand and foot-holds. Williams points out that the walls of these mud brick fortresses were not solid constructions. While the mass would have been brick, they also contained additional material as well as open space within (poles and 36 37 38

39 40

41 42

Schulman (1982) 172 identified the defenders as Asiatic as one of them is sporting a short beard. See also Schulz (2002) 35 and Cohen (2002) 35. Schulman (1982) 175. Although as Cohen (2002) 35 rightly noted, the presence of Asiatics need not imply this assault took place in Asia. Newberry (1893a) for tombs no. 2 (Pls. XIV and XVI) and no. 14 (Pl. XLVII); Newberry (1893b), for tombs no. 15 (Pl. V) and no. 17 (Pl. XV). The scenes from tomb no. 14 are for the most part lost and are unable to be incorporated into our discussion here. For a detailed discussion of these scenes, see Vogel (2004) 44–50. See in particular Gaballa (1976) 39–40 and Schulman (1982) 176–178. Schulman (1982) 182–183. That this battle could possibly be taking place between Egyptians and not a foreign enemy may explain, as suggested by Shaw (1996) 257, the absence of civilians. The long, presumably wooden, shaft of this weapon appears to have been capped with another unidentified material. See Williams (1999) 440. Williams (1999) 440.

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beams for strength, mats to control moisture, vents and so forth). These imperfections would have been hidden from view by layers of mud plaster but an attacking force would eventually have been able to pick out these weak spots.43 This could have been accomplished relatively quickly and at multiple points along the walls of the fortress. Once completed, the attacking infantry would then have been able to begin their scaling assault supported by the Nubian archers who are present on the battlefield. There are also indications that open battle took place either during or preceding the main assault. From tomb 17, for example, violent hand-to-hand combat takes place with a pile of corpses depicted right in the middle of the battle,44 and from tomb 2, we find two registers of fighting.45 While the pictorial evidence appears to focus on events at the end of the war of reunification, the textual accounts, on the other hand provide important information regarding this struggle from two of the opposing factions. Ankhtify of Moʿallaʾ, a notable military commander, waged two excursions against Theban forces to the north of his nome.46 In the first he went to the aid of the commander of Armant whose fortress (i҆tḥ47) was threatened by the forces of Thebes and Coptos.48 Armant was located in the Theban district which was the dominant centre there at the beginning of Dynasty X.49 It is not certain whether Ankhtify was expecting to fight this combined enemy force,50 but he had to face this threat as both Thebes and Coptos were challenging Herakleopolitan authority and where his allegiances lay. The enemy had apparently combined their separate camps (i҆tḥw) into one camp ( I҆tḥ I҆wni҆) which was located at Sgꜣ smḫsn. The remainder of this account has suffered some damage so the details

43

44 45 46 47

48

49 50

Williams (1999) 440–442. Attacking a mudbrick fortress provided additional opportunities to the attacker which would not have been available against the more robust fortified targets found in Asia. Schulman (1982) 177 and Vogel (2004) 45–48. The inclusion of corpses littering the battlefield provides a morbid touch of realism to this image. Vogel (2004) 48–50. Williams (1999) 439; Schenkel (1965) 45–57; and Goedicke (1998) 29–41. Goedicke (1998) 41, however, denies that these accounts reflect actual historical campaigns. According to Goedicke (1998) 33–34, this was a defined place (probably not located within the city) with a definite military character. It may possibly have been a temporary base (in other words, a tactical level camp). See, for example Goedicke (1998) 29–41, esp. 31–33 and n. 22 where Goedicke takes a somewhat unique view, in that, the Coptite and Theban forces were not expected to be unified at this time. Goedicke (1998) 33. Goedicke (1998) 33 n. 22.

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of how Ankhtify raised the siege are unknown. That he was successful, nonetheless, is evident, and on his return journey he was even able to assault and destroy an enemy fortress or camp (i҆tḥ).51 During his second campaign, Ankhtify took his fleet deeper into the Theban nome. This campaign is of particular interest as Ankhtify engages in two separate amphibious actions. First, he lands on the west bank of the enemy district, yet no one would come out (of their fortresses presumably) to do battle.52 Next, he lands on the east bank.53 Ankhtify gives the extent of his penetration as the tomb of Imbi in the north and the settlement of Sega (Sgꜣ) in the south. Sega, however, shut its gates against him and he was unable to capture this town. Even though his forces were free to traverse both sides of the Nile apparently unopposed, they were not able to successfully assault the enemy fortresses and bring about a decisive victory.54 Furthermore, given that neither Thebes nor Tod are mentioned in the account, the ultimate geographical and strategic extent of this campaign was likely limited.55 As for the opposition, the hound stela of Wahankh Antef II (c. 2112–2063 BC) relates how that king in his initial advance north was forced to outflank Thinis in the eighth nome of Upper Egypt capturing only the hinterland in its northern part. Despite this setback he continued his advance against the tenth nome and was able to establish his border there. He then returned south successfully capturing Thinis which had now been completely outflanked and isolated.56 This was a clear example of sequential operations. Success with the first operation (establishing the border and isolating his opponent) laid the foundation for success in the second operation (the complete conquest of the eighth nome). Unlike with Ankhtify’s military actions, the end result was an operational level victory. Following the reunification, we possess only two notable textual references to assaults against cities or fortresses. This should not come as too much of a surprise as Egyptian military activity during most of Dynasty XII (c. 1985– 1773BC) was focused predominantly towards the south against Nubia rather than the more populous Asiatic territories. Nevertheless, Egyptians occasionally made forays into Asia either for trade or purely military pur-

51 52 53 54 55 56

Goedicke (1998) 36. Goedicke (1998) 37–41. Goedicke (1998) 38. Williams (1999) 439. Goedicke (1998) 40. Darnell (1997) 107. This technique, described rather aptly as ‘leapfrogging’ by Warburton (2001) 155–156, appears to have been commonly employed during this period.

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poses.57 The Stela of Nesmontu (Louvre C1) dated to Year 24 of Amenemhet I (c. 1985–1956BC), for example, records an assault against Asiatic sand dwellers.58 General Nesmontu appears to have been a practitioner of surprise warfare as he states that not only was he able to sack strongholds (ḫn(w)t), but he was also able to stealthily infiltrate these settlements, moving through the streets (mr(w)t) in order to conduct surprise attacks.59 This is the first occasion that we know of where subterfuge was used to gain access to a hostile location. It is also the only textual account we possess that describes fighting being conducted within a settlement. The Mit Rahina inscription dated to the reign of Amenemhet II (c. 1911– 1877BC), on the other hand, provides a fairly straightforward and brief reference to two attacks upon walled cities. The inscription mentions the returning of regular infantry (mnfꜣt) from Asia possibly by ship after hacking up (ḫbꜣ) the fortified towns or locations of I҆wꜣy and I҆ꜣsy.60 Little else is known about the military action although it is likely that both targets were in close proximity to each other with a possible identification of the former as Ura and Cyprus for the latter.61 If correct, the sacking of two remote Asiatic towns by a limited number of Egyptian infantry engaging in an amphibious operation displays sophisticated military ability. It may in fact mark the furthest extent so far of Egypt’s military reach. In summary, the pictorial and textual accounts for this period highlight certain key points. First, fortresses and fortified cities had a significant impact on military operations at both the tactical and operational levels. While fortified targets may have been assaulted, they could prove difficult to capture, as noted during the war of reunification. From our pictorial evidence we see a clear preference for scaling as opposed to breaching. Although, it is possible that the two Asiatic cities mentioned in the Mit Rahina inscription both had their walls breached. The use of missile troops to cover the attacking troops continues to be a feature of the assault as does the open battle that preceded the assault itself. At the operational level, as fortresses or fortified cities tended to lie on or near important communications routes (the Nile in particular), they proved difficult to bypass. Yet certain commanders did manage to circumvent such 57 58 59 60 61

For a recent and useful overview of Egypt’s interactions with Asia during this period, see Gee (2004) 23–31 and, for a more comprehensive discussion, Cohen (2002) 33–50. Cohen (2002) 38. But see also Obsomer (1993) 103–140. Helck (1971) 43; Sethe (1924) 82; and Breasted (1905) 153–158. See also the recent translation and general comments in Grajetzki (2009) 103–104. The names of both towns are surrounded by a wall with buttress/tower protrusions. See also the comments of Goedicke (1991) 94. Marcus (2007) 145.

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centres, thus quickly rendering them impotent. We also see a continued preference of launching amphibious attacks against fortified targets. This is especially evident in the Mit Rahina inscription where the military activity recorded was primarily naval based.

3

Second Intermediate Period—Dynasty XVIII (c. 1650–1295 BC)

The Second Intermediate Period (c. 1650–1550BC) once again witnessed a collapse of central authority but unlike with the previous period of political disunity the power vacuum in the north was eventually filled not by Egyptian local elite but by the Hyksos who had peacefully migrated into the Delta region. The Hyksos established their capital at Avaris whereas the remnants of ‘native’ Egyptian power was centred on Thebes. The Theban Dynasty XVII (c. 1580– 1550) kings were in a precarious position in that they faced not just a major power in the north but also had to deal with the potential threat posed by Kingdom of Kerma to the south. Despite this strategic situation, the Egyptians decided to go on the offensive against their northern neighbours. The struggle to liberate northern Egypt from Hyksos rule involved a number of attacks against Hyksos controlled cities culminating with the capture of their capital Avaris, Our evidence for the military operations that took place is primarily derived from textual records. Kamose (c. 1555–1550 BC), during his assault against the city of Nefrusy, spent one day and one night outside the city and possibly had it surrounded in order to ensure its leader was not able to escape. The details of the attack itself are vague but it appears that Kamose launched a surprise assault early in the morning (‘when day dawned’), which may have caught his opponent off guard.62 Kamose’s assault was successful and it is noted that he destroyed the walls, slaughtered the inhabitants, and overthrew his opponent all by ‘breakfast time’.63 Following this action, Kamose continued his northward advance eventually reaching the environs of Avaris. His account states that he engaged in a considerable amount of logistic destruction and plundering around the Hyksos capital which involved the complete destruction of local towns and the burning

62 63

See the translations of Habachi (1972) 38 and Redford (1997) 14. Redford (1997) 14. In other words, the attack which was launched at dawn and successfully concluded by ‘breakfast time’ must have lasted a mere couple of hours. The speed of the assault is impressive and it is not beyond the realms of possibility that the city fell so quickly.

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down of other dwellings.64 Most significantly, Kamose was able to capture 300 ships that were berthed in the city’s massive harbour. There is no indication that the Hyksos attempted to engage the Egyptians in an open battle, rather they appeared to have been content to remain behind their fortifications and weather out the attack. Kamose was either unable or unwilling to capture the city itself at this stage and subsequently returned south.65 The capture of Avaris was instead to be accomplished by his successor Ahmose (c. 1550–1525BC) whose campaigns against the Hyksos are recounted in the autobiography of the soldier-sailor Ahmose son of Ebana as well as in a brief passage found on the verso of the Rhind Mathematical Papyrus.66 We will deal with the latter first as the actions recounted here precede the attack on Avaris. Ahmose, we are informed, entered Heliopolis possibly without any resistance offered. From there the Egyptian king advanced against the border fortress of Tjaru which was definitely taken after an assault.67 Details are lacking, but this passage does indicate that Ahmose was employing an operational level approach to defeat Avaris rather than the more direct method attempted by his predecessor. That is, by taking Tjaru, Avaris was cut off by land from receiving any additional reinforcements from Asia.68 While the sea route may have remained open, we must not forget that a large portion of the Hyksos fleet may have been lost after Kamose’s earlier assault. This double blow effectively isolated Avaris. In his autobiography, Ahmose (the soldier-sailor) notes that the city was placed under siege (ḥms) and that a number of battles (both naval and on land) were fought before its eventual capture.69 Such open battles were a common occurrence in our earlier (and later) assault scenes. Unfortunately, we are not provided with any information as to how the city itself fell (only that it was sacked). Following this successful action, we are next informed that Ahmose lay siege (ḥmst) to the Asiatic city of Sharuhen.70 This is our first clear 64 65 66 67

68

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Habachi (1972) 38 and Redford (1997) 14. Warburton (2001) 41. It has been suggested that this was only a mere raid for plunder rather than a serious attempt to capture the city (Bourriau [1999] 48). Sethe (1904–1916), Helck (1955–1958) = Urk IV 3.2–5.2, and Spalinger (1990) 335. From the Rhind Mathematical Papyrus it is clear that, prior to the final assault against Avaris, both Heliopolis and Tjaru had already been captured, see Morris (2005) 47; Spalinger (1990) 335; and Spalinger (2007) 122. The Sinai, for instance, was a major source of manpower which would have been denied to the Hyksos after the closing of the border, see the comments of Oren (1997) 279. With respect to this action, Warburton (2001) 159 actually uses Liddell Hart’s term ‘indirect approach’. Urk IV 3.2–4.13. Generally identified as Tell el-Ajjul, this was a 28 acre site located near the eastern end of the ‘Ways of Horus’ and at the head of the Via Maris. As such, it occupied a decisive

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reference to a proper siege rather than an assault. While no details of the actual siege are given, we are informed that its duration was three years following which the city fell and was plundered (ḥꜣḳ).71 Ahmose’s victory over the Hyksos effectively opened up Western Asia to Egyptian imperial expansion, and as a consequence city assaults were undertaken in increasing frequency during the course of Dynasty XVIII (c. 1550– 1295BC) as the Egyptians extended their control deeper into the region. Our evidence remains predominantly textual with one of the best accounts, the battle of Megiddo, recorded in the annals of Thutmose III (c. 1479–1425BC).72 This battle commenced with a standard open engagement between the Egyptian army and a coalition of enemies outside the city of Megiddo. The Egyptians defeated the bulk of the enemy force, but the army failed to follow up this victory with an immediate assault on the city.73 Therefore, the survivors were able to retreat into the city in somewhat good order. Megiddo was not to fall to a quick and easy assault as was the modus operandi of the Egyptian army, rather a proper siege was needed.74 In preparation for this, the city was measured and surrounded by a ditch. A wall was then built using local wood (‘fresh timber’ ḫt wꜣḏ) and this was strengthened by additional fortifications.75 The king took up residence at the fortress ‘Menkheperre-Encircler-of-Asiatics’ on the east side of the city, and the resulting siege was eventually to last seven months.76 As for its apparent passiveness, in as much that no attempt was made by the Egyptians

71

72

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point in that its occupants could potentially interfere with land traffic between Egypt and Canaan (Morris [2005] 29 and 52 and Darnell and Manassa [2007] 14). The importance of this site was further elevated due to the fact that it possessed its own inner harbour measuring some 300 m wide, see Oren (1997) 255. Urk IV 4.14–15.2. Goedicke (2000) 18–19, however, argues that the siege of Sharuhen was not the investment of just one city for a specific period of time but possibly a series of sieges or assaults carried out within a district over a three year period. For a discussion of the terms ḥmst and ḥꜣḳ, see Hoffmeier (1989) 183. Hoffmeier noted that ḥꜣḳ referred more to the acts of pillaging and plundering rather than describing the condition of the city during or following the attack. This was also noted by Hasel (1998) 71–73. For the Annals of Thutmose III, see Redford (2003); Redford (1979) 338–342; Spalinger (1977) 41–54; in addition to the earlier studies of Grapow (1949) and Noth (1943) 156–174. For the battle of Megiddo, see Nelson (1913); Faulkner (1942) 2–15; Spalinger (1974) 221–229; Spalinger (1979) 47–54; Rainey (1981) 61–66; and Goedicke (2000). Urk IV 657.2–660.1. Urk IV 660.4–662.6. This is only our second clear reference to a siege. Hasel (2006) 105. A similar account is found in the Victory Stela of King Piye, where it is mentioned that King Namart had besieged Herakleopolis ‘encircling it completely’ (Lichtheim [1980] 68). Although, Goedicke (2000) has argued the siege was only one month and seven days long, 126.

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to storm the city, and nor did the entrapped attempt to break the siege, this was likely a reflection of the fact that both sides had only limited numbers of men available. The enemy had suffered sufficiently high enough losses to cause them to flee the battlefield and were likely not in a position to contest the siege. As for Thutmose III, he probably departed the area with the bulk of the Egyptian army shortly after setting up the fortifications, content to wait until the city’s food supplies ran out.77 Such passivity may also have been a factor in the long duration of the siege of Sharuhen. There may have been a certain inherent reluctance on the part of the Egyptians to attack well prepared fortified targets, even though they possessed the technical skills to do so. The potential loss of life from conducting an aggressive siege must have been calculated as too high a price to pay.78 This would have been especially so if one was contemplating further military action in the not too distant future. The account of the battle of Megiddo provides us with our best insight into Egyptian siegecraft practices in the absence of a military treatise on this subject for this period. The only text that comes anywhere close to a theoretical examination of aspects potentially related to siege warfare is Pap. Anastasi I in which military related problems (among others) are posed to the hapless scribe Amenemope.79 In one passage Amenemope must work out the quantity of (mud)bricks required to build a ramp (sṯꜣ).80 Unfortunately, it is not explicitly stated in the text that the ramp was to be used as a siege tool and nor do we possess any extant images of one ever being employed in such a capacity.81 We do, however, possess a much later textual reference to what is clearly a siege ramp from the Dynasty XXV (c. 747–656BC), stela Cairo JdE 48862.82 Assuming 77 78

79 80 81 82

Urk IV 660.4–662.6. According to the annals, 103 inhabitants fled the city prior to its surrender due to hunger, Urk IV 665.11. This behaviour also fits well with a military force that favoured ‘indirect’ and operational level actions over attritional battles. Hoffmeier (1989) 183 suggested the Egyptians had militarily exhausted themselves in driving the Hyksos out of Egypt and were therefore content to starve the garrison and population into submission rather than relying on further potentially costly assaults. For this text, see Gardiner (1964) 16–17 (13,5–14,14) and Fischer-Elfert (1986) 121–132 (13,8– 14,8). Fischer-Elfert (1986) 125. For a brief discussion of the term sṯꜣ, see Frandsen (1989) 118–119. An image of a construction ramp is, however, known to us, see Davies (1973) Pl. LX. In this account, it is recommended to King Piye that a siege ramp (sṯꜣ) be used against the newly refortified city of Memphis (Darnell [1991] 73–74). In this case, the proposed ramp was to be built possibly using earth strengthened with wood (Darnell [1991] 75–76). Piye, however, appears to have instead favoured a naval assault against the Nile facing (weaker) walls of the city (Darnell [1991] 81–84).

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that the ramp in Pap. Anastasi I was to be used as a siege weapon then would it have been effective? To begin with, the theoretical height of this ramp is given as 60 cubits (or around 30m) which provides us with some indication of the height of the walls (plus embankment/glacis) that it could have been employed against. Second, the ramp was to be around 380–400m long, thus possessing an inclination of 9.9°. This would easily have allowed heavily armed soldiers to traverse the distance at some speed without exhausting themselves. The soldiers would also have been able to begin their ascent outside of bow shot. Third, the width of the ramp (around 20m) would have accommodated a rank of fifteen assault troops.83 Finally, the construction method is somewhat reminiscent of how the walls of the Nubian fortresses during the Middle Kingdom were built in that they also contained chambers filled with other materials in order to economise on the number of mud-bricks needed.84 The main difficulties associated with this ramp are that its construction would have been both a labour- and material-intensive task to carry out, even under ideal circumstances.85 It is likewise problematic to believe that the Egyptians would have invested that much time and effort into a siege when, as it will be argued below, their preferences lay with quick assaults. The siege of Megiddo was an exception rather than the rule. While considerable effort went into the construction of the fortifications and ditch, these were intended to be ephemeral works designed to economise both on troop numbers required to effectively maintain the blockade and materials, which were sourced locally. A siege ramp constructed of mudbrick, on the other hand, would have required a considerably larger investment of troop numbers (both to build the ramp and, simultaneously, maintain the blockade) and materials (at least 14,000,000 mud-bricks, plus support beams). As such while it was probable that the Egyptians possessed a theoretical awareness that ramps could be used as siege weapons, other quicker methods were instead relied upon. As well as the rare occurrence of a proper siege, the military records of Thutmose III make reference to the capture of a city by the equally rare method of trickery. In what may be a fictional tale, General Djehuty was able to successfully smuggle soldiers hidden in baskets into the city of Joppa.86 Once inside the soldiers were able to seize the town. Even though most scholars see this account 83 84 85 86

Fischer-Elfert (1986) 125 and 131. Badawy (1983) 13. For an estimation of the volume of the ramp and the probable number of mud-bricks required, see the detailed analysis of Fischer-Elfert (1986) 124–132. Peet (1925) 225–341.

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as an imaginative piece of fiction, it still highlights the fact that the Egyptians understood that it was theoretically possible to capture a city by such means, which was most desirable when time and military resources were limited.87 The remaining textual records of Thutmose III, while not providing the level of detail as the Megiddo account, are still worth examining as they provide a sense of the frequency, if not ferocity, of city assaults undertaken by this king. His annals alone refer to numerous towns being attacked, albeit the methods used are generally not stated. Rather, only the fate of the city is mentioned and this could vary in severity as noted by the terminology employed. In his Year 29 campaign, we are informed that Thutmose III captured or plundered (ḥꜣḳ), the town of Wrṯt,88 before proceeding on to sack (sk) the town of Ardata.89 In his sixth campaign (Year 30), Qadesh was sacked (sk) along with Sumur and (again) Ardata,90 whereas Ullaza was captured (ḥꜣḳ) during the course of his Year 31 campaign.91 The major campaign of Year 33 saw a number of towns belonging to Mitanni being plundered (ḥꜣḳ) and villages (wḥyt) razed (ḫbꜣ).92 In Year 34, the Egyptian king plundered (ḥꜣḳ) two towns while another capitulated (ḥtp).93 During the tenth campaign (Year 35), the Egyptian army had reached the town of Arana but was forced to do battle with a large enemy coalition that had been assembled by Mitanni.94 It is likely the latter were attempting to bar any further Egyptian imperial advances but they were in any case soundly defeated. Open battles taking place in close proximity to towns or cities tended to be a common occurrence. In Year 38, Thutmose III sacked (sk) a number of towns in the district of Nukhashshe,95 and another unidentified town was likewise sacked during his fifteenth campaign.96 In the final (?) campaign (Year 42) we cannot help but note a higher level of severity in this military action. To begin with, we are informed that the Egyptian army, advancing north along the coastal

87 88 89

90 91 92

93 94 95 96

Schulman (1964) 17, for example, made only a brief mention of this incident. Urk IV 685.8 and Redford (2003) 62 and 64–65. Urk IV 687.5 and Redford (2003) 63. For occurrences of this verb during Dynasties XIX and XX, see Hasel (1998) 57. In these cases the verb was used more to indicate the destruction of regions rather than specific cities or towns. Urk IV 689.4–15. Urk IV 690.11–691.10 and Redford (2003) 71–72. Urk IV 697.7–8 and Redford (2003) 74. For the term ḫbꜣ, see Hoffmeier (1989) 183. As with the terms sk and sksk, ḫbꜣ appears to indicate that a site has received a higher (if not total) level of destruction than plundering. Urk IV 704.6 and Redford (2003) 79. Urk IV 710.1–9 and Redford (2003) 83–85. Urk IV 716.14. See Redford (2003) 93 for the restoration.

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road, were intending to destroy (sksk) the town of Irqata.97 Following this action, two additional towns were sacked (sk), while another may also have been attacked. Finally, the Egyptians plundered (ḥꜣḳ) three towns in the district of Qadesh.98 In the Gebel Barkal stela, a late inscription of Thutmose III, which recounts some of his earlier military actions, we are provided with a brief passage (referring back to the Year 33 campaign) that parallels a similar passage in the annals. We are informed that the king destroyed/hacked up (ḫbꜣ) the cities (ni҆wt) and villages (wḥyt) of Mitanni. They were then further destroyed by fire and turned into mounds (i҆ꜣt) never to be inhabited again.99 Clearly this indicates the complete and utter destruction of these cities and villages, and this was indeed likely. They belonged to Mitanni and were thus outside Egypt’s sphere of control. Another important source of written evidence, as we have already touched upon, comes from the non-royal accounts of actual soldiers who participated in these campaigns. In the biography of Amenemhab, two separate passages refer to the Egyptian assaults against the city of Qadesh.100 In the first, the soldier notes only its capture, whereas in the second he relates how the ruler of that city sent out a mare in an attempt to ‘distract’ the stallions of the Egyptian chariot force.101 Amenemhab risked his life in order to slaughter this unwanted distraction, and next mentions the significant part he played in the actual assault against the city. He states quite clearly that Thutmose III had sent the army, or rather every valiant man, to breach (sd) the city’s walls and that he was first to do so.102 The stela of Minmose, another private inscription, refers to three separate military campaigns conducted by possibly two different kings.103 The first two campaigns likely took place under Thutmose III, whereas the third (which is of most interest) may have been conducted personally by Amenhotep II (c. 1427– 1400BC).104 In this campaign, Minmose notes that the Egyptian king plundered

97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104

Urk IV 729.7–8 and Redford (2003) 95–97. Urk IV 730.8–10. Urk IV 1231.8–9. The two relevant sections are Urk IV 892.6–892.15 and 894.5–895.7. For this episode alone, see Urk IV 894.5–894.15. Urk IV 894.16–895.7. The term sd, as well as referring to the penetration of physical barriers, also possessed abstract qualities, see discussion in Hasel (1998) 59–60. Urk IV 1441–1442. For an outline of his career, see Bryan (1991) 46–49. As suggested by Redford (2003) 174. See, however, the comments of Bryan (1991) 46–47 and Der Manuelian (1987) 53–54.

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(ḥꜣḳ) no less than thirty towns in the region of Takshy.105 If this is indeed a reflection of historical reality, which is not unreasonable, we are provided with an important indication of the number of cities, towns or villages that could be ‘captured’ during the course of a single campaign. Following the Takshy action, Amenhotep II conducted two additional campaigns into Asia where he again claims to have assaulted numerous cities.106 Unfortunately, these accounts are all too brief providing next to no information as to the assault tactics employed. For example, during his first official campaign (in fact his second), we are only informed he hacked up, in an instant, the city of Shamash-Edom. Here at least the fate of the city is provided along with a timeframe which tends to confirm the notion that quick assaults were still favoured. During his second official campaign more cities were attacked with specific mention made that the villages (wḥyt) of Mapasin and Hatasin were plundered (ḥꜣḳ) in addition to two towns (dmi҆) west of Socho.107 A similar fate befell Anuharta, which was also plundered.108 Pictorial evidence of city assaults during Dynasty XVIII is exceedingly rare. Indeed, it is not until the reign of Tutankhamun (c. 1336–1327 BC) that we find our first (and at present only) late Dynasty XVIII assault scene. The scene in question was reconstructed from a number of fragmentary talatat by W. Raymond Johnson and appears to depict an Egyptian attack on a walled Asiatic city.109 That the Egyptians were militarily active during the Amarna and post Amarna periods is beyond dispute and as such this scene likely reflected an aspect of one of these campaigns. Unfortunately, little remains of the actual assault in question but in one fragment we see an Egyptian soldier armed with a spear and shield ascending an assault ladder.110 The ladder proved to be the mainstay of the Egyptian arsenal and, as an assault tool it was ideal in that it could be constructed quickly and easily ‘on site’. In summary, there can be no doubt from the evidence that assault warfare was conducted with significantly increased frequency and intensity during this period. This was of course the result of a more aggressive foreign policy, following the expulsion of the Hyksos, which not only brought the Egyptians into conflict of a multitude of hostile powers but also necessitated their holding on 105 106

107 108 109 110

Urk IV 1442.17. For the campaigns of Years 7 and 9, see Urk IV 1301.3–1305.11 (Memphis); Urk IV 1310.2– 1314.12 (Karnak); Urk IV 1305.13–1309.20 (Memphis); Urk IV 1314.14–1316.5 (Karnak) respectively. Urk IV 1305.18–1306.2. Urk IV 1308.5. Johnson (1992) 158 Fig. 12. Johnson (1992) 62–63.

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to their conquered possessions. Indeed, given the high tally of cities or towns attacked during the course of this period, it is notable we possess only two clear references to actual sieges. This was not due to any lack of ability to conduct siege warfare, as the Egyptian army had clearly reached a high level of sophistication by this time. Rather, their preference was for quick assaults, ideally an open battle which was followed by an immediate attack on the city. We are provided with visual confirmation of this in the following dynasty.

4

Dynasty XIX (c. 1295–1186BC)

Egyptian imperial expansion in Western Asia was renewed with vigour under Sety I (c. 1294–1279BC) and Ramesses II (c. 1279–1213BC). Unlike with Dynasty XVIII, our primary source of evidence for the associated city assaults is pictorial which serves nicely to complement the textual accounts of the previous dynasty.111 Unfortunately as we will note there are difficulties with this evidence. The pictorial records of the military campaigns of Sety I as recorded at Karnak include two city assault scenes. In the first, the king advances towards the city of Yenoam but must first engage in open battle with a force of Canaanites equipped with chariots.112 In the second scene, Sety I attacks the city of Qadesh.113 He must again overcome enemy defenders equipped with chariots plus a healthy number of bowmen.114 The city has suffered a bombardment of arrows, yet no Egyptian archers are depicted.115 The difficulty with these scenes is that their historical value is limited due to the fact that the Egyptian king alone conducts the assault, and no other elements of the army are present. Of interest, however, we see for the first time the aftermath of a successful assault: an abandoned fortress with breached doors, a motif that we will come across again in the records of Sety’s successor.116

111 112 113

114 115 116

See Heinz (2001) 121–122 for a discussion of the various ‘city types’. Nelson et al. (1986) = RIK IV, Pls. 9–14. The termed used here is ḫf (Kitchen (1982–1990) = KRI I 24.14). Hasel (1998) 43–44 noted that this term had a similar meaning to ḥꜣḳ (‘to plunder, to capture’) in that it may have referred to the penetration of a city and its subsequent plundering. It is unlikely that it was meant to indicate the complete destruction of a city, Hasel (1998) 52. RIK IV, Pls. 22–26. RIK IV Pl. 23. Also of note is a lone Asiatic driving his cattle to safety. See especially Wreszinski (1935) Pl. 65. Other examples include Mutir (Wreszinski [1935] Pl. 55); Akko (Wreszinski [1935] Pl. 55a); Krmjn (Heinz [2001] 271); [ ]ꜥn (Wreszinski [1935] Pl. 54a); [ ]t (Kitchen [1964] 59–62); and one unidentified abandoned Asiatic city where we see a number of birds emerging from it as if suddenly startled (Kitchen [1964] 56).

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Indeed, the vast majority of fortress/city assault scenes are dated to the reign of Ramesses II. While some are certainly visually impressive they vary greatly in usefulness with respect to ascertaining assault tactics. Commencing with the earliest dated scenes from his reign, from the temple of Amara West, we can just make out, in one of the two extant fragmentary scenes, an Egyptian soldier armed with an axe assaulting the walls of the Asiatic city of Irqata.117 This soldier is working under the protection of a mantelet, the first appearance of this particular piece of equipment since the Middle Kingdom.118 Another soldier to the left appears to be armed with a long spear but it is difficult to make out if this is in fact a type of siege weapon. Further to the left additional solders advance towards the city. In the second scene from this temple, the assault has been successfully concluded (the city gate has been penetrated) and a procession of prisoners is being led away from the conquered Asiatic city.119 The single city assault scene from the temple of Beit el Wali is unfortunately of more limited value. Ramesses II and one of his sons are depicted attacking an unidentified city. While the king grasps the hair of the oversized enemy ruler, his son attacks the walls with his axe.120 This is of interest as the use of hand weaponry to attack the walls of a fortress directly was first seen as early as the Khaemhesy image. It is difficult to say how much impact such a weapon would have had on the stone walls of an Asiatic city. The assault images from the temple of Karnak are likewise of dubious value.121 In the majority of them, it is only the king who is depicted, either on foot or in his chariot, personally conducting the assault. Generally, no resistance is offered, and in most cases, the enemy simply flee the battlefield, whereas the towns (dmi҆) are depicted either surrendering or having already been abandoned. While the depictions are for the most part generic, certain aspects do stand out. First, it is noted that these towns were plundered or captured utilising the term ḫf,122 and there is no variation in the terminology used. In the assault against the city of I҆i҆ the enemy army, armed with spears, beat a hasty retreat up the hill back to their city.123 The town’s garrison, armed with 117 118 119 120 121 122

123

Spencer (1997) Pl. 34 a–b. Kitchen (1999) 124 saw this as more of an instance of sapping, that is, an attempt to undermine the walls of the city. Spencer (1997) Pl. 36 c–d. Wreszinski (1935) Pl. 163. Wreszinski (1935) Pls. 54a–56. For a discussion of this finite verb, refer to Hasel (1998) 40–52. Hasel (1998) 41 noted that in the majority of instances, this term was used when referring to attacks against enemy cities or towns. Wreszinski (1935) Pl. 54.

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spears, awaits the final attack. An open battle also appears to have preceded the assault against the cities of [ ]rḏ and Mutir.124 The Asiatics, who appear to be primarily composed of infantry, have suffered from a heavy arrow bombardment. None retain their weaponry. Another open battle appears to have preceded the king’s assault against an unidentified city and Kwṯjsr.125 While the enemy is again in full retreat, an enemy chariot is visible and its occupants and horses have suffered multiple arrow hits. Further to the left, a formation of enemy archers runs towards the city. A similar state of affairs also can be seen in the assault against Sjbt and I҆kt.126 Ramesses II personally attacks an enemy chariot slaying its bowman and shield bearer/driver. Other enemy soldiers fall to the wayside. Also from Karnak (East Side) there are three scenes which differ slightly from the preceding images.127 The names of the cities under attack are not known but with two of the cities open battle precedes the final assault. In the first of these scenes, the Egyptian king attacks a large contingent of enemy troops consisting of chariots, heavy infantry and bowmen. They appear to have suffered from an arrow bombardment, although one formation of troops attempts to reach the city while retaining some resemblance of order. Below and behind them, however, a number of their colleagues are less fortunate and are in the process of being cut down. The other open battle is not depicted in as much detail but once again the king attacks a mixed force of chariots and infantry. In this case, the enemy force and city defenders have both been subjected to yet another heavy arrow bombardment. Moving to the temple of Luxor, we note a rather significant change with the city assault images in that there are elements of the army now present alongside the king.128 The presence of the army was a common feature of the earliest assault warfare scenes, and was also seen in the Tutankhamun talatat.129 Unfortunately, the accompanying texts to these scenes provide little additional detail, only informing us that each town (dmi҆) was plundered (ḫf ).130 Egyptian heavy infantry are present outside five of the cities, but they do not take part in the fighting as it is the king who once again personally leads the successful assault. Open battle takes place outside only two of the cities, where we see the king in 124 125 126 127 128 129 130

Wreszinski (1935) Pl. 55. Wreszinski (1935) Pl. 55a. Wreszinski (1935) Pl. 56. For a commentary of these scenes, see Gaballa (1969) 82–88 and Pls. XVI–XX. Kitchen (1964) Fig. 1 and Pls. IV–VI. Johnson (1992) 188 Fig. 18. KRI II 180.2–183.4. See also the comments of Hasel (1998) 48–49, who noted that some of these forts had structural damage around their gate areas.

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chariot attacking a mixture of enemy chariots and infantry. Of particular note is the scene depicting the assault on the two cities of I҆[n]d and Tbn. The latter city was traditionally identified as Dibon.131 This appears, however, to be no longer the case and as such has important relevance with respect to those arguments which note the lack of correlation between the pictorial evidence (i.e., a city in possession of walls) and the archaeological evidence (where excavations conducted at the site of Dibon have not uncovered evidence for any Late Bronze city walls).132 Turning now to the second collection of scenes from Luxor (West Side), we cannot help but notice further significant changes in the depictions in this part of the temple.133 First, Egyptian and auxiliary troops are present in some of these scenes, and more importantly, they actively participate alongside the king in the assault. Second, the inhabitants in at least a couple of the cities represented have not yet decided to surrender but are depicted resisting the Egyptian attack. Again, these are features that we have not seen since our earliest images and as such, these scenes are considerably more informative with respect to ascertaining Egyptian assault tactics. Another notable change is with the terminology employed. Instead of the utilisation of the term ḫf, both the towns of Dapur and Hn are rather said to have been ‘carried off’ (i҆ni҆),134 whereas the older term (ḥꜣḳ) is used to describe the assault against the towns of Mutir and Satuna.135 With the Dapur scene (which is one of two dealing with this assault), Sherden soldiers armed with their characteristic round shields, horned helmets and swords appear to be leading the assault.136 Their position does appear to be precarious given that they are exposed to enemy fire. Just to their right, however, additional support is provided by a formation of four Egyptian heavy infantry armed with staves and shields. The defenders of the city respond to the assault by throwing stones as well as spears at the attackers (albeit generally at the Sherden troops and not the Egyptians). The assault against the city of Hn[ ] is likewise of interest.137 Sherden soldiers once again lead the assault whereas Egyptian soldiers, while present on the battlefield, are removed from the immediate action. Other Egyptian soldiers lead captives away from the city. The city’s

131 132 133 134 135 136 137

See, for example, the comments of Kitchen (1964) 51–55. Naʾaman (2006) 65. Wreszinski (1935) Pls. 65–78. KRI II 173.1 and KRI II 170.15 respectively. KRI II 176.8 and KRI II 176.5 respectively. Wreszinski (1935) Pl. 78. Wreszinski (1935) Pl. 72.

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defenders appear not to be putting up as much resistance as with the previous scene but a number of them are still throwing rocks at the (Sherden) attackers. The depiction of Ramesses II’s assault on Mutir contains further unique elements.138 The enemy has for the most part been decimated, although a formation of four spearmen, one of which looks back at the carnage, retains some order as they retreat. Ahead of them, an Asiatic attempts to save his cattle. Participating in the assault are some of the king’s sons. One of which pulls an Asiatic out of one of the gates while another leads some prisoners away. What is of most interest, however, is that Egyptian troops are depicted as having already penetrated the city and are engaging in hand-to-hand combat with the defenders on the walls. This is the first time we see attacking troops who have breached the perimeter. The assault on the city of Satuna is yet another impressive scene.139 The king, in chariot, charges a mass of enemy infantry. He is assisted in the attack by some of his sons (riding in chariots) with light and heavy infantry following in formation. The city itself has not yet been attacked and its defenders are responding with bow and arrow. In the meantime, other princes are binding captives and leading them away. Included in this scene is a memorable image of a hapless individual, who having fled the city to escape the Egyptian army, ran afoul of a wild bear.140 The final major group of subjugated foreign cities dated to the reign of Ramesses II is found in the Ramesseum.141 Included is a rather unique collection of eighteen captured or surrendered towns (three have definitely been lost although the original number could have been 36, or even as high as 54).142 The towns (dmi҆) were apparently captured (ḫf ) during the course of Ramesses II’s Year 8 military campaign.143 Unfortunately, we only see the aftermath with the king’s sons leading prisoners away from each defeated city.144 Although we are not provided with any intimate tactical details, this collection is important to us as like the brief mention found in the biography of Minmose, it may serve as an indication as to the number of cities that could be ‘assaulted’ during just one campaign. Indeed, if Kitchen’s figure of 54 is accepted then this would tend to indicate a high degree of assault warfare proficiency where cities were able 138 139 140 141 142 143 144

Wreszinski (1935) Pl. 71. Wreszinski (1935) Pl. 67. Wreszinski (1935) Pls. 66–67. Wreszinski (1935) Pls. 90–91. Kitchen (1999) 55–56. For full references, see Hasel (1998) 40–42. This fact would tend to indicate these were cities that were attacked and not just ones the army passed through.

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to be assaulted and captured within a short space of time. Naturally of course, certain cities may have only put up token resistance (or none at all) but the number claimed attacked, even if we accept the lower figure of eighteen, is still impressive. As well as the above collection, one additional scene depicts the king’s assault against the city of Dapur.145 This is our second such image of this battle, with the first found at Luxor, and it is also one of the more spectacular assault images of this period.146 Unlike with the Luxor image, Egyptian soldiers, or rather the king’s sons, lead what again appears to be a two-pronged assault. One prince makes use of a ladder in his attack and it is the first time we see this particular piece of siege equipment used in Dynasty XIX.147 The second part of the assault is also being conducted by the princes. Four of them are each protected by their own personal mantelet,148 while two others engage in hand-to-hand combat with the enemy troops. The city appears also to have suffered a heavy arrow bombardment, as is to be expected. The standard, especially, has been hit four times,149 which we also see in the Luxor scene of this same assault.150 The positioning of the four arrows has, however, changed, reflecting the fact that we are now viewing the battle from a different vantage point. Essentially what we have here is the same city assault depicted from presumably opposite sides of the city. The two representations of Dapur do complement each other and as such provide us with a wealth of detail as to how the Egyptians may have conducted their city assaults. It is possible the attack commenced with an assault against one side of the city, as presented in the Luxor temple.151 The purpose of this assault was to act as a diversion, as it appears that no serious attempt was made to breach or scale the walls at this stage. Rather, the goal was merely to force the enemy defenders to concentrate in this part of the city to fight off the attackers. It is notable that the troops used for this dangerous task were for-

145 146

147 148

149 150 151

Wreszinski (1935) Pls. 107–109. Admittedly, it has not been established with absolute certainty that these two images refer to the same battle, see Hasel (1998) 42–43. Hasel notes that the term ḫf is used to describe the assault here, where in the Luxor image i҆ni҆ is employed. Wreszinski (1935) Pl. 109. It has been suggested that these mantelets originally contained battering ram crews (and thus were not too dissimilar to the Beni Hasan siege weapons) but were replaced with the princes, Schulman (1964) 17. Alternatively, Hoffmeier (1977) 18 believed that these shelters may in fact be tents. Wreszinski (1935) Pl. 78. Wreszinski (1935) Pls. 107–109. Wreszinski (1935) Pl. 78.

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eign Sherden soldiers.152 While this diversionary attack was taking place, the real assault begins on the other side.153 The king, we may hypothesise, mounts a chariot allowing him to quickly reach the other side of the city in order to be present for this part of the battle. The Egyptians, by engaging in this act of subterfuge, seem to have caught a number of enemy soldiers and civilians out in the open and as a result, the enemy ranks have been effectively decimated. Some of the luckier ones, however, have reached the walls of the city and are being pulled to safety by their colleagues.154 With the enemy garrison clearly distracted, the defenders are for the most part firing not at the Egyptians but at the auxiliaries who are attacking on the other side, the real assault is able to take place and this as we have seen above is conducted primarily by the Egyptians. The assaulting force clearly had the initiative here as they could launch diversionary attacks anywhere along the perimeter forcing the defending garrison to spread its forces. Once this was achieved, the attackers could then strike with their main force against any vulnerable point.155 Another factor that sets the Ramesseum and Luxor Dapur scenes apart from the other images is the accompanying text which is more descriptive than usual.156 The Ramesseum record which is considerably longer than its Luxor counterpart informs us that Ramesses II caused the Hittites to abandon their towns, their cities were plundered and their places turned into red mounds.157 Next, both records provide further intimate details of the assault against the city.158 We are informed that the king personally took part in the assault along with his infantry and chariots. The Egyptian attack appears to have been sustained for two hours before Ramesses II decided to temporarily retire in order to don his coat-of-mail or body armour.159 Following this, the assault recommenced. One again this would seem to indicate a preference for quick assaults accompanied by a missile bombardment.

152 153 154 155

156 157 158 159

Sherden soldiers also lead the assault on the city of Hn[ ], and one may wonder whether another image of that assault was found at the Ramesseum depicting a similar ploy. Wreszinski (1935) Pl. 109. Wreszinski (1935) Pl. 109. The use of such stratagems is by no means unheard of in ancient warfare. Abraham Malamat (1979) 49–50 has argued quite convincingly that the early Israelites employed a similar ‘Indirect Approach’ in their conquest of Canaan. See also Malamat (1983), 31– 34. See: KRI II 173.2–174.7 and KRI II 172.10–173.1 respectively; and (for both) KRI II 174.10– 175.10. KRI II 173.14. KRI II 174.10–175.10. KRI II 175.4–9.

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Other temples with assault warfare scenes include Abu Simbel and Abydos. In the one and only scene from Abu Simbel, the king in a chariot accompanied by three of his sons (also in chariots) attacks an unnamed city.160 The city itself has not yet been attacked but one unfortunate Asiatic is seen toppling over the wall having been hit by an arrow presumably fired by the king. The scene is also notable as once again an Asiatic is seen attempting to drive his cattle to safety. The scenes from the Abydos temple unfortunately have suffered considerable damage.161 In one scene, the king on foot attacks a city accompanied by his sons. An open battle may have taken place prior to the assault as three Asiatics lay dying at the base of the city having been hit by arrows. Other Asiatics have been captured and bound. As for the garrison, one of their number has been hit twice and is toppling over the wall.162 The second scene from the pylon terrace is mostly lost, but we can still make out what may be an open battle. At least two Asiatics have been hit by arrows.163 By the reign of Merenptah (c. 1213–1203BC), Egypt had effectively moved over to the strategic defensive and this is accompanied by a sharp drop in visual representations of city assaults. In the course of Merenptah’s one and only Asiatic field campaign, he attacked the cities of Ashkelon, Gezer, and Yenoam. Only in the Ashkelon scene do we actually see a full assault in progress.164 The king, in chariot and accompanied by his soldiers, engages an enemy force consisting of chariots and infantry outside the city. Some of the troops engage the enemy in hand-to-hand combat while at the same time, two assault ladders have been placed against the walls of the city. A soldier scales one of these armed with a dagger and with his shield strapped to his back. A second soldier, also with shield strapped to back, appears to be moving into position in order to attempt to breach one of the gates of the city. Once again, we find this two-pronged assault used. While Ashkelon itself has not yet fallen, the accompanying text confirms an Egyptian victory noting that this disloyal town was carried off. The assault against the city of Gezer, on the other hand, appears to be all but over.165 There is no indication of an open battle and nor is the city attempting to resist. In fact, captives are already being led away. In the third 160 161 162 163 164

165

Wreszinski (1935) Pl. 183. Ghazouli (1964) 99–186. Wreszinski (1935) Pl. 25b. Ghazouli (1964) Pls. XXVIIA and XXVIIB. This city was of particular importance for any land campaigning into Asia as it was located just 20 km (one day’s comfortable march) north of Gaza along the Via Maris (Morris [2005] 379). Gezer was another important location as it served as a link between the coastal areas and the hill country (Morris [2005] 39–40).

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scene, the assault against Yenoam, an open battle has taken place as the enemy are once again in full retreat. The attack on the city itself, however, has not yet commenced. While the Dynasty XIX period is particularly rich in pictorial representations of city assaults, the written records are less substantial. One of the more interesting accounts, nonetheless, is dated to the reign of Sety I. During his first campaign in Asia, the Egyptian king was forced to deal with the threat posed by the ruler of Hammath.166 This individual had gathered together a large force and had formed an alliance with the city of Pahil. He had already captured the important Egyptian controlled town of Beth Shan and together with his new ally was laying siege to another Egyptian protectorate: Rehob. By this stage in its development, the Egyptian army was a professional military force with distinct chariot, heavy infantry, and light infantry arms. It was also organised into units or divisions which could function independently from each other. So in order to deal with this particular threat, Sety I decided to attack three separate targets simultaneously with the three divisions (named after three of the principal Egyptian gods) at his disposal. He dispatched his ‘Amun’ division against Hammath, his ‘Seth’ division against Yenoam, which was also showing signs of resistance, while his ‘Re’ division was sent to liberate Beth Shan.167 The starting point for the Egyptian operation was likely a location east of the city of Megiddo.168 All four affected cities were located in close proximity to each other: from Hammath to Beth Shan the distance was 14.5km; Rehob to Beth Shan 5.6km; and Yenoam to Beth Shan 21 km. The Egyptian divisions to the extreme north and south were thus going to be separated by a total distance of approximately 35.5km. In addition, with the main enemy force currently besieging Rehob, the king’s division at Hammath would have been isolated from the rest of the army. Nevertheless, we are informed that the Egyptians were successful and all three targets were captured in a single day.169 It is not known if there was a subsequent operation against Pahil. 166 167 168 169

KRI I 12.10–13. For the difficulties surrounding the early campaigns of Sety I, see Spalinger (2005) 188–202. On the possibility that the king remained with a fourth division ‘Ptah’, see Wells (1995) 155–156. See, however, the study of Agnès Degrève who has Tell esh-Shihab as the starting point for this operation (Degrève [2006] 59–59 and 63). Admittedly, the motif of a ‘true sovereign (who) could win his war in a day’ is well established (Stuart [1976] 159–164). Nonetheless, there is no reason to doubt the veracity of Sety’s account. The distances involved in this operation were not excessive, and the objectives could have been achieved within a single day.

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Other references to city assaults during the reign of Sety I are few in number and somewhat vague. The accompanying texts to the Karnak inscriptions, for example, make reference to the king (being) like fire when he destroys (sksk) Hittite towns.170 That same king is also mentioned as one ‘who breaches (sd) the wall(s) in rebellious foreign lands’.171 Likewise, in the Qasr Ibrim stela, Sety I is said to have devastated the orchards in Retenu and destroyed (sksk) their cities.172 Such generic statements continue into the reign of Ramesses II. Along with the accompanying inscriptions to his battle images, as noted above, one additional remark, not specifically related to the images, refers to the king as one who breaches walls.173 Textual references to city assaults during the reign of Merenptah are likewise minimal. The Israel Stela makes only brief reference to the three cities attacked by that king (which are represented in the Karnak reliefs) noting that Yenoam was ‘reduced to nonexistence’ (tm),174 Ashkelon was ‘carried off’ (i҆ni҆),175 and Gezer has been ‘seized’ (mḥ).176 With respect to the last city, the Amada inscription also informs us that Merenptah was the ‘plunderer’ (ḫf ) of Gezer.177 Despite the limitations of the visual evidence, in particular the sole or dominating role played by the Egyptian monarch, we are nonetheless provided with considerable information on assault warfare practices during this period. We continue, for example, to see a preference for open battle prior to the actual assault. The utilisation of auxiliary soldiers either to initiate the assault or to act as a diversionary force is especially an added touch of realism. The images also make it clear that cities were often subjected to heavy arrow bombardment in an attempt to soften them up prior to the commencement of the assault. As 170

171 172 173 174 175 176 177

KRI I 18.14. As Hasel (1998) 58 noted, it is unlikely that actual fire itself was used to destroy these towns, but rather the Egyptian king is merely perceived as being like fire. Nonetheless, it is clear the term sksk was intended to indicate an attack that was more severe and destructive than that indicated by either ḥꜣḳ or ḫf, see, for instance, the discussion in Hoffmeier (1989) 183. The term was also used to describe the destruction of crops and even entire regions, Hasel (1998) 57–59. Hasel (1998) 59 further noted that its relatively infrequent use could be interpreted as an indication that the Egyptians only rarely resorted to such wholesale destruction. KRI I 7.11 and Hasel (1998) 60. KRI I 99.3. KRI II 166.7. The passage accompanies the Dapur assault scene but likely does not refer to the method used by the Egyptians to capture the city (Hasel [1998] 60). KRI I 19.5–7. KRI II 166.2. KRI IV 19.5 and Hasel (1998) 35. KRI IV 33.14 and Hasel (1998) 41 and 43–44.

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for penetrating the walls themselves, the use of ladders combined with foot soldiers targeting the fortress or city doors with hand held weapons feature prominently.

5

Dynasty XX (c. 1186–1069BC)

Egypt remained on the strategic defensive into Dynasty XX which means our evidence for city assaults remains limited. What pictorial evidence we do have comes predominantly from the Medinet Habu mortuary temple of Ramesses III (c. 1184–1153BC). Recorded here are a couple of scenes which rank among the best preserved examples of Egyptian assault tactics against fortified locations. Ironically, the historical validity of these scenes has been called into doubt.178 In the scene depicting the king’s (fictional) assault against Tunip, we find virtually every key assault warfare technique.179 To begin with, there is the full scale open battle (of which considerable space is devoted) against enemy chariots and infantry. The Egyptian king, in chariot, does not fight alone but leads his own force of chariots and heavy infantry into battle. While other Egyptians are engaged in graphic hand-to-hand combat, it is the assault on the city itself that is of most interest. The initial, diversionary, attack may have been conducted by Sherden warriors who once again are in close proximity to the city but do not assault it directly. It is the Egyptian regular troops who, having crossed the (dry?) moat, lead the two-pronged assault. The infantry have erected two ladders against the walls and each is being scaled by two soldiers (with shields on their backs).180 Some Egyptian soldiers have already reached the top of the outer wall, and armed with sickle-shaped swords and shields (one soldier still has his strapped to his back) are engaged in hand-to-hand combat with the garrison, which is not often depicted. While this takes place, the second part of the attack commences with three Egyptian soldiers attempting to breach the main gate with their axes. With their shields tied to their backs, they are able to wield their weapons with both hands. Further support for the attack is provided by a batch of light infantry who fire off arrows from the

178

179 180

For the reliefs in question, see Nelson et al. (1932) = Medinet Habu II Pls. 87–90 and 94– 95. For the influence of Ramesses II’s Ramesseum on the layout and content of Medinet Habu temple, see Nims (1976) 169–175. The trustworthiness of the Medinet Habu scenes has been the subject of much debate, see Morris (2005) 698–707. Some of the more notable critics include Lesko (1980) 83–86. Medinet Habu II Pls. 88–89. Medinet Habu II Pls. 88–89.

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other side of the moat. Finally, other troops in close vicinity are engaging in what appears to be some logistical destruction by cutting down trees nearby.181 While there still remains the problem of historicity with respect to this and the other Ramesses III assault images, this ‘kitchen sink’ approach nonetheless makes for excellent commentary. We are provided with what amounts to a vivid display of multiple assault methods, which was without doubt a reflection of the available methods at this time. The next scene of interest depicts the assault against two cities (the identity of the top one is unknown whereas the one below was located in the land of Arzawa).182 Unfortunately, this scene adheres more to the format of the less informative earlier Ramesses II images but with some subtle points of note. The king once again leads his army, consisting solely of infantry, against the two targets. The enemy defenders have suffered from heavy arrow bombardment and many fall in what can best be described as an almost macabre waterfall from the two cities. Some type of open battle may have taken place considering that a number of enemy soldiers have fallen under the king’s chariot. The bottom city has not yet been directly attacked but the unidentified (top) one has. One of the gates has been breached, and Egyptian soldiers armed with staves (but without shields) are seen in combat on the top of the outer enclosure.183 In his assault against the city in Amurru, Ramesses III is accompanied by a formation of heavy infantry but the latter do not take part in the fighting.184 There is, in addition, no indication of an open battle having taken place (although the king does stand on two defeated foes), and nor do we see Egyptian soldiers commencing the assault on the city itself. What we do find, on the other hand, are Sherden auxiliaries at the base of the city (reluctantly) leading the assault.185 The defending garrison has suffered from an arrow bombardment and two of the defenders topple to the ground. In addition, the standard of the city has, in the fashion of Ramesses II, been pieced by two Egyptian arrows. Despite this, the garrison is armed to the teeth with spears and are actively resisting the Egyptian attack.

181 182 183 184 185

Schulman (1964) 18. Medinet Habu II Pl. 87. Medinet Habu II Pl. 87. They do in fact appear to be in the process of slaughtering the defenceless inhabitants. Medinet Habu II Pls. 94–95. Medinet Habu II Pls. 94–95. They are ‘urged on’ by the three stick-wielding princes behind them. This scene is quite similar to the Dapur image of Ramesses II as again they appear to be employed in a diversionary role. Alternatively, is it possible these soldiers are being used as ‘enemy fodder’?

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A final image, an assault against an unknown Asiatic city, is the least informative of the series. Ramesses III is accompanied by two formations of Egyptian infantry although neither participates in the fighting. It is likely that an open battle took place as a number of dead and dying enemy infantry surround the king. The Egyptians have not yet commenced their assault on the city itself but some of the garrison have succumbed to arrows. As with Dynasty XIX, textual references to city assaults during Dynasty XX are not as illuminating. Ramesses III, for example, uses the term fḫ to describe attacks against enemy cities (ni҆wt).186 This is noted in his account of the Year 8 Sea Peoples invasion, and in his actions against the Syrian cities.187 Ramesses III is also noted to have destroyed (sksk) their people and their towns (dmi҆).188 The term fḫ is also used to describe the actions of the Meshwesh during the Year 11 Libyan war against the Tehenu, ‘devastated (kfꜥ) and desolated ( fḫ) were their towns (ni҆wt)’.189 It is somewhat fitting to end our discussion with this particular king. Not so much due to the fact that Egypt’s strategic and domestic situation progressively worsens throughout the remainder of this dynasty, but simply based on the impressive visual representation of his assault against the city of Tunip. As mentioned above, this depiction, while fictional, encapsulates almost every key tactical element and visual motif we have come across over the course of this investigation. We are in effect treated to a visually grandiose summary of Egyptian assault warfare at its finest.

6

Conclusions

From this overview of the pictorial and textual accounts of Egyptian assault warfare we are now in a position to make some general comments regarding tactics. Prior to the actual assault it was not uncommon for the targeted city or fortress to attempt to meet the attacking Egyptians in open battle. This is seen, for example, in the Inty Dynasty VI battle scene, the Deir el-Bahri fragments, and in the images found in the tombs at Beni Hasan. There are indications that an open battle also took place during Tutankhamun’s assault while a significant number of Dynasty XIX assault scenes also depict the Egyptians engaged in battle with some type of defending army. Sety I, for example, prior to attack186 187 188 189

Hasel (1998) 34. KRI V 42.8; and KRI V 79.5. KRI V 85.1. KRI V 60.7. See also the comments of Hasel (1998) 34.

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ing Yenoam and Qadesh first had to defeat enemy armies consisting of chariots and infantry. Ramesses II also fought a number of such battles with some of the better illustrated being those taking place outside the cities of Mutir, Satuna, and Dapur. Of the twenty-two city assault scenes belonging to Ramesses II that we know of (treating scenes with multiple cities as one, and excluding the Qadesh reliefs which we have not discussed here), at least fourteen show some indication that an open battle took place. His successor, Merenptah engaged in an open battle outside Ashkelon and Yenoam but not Gezer. Of the five assault scenes of Ramesses III, open battle certainly takes place in the Tunip scene and possibly in some of the others. A common theme that runs through the open battle scenes includes the important role played by archers who could devastate the enemy defenders at a distance. The textual records likewise record open battles taking place prior to the assault on the city. Kamose and Ahmose both engaged in battles against the Hyksos outside Avaris (although only the latter was successful in capturing this city).190 Thutmose III likewise engaged an enemy force in combat prior to attacking Megiddo.191 That the open battle was a common occurrence in these scenes should come as no surprise. It was arguably the most important part of the assault as both sides had an equal interest in achieving a victory at this stage. From the attacker’s perspective, if the enemy could be defeated decisively on the field, this opened the way for an immediate attack on the city or fortress with the possibility that it could be taken with little or no resistance being offered. For the Egyptians, this was their preferred way of capturing a city. This was, for example, clearly the intention of Thutmose III following his victory over the defending enemy force outside the city of Megiddo. Unfortunately, instead of an immediate assault, the army plundered the enemy camp. As a result, the opportunity was lost and the city had to be placed under a siege that lasted seven months. For the defender, attempting to meet the attacking force in open battle was likewise important, but for different reasons. If the attackers could be successfully repulsed at this early stage, then the city and its immediate environs would be spared the damage that would result from a direct attack. Of particular concern of course was damage inflicted on the logistical infrastructure of the city and its environs. A beleaguered fortress or city may of course have been willing to suffer the effects of any logistical damage especially if they were unable or unwilling to meet their attackers in battle. Instead,

190 191

Urk IV 3.2–5.2. Urk IV 657.2–660.1.

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their faith would be placed in the physical defences, in the competence of the defending garrison, and on the hope of divine intervention. Once the enemy forces had been defeated in open battle (if one took place), the assault on the city or fortress itself could begin. Ideally, this would occur as quickly as possible following the aftermath of the battle as any delay would allow time for the defenders to regroup and reorganise themselves. An immediate attack could result in a relatively easy victory without the need for a drawn out and potentially costly siege. It is quite clear that this was the preference of the Egyptians. This is emphasised, artistically, by the fact that the open battle and city assault are often depicted in the same scene (in some cases, two cities are shown). In addition, the texts and the images often refer to luckless individuals (soldiers and civilians) being caught out in the open along with their cattle. Some are fortunate enough to be pulled to safety by their colleagues within. All of this points to an immediate and fast assault. The attack on the city itself is often initiated, and then accompanied, by an arrow bombardment. Indeed, archers both Nubian and Egyptian, as well as playing an important part in the open battle phase, were crucial for their ability to target the defending garrison and provide covering fire for the attacking troops. Their presence on the battlefield is seen in our earliest images and continues through to those of Ramesses III. In many of the Dynasty XIX assault images, admittedly, we only find the king conducting the assault whereas the rest of the army (if present) remains in the background. These images are still notable in that an arrow bombardment against the city has still taken place and we witness the numerous victims toppling over the walls having been hit by arrows. The continued presence of archers on the battlefield testifies to their importance in city assaults. Clearly they were a vital element in the attack. While covering fire is being provided by the archers (or the king), the assault proper against the city and fortress was able to commence. Although the cities as seen in the Egyptian representations are not accurate depictions, they do highlight the important defensive features that needed to be overcome which included an outer, and sometimes inner, enclosure wall, moats, ramparts, and city gates. It appears that the preferred method of attack was a direct assault against the walls of the city or fortress. The most commonly employed method was scaling with the use of ladders, although in our earlier scenes, mantelets armed with long battering poles may have been used to create hand and foot-holds. Only on one occasion do we ever see a siege tower. The next most common method was breaching, utilising battering poles and other personal hand weaponry. The former tended to be used against walls but later they were more often than not employed against the gates. Battering poles are seen in our earlier images, but the use of hand weaponry is more often noted. It appears

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that the axe was the personal weapon of choice when attacking a fortress. Of particular interest, however, are a select number of scenes where the two techniques of scaling and breaching are used in conjunction. This double attack is seen in the assaults from the tombs of Inty and Khaemhesy, and the New Kingdom images of Dapur, Ashkelon, and Tunip. A third assault method used by the Egyptians, as seen in both the textual accounts and images, involved trickery. Both the capture of the city of Dapur (as argued above) and Joppa (by General Djehuty) involved some element of deceit. What this indicates is that the Egyptians clearly possessed an awareness of the fact that cities could be captured without reliance on a direct frontal assault. That we possess only a few references to its utilisation is probably more of a testament to the difficulty in successfully pulling off such a coup. Finally, another common occurrence in these scenes is the presence of auxiliaries. While Nubian archers performed a valuable service of providing covering fire, Sherden infantry, on the other hand, often appear to be used for the inherently more dangerous task of attracting enemy fire by leading the assault, although, their heavier armament would have afforded them some protection. True instances of siege warfare, on the other hand, where the city is completely surrounded and invested for an undetermined period of time are rare. Of the two instances that we know of, one is problematic (Sharuhen), while the other (Megiddo) definitely qualifies as such. It is possible that Ramesses II may have been contemplating a siege when he advanced against the city of Qadesh in his fifth year campaign. His first division had succeeded in reaching the city.192 Due to the layout of the land, Qadesh was surrounded by the Orontes to the east and a minor tributary to the north and west, it was impractical to use the siege techniques which were used at Megiddo. Rather, a camp was constructed which would have effectively isolated the city from outside support. The fortified camp set up by the Egyptians was itself only a simple construction consisting of nothing more than shields positioned on all four sides acting as a rudimentary defensive wall. It was nevertheless an effective defence, as it enabled Ramesses II and his soldiers to effectively repel a Hittite chariot attack, and while the enemy did succeed in breaching part of the fortifications the camp was not overrun. The lack of evidence for the use of sieges should not be seen as a reflection of lost evidence but rather that it was not a desired option. Sieges are inherently messy affairs and given the Egyptian pertinacity for low cost, low attrition (but high gain) warfare, it should come as no surprise that sieges do not fig-

192

Wreszinski (1935) Pls. 81–82, 92–95 and 169–178.

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ure greatly in their military operations. As for their being able to negate the importance of a particular fortress or city through either bypassing it or attacking more vulnerable locations, we are on firmer ground. At a wider, operational, level it is clear that the Egyptians possessed the ability to successfully neutralise potentially problematic targets without attacking them directly. As for the remaining two methods of sapping and intimidation, there is no real evidence that either was relied upon at this stage. The closest evidence we have for sapping is the Inty scene but this is highly dubious. While the Egyptians were of course technically proficient in this area, geographical and, more importantly, time considerations would not have made sapping a desirable option. Overt instances where the Egyptians were able to rely on intimidation alone to force a surrender are likewise unknown. Naturally this was probably a reflection of the fact that such offers were possibly incompatible with the Egyptian mindset. Cities either surrendered outright and if they did not, they were attacked and defeated. There was in the Egyptian view of things no room (nor need) for negotiation. How much of this was carried through to the real world may never be known. Clear instances of the use of intimidation in the later periods are quite evident. In the Dynasty XXV victory stela of Piye, there are references to the king using intimidation to successfully capture cities during his northward advance. In one example, Piye gave the city of PerSekhemkhperre just one hour to decide whether or not to resist. Rather than suffer the consequences that would result from a defeat (generally death), the city surrendered without a fight and not a single inhabitant was slain. He then offered the city of Mer-Atum a similar blunt choice: surrender and live; or fight and die. This city too surrendered without a fight. This appeared to have been an effective tactic, as the next city encountered (Itjtawy) surrendered immediately upon arrival of Piye’s army. Finally, the king citing these previous cases as testament to the integrity of his word attempted to persuade Memphis to also yield without resisting. In this case, however, he was unsuccessful and as a result a bloody assault followed.193 The possibility that certain Asiatic cities did not even possess walls could explain why some pieces of Egyptian siege equipment fail to reappear during the New Kingdom. Recent archaeological excavations have shown in the case of Megiddo at least, that this city may not have possessed walls at the time of Thutmose III’s famous attack, and this may have been the case with a number of other Asiatic cities as well.194 We never again see Inyotef’s unwieldy siege tower

193 194

Lichtheim (1980) 74–75. Gonen (1987) 97 and Kempinski (1992) 137–138.

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used after its first and only appearance during Dynasty XI and nor do we ever see the (theoretically possible) siege ramp employed. Likewise, the wheeled ladder from Khaemhesy’s tomb is not found in any of the extant battle images, which is probably a positive thing. A built-up urban centre was, nonetheless, still a formidable target for any invading force especially if it dominated a key geographical point.195 Following an open battle, street-to-street combat would have been just as deadly for the ancients as it remains today for a modern military force. The assault equipment we do see represented (mainly ladders) could have been used to gain access to roof tops and other high points whereas personal weapons would have been likewise effective in gaining access to individual buildings. The mantelet, without the ‘ram’ component, would have been invaluable here. In the meantime, support fire from archers could have targeted any defenders on the rooftops. Urban combat has never been a desirable option and the reluctance on the part of the attacking troops to enter into a hostile city, especially one which was manned by a considerable body of enemy troops, is understandable. In summary, what is of particular interest with the images and textual descriptions of Egyptian assault warfare is their remarkable sense of continuity. With the images alone, one may argue this continuity was a reflection of a combination of artistic conventions and limitations. Alternatively, one could see this as clear evidence of stagnation in terms of military development. Yet the reality was that the available options to capture a city or fortress were in fact limited. It is probable that the Egyptians had already ascertained from an early period the most viable ways in which a fortified location could be assaulted and what followed were refinements and minor improvements which are not overtly evident in the images and textual accounts. What is clear, nonetheless, is that we cannot but note a preference for victory to be achieved as quickly as possible. In this respect, the open battle followed by immediate attack on the city or fortress as a preferred tactic was to become established doctrine. The favoured assault methods of scaling, battering, and trickery or subterfuge (or some combination of the three), likewise point to the desire for a quick victory. These three methods were potentially the quickest way of overcoming a fortified target. Egyptian assault warfare tactics thus served as a clear reflection of their military capabilities as a whole. The desire for quick and cheap victories, something that is especially evident in the New Kingdom, where minimal expenditure of personnel and resources was also reflected in their

195

The walls of the outer layer of buildings on the perimeter of the tell would have provided some form of protection, Baumgarten (1992) 145 n. 15.

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bare bones imperial policy of Dynasty XVIII. As their proficiency increased at the operational level, we see greater use of more indirect methods. In other words, Egyptian assault tactics clearly feature aspects of what we would consider ‘operational art’.

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Gaballa, G.A. (1969) ‘Minor War Scenes of Ramesses II at Karnak’, JEA 55: 82–88. Gaballa, G.A. (1976) Narrative in Egyptian Art. Mainz am Rhein. Gardiner, A.H., (1964) Egyptian Hieratic Texts. Hildesheim. Gee, J. (2004) ‘Overlooked Evidence for Sesostris III’s Foreign Policy’, JARCE 41: 23– 31. Ghazouli, E.B. (1964) ‘The Palace and Magazines Attached to the Temple of Sety I at Abydos and the Facade of this Temple’, ASAE 58: 99–186. Gilbert, G. (2004) Weapons, Warriors and Warfare in Early Egypt. Oxford. Goedicke, H. (1991) ‘Egyptian Military Actions in “Asia” in the Middle Kingdom’, REgypt 42: 89–94. Goedicke, H. (1998) ‘Ankhtyfy’s Fights,’ CdE 73: 29–41. Goedicke, H. (2000) The Battle of Megiddo. Baltimore. Gonen, R. (1987) ‘Megiddo in the Late Bronze Age—Another Reassessment’, Levant 10: 83–100. Grajetzki, W. (2009) Court Officials of the Egyptian Middle Kingdom. London. Grapow, H. (1949) Studien zu den Annalen Thutmosis des Dritten und zu ihnen verwandten Historischen Berichten des Neuen Reiches. Berlin. Habachi, L. (1972) The Second Stela of Kamose and His Struggle Against the Hyksos Ruler and His Capital. Glückstadt. Hasel, M. (1998) Domination and Resistance: Egyptian Military Activity in the Southern Levant, ca. 1300–1185B.C. Leiden. Hasel, M. (2006) Military Practice and Polemic: Israel’s Laws of Warfare in Near Eastern Perspective. Berrien Springs. Heinz, S. (2001) Die Feldzugsdarstellungen des Neuen Reiches. Eine Bildanalyse. Vienna. Helck, W. (1955–1958) Urkunden der 18. Dynastie. Urkunden des ägyptischen Altertums IV. Berlin. Helck, W. (1971) Die Beziehungen Ägyptens zu Vorderasien im 3. und 2. Jahrtausend v. Chr.² Wiesbaden. Hendrickx, S., Friedman, R.F., Cialowicz, K.M., and Chlodnicki, M. (eds.) (2004) Egypt at its Origins. Studies in Memory of Barbara Adams. (Proceedings of the International Conference ‘Origin of the State. Predynastic and Early Dynastic Egypt’, Krakow, 28th August–1st September 2002). Leuven. Hoffmeier, J. (1977) ‘Tents in Egypt and the Ancient Near East’, Journal of the Society of the Study of Egyptian Antiquities 7: 13–28. Hoffmeier, J. (1989) ‘Reconsidering Egypt’s Part in the Termination of the Middle Bronze Age in Palestine’, Levant 21: 181–193. Hoffmeier, J. (2004) ‘Tell el-Borg on Egypt’s Eastern Frontier: A Preliminary Report on the 2002 and 2004 Seasons’, JARCE 41: 85–111. Jablonsky, D. (1987) ‘Strategy and the Operational Level of War: Part 1’, Parameters 17: 67–76.

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Johnson, W.R. (1992) ‘An Asiatic Battle Scene of Tutankhamun from Thebes: A Late Amarna Antecedent of the Ramesside Battle-Narrative Tradition’. PhD dissertation, University of Chicago. Kempinski, A. (1992) ‘Middle and Late Bronze Age Fortifications’, in Kempinski and Reich (1992) 127–142. Kiszely, J. (2005) ‘Thinking about the Operational Level’, Royal United Services Institute 150.6: 38–43. Kitchen, K.A. (1964) ‘Some New Light on the Asiatic Wars of Ramesses II’, JEA 50: 47– 70. Kitchen, K.A. (1982–1990) Ramesside Inscriptions: Historical and Bibliographical I–VIII. Oxford. Kitchen, K.A. (1999) Ramesside Inscriptions. Translated & Annotated: Notes and Comments II. Oxford. Lesko, L.H. (1980) ‘The Wars of Ramses III’, Serapis: The American Journal of Egyptology 6: 83–86. Lichtheim, M. (1980) Ancient Egyptian Literature Volume III: The Late Period. Berkeley. Linebarger, P. (1954) Psychological Warfare. Washington, D.C. Luttwak, E. (1980/1) ‘The Operational Level of War’, International Security 5.3: 61–79. Malamat, A. (1979) ‘Israelite Conduct of War in the Conquest of Canaan’, in Cross (1979) 44–54. Malamat, A. (1983) ‘How Inferior Israelite Forces Conquered Fortified Canaanite Cities’, Biblical Archaeology Review 8: 25–35. Marcus, E.S. (2007) ‘Amenemhet II and the Sea: Maritime Aspects of the Mit Rahina (Memphis) Inscription’, Ägypten und Levante 17: 137–190. May, T. (2007) The Mongol Art of War. Barnsley. Morris, E. (2005) The Architecture of Imperialism: Military Bases and the Evolution of Foreign Policy in Egypt’s New Kingdom. Leiden. Naʾaman, N. (2006) ‘Did Ramesses II Wage Campaign against the Land of Moab?’ Göttinger Miszellen 209: 63–69. Naville, E., Hall, H., and Ayrton, E. (1907) The XIth Dynasty Temple Deir el-Bahari I. London. Nelson, H. (1913) The Battle of Megiddo. Chicago. Nelson, H., et al. (1932) The Epigraphic Survey, Medinet Habu II, Later Historical Records of Ramses III. Chicago. Nelson, H., et al. (1986) The Epigraphic Survey, Reliefs and Inscriptions at Karnak IV, The Battle Reliefs of King Sety I. Chicago. Newberry, P.E. (1893a) Beni Hasan I. London. Newberry, P.E. (1893b) Beni Hasan II. London. Noth, M. (1943) ‘Die Annalen Thutmoses III. als Geschichtsquelle’, ZPalV 66: 156– 174.

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Obsomer, C. (1993) ‘La date de Nésou-Montou (Louvre C1)’, REgypt 44: 103–140. Oren, E. (1997) ‘The ‘Kingdom of Sharuhen’ and the Hyksos Kingdom’, in Oren (1997) 253–283. Peet, T.E., (1925) ‘The Legend of the Capture of Joppa and the Story of the Foredoomed Prince. Being a Translation of the Verso of Papyrus Harris 500’, JEA 11: 225–341. Rainey, A. (1981) ‘The Military Camp Ground at Taanach by the Waters of Megiddo’, Eretz Israel: Archaeological, Historical and Geographical Studies 15: 61–66. Redford, D. (1979) ‘The Historical Retrospective at the Beginning of Thutmose III’s Annals’, in Gorg and Pusch (1979) 338–342. Redford, D. (1997) ‘Textual Sources for the Hyksos Period’, in Oren (1997) 1–44. Redford, D. (2003) The Wars in Syria and Palestine of Thutmose III. Leiden. Schenkel, W. (1965) Memphis Herakleopolis Theban: Die Epigraphischen Zeugnisse der 7.–11. Dynastie Ägyptens. Wiesbaden. Schulman, A. (1964) ‘Siege Warfare in Pharaonic Egypt’, Natural History 73: 13–21. Schulman, A. (1982) ‘The Battle Scenes of the Middle Kingdom’, Journal of the Society of the Study of Egyptian Antiquities 12: 165–183. Schulz, R. (2002) ‘Der Sturm auf die Festung: Gedanken zu einigen Aspekten des Kampfbildes im Alten Ägypten vor dem Neuen Reich’, in Bietak and Schwarz (2002) 19–41. Senk, H. (1957) ‘Zur Darstellung der Sturmleiter in der Belagerungsszene des Kaemhesit’, Annales du Service des Antiquités de l’Égypte 54: 207–211. Sethe, K. (1904–1916) Urkunden der 18. Dynastie. Urkunden des ägyptischen Altertums IV. Leipzig. Sethe, K. (1903/1933) Urkunden des Alten Reichs. Erster Band. Urkunden des ägyptischen Altertums I. Leipzig. Sethe, K. (1924) Aegyptische Lesestücke. Leipzig. Shaw, I. (1996) ‘Battle in Ancient Egypt: The Triumph of Horus or the Cutting Edge of the Temple Economy?’ in Lloyd (1996) 239–269. Sliwa, J. (1974) ‘Some Remarks Concerning Victorious Ruler Representations in Egyptian Art’, Forschungen und Berichte 16: 97–117. Smith, W.S. (1965) Interconnections in the Ancient Near East: A Study of the Relationships between the Arts of Egypt, the Aegean, and Western Asia. New Haven. Spalinger, A. (1974) ‘Some Notes on the Battle of Megiddo and Reflections on Egyptian Military Writing’, MDAI(K) 30: 221–229. Spalinger, A. (1977) ‘A Critical Analysis of the “Annals” of Thutmose III (Stücke V–VI)’, JARCE 14: 41–54. Spalinger, A. (1979) ‘Some Additional Remarks on the Battle of Megiddo’, Göttinger Miszellen 33: 47–54. Spalinger, A. (1990) ‘The Rhind Mathematical Papyrus as a Historical Document’, Studien zur Altägyptischen Kultur 17: 295–337.

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chapter 6

The Defence of Egypt in the Fourth Century BC: Forts and Sundry Failures Alan B. Lloyd

Wars and campaigns are won either by depriving the enemy of the will to fight, or by depriving him of the means to do so. In this chapter I am focusing on one aspect of military conflict—defence—and one country and time-frame— Egypt in the fourth century BC. Defence may proceed either by an offensive stance against an actual or potential aggressor, or by holding a static position, or by a combination of the two. Fortifications, whether designed for attack or defence, can play a major role in such a process, but, like all instruments of war, they form part of a series of approaches for bringing force to bear effectively on the enemy and ensuring that the enemy cannot reciprocate effectively in kind. As such, they cannot be treated in isolation, and their success or failure will depend on a complex interplay of factors, many of which are of general validity in the practice of the science of war. Fortresses may, of course, serve a purely or mainly iconic purpose as statements about power, and in that sense they are as much an instrument of politics as of war.1 If, however, we consider them as instruments of war, they must meet obvious criteria. Above all they must be constructed in the best possible defensive and, if feasible, offensive positions, and those positions must always be chosen on the basis of the fundamental principle enunciated by Frederick the Great: ‘He who defends everything defends nothing’ (i.e., there is an absolute necessity to ensure that critical strategic and tactical positions are held effectively, and these must take top priority). If something can safely be lost to the enemy, one must accept that this may happen and not lose too much sleep over it. In the conditions of ancient warfare, and those prevailing in all modern warfare to date, the crucial factors in mounting successful operations of any kind, offensive or defensive, were and are: the quality of leadership; the quality of

1 Whilst the construction of the series of Egyptian forts in Nubia during the Middle Kingdom had a clear military role, their spectacular size is best explained as a statement designed to project an image of invincible power (Lloyd [2014a] 124–125).

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troops; the quality of equipment; the quality of the fixed positions, if relevant; the disposition of troops in the theatre of operations and on the field of battle; the quality of the opposition; the adequacy of logistical support; and the nature of the theatre of operations. In ancient accounts of warfare these factors are not accessible to the modern scholar with equal visibility or emphasis, but I should like to explore the operation and interaction of all these factors by analysing four attacks on Egypt during the fourth century BC, one successful, the others not. These are the Persian invasion in the reign of Artaxerxes II in 374 BC; the Persian invasion by Artaxerxes III in 343/2BC; Perdiccas’ invasion of Egypt in 321 BC; and the invasion of Egypt by Antigonus Monophalmus and Demetrius Poliorcetes in 306BC.

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The Persian Invasion in the Reign of Artaxerxes II (374 BC)

1.1 The Context Egypt presented the Persian Empire with a major problem. The empire’s rapid expansion under Cyrus the Great created in the minds of Egyptian rulers a firm, and entirely justified, conviction that Persia was their next major Asiatic threat, and they took vigorous action to keep it at bay. Under Pharaoh Amasis II (570–526BC) a great anti-Persian defensive alliance was created which included Babylonia, Lydia, Sparta, and, for a short while, Polycrates of Samos. This confederation Cyrus systematically demolished by defeating and assimilating Lydia and Babylonia into his empire, thereby isolating Egypt which was subsequently conquered by Cambyses in 525 BC. As a result of this setback Egypt was fully integrated into the Persian imperial system and reorganised as one of its satrapies (provinces), the Persian emperors formally becoming the next line of Pharaohs as the Twenty-seventh Dynasty. However, Egypt proved a troublesome acquisition, and the history of the dynasty is characterised by a series of revolts, encouraged by equally disaffected components amongst the provinces of the western empire and the ever present and active anti-Persian hostility of major Greek powers such as Athens and Sparta. Egypt’s capacity for disruption was further aggravated by the fact that it lay at the outer reaches of the western empire and, therefore, at the limit of the Persian capacity for control (i.e., the Persians were confronted with the deadly consequences of strategic overextension). In 402BC the inevitable happened. The Persians lost control of the country, and the Egyptians achieved an independence which they were to retain for over seventy years. However, this situation was far from acceptable to the Persians, not least because of the constant disruptive interference of the Egyptians in the west-

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figure 6.1 The eastern Mediterranean and Near East during the first millennium BC After Gardiner (1961) 341. Courtesy OUP

ern provinces of the empire which was designed to ensure that the Persians were kept deeply embroiled with problems nearer to home. An independent Egypt meant no peace for the Persians in the west, and, therefore, a series of invasions was mounted to remove this persistent threat. The first was mounted by the Persian emperor Artaxerxes II during the reign of Pharaoh Nectanebo I.2

2 For further details see Kienitz (1953) 76–90; Lloyd (1994) 337–360; Dandamaev (1989) 296– 299; Briant (2002) 569–652; Cruz-Uribe (2003) 9–60; Curtis and Tallis (2005) 15–16; and Lloyd (2014b) 185–198.

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1.2 The Campaign3 The Persian assault force, which mustered at Acre (Akko), was organised on the basis of standard Persian strategic principles for such operations (i.e., where an attack could be mounted by land and sea that is precisely the way it was done). The army was a mixed force. There was a non-Greek element under the command of Pharnabazus which Diodorus Siculus claims consisted of 200,000 troops, but this and other numbers in his text should be treated with immense skepticism;4 there were also 20,000 Greek mercenaries under the command of Iphicrates, though Nepos gives the slightly lower figure of 12000. The associated fleet consisted of 300 triremes and 200 triaconters,5 and supplies were transported by a large number of additional ships. The two commanders Pharnabazus and Iphicrates were very different in character. Pharnabazus was a slow and cautious soldier more concerned to avoid defeat than gain victories whereas Iphicrates was a brilliant, enterprising, highly experienced, and extremely professional officer, highly regarded by the Persians and everyone else for his military abilities. Diodorus particularly emphasises his inventiveness: he developed a new and smaller infantry shield, increased the length of spear and sword, and devised a new type of infantry boot. Nepos further endorses Diodorus’ high opinion. Iphicrates did not see eye-to-eye with Pharnabazus, a situation which was partly a matter of personalities, but the comments of Diodorus indicate a more deep-rooted problem arising from two major weaknesses in the Persian organisation of operations: the centralist Persian system, which insisted on royal endorsement of decisions before implementation, could stifle initiative on the part of field commanders and, even worse, could paralyse all freedom of action, whilst the reliance on high-quality Greek generals could be a source of jealousy and frustration to their Persian counterparts.

3 The main ancient account is that of Diodorus Siculus, 15.41–44, using as his source the fourthcentury historian Ephorus who was a contemporary of the events in question (Stylianou [1998]). Diodorus’ narrative can be supplemented by brief comments in Cornelius Nepos (Nep. Iph. 2.4), Plutarch (Plut. Artax. 24), and others (Just. Epit. Prologue 10 and Polyaenus, Strat. 3. 38, 56). For a recent modern discussion see Briant (2002) 653–655. 4 Even though the manpower resources of the Persian Empire were considerable, such large figures are essentially symbolic. They mean no more than ‘a very large body of men’. 5 Triaconters were ramming war galleys propelled by thirty oarsmen, fifteen to a side. At this period they would have been used for light duties and would not have featured in the line of battle. Their value in the waters of the Nile and its canals could have been considerable. Triremes were much bigger, consisting of three banks of oars per side. They were the standard line-of-battle ships during the Classical Period (Casson [1995] Index, s.v. ‘triaconter’ and ‘trireme’).

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figure 6.2 Syria-Palestine in the fourth century BC After Maier (1994) 318. Courtesy CUP

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The slowness of Persian preparations and their advance gave the Egyptians ample opportunity to prepare, and this they did most effectively. Diodorus emphasises that geographical factors were advantageous to the Egyptians in that Egypt was difficult to approach (i.e., the road via Gaza and Pelusium [modern Tell Farama] was problematic), but then goes on to describe the measures taken by the Egyptians: 1. All entrance-points were blocked, though Diodorus makes the rather odd statement that a town had been established at each of the seven mouths of the Nile. The word used for ‘town’ is polis, which we might decode as meaning a substantial fortified settlement.6 Large towers were erected on each bank joined by a wooden bridge which dominated the entrance. The Pelusiac Branch was particularly heavily fortified, presumably along the line Pelusium,7 Tell Qedwa, Tell el-Herr, and Tell Hedwa, because it seemed most probable that the enemy would advance by this route; channels were dug; points where ships might enter were carefully fortified; defensive embankments were constructed; and access points by land were flooded. 2. Large forces of Egyptian troops were stationed in defensive positions. Interestingly there is no mention of Greek mercenaries or Greek commanders in the narrative. 3. It is intriguing that there is no mention of any operations in the Mediterranean by units of the Egyptian fleet, a situation reminiscent of its inactivity during the invasion of Cambyses in 525 BC.8 The presence of the formidable obstacles by land and sea in the extreme northeastern Delta led the Persian commanders to think better of a direct assault at that point, and they decided to mount a surprise attack at the Mendesian Mouth, which had a suitably large beach, the intention being to attack the fortifications at the mouth. Pharnabazus and Iphicrates landed a force for this

6 New Kingdom forts could reach an immense size, e.g., the Eighteenth Dynasty fort of Tjaru occupied at least 120,000 m2 (Morris [2005] 58). Saite and Persian Period forts were also of considerable size: Tell Qedwa (Saite) measured 200 m on a side (Smoláriková [2008] 49), whilst the First Persian Period fort at Tell el-Herr measured c. 125m on a side (Valbelle [1999] 783–786 and [2001] 12–14). Intriguingly the diminutive polismation, ‘little town’, and the term phrourion, ‘fort’, are used to describe the installation at the Mendesian mouth (Diod. Sic. 15.42.4). 7 The remains of Pelusium extend today over 6 km, and those of the Late Roman fort occupy an area of 20 acres (Bagnall and Rathbone [2004] 85–86 and Snape [2014] 210–211). The archaeology of our period is not accessible, but we can be confident that the fourth-century BC city and its fortifications would have presented a formidable spectacle. 8 Lloyd (2000) 89.

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figure 6.3 The defensive line on the Pelusiac Branch After Smoláriková (2008) 49. Courtesy the Czech Institute of Egyptology

purpose, and the Egyptians, quite rightly, put in an immediate counterattack. They were defeated, and through speed of action on the part of Iphicrates their fort was taken. This meant that the Persians were now in a position to threaten the rear of the large forces posted in the eastern Delta in the Pelusiac area, though Diodorus gives no indication that this strategic advantage formed any part of Persian thinking. At this point Iphicrates advised an immediate attack on Memphis as the strategic hub of Egypt, but the suspicions and jealousies of Pharnabazus and other Persian commanders thwarted this proposal and gave the Egyptians time to recover.9 This time they used two strategies: they reinforced Memphis, and brought ever increasing forces to bear on the Persian bridgehead at the Mendesian Mouth. The growing success of this operation against the invaders led to a progressive improvement in Egyptian morale. According to Diodorus, the Egyptians were helped by two geographical factors. In the first place, the

9 Plutarch (Artax. 24) goes so far as to ascribe the Persian defeat solely to the conflict between Pharnabazus and Iphicrates.

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figure 6.4 Northern Egypt showing the likely course of the branches of the Nile in the fourth century BC After Bowman (1990) Fig. 1 (slightly modified). Courtesy the author

northerly Etesian winds started to blow. Diodorus does not explain how this helped the Egyptians, and we can only assume that the onset of these northerly winds had an adverse effect on the mobility of the Persian fleet which was maintaining the troops and perhaps on the effectiveness of naval assets operating in support of land operations.10 Far worse was the effect of the inundation of the Nile which created serious obstacles to Persian military operations. In the face of these military and environmental setbacks the Persians gave up and withdrew. We are informed that Pharnabazus tried to heap all the blame for this debacle on Iphicrates who wisely decided to make himself scarce and fled. 1.3 Observations The failure of the Persians can be ascribed to several factors: 1. There was clearly a basic flaw in planning. The art of war has three dimensions: (a) strategy (i.e., defining the aim of the war or campaign); (b) the operational dimension (i.e., defining the means by which the strategic aim is to be achieved); and (c) tactics (i.e., how to fight the engagements needed to achieve operational goals). The Persians’ strategic aim was clear (i.e., the reconquest of Egypt), and the tactics used, where we can establish them from our limited data, were sound. However, the operational dimension was clearly not defined to everyone’s satisfaction. Iphicrates grasped clearly that taking Memphis was the key, though he may well

10

See below for the dire effects which northerly winds could have on naval operations.

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2.

3.

4. 5.

6.

7.

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have grossly underestimated the difficulty of transferring troops from the Mendesian mouth of the Nile through the Delta to attack the capital. Indeed, landing the main force at the Mendesian Mouth was not as good a move as it looked, given the major environmental problems which would be encountered by any force advancing inland from that position. On a cost-benefit analysis Pharnabazus and his staff would have been well advised to attack via Pelusium and take the casualties which would accrue from assaulting the major fortifications in that area.11 Persian leadership was flawed. Despite the expertise of Iphicrates and some sound military judgement on the part of Pharnabazus, it was slow and wracked with jealousies which gave the Egyptians ample time to counter Persian preparations and led to lost opportunities. One also detects a lack of determination at the top to overcome obstacles and keep going. Egyptian military engineering was successful in closing down Persian options and impeding their operations by land.12 In particular, it induced them to look for an alternative and much less suitable point to initiate their assault. It is interesting that we hear nothing of any actions on the part of the Egyptian fleet. The geographical makeup of Egypt conferred significant advantages on the defence which were ultimately crucial. Though initially defeated at the Mendesian Mouth, the Egyptian army showed considerable resilience and became increasingly effective and successful in its operations against the invader. The Persian withdrawal provides an excellent example of a campaign being concluded by a collapse of will on the part of one of the contestants. One final point needs consideration, a point which is relevant to all military operations under consideration. In his discussion of ‘territorial’ theories of behaviour in military contexts John Keegan writes: ‘It is probably … the case that human attackers concede to human defenders a certain claim—which one would call moral but for the ambiguity implied—to

Sir Garnet Wolseley, commander of the British invasion of Egypt in the Anglo-Egyptian War of 1882, was well aware of these environmental problems and wisely elected for an attack via Ismailia along the line of the Wadi Tumilat (Kochanski [1999] 135–145 and Featherstone and Chandler [1993]). The Persian invaders would have been well advised to show similar circumspection. It is rarely recognised that the ancient Egyptians were outstanding military engineers and produced some of the finest fortifications which survive from antiquity (see n. 1).

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their territory, be it a mere shell-pocked hilltop or water-logged trench, that would provide an additional explanation of the tendency for the ‘defensive’ to prevail over the ‘offensive’ in warfare’.13

2

The Invasion by Artaxerxes III (343–342 BC)

2.1 The Context For Egypt the strategic situation in the Near East had not fundamentally changed since the attack by Artaxerxes II: the Persians were determined to regain control of their lost province, and the Egyptians continued their policy of diplomatic and military disruption in the western provinces of the Empire with the intention of embroiling the Persians so deeply in this area that they could not attack Egypt. In these activities they were enthusiastically supported by those Greeks whose political and strategic interests in the eastern Mediterranean and Near East coincided closely with those of the Egyptians.14 According to Justin,15 Artaxerxes III mounted three expeditions against Egypt. The first two, datable to 359–358 and 351 BC, were failures, but the assault in 343– 342BC during the reign of Nectanebo II was an altogether different matter and formed part of a major programme of military activity designed by Artaxerxes to recover control of the lost provinces of the western empire. 2.2 The Campaign16 As in the unsuccessful attack on Egypt of 351BC,17 Artaxerxes commanded in person to maximise the chances of success and thereby guarantee an immediacy of response to situations which had been conspicuously lacking in the campaign of Artaxerxes II previously discussed. This and his ruthless determination to succeed were of critical importance to the success of the operation. He went to enormous lengths to ensure that this was not another Persian failure and proceeded in a methodical, if time-consuming, manner to build up his resources. We are informed—with the usual stiff dose of exaggeration— 13 14 15 16

17

Keegan (1976) 165–166. For details see Kienitz (1953) 94–110; Dandamaev (1989) 306–311; and Briant (2002) 681– 685. For details see Kienitz (1953) 94–110; Dandamaev (1989) 306–311; and Briant (2002) 681– 685. Here again the only consecutive narrative is that of Diodorus which appears at 16.41, 16.43– 44, and 16.46–51. There is also the briefest of references in Just. Epit., Prologue 10. For a modern discussion see Briant (2002) 685–688. Dem. 15.11–13; Isoc. Paneg. 101.

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that the force consisted of 300,000 infantry, 30,000 cavalry, 300 triremes, and 500 ships for supplies (weapons, missiles, food). Artaxerxes also acquired 1000 Theban hoplites, 3000 Argives, and 6000 Greek troops from the coastal cities of Asia Minor. Nectanebo II’s initial response to the threat was to try to forestall it as it was developing by the classic strategy of stirring up trouble for the Persians in Syria-Palestine. This he did by allying himself with Phoenicians who had revolted against the Persians. He sent 4000 Greek mercenaries under the excellent Mentor of Rhodes to their assistance, and with this support the rebels drove the enemy out of Phoenicia, but this success was short-lived, and a mixture of treachery and calculated frightfulness exercised by the Persians against Sidon, the ringleader of the rebellion, brought the Phoenician rebellion to a disastrous conclusion. All this meant that the Egyptians had ample time to make their preparations and had clearly done so along the lines of the attack of 374BC. Their dispositions look sound: the Pelusiac Branch was garrisoned by 5000 troops under the command of a Spartan called Philophron; the east bank of the Nile was heavily fortified—a network of walls and ditches is mentioned; large garrisons were installed, presumably in the forts along the line of Tell el-Herr and Sile; and Nectanebo himself personally commanded a strategic reserve consisting of 30,000 Machimoi (the Egyptian warrior class, essentially the Territorial Army), 5000 Greeks, and about 10,000 Libyans. However, according to Diodorus, the sum total of the forces available to Nectanebo was much inferior in number to those of the Persians, consisting of 20,000 Greek mercenaries, about 20,000 Libyans, and 60,000 Machimoi. He also had at his disposal a large fleet of river craft ideally suited for operations on the Nile. Things started well for the Egyptians. The Persians lost part of their army in the Barathra through ignorance of the terrain,18 and their initial assault on Pelusium19 was a failure: Theban troops attacked the walls and were successfully counterattacked by the garrison. After this the Persians created three brigades of shock troops, mainly Greek, each commanded by a Greek with a Persian watchdog: the first brigade consisted of the Boeotians, who were sup-

18

19

The Barathra lay mainly to the east of Pelusium and consisted of L. Serbonis (modern L. Bardawil) and its associated salt-marshes and expanses of standing water. The dangers of the area were much aggravated by depositions of wind-blown sand over water surfaces which could create a lethally misleading impression of firm ground (Diod. Sic. 1.30; Strab., C802–803). An unwary army could certainly have found itself in great difficulties, though it is probable that ancient writers significantly exaggerated the losses incurred. See above, n. 7.

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plemented by a force of cavalry and a sizeable contingent of Asiatic infantry; the second brigade was made up of the Argives, with a force of 5000 elite troops and eighty triremes under command; and the third brigade was commanded by Mentor of Rhodes, now fighting for the Persians, with a comparable additional force. The king commanded the reserve. They were deployed as follows: Force 1. The Boeotians were entrusted with the taking of Pelusium. A canal, clearly a defensive feature, was diverted and filled in so that siege engines could be brought up. These battered down part of the wall.20 The garrison, in which Greeks were prominent, countered by building other walls inside and also constructed large defensive towers of wood. These measures were clearly highly successful for some time, but, when the garrison heard of Nectanebo’s retreat to Memphis, their morale cracked, and they asked for terms. This gave the Persians control of the strategically critical city of Pelusium. Force 2. The Argive troops were pushed forward by boat to an unspecified area where they fortified a camp and were attacked by a force of mercenaries in Egyptian employment who were badly defeated. Instead of reacting vigorously to this setback and mounting an immediate counterattack Nectanebo withdrew to Memphis. Force 3. This force under the command of Mentor of Rhodes and the Persian Bagoas captured Bubastis and many cities by a mind game which played, in part, on the divisions between Greeks and Egyptians. Mentor simply made an offer that, if Bubastis surrendered, it would be unharmed; if it did not, the city would suffer the same fate which Artaxerxes had meted out to Sidon; he also instructed troops of the Persian army investing the gates to allow anyone wishing to desert to pass through unharmed. This ruse could only succeed when the enemy’s morale is fragile, and in this case it worked. The Bubastites decided to take advantage of the offer to the extreme annoyance of Greek mercenaries in the garrison who attempted to bring them round by force and shut them up in part of the city. However, at this point the Greek mercenaries themselves decided to come to terms with the Persians, and after some rather bizarre moves and countermoves the city capitulated. The example of Bubastis was swiftly

20

These would have included wheeled siege engines (helepoleis) which could be armoured and equipped with artillery. Catapults and battering rams would also have been available (cf. Bugh [2006] 281–288).

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followed by mass surrenders. These, in turn, led to a complete collapse of morale on the part of Nectanebo who took flight to Nubia (Greek Ethiopia), never to return, and Artaxerxes set about strengthening his hold on the country by pulling down the walls of the most important cities and applying the harshest of treatments to them.21 2.3 Observations 1. At the operational level the Persians showed considerable skill. They brought to bear a large force of all arms, including high-quality Greek infantry, which was much superior in numbers to the Egyptian force. This advantage opened up the option of mounting separate assaults simultaneously or in quick succession at different points in the enemy defences which not only pinned down the relevant troops but ensured that they could not send assistance to one another. Mentor’s ruse at Bubastis was brilliantly successful and played a crucial role in the Persian victory. In all this the presence of Artaxerxes must have been critical in ensuring speed of response as the military situation evolved. 2. Part of Nectanebo’s defensive strategy was to keep the pot boiling in the Near East and thereby hold the Persians at bay. This had some short-term success but, in the end, it failed, clearly because Artaxerxes was determined that it should. 3. The key position of Pelusium was placed under the command of a Spartan. It was not taken at the first assault and in the account of the second we learn much of the technology of siege warfare at this period. It only fell as the result of a collapse of morale caused by the precipitate retreat of Nectanebo to Memphis, a situation which reflects the intrinsic strength of Egyptian fortifications. 4. The east bank of the Nile was heavily fortified with large garrisons and positions strengthened by walls and ditches, though the decline in Egyptian fighting spirit largely negated these measures. 5. Geographical problems caused the Persians severe casualties before they even got to Egypt, though we must allow for the tendency of Hellenistic historians to indulge in sensationalism and exaggeration. 6. Amphibious operations are mentioned: Persian troops were moved by boat, and river boats are mentioned on the Egyptian side. It is noteworthy that there is no mention of the Egyptian fleet engaging in any operations against the Persian navy.

21

Lloyd (2014b) 185–186.

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After the Egyptian collapse, the walls of the major Egyptian cities were slighted, a clear indication that they were regarded by the Persians as potentially a major problem. The deficiencies of Nectanebo as a commander were crucial in bringing about the Egyptian defeat because his actions led to a catastrophic erosion of morale. Disaster is ascribed to his poor judgement, overconfidence, and unwillingness to use the expertise of his Greek generals. Few things erode troops’ fighting spirit (i.e., the invincible determination to kill the enemy), more than a collapse of confidence in the commanderin-chief. There were divisions in the cities between Greek and Egyptian troops which were cleverly exploited by the opposition and contributed to a weakening of the defenders’ resolve to continue.

The Invasion of Egypt by Perdiccas (321 BC)

3.1 The Context22 The death of Alexander the Great at Babylon in 323 BC immediately raised the issue of a successor and with it the question as to whether his enormous empire was to remain intact or dissolve into its constituent parts. The end result of decisions made at this juncture, known as the Partition of Babylon, was that the titular rulers of the empire became Alexander’s half-brother Philip Arrhidaeus and the dead king’s infant son Alexander IV. Since neither was capable of ruling, the first through disability and the second through infancy, Perdiccas, a veteran commander and close associate of Alexander, was appointed regent. These decisions were accompanied by a large number of appointments whereby prominent members of Alexander’s court and army were allocated provinces of the empire to govern. These included Ptolemy, son of Lagus, who received Egypt, Libya, and that part of Arabia which was contiguous to Egypt. These arrangements were anything but a recipe for peace, and quickly the ambitions of Perdiccas’ subordinate governors led to moves to shake off his authority. In particular, an alliance was formed between Antigonus, Craterus, Antipater, and Ptolemy for precisely that purpose. Perdiccas, as regent, was determined to put an end to these separatist ambitions, and, with the assistance of Eumenes of Cardia, embarked on military action to force his opponents to submit, assuming responsibility for dealing with Ptolemy himself.

22

For details see Braund (2003) 19–23.

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3.2 The Campaign23 Mustering a large army at Damascus, Perdiccas marched south. On reaching Egypt his first move, not surprisingly, was to encamp near Pelusium. There he undertook the clearance of an old canal, for reasons which are far from clear. Presumably it formed part of some sort of plan to attack Pelusium, and he might have intended to use it as a defensive ditch or as a waterway. Unfortunately for him the river broke in, and the enterprise, whatever its purpose, was ruined. This led to the desertion of a lot of his peers who went over to Ptolemy. This serious outburst of desertion may be the reason why Pelusium was not attacked, but it is intriguing that Perdiccas did not feel that it was necessary to take the city. Did he mask it by stationing a holding force there? We simply do not know. In Diodorus’ account of these episodes a marked contrast is drawn between the characters of Perdiccas and Ptolemy: ‘for he (i.e., Perdiccas) was murderous, usurping the authority of the other officers and, in general, wanting to govern them all by force whilst Ptolemy, to the contrary, was beneficent, fair-minded, and willing to listen to the opinions of his commanders’ (18.33, 3), a difference of attitudes which he regarded as crucial.24 Perdiccas went to considerable efforts to undo the damage by trying to win over the remainder to his cause. Ptolemy’s counter to all this was to secure all the most suitable places with considerable garrisons and with all sorts of artillery.25 3.3 Perdiccas’ First Defeat Perdiccas now embarked on that most risky of military operations (i.e., a night advance), and compounded the risk by not telling anyone the destination. After a speedy march he encamped near a fort on the Nile called the Fort of Camels which lay on the west side of the Nile. We are informed that it was fortified with a palisade, parapets, and a proteichisma (outer wall), a description which suggests an arrangement on the side attacked which ran: river → palisade → proteichisma → fort. How did this place relate to Pelusium? Was the operation part

23

24 25

By far the most detailed account is that of Diodorus Siculus (18.33–36). There are much shorter discussions in a fragment of Arrian’s lost Events after Alexander (FgrH 156, F.9: 28– 29) and Justin (13.6, 18–19; 8, 1–2), and there is a brief notice in Plutarch (Plut. Eum, 5). Directly or indirectly, the major source for all these authors was certainly the excellent but lost historian Hieronymus of Cardia who was a contemporary of the events in question (Hornblower [1982]). For modern discussions see Turner (1984) 35–37; Hölb (2001) 15–16; Sabin, van Wees, and Whitby (2007) 393. Justin preserves the same tradition. Justin lays much emphasis on the care which Ptolemy took to prepare for the invasion, both in building up resources and in establishing appropriate links with neighbouring rulers. He also insists on the importance of his recent acquisition of Cyrene.

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of a plan to cut off Pelusium? Again, we do not know. In the morning he began to cross over the river with his war-elephants in front, followed by hypaspists,26 ladder carriers, and other assault troops. A crack force of cavalry came last, and these he intended to use against Ptolemy, if he appeared. While the crossing was taking place Ptolemy suddenly arrived to reinforce the fort, and we get some insight into current signalling techniques when we are told that he and his attendant troops made their presence clear through shouts and trumpets. Diodorus’ account is clearly confused but can be deconstructed as follows: the troops on elephants attacked the palisade and the parapet of the proteichisma whilst the hypaspists assaulted the wall with ladders. Ptolemy positioned himself on top of the proteichisma and used a sarissa27 to blind the leading elephant and wound its driver, a feat which indicates that the proteichisma could not have been of great height. Javelins were used to put the driver of the second elephant out of action. The defenders also defeated those climbing up ladders, and they were thrown down into the river, a situation which can only mean that the wall in question must have been in some places, at least, closely adjacent to the river bank. Perdiccas’ forces kept coming and tried hard to take the place by force. There is much emphasis on the leadership qualities of Ptolemy, but his troops also held the major advantage of height in their position, and the superior numbers of Perdiccas’ troops could not overcome this advantage. After a day spent on the siege Perdiccas gave up. 3.4 Perdiccas’ Second Defeat The second assault was directed at Memphis. Perdiccas disengaged from the Fort of Camels and marched south in a strategic situation which was far from good: he now had Pelusium and the Fort of Camels untaken behind him, and there must have been numerous other strong points occupied by the enemy along his lines of communication. He advanced with great speed by night and reached a point opposite the city where the Nile formed an island which offered enough room for a large camp. He began to get his troops across but had great difficulty because of the depth of the water which rose up to their chins, a predicament which was not helped by their equipment. Perdiccas tried to

26

27

An elite force of troops in Macedonian armies who were more lightly equipped than the infantry of the phalanx and, therefore, capable of much swifter movement (Sabin, van Wees, and Whitby [2007] 331, 333, and 450). They were ideally suited for operations of this kind. The long infantry pike used by the troops of the Macedonian phalanx. It could reach a length of 7 m, but it was constructed in two parts, so that the section tipped with the spear point could be used separately. Ptolemy may well have used his sarissa in this way.

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break the force of the current by getting the elephants to enter the water on the southern side whilst he placed his cavalry on the north side of those crossing to pick up anyone who was swept away. The first troops to advance got across without mishap, but those who followed had major problems because the river began to increase in depth, and men were getting completely submerged. Diodorus claims that there was some disagreement about the reason for this phenomenon: some argued that it was caused by the beginning of the inundation, but the real reason was the disturbance and deepening of the riverbed by the movement of the men and animals who had previously crossed. This resulted in Perdiccas not being able to get the rest of his force across, and he was forced to order a retreat. Those on the island who now had to get back had major problems. Some got across, shedding their equipment. Others ended up in captivity, but the majority were swept away and devoured by crocodiles. We are informed that the troops lost amounted to more than 2000, including some distinguished officers and that not less than 1000 were eaten by crocodiles. The dreadful death of many of their comrades particularly incensed the survivors and was clearly the last straw. In the general mood of anger and plummeting morale a general mutiny broke out, and Perdiccas was killed by his own men. 3.5 Observations 1. Geographical factors were critical amongst factors leading to defeat: – The canal flooded by water had a major impact on the army’s support for Perdiccas. Whatever the aim, the army was deeply frustrated by this setback. – The advance on Memphis was defeated by hydrographic factors. 2. The character of the commanders was crucial to the outcome of the invasion. Above all Ptolemy was expert at keeping and maintaining the loyalty of his men; Perdiccas was quite the opposite, and his support slowly bled away in the face of failure. Yet again collapse of confidence in the commander-in-chief led to defeat, despite the undoubted innate fighting power of Perdiccas’ army. 3. We hear much of fortifications and siege warfare: – Engineering works are mentioned in the attack on Egypt. – Egypt clearly had many strong points with strong garrisons. The one on which we have detailed information, the Fort of Camels, clearly had a curtain wall, an outer wall (proteichisma), and a palisade. Height above the enemy was clearly regarded as a major advantage. We might be inclined to ask whether the building tradition here was Egyptian or Greco-Macedonian, but the distinction at this stage is probably illusory. The Egyptians had been employing Greek troops for centuries and

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must have been well aware of the most recent developments in military engineering. They had a long tradition of brilliantly effective military architecture of their own, and there will have been local features like emphasis on mud-brick and water defences which will undoubtedly have been invoked, as appropriate, but they would certainly have incorporated anything useful from external sources. On Perdiccas’ side we get brief references to field fortifications. – We hear of a number of devices used for attack and defence: siege ladders are mentioned; the defence is described as using a sarissa and javelins; there is mention of various kinds of artillery;28 and elephants were employed in attack, though quite unsuccessfully.

4

The Invasion of Egypt by Antigonus Monophthalmus and Demetrius Poliorcetes (306BC)

4.1 Context29 The death of Perdiccas created an immediate vacancy for the post of regent which was ultimately filled by Antipater as a result of arrangements made under the Partition of Triparadisus in 321 BC. These arrangements also included some modifications to the settlement made under the Partition of Babylon already discussed, but the only details which need concern us here are that Antigonus retained Greater Phrygia, Pamphylia, and Lycia, and Ptolemy retained Egypt, Libya, and the adjacent territories. This new settlement was no more a recipe for peace than the Partition of Babylon had been. It encompassed much the same large group of hard, able, and ruthless men who might be kept under control by an Alexander, but no-one extant was at all capable of repressing the centrifugal effects of their invincible aggression and ambitions, and from 319BC we are confronted with a series of internecine conflicts which saw Antigonus expand his power enormously to the point where in 306, with both Philip Arrhidaeus and Alexander IV dead, he felt able to declare himself king alongside his son Demetrius Poliorcetes. Ptolemy was an almost consistent opponent of the ambitions of Antigonus and his allies, and in 306 BC Antigonus decided to bring him to heel by mounting a massive invasion of Egypt. 28

29

These developments, which had started in the western Mediterranean in the wars between Greeks and Carthaginians, had been picked up by Philip II of Macedon, and incorporated into the Macedonian armies and their Hellenistic offspring (Marsden [1969] 65– 85). For details see Will (1984) and Hölbl (2001) 14–20.

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4.2 The Campaign30 The operational plan consisted of the standard two-prong attack from the east by a large army with a fleet in attendance. The army was commanded by Antigonus and consisted of more than 80,000 infantry, about 8000 cavalry, and 83 war elephants. The fleet was placed under the command of his son Demetrius and consisted of 150 warships and 100 military transports which carried a large quantity of artillery. The fleet soon presented a problem; the pilots insisted on waiting in the face of anticipated bad weather. Antigonus, who was at Gaza at this point, lost patience and insisted on moving the army out anyway in order to forestall Ptolemy’s preparations. He told the soldiers to arrange for rations for ten days and loaded a large stock of corn and fodder for animals on camels provided by Arabs. He also placed artillery equipment onto wagons and then set off through the desert where he encountered the statutory problems with the Barathra (see above). The stormy weather anticipated by the ships’ pilots duly arrived and wrought havoc with the fleet, some ships carrying artillery being dashed to pieces and others returning to Gaza. The stoutest ships got to Casius, but this site provided no shelter, and the ships were forced to anchor offshore in dangerous conditions which led to the destruction of three quinqueremes,31 whilst lack of drinking water almost destroyed the fleet, a disaster only prevented by the timely abatement of the storms and the arrival of Antigonus’ army with supplies. There the fleet waited for the ships which had been left behind to catch up. Antigonus then moved off and camped two stades32 from the Nile. Ptolemy had previously placed garrisons at appropriate points and sent off men in punts to try to bribe Antigonus’ troops with generous offers of money, a stratagem which was extremely successful until Antigonus drove them off with archers, slingers, and artillery. Antigonus then tried to land at a spot called False Mouth, but the garrison there was too strong, and it drove off the invaders with artillery. His next move was to sail off during the night to the Phatnitic Mouth, the fleet

30

31

32

Yet again the major source is Diodorus Siculus who provides a detailed account at 20.73– 76. There are brief comments in Plutarch (Plut. Dem. 19. 1–2), and Pausanias (1.6,6). Modern discussions will be found in Hölbl (2001) 20; Sabin, van Wees, and Whitby (2007) 362, 379, 382 and 389; and Grainger (2011) 36–38. The standard line-of-battle ship of Hellenistic fleets. Exactly how the oarsmen were arranged in such vessels is uncertain, and it may well be that there was more than one system. However, the name given to such ships means ‘a five’, and that must mean that there were five oarsmen to a rowing unit, possibly arranged in echelon on the basis 2, 2, 1 or 3, 2, or 2, 3 (cf. Casson [1995] Index s.v. ‘quinquereme’). The advantages would have been speed, ramming power, and increased carrying capacity. Approximately 370 m. He was, therefore, quite close to the river.

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being instructed to follow a light shown by the commander’s ship, but one of the inherent dangers of such an operation was inevitably realised when he was forced to wait the following day for ships which had got scattered during the night. Ptolemy used the breathing space to station troops along the shore, and this move, together with the information that the adjacent shore was strongly protected by swamps and lakes, caused Antigonus to withdraw. At this point, yet again, the weather took a hand, creating a sea surge which caused the loss of three ships, whilst Ptolemy strengthened his position by establishing strong forces at the access points on the river and also a large number of river boats equipped with artillery pieces and men to use them. From here on Antigonus’ invasion began quickly to unravel: the morale of his troops started to collapse; the enemy had firm control of the strategically critical Pelusiac Mouth, making the fleet next to useless; the army could not move because of the height of the Nile; and the delays in advancing had been so great that supplies for men and animals were running out. Antigonus convened a council to consider options, and there was unanimous support for withdrawal. Both fleet and army acted on that basis, though we are told that Ptolemy acquired a large number of deserters form Antigonus’ forces. 4.3 Observations 1. Antigonus’ overall operational plan for an assault by land and sea was basically sound. Such two-pronged attacks had worked before, and the recent naval catastrophe suffered by Ptolemy at the hands of Antigonus and Demetrius on the east coast of Cyprus off Salamis must have encouraged hopes of a successful outcome. Antigonus also appreciated the value of speed in helping to overwhelm Ptolemy before he had completed his preparations, and he was careful to ensure that adequate supplies of provisions and war material were available and could be transported. However, he made the disastrous error of ignoring the advice of pilots that the fleet was sailing at the wrong season, and his fleet encountered a series of disasters caused by weather conditions which led to losses and, above all, caused considerable delays, giving Ptolemy ample breathing space to complete his defences. Antigonus’ precarious grasp of the realities of seafaring is also shown in his nocturnal attempt to sail to the Phatnitic Mouth of the Nile when he instructed the ships to follow a light on the lead ship. Such an impractical ploy was almost certain to fail, and the consequent scattering of the ships created yet further delay. 2. Ptolemy used the time gifted by Antigonus to good effect in allocating garrisons to appropriate danger points in the eastern Delta which effectively closed down Antigonus’ options. He was also successful in playing

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mind games to undermine the morale of Antigonus’ troops by offering bribes to encourage desertion. The flooding of the Nile yet again provided a major impediment to an invading force. The relative ease with which Ptolemy encouraged a steady stream of deserters from the attacking army illustrates the precarious nature of the loyalty of many soldiers in Hellenistic armies. At this stage this tendency was aggravated by the fact that the troops in the relevant armies were often of the same stock, shared the same culture, and spoke the same language. In addition to Ptolemy’s mind games the series of failed operations mounted by Antigonus led to a complete collapse of his army’s morale. In the council of war called after his most recent setback there was unanimous support for withdrawal. The campaign illustrates the importance which artillery had acquired in Hellenistic warfare. Diodorus speaks of a wide range of types but is only specific on one occasion when he mentions the use of the oxybelēs, a piece of field artillery used to fire bolts at the enemy which was basically a huge composite bow.

Conclusions

Let us now try to isolate the elements which determined success or failure in these four campaigns, using as our template the factors listed at the beginning of this paper. Clearly leadership was critical in the first three cases. In the attack during the reign of Artaxerxes II operational planning was disastrously compromised by jealousies and internal squabbling between senior commanders which destroyed the effectiveness of the Persian force, a situation aggravated by the Persian system of command which required decisions to be endorsed by a Great King who, in this case, was absent and distant. That lesson was well learned by Artaxerxes III who commanded in person with ruthless efficiency which enabled him to capitalise on all his assets and respond to imperatives as the campaign unfolded. Mentor of Rhodes was also brilliantly successful in orchestrating the surrender of Egyptian cities by the use of mind games. In all this the Persians were greatly assisted by the massive deficiencies of Nectanebo II whose arrogance and incompetence led to a progressive collapse of the morale of his troops. In the campaign of 321 BC leadership is again the crucial factor in that the personal merits of Ptolemy and the demerits of Perdiccas were equally decisive. In 306 BC Antigonus’ determination to advance against

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the advice of his naval experts led to serious delays which Ptolemy was able to use to prepare a series of well-planned countermeasures which were successful. Artaxerxes III and Ptolemy were both astute in the disposition of their troops within the theatre of operations, a factor which contributed significantly to their success, and, where we have information on the matter, logistical support was well organised. The Persians used a large supply train of ships on both of the invasions discussed, and Antigonus took elaborate measures to ensure that the logistics of his force were adequate. Unfortunately for him the delays occasioned ultimately by his bad decision-making at the beginning of the campaign caused his supplies to run short, a situation which played a major role in forcing him to retire. Troop behaviour was uneven. In the first campaign the Egyptian forces showed commendable resilience and were able to recover from initial setbacks with growing confidence, but in the second campaign Egyptian leadership deficiencies at the highest level led to a swift and apparently total collapse of the fighting spirit of the Egyptian forces and with it total victory for the Persians. The unreliability of the armies of Perdiccas and Antigonus, where desertion was rampant, illustrates how important it was for these Macedonian commanders to retain the loyalty of their troops by success in battle and by careful nurturing of morale, at which Ptolemy was conspicuously successful. The Napoleonic dictum, ‘The moral is to the material as three to one’, was never more apposite. The equipment of the armies at the relevant periods was to all intents and purposes comparable. Both Antigonus and Ptolemy used artillery effectively, but it was used brilliantly by Ptolemy in a defensive role and played a major part in the defeat of the enemy. Egyptian defensive strategy could be proactive, as shown by Nectanebo II in his Phoenician machinations, and could involve taking the fight to the enemy before he could take it to him. The disposition of Egyptian defensive installations within the country was determined by sound strategic principles, and there is evidence of Egyptian expertise in military engineering which includes the use of ditches, canals, and defensive mounds and embankments. We hear enough of the architecture of forts and cities to be sure that the Egyptians had lost none of their old skills in this sphere of activity whilst certainly benefiting from innovations elsewhere in the Mediterranean world. Pelusium and associated fortifications could present formidable obstacles, so much so that invaders might well not take them on at all, and the defence of Pelusium in the second invasion and of the Fort of the Camels in the third amply demonstrates the effectiveness of these defensive installations. However, Egypt’s defence was not dependent on man alone. One of the most impressive facts to emerge from the discussion of these campaigns is that Egypt enjoyed considerable

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natural defensive advantages. The approach to the eastern Delta could create disastrous and costly problems for the invader, and, once in the country, hydrographic and climatic conditions could have an equally dire effect. Either through treachery, inadequate guidance, or failures of intelligence, these problems played a major, sometimes critical, role in all four of our invasions.

Bibliography Bagnall, R.S. and Rathbone, D.W. (eds.) (2004) Egypt from Alexander to the Early Christians. An Archaeological Guide. London. Bard, K. (ed.) (1999) Encyclopedia of the Archaeology of Ancient Egypt. London. Bowman, A.K. (1990) Egypt after the Pharaohs 332 BC–AD642 from Alexander to the Arab Conquest. Oxford. Braund, D. (2003) ‘After Alexander: The Emergence of the Hellenistic World, 323–281’, in Erskine (2003) 19–34. Briant, P. (2002) From Cyrus to Alexander: A History of the Persian Empire, trans. P.T. Daniels. Winona Lake, IN. Bugh, G.R. (2006) ‘Hellenistic Military Developments’, in Bugh (2006) 281–288. Bugh, G.R. (ed.) (2006) The Cambridge Companion to the Hellenistic World. Cambridge. Casson, L. (1995) Ships and Seamanship in the Ancient World. Baltimore. Cruz-Uribe, E. (2003) ‘The Invasion of Egypt by Cambyses’, Transeuphratène 25: 9–60. Curtis, J. and Tallis, N. (eds.) (2005) Forgotten Empire: The World of Ancient Persia. London. Dandamaev, M.A. (1989) A Political History of the Achaemenid Empire, trans. W.J. Vogelsang. Leiden. Dodson, A.M., Johnston, J.J., and Monkhouse, W. (eds.) (2014) A Good Scribe and an Exceedingly Wise Man: Studies in Honour of W.J. Tait. London. Erskine, A. (ed.) (2008) A Companion to the Hellenistic World. Malden, MA. Featherstone, D.F. and Chandler, D. (1993) Tel el-Kebir 1882: Wolseley’s Conquest of Egypt. Campaign Series 27. Oxford. Gardiner, A. (1961) Egypt of the Pharaohs: An Introduction. Oxford. Grainger, J.D. (2011) Hellenistic and Roman Naval Wars 336–31BC. Barnsley. Hölb, G. (2001) A History of the Ptolemaic Empire, trans. Tina Saavedra. London. Hornblower, J. (1982) Hieronymus of Cardia. Oxford. Keegan, J. (1976) The Face of Battle: A Study of Agincourt, Waterloo and the Somme. Harmondsworth. Kienitz, F.K. (1953) Die politische Geschichte Aegyptens vom 7. bis zum 4. Jahrhundert vor der Zeitwende. Berlin. Kochanski, H. (1999) Sir Garnet Wolseley: Victorian Hero. London.

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Lewis, D.M., Boardman, J., Hornblower, S., and Ostwald, M. (eds.) (1994) The Cambridge Ancient History 2nd edn. Vol. 6. The Fourth Century B.C. Cambridge. Lloyd, A.B. (1994) ‘Egypt, 404–332B.C.’, in Lewis, Boardman, Hornblower, and Ostwald (1994) 337–360. Lloyd, A.B. (2000) ‘The Saite Navy’, in Oliver, Brock, Cornell, and Hodkinson (eds.) (2000) 81–91. Lloyd, A.B. (2014a) Ancient Egypt, State and Society. Oxford. Lloyd, A.B. (2014b) ‘The Egyptian Attitude to the Persians’, in Dodson, Johnston and Monkhouse (2014) 185–198. Maier, F.G. (1994) ‘Cyprus and Phoenicia’, in Lewis, Boardman, Hornblower, and Ostwald (1994) 297–336. Marsden, E.W. (1969) Greek and Roman Artillery. Historical Development. Oxford. Morris, E.F. (2005) The Architecture of Imperialism: Military Bases and the Evolution of Foreign Policy in Egypt’s New Kingdom. Probleme der Ägyptologie 22. Leiden. Oliver, G.J., Brock, R., Cornell, T.J., and Hodkinson, S. (eds.) (2000) The Sea in Antiquity (British Archaeological Reports International Series 899). Oxford. Sabin, P., van Wees, H. and Whitby, M. (eds.) (2007) The Cambridge History of Greek and Roman Warfare. Vol. 1: Greece, the Hellenistic World and the Rise of Rome. Cambridge. Smoláriková, K. (2008) Saite Forts in Egypt: Political and Military History of the Saite Dynasty. Prague. Snape, S. (2014) The Complete Cities of Ancient Egypt. London. Stylianou, P.J. (1998) A Historical Commentary on Diodorus Siculus Book 1. Oxford. Turner, E. (1984) ‘Ptolemaic Egypt’, in Walbank, Astin, Frederiksen, and Ogilvie (1984) 118–174. Valbelle, D. (1999) ‘Tell el-Herr’, in Bard (1999) 783–786. Valbelle, D. (2001) ‘A First Persian Period Fortress at Tell el-Herr’, Egyptian Archaeology 18: 12–14. Walbank, F., Astin, A.E., Frederiksen, M.W., and Ogilvie, R.M. (eds.) (1984) The Cambridge Ancient History, 2nd edn. Vol. 7, Part 1. The Hellenistic World. Cambridge. Will, E. (1984) ‘The Period of Antigonus Monophthalmus (321–301)’, in Walbank, Astin, Frederiksen, and Ogilvie (1984) 39–61.

chapter 7

The Introduction of Siege Technology into Classical Greece Matthew Trundle†

One of the themes of Herodotus’ descriptions of the Persians in his Histories is their ability to undertake impressive engineering projects.1 These not only included the transformation of the natural environment for their own ends, like the diversion of rivers and the cutting of canals, but also siege operations on a grand scale.2 The Persians could assault walled cities by either tunnelling under, climbing over, or even ploughing through the walls themselves. No Greek state could prosecute this kind of siege operation until the latter years of the fifth century BC. Indeed, it is telling that the word commonly used of a siege machine, mēchanē (μηχανή), suggests more than a physical engine, but a theoretical as much as a physical contrivance. To the Greeks, thanks in part no doubt to the legacy of the wooden horse of Troy, siege engines smacked of cheating in warfare.3 Plutarch’s Sayings of the Spartans (Ap. Lac. 210b; Ages. 29) has Agesilaus explain that the men were the walls that defended Sparta. The Spartans eschewed fortifications until relatively late.4 Admittedly, such ‘cheating’ became something of an artistic and literary trope in a world dominated by hoplite ideology that idealised the heavily armoured citizen soldier fighting pitched battles. In this world, light troops firing missiles from behind hidden positions and technical machinery stole victories immorally and without honour.5 In addition, such military technology was a Near Eastern legacy that the Persians had inherited from the Assyrians, whose bas-reliefs illustrate in every

1 For example, Herodotus describes bridging the Euphrates at 1.186, crossing the Araxes at 1.201–214, draining rivers at 3.117, the Athos canal construction at 7.22–25, the Hellespontine Bridge at 7.36. 2 For example, Herodotus 1.164 (Phocaea), 3.152 (Babylon), and 6.18 (Miletus). See Winter (1971) 294–302 and de Souza (2009) 683, who both suggest that manpower to man walls was a key factor of defence (cf. Briant [2002] 35), even Cyrus had great siege machines from the start of his imperial career. 3 See for reference the LSJ s.v. μηχανή and related terms, for example μηχανήματα. 4 On Spartan fortifications, see most recently Guintrand (2016) 435–445. 5 For Greek attitudes to light troops, see Trundle (2010b) 139–160.

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sense their mastery of the city assault.6 Siege machines and siege technology were, therefore, alien to the archaic Greek mindset. The Greek cities only began to consider siege technology in the fifth century BC. The Greeks had little in the way of military technology throughout the archaic period and even for much of the fifth century.7 Before the Persian wars they appear to have fought short, limited wars for marginal land as authors like Hanson and more recently Schwartz have demonstrated.8 Archaic age warfare was small in scale with limited technological, or even tactical, sophistication. Any fighting further afield than one’s territorial neighbour typically involved raiding coasts by sea in privateering operations run as small scale enterprises by aristocrats with a handful of fifty-oared ships or pentekonters (πεντηκόντορος) fitted out for this purpose.9 Mycenaean fortresses protected themselves with cyclopean walls but, with the demise of the political and military structures that supported Bronze Age palace society, fortress cities disappear from the mainland until the later sixth century BC. Walled Greek cities reappeared in this period first in the east, and on the islands of the Aegean—perhaps due to Assyrian and Persian influence and their ability to assault fortified positions, but also the sense of security they provided against piracy on the coasts of Asia Minor and the islands.10 Frederikson has demonstrated that there were as many as 119 fortified sites in the Greek world of the seventh century, but that seventh century walls were ‘devoid of long standing sieges among Greeks until well down in the fifth century’.11 It seems clear that the symbiotic development of siege technology with that of defensive city walls may well explain why city-walls (and as a result siege machinery) appeared relatively late in the sixth century BC on the Greek mainland.12

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Morris (1995) 221–245, has discussed the possible Assyrian connections to the story of the Trojan Horse, as the Greeks may have misinterpreted in their ‘myth’ what was essentially a genuine siege machine for storming cities. For good introductions and overview see Strauss (2008) 223–247; Rawlings (2007) 132–140; van Wees (2004) 136–144; most recently Maher (2017) with regard to Arcadia; and Seaman (2020). On early Greek fortifications see Frederikson (2016) 252–266 (discussed briefly below). Hanson (1983); Schwartz (2009). See also van Wees (2004) 26–30; Pritchard (2010) 7–15. See Haas (1985) 29–46; Howgego (1993 and 2000); de Souza (1998) 271–294. See most recently Frederikson (2016) 254; also see Rawlings (2007) 132–133. Frederikson (2016) 252 (for the number of fortified sites) and 259 (for the absence of siegetechnologies until much later). De Souza (2009) 634. Strauss (2008) 239 notes how defences kept pace with offensive technology and sieges remained hotly contested affairs. See Maher (2017) 30–34, and also note he, at 44–60, discusses this relationship between defensive and offensive technologies.

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At the start of the fifth century BC Athenian naval strategies had brought a new kind of warfare to the Aegean Basin. Athenians now controlled an empire with a fleet of triremes. Long-term siege warfare using naval blockades, by which the Athenians would isolate and starve communities, became the means to control the cities of the new Athenian archē. The Athenians usually chose not to attempt invasive siege technologies. Starving out an enemy, even though preferable to assault on walled communities, took time and resources and was itself a high-stakes endeavour involving major financial costs, including payments in coin for the poor who rowed in the fleet.13 Cities often paid the ultimate cost of a new kind of warfare, oikeiōsis, the destruction and literally the appropriation of the losing city, the murder of all the male adult citizens, and the enslavement of the women and children.14 Even in the fifth century, the Athenians aimed at reducing cities to starvation with walls of circumvallation and naval blockade rather than assault even as siege technologies slowly improved. All the Greek communities appear to have had only limited knowledge of the mechanics of siege warfare and lacked genuinely sophisticated means of taking cities by assault prior to the middle of the fifth century. Plutarch (Mor. 191e) reminds us that the Spartan King Archidamus, in the later fifth century, exclaimed when he first saw a catapult-bolt brought from Sicily: ‘By Herakles, this is the end of manly virtue!’ In contrast to other Greeks, however, Thucydides (1.102.1) noted that the Athenians had a reputation for siege operations even in the first half of the fifth century.15 He provides no details as to what this meant beyond that the Athenians were good at wall-assault and conducting sieges more generally, whether circumvallation, assaulting walls with machines, or undermining foundations. For this reason the Spartans invited the Athenians to help them dislodge rebel Helots from the mountain stronghold at Ithome. In the campaign that followed, the Athenians enjoyed as little success as the Spartans, despite their supposed skill 13

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The siege of Samos cost 1200 talents; the siege of Potidea cost about 2000 talents (Thuc. 2.70.2; Isoc. 15.113). A fragment of an inscription (Meiggs & Lewis 78 = IG I3 93 = Fornara 146) has 3000 talents as the cost for the initial invasion of Sicily in 416/5BC and further investment of about 500 talents followed. These were paid in three instalments and included 300T = Thuc. 6.94.4; IG I3 370; a further 120T = Thuc. 7.16.2; IG I3 371; and an unspecified amount referred to in IG I3 371. On the costs facing Athenian warmaking see Trundle (2010a) 225–253 and more recently Pritchard (2015) 48–59 and (2016). After the battle of Aegospotami, Xenophon (Hell. 2.2.3–4) perhaps chillingly lists the cities of Melos, Histiaea, Scione, Torone, Aegina (and many other places) upon which the Athenians had imposed the ultimate penalty. It would be useful to know how many more he has in mind. As Thucydides states: μάλιστα δ’ αὐτοὺς ἐπεκαλέσαντο ὅτι τειχομαχεῖν ἐδόκουν δυνατοὶ εἶναι, τοῖς δὲ πολιορκίας μακρᾶς καθεστηκυίας τούτου ἐνδεᾶ ἐφαίνετο: βίᾳ γὰρ ἂν εἷλον τὸ χωρίον.

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in such situations. This stated, they may well have earned some reputation in siegecraft as they had captured places like Sestus (Hdt. 9.115–120), admittedly through circumvallation, and Eion (Thuc. 1.98; cf. Plut. Cim. 12.1, 14.1) in the wake of the Persian defeat in 479BC. Again in 457 BC, the Athenians hemmed the defeated Corinthians inside a trench (ὄρυγμα), the Greek word suggests a human-made one (literally a dug channel), and then finished them off with missile weapons (Thuc. 1.106.1–2). According to Plutarch (Per. 27.3), following Ephorus, Pericles much admired siege machines (μηχαναῖς) and employed the engineer Artemon to implement them in the siege of Samos 440–439 BC. One of the reasons Pericles admired them, tellingly in Greek historical contexts, was their newness (καινότης). Diodorus (12.28) provides more details of the siege. He describes them as both rams (κριοὺς) and tortoises (χελώνας). Diodorus went so far as to credit the siege machines with the defeat of Samos for, he says, they had thrown down the walls of the city in the siege. Siege machines (μηχαναῖ) appear on several occasions in the Peloponnesian War. The Spartans planned their use at Oenoe in their opening operations of the great war (Thuc. 2.18.1). The Athenians used such machines (μηχανάς) against the Potideans, but without success (Thuc. 2.58.2). The siege of Plataea presents the first detailed description of siege operations on the Greek mainland conducted by Greeks. Thucydides carefully describes the two year campaign to reduce the city. When the Spartans arrived they chopped down trees, built a palisade and then a mound (χῶμα) up to the city walls (Thuc. 2.75). The Plataeans dug out tunnels from the city (ὑπόνομον δὲ ἐκ τῆς πόλεως ὀρύξαντες) to undermine the Spartan siege towers (Thuc. 2.76). Both sides sought to build up protection for their walls and also protection for their machines (μηχανεύς) by using wooden walls protected by hides that extended higher than the original city walls. The machines with which the Spartans assaulted the walls were a combination of battering rams and towers. Thucydides (2.77.1) ultimately stated that the machines (μηχαναῖς) were no use (οὐδὲν ὠφέλουν). Clearly, the technology failed to take the city as in the end the city capitulated through negotiation rather than assault. Later in the Peloponnesian war Nicias attacked Minoa, an island off the coast of Megara, with machines. In this action, Thucydides (3.51.3) describes how the Athenians took two towers (πύργω) with the use of engines (μηχαναῖς) from the sea, they then cleared the entrance into the channel between the island and the shore. He next proceeded to wall-off (ἀπετείχιζε) access to the mainland at the point where a bridge across a morass had enabled help to come to the island, which was not far off from the mainland. Nicias next built walls on the island (ἐν τῇ νήσῳ τεῖχος) and, leaving (ἐγκαταλιπὼν) a garrison there, he departed. This description suggests a combination of walling in the enemy and

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preventing outside assistance, alongside the use of ‘machines’ to attack fortified positions—in this case the towers. The Peloponnesians planned to build machines to take the wall at Asine that protected the harbour (Thuc. 4.13.1–2). Thucydides (5.7.5) describes Cleon surveying the walls of Amphipolis. He states that Cleon ‘even imagined that he had made a mistake in coming up against the city without siege-engines (μηχανὰς); had he brought them he would have taken Amphipolis, for there was no one to prevent him’. All these examples suggest the regular use of machines in war in this period, though their success appears mixed. Perhaps most remarkable of all, Thucydides (4.100.1–4) describes a machine (μηχανὴν) constructed to take the fort of Delium after the battle of Delium in 424BC. The Thebans and their allies thus created some kind of flame throwing device, from a beam of iron connected at one end to a cauldron of burning pitch, that conducted flames by means of bellows against the wooden wall of the defenders. By this means they actually took the fortress. Similarly, at Lecythus and not long afterwards, Brasidas attacked the weak part of the wall with a machine contrived to throw fire (Thuc. 4.115.1–3). The success of these devices, that conveyed fire, stands in stark contrast to the general picture of siege machines in the Peloponnesian War. Most attempts to use them failed. Technology, such as battering rams, ramps, towers, and catapults, played limited roles in successful sieges even in the later part of the fifth century. Few cities of any size, therefore, if well-defended and well organised, can have genuinely feared falling to assault. Even Athens preferred circumvallation and starving the enemy into surrender to assault. This was the case in campaigns against small cities, like Melos, and even at Pylos the Athenians made no effort at assault initially hoping to starve the Spartans out in a few days (Thuc. 4.26). At Syracuse, where the Athenians chose only circumvallation, Thucydides mentions siege machines (μηχανὰς) only twice: once as the Syracusans attempted to take the Athenian fortress called the circle (Thuc. 6.102.2), and again (Thuc. 7.43.1–3) by the Athenians attempting to capture the Syracusan counter-wall against circumvallation. On both occasions the defenders destroyed the machines with fire. Larger investments took time and effort and committed enormous amounts of men, materials, and money. Even the Spartans besieged Athens this way at the end of the war. Having surrounded the city by land and by sea, they waited until the Athenians ran out of food or ‘supplies’ (ἐπιτήδεια). Nevertheless, while assaulting walls posed risks and regularly did not result in success, taking large cities by investment also carried enormous risks to the besiegers. Dug in at one location, they were vulnerable themselves to disease and potential counter-attack. The Athenians learned this only too well at Syracuse.

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In this environment, as long as they could feed themselves, fifth-century Athenians—and indeed most cities—felt entirely secure behind their walls. For the Athenians, the long walls down to the Piraeus enabled food to enter the city un-assailed, despite Spartan domination of the land. The Spartans, for their part, never seem to have discussed the option of attempting an assault of the city of Athens itself. Other cities, like Megara, employed similar means to protect themselves from outside incursions. Tellingly, though, at the end of the Persian Wars the Spartans hoped that the Athenians would not rebuild their walls on the grounds that Athens could not then serve as a base for future Persian invasions—but in reality, because they knew that they had no means of taking Athens by assault with its walls intact. Similarly, at the end of the Peloponnesian War, they dismantled part of the long walls, thus leaving Athens vulnerable to circumvallation by land alone. Even the Athenians made cities more vulnerable through the dismantling of walls after their capture.16 The point is that walls clearly meant security against assault in the fifth century. This was a trend that continued throughout antiquity, as city walls provided some sense of safety to occupants. The passive approach to siege warfare, circumvallation rather than assault, seems to have remained the case on the Greek mainland until the mid-fourth century BC. Indeed, the period after the Peloponnesian War saw increased emphasis on defensive fortifications to protect cities, and even regional frontiers.17 Xenophon’s Hellenica has sparse references to sieges by assault, despite an increased number of cities destroyed and exiles wandering the Greek world.18 The Athenians strengthened their defences across the northern frontier of Attica with a series of forts and ultimately the ‘dema wall’, which represented a string of forts in northern Attica.19 Some of these forts went back at least to the fifth century BC.20 The first use of machines on a truly impressive scale, and with some success in Greek contexts (albeit outside of the Greek mainland), occurred on the island of Sicily in the last decade of the fifth century BC.21 In 409 BC, the Carthaginians invaded the island in the political turmoil in the wake of the 16 17 18 19 20 21

Thus, for example, Naxos (Thuc. 1.98), Thasos (Thuc. 1.101.3), and Samos (Thuc. 1.117.3). Strauss (2008) 241–242. McKechnie (1989) 28 lists the large number of cities destroyed in the early fourth century BC and the growth in numbers of exiles in the period. For discussion see Munn (1993) and Ober (1985). Rawlings (2007) 138. Strauss (2008) 241 claims that ‘The approximate half century between the end of the Peloponnesian War (404) and the rise of Macedon under Philip (359–336) witnessed another revolutionary era in Greek siege warfare’.

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Athenian failure at Syracuse. Hannibal Mago assembled a large and diverse army for the invasion, which included both Iberians and Libyans, as well as Campanians from Italy, and even some Greeks. Here we read that the Carthaginians employed siege towers and other machines of war, like ballistae and iron plated battering rams. Diodorus Siculus provides our primary information at the siege of Selinus in 409BC. Diodorus (13.54.3–7) describes in detail the siege and the machines employed, which is worth some discussion. Hannibal landed near the city of Selinus and he divided his army into two parts; then, after he had invested the city and put his siege-engines in position, he began the assaults with all speed. He set up six towers of exceptional size and advanced an equal number of battering-rams plated with iron against the walls;22 furthermore, by employing his archers and slingers in great numbers, he beat back the fighters on the battlements. Hannibal next moved against Himera (Diod. Sic. 13.59–62). Apparently, his battering rams shook the walls and tunnels undermined them to create chambers whose wooden supports were then burned so that the resulting subsidence brought down a part of the wall. Even these efforts failed to take the city though. The perils of siege operations always presented challenges for the besiegers. Often these challenges were just as difficult as for the besieged. This was a lesson well learned by the Athenians at Syracuse in 413 BC. At Himera the Carthaginians were caught unawares by a relief army. The Greeks thus encircled the Carthaginian forces, which panicked and fled with casualties variously recorded at 6,000 and 20,000 (Diod. Sic. 13.60.5). At Acragas, in 406 BC, the Carthaginians embarked upon a most ambitious siege. They encamped round the city, with one part of their army controlling the high ground and the other investing the city below. After constructing a palisade around the walls, they brought up their siege towers. Negotiations failed to find a settlement and the assault began, with the Carthaginians advancing two siege towers against the weakest point of the wall. These the Acragantines burned in a counterattack on the first night. The Carthaginians, however, now pressed the walls at several points, using material from the tombs outside the city to raise structures from which to attack the walls. Relief forces from Syracuse, Gela, and other Greek cities now crossed the Himera. The fighting ebbed and flowed, but Acragas ultimately fell to the Carthaginians as the Acragantines who could abandoned the city.

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Diodorus (13.54.4) states: περιστρατοπεδεύσας δ’ αὐτὴν καὶ τὰς μηχανὰς ἐπιστήσας μετὰ πάσης σπουδῆς τὰς προσβολὰς ἐποιεῖτο. ἓξ μὲν γὰρ πύργους ὑπερβάλλοντας τοῖς μεγέθεσιν ἐπέστησε, τοὺς ἴσους δὲ κριοὺς κατασεσιδηρωμένους προσήρεισε τοῖς τείχεσι.

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Following the peace of 405 BC Carthage seems to have weakened. At this time, Dionysius had re-established Syracusan control in north-eastern Sicily, while at the same time he had organised the construction of ships and gathered supplies for a renewed offensive against Carthaginian strongholds in the west of the island. He also did much to improve the defensive fortifications of the city, especially the island fortress of Euryalus.23 In this process, Dionysius had developed a series of military machines for the undertaking (Diod. Sic. 14.42.1). He gathered together artisans to produce arms (ὅπλα), new kinds of ships, both quadriremes (τετρήρεις) and quinqueremes (πεντήρεις), and missiles (βέλη) for his wars on the island and in Italy (Diod. Sic. 14.41.3). Here we see the role of tyrant as a central coordinating figure, and his ability to bring together skilled people, resources, and technology on a grand scale. Utilising this technology, the Greeks advanced west against the Carthaginians. Their first target was the impressive city of Motya, and the most significant siege of this period followed from 397–396BC. Motya lay on an island in western Sicily between Lilybaeum and Drepanum. The capture of Motya was thus a formidable undertaking. The Motyans had destroyed the causeway that linked their island fortress to the mainland. The Greeks employed catapults and five-banked warships (from the Latin styled as the quinquereme or Greek πεντήρις) for the first time in siege (Diod. Sic. 14.50.4; Ath. Mech 10.1). Diodorus (14.51.1–7) describes what followed in detail and the array of technology on both sides. The passage is worth quoting in full: After Dionysius had completed the mole (χῶμα) by employing a large force of labourers, he advanced war engines (μηχανὰς) of every kind against the walls and kept hammering the towers (πύργους) with his battering-rams (κριοῖς), while with the catapults (καταπέλταις) he kept down the fighters on the battlements; and he also advanced against the walls his wheeled towers (τροχῶν πύργους), six stories high, which he had built to equal the height of the houses. The inhabitants of Motya, now that the threat was at hand, were nevertheless not dismayed by the armament of Dionysius, even though they had for the moment no allies to help them. Surpassing the besiegers in thirst for glory, they in the first place raised up men in crows’ nests resting on yard-arms suspended from the highest possible masts (ἐκ τῶν μεγίστων ἱστῶν κεραίαις ἱσταμέναις ἐβάσταζον ἄνδρας ἐν θωρακίοις), and these from their lofty positions hurled lighted fire-brands and burning tow with pitch on the enemies’ siege engines.

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Most recently see Beste (2016) 193–206.

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The flame quickly caught the wood, but the Sicilian Greeks, dashing to the rescue, swiftly quenched it; and meantime the frequent blows of the battering-rams broke down a section of the wall.24 Eventually, as the passage shows, the mole reached the city, the Motyans defied the siege towers and battering rams with ingenious cradles hung from the masts located on their high towers, from which men poured lighted fires onto the siege engines. Note here the parallels, indeed the similarity with, naval technology with the use of masts and rigging for cradles. Dionysius then lulled the defenders into falsely believing his forces would retire. He then brought up ladders that enabled the Greeks to overcome the city walls and eventually their numbers consumed the defenders. In all its aspects the siege of Motya demonstrates the uses of technology from engines and towers, to rams, to innovative counter-measures by defenders utilising beams, swinging cradles, and fire. Thus, by the 390s BC, Greeks and Carthaginians on both sides of Sicilian warfare employed impressive machinery in sieges.25 Sicilian warfare appears to have made impressive use of technology. Fifth century mainland Greeks, as we have seen, had used some machines, but Dionysius the tyrant at Syracuse went further than them in creating and using impressive rams, engines, and, importantly, catapults. Thus, the early fourth century saw Greek siege technology develop well in Sicily. In this context, both in the west and on the Greek mainland, the spread of walled cities and the movement of peoples to more defensible sites attest not only the need to seek safety in what was a more violent and unstable environment, but also one in which technology both defensive and offensive played increasingly important roles in Greek warfare. It is possible that the improvement in siege technology moved from the Greeks of Sicily to their cousins on the mainland.26 In this period, scholars also note that the biggest transformation in technology came with the development of more powerful catapults. Into this context entered the Macedonian kings. Macedonian imperialism witnessed cities taken by storm from Europe to Asia. Vitruvius (10.13.3) highlighted the innovations of Philip and Alexander. The translation of Gwilt reads as follows: But afterwards, when Philip, the son of Amintas, besieged Byzantium, Polydus the Thessalian used it in many and simple forms, and by him 24 25 26

Diod. Sic. 15.51.1–7 (trans. Oldfather). Marsden (1969) 48–49; Rawlings (2007) 139. Thus, Garlan (1974) 156–169; Caven (1990); Kern (1999) 163–193; and Strauss (2008) 141.

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were instructed Diades and Chæreas who fought under Alexander. Diades has shown in his writings that he was the inventor of ambulatory towers, which he caused to be carried from one place to another by the army, in pieces, as also of the auger and the scaling machine, by which one may step on to a wall; as also the grappling hook, which some call the crane (grus).27 Even if these statements are untrue, Philip and Alexander were capable of impressive siege operations and importantly the capture of cities by assault as much as by circumvallation and starvation. Alexander’s capture of Thebes, and then his successful sieges of cities like Miletus (Arr. Anab. 1.18 ff.) on the west coast of Turkey, and more significantly of Tyre (Arr. Anab. 2.17–24; Diod. Sic. 17.46; Curt. 4.4.10–21), and Gaza (Arr. Anab. 2.26–27; Diod. Sic. 17.48.7; Curt. 4.6.7–30; Plut. Alex. 25) in the eastern Mediterranean, not to mention the ingenuity to take the Sogdian Rock (4.18.4–19.6) and Birdless Rock (Diod. Sic. 17.85; Curt. 8.2.1–3; Arr. Anab. 4.24.8–9) in the east, demonstrate Macedonian technology at its best. Curtius’ (9.8.15; see also Arr. Anab. 6.10) description of his capture of the Indian town of the Malli, whereby Macedonian miners tunneled under the walls enabling soldiers to appear literally in the middle of the town without detection, also shows the ability of the Macedonians to undertake fantastic engineering operations in capturing cities. The Macedonians appear to be the true successors of the Persians in this regard, with their ability to overcome walled cities through tunnelling, scaling or even battering through walls.28 Siege technology, therefore, developed in the Greek world thanks to three distinct, but related phenomena. The first, and most significant, was the influence of the peoples of the east on Greek technology and thinking. We began this paper with the ability of the Persians to take cities by assault and, indeed, to control their natural environment. This ability, and the technology required, must have come to the Greeks in the wake of the Persian invasions of mainland Greece and Greek, especially Athenian, experience of them in the Aegean in the years following 479BC. Thus, we see the first siege machines appear on the Greek mainland in the wake of the Persian Wars. Similarly, in the west the Carthaginians brought with them their own forms of siege technology, which itself saw Sicilian Greeks under Dionysius employing siege technology with

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Gwilt (1826), on Vitr. 10.13.3. For a general introduction and overview see English (2009) as well as the short, but brilliant discussion in Rhodes (2006) 365–366.

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great skill. Greek cities may also have built walls as a result of the connections they had with Persian imperialism.29 Defenders and attackers, therefore, traded technological improvements with each other. The second influence on siege technology emerged in the context of the construction and management of the great navies in the Greek world and in particular associated with the rise of the trireme. The coordination required to build, crew, and manage large numbers of triremes (of 200 men each) gave states like Athens the skills to coordinate major military operations more generally.30 Such navies also required new technologies and new infrastructures. This infrastructure provided a key requirement for developing siege technology. Thus, the last of the three conditions that assisted the development of siege technology in the Greek world was centralisation of wealth and its redistribution, as essential for the trireme and naval warfare as it was for technological developments. Thucydides (1.11.1–2) had noted that wars before his own day were smaller not so much due to lack of manpower (ὀλιγανθρωπία) as to lack of chrēmata (ἀχρηματία). By Thucydides’ day chrēmata specifically meant coinage.31 Thucydides noted that in previous wars armies spent time gathering provisions rather than prosecuting wars themselves. The role of more centralised resources, and indeed of coined money, from the perspective of feeding, paying and redistributing food and remuneration in the classical period, transformed how Greeks fought their wars. Coinage centralised the process of provisioning. Centralisation not through coinage, but through monarchy and bureaucratic administration had played a key role in enabling the Persians, and the Assyrians before them, to conduct major military operations like impressive sieges on a grand scale. The Greeks, and the Athenians especially, employed these new technologies, supported by the resources available through the communal focus of the polis, to besiege cities, starve out their enemies by circumvallation, and even to take cities by assault. We can connect Athenian naval power, and the coordination and technology that it required, with the increased ability to besiege walled cities. As time passed, technological improvements naturally followed. It is thus likely that Syracuse developed the new quinquereme at the same time as Dionysius produced his new siege engines at the end of the fifth century BC.

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Rawlings (2007) 133. See Aperghis (2013) 1–24; Gabrielsen (2001) 72–98; Haas (1985) 29–46; Rawlings (2007) 151–157; Trundle (2010a) 227–253; Wallinga (1993); van Wees (2004) 119–231. For discussion see Trundle (2010a) 225–253; Trundle (2020).

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The third of the preconditions for siege technology, then, and perhaps the most important factor, was the centralisation of poleis, like Athens and Sparta, and later at Syracuse under the tyrant Dionysius, that enabled the coordination of the kind of resources and management required to construct siege engines alongside maintenance of greater armies prosecuting more effective wars. The peoples of the east, under powerful rulers—Assyrian and more notably Persian Kings—had been able to coordinate resources to maximum effect for several centuries by the classical age. As the fifth century progressed, the Greek cities could do the same. The Macedonian kings inherited the knowledge of this world in the fourth century BC and with a centralised and coordinated military force brought all the power of a new military system to bear on their world. Sieges and the technology that emerged in their prosecution were simply therefore a product of the later classical Greek context. Wars grew greater and more coordinated alongside the ability of states to prosecute more impressive wars, as the application of technology improved. States could employ more people, more specialists, and more machines in the prosecution of wars in the latter part of the fifth century and throughout the fourth century BC. While machines had mixed success in the fifth century BC in sieges, it is clear that as the fourth century progressed armies could increasingly take cities by assault. The Carthaginians at Selinus, Dionysius at Motya and ultimately Alexander at Tyre each illustrate that machines could assist the breaching of walls in a new Greek context. Defences certainly improved, but cities could only defy imperial powers at their peril. Money, centralisation and innovation transformed warfare exponentially.

Bibliography Aperghis, G. (2013) ‘Athenian Mines, Coins and Triremes’, Historia 62.1: 1–24. Baatz, D. (1999) ‘Katapulte und mechanische Handwaffen des spätrömischen Heeres’, JRMES 10: 5–19. Ballmer, A., Fernandez-Götz, M., and Mielke, D.P. (eds.) (2018) Understanding Ancient Fortifications: Between Regionality and Connectivity. Oxford. Ballmer, A. (2018) ‘Understanding Ancient Fortifications: Between Regionality and Connectivity—An Introduction’, in Ballmer, Fernandez-Götz, and Mielke (2018) 1–4. Bekker-Nielsen, T. and Hannestad, L. (eds.) (2004) War as a Cultural and Social Force. Copenhagen. Beste, H.-J. (2016) ‘The Castle Euryalos of Syracuse’, in Frederiksen, Müth, Schneider, and Schnelle (2016) 193–206.

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Briant, P. (2002) From Cyrus to Alexander: A History of the Persian Empire. Winona Lake, IN. Brice, L.L. (ed.) (2020) New Approaches to Greek and Roman Warfare. Malden, MA. de Camp, L. Sprague (1961) ‘Master Gunner Apollonios’, T&C 2 (3): 240–244. Campbell, D. (1986) ‘Auxiliary Artillery Revisited’, BJ 186: 117–132. Campbell, D. (2003) Greek and Roman Artillery 399BC–AD363. Oxford. Carter, J.B. and Morris, S.P. (eds.) (1995) The Ages of Homer: A Tribute to Emily Townsend Vermeule. Austin. Caven, B. (1990) Dionysius I: War-lord of Sicily. New Haven. Diels, H. and E. Schramm (eds.) (1918) ‘Heron’s “Belopoiika”’, Abhandlungen der preussischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, Philosoph.-hist. Kl. 2. Berlin. English, S. (2009) The Sieges of Alexander the Great. Bradford. Fagan, G. and Trundle, M. (eds.) (2010) New Perspectives on Ancient Warfare. Leiden. Fisher, N. and van Wees, H. (eds.) (1998) Archaic Greece: New Approaches and New Evidence. London. Fontaine, S. and Helas, S. (eds.) (2016) Le fortificazioni arcaiche del Latium vetus e dell’Etrurie meridionale (IX–VI sec. a.C.) Stratigrafia, cronologia e urbanizzazione. Rome. Frederikson, R. (2016) ‘Fortifications and the Archaic City in the Greek World’, in Fontaine and Helas (2016) 252–266. Frederiksen, R., Müth, S., Schneider, P.I., and Schnelle, M. (eds.) (2016) Focus On Fortifications: New Research on Fortifications in the Ancient Mediterranean and the Near East. Oxford. Gabrielsen, V. (2001) ‘Naval Warfare: Its Economic and Social Impact in Greek Cities’, in Bekker-Nielsen and Hannestad (2004) 72–98. Garlan, Y. (1974) Recherches de poliorcetique grecque. Paris. Garlan, Y. (1984) ‘War and siegecraft’, in Wallbank, Astin, Frederiksen, and Ogilvie (1984) 353–362. Guintrand, M. (2016) ‘Les fortifications dans le système défensif lacédémonien à l’époque Classique’, in Frederiksen, Müth, Schneider, and Schnelle (2016) 435–445. Gwilt, J. (trans.) (1826) The Architecture of Marcus Vitruvius Pollio. London. Haas, C. (1985) ‘Athenian Naval Power Before Themistocles’, Historia 34: 29–46. Hacker, B.C. (1968) ‘Greek Catapults and Catapult Technology: Science, Technology, and War in the Ancient World’, T&C 9: 34–50. Hanson, V.D. (1983) Warfare and Agriculture in Ancient Greece. Berkeley. Howgego, C. (1993) ‘Wars and Raids for Booty in the World of Odysseus’, in Rich and Shipley (1993) 64–76. Howgego, C. (2000) ‘Sea-Raiding in Archaic Greece with Special Attention to Samos’, in Oliver (2000) 133–144. Hülden, O. (2018) ‘Greek fortifications before the Persian Wars. An Overview’, in Ballmer, Fernandez-Götz, and Mielke (2018) 93–110.

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Kern, P.B. (1999) Ancient Siege Warfare. Bloomington. Lawrence, A.W. (1979) Greek Aims in Fortification. Oxford. Lewis, D.M. (2006) ‘Sicily 413–368B.C.’, in Lewis, Boardman, Hornblower, and M. Ostwald (2006) 120–155. Lewis, M.J.T. (1999) ‘When was Biton?’ Mnemosyne 52.2: 159–168 Lewis, D., Boardman, J., Hornblower, S. and Ostwald, M. (eds.) (2006) The Cambridge Ancient History, 2nd edn. Vol. 6. The Fourth Century B.C. Cambridge. Maher, M.P. (2017) The Fortification of Arkadian City States in the Classical and Hellenistic Periods. Oxford. Marsden, E.W. (1969) Greek and Roman artillery. Historical Development. Oxford. McKechnie, P. (1997) Outsiders in the Greek Cities in the Fourth Century BC. Oxford. Morris, S.P. (1995) ‘The Sacrifice of Astyanax: Near Eastern Contributions to the Siege of Troy’, in Carter and Morris (1995) 221–245. Munn, M.H. (1993) The Defense of Attica: The Dema Wall and the Boiotian War of 378– 375BC. Berkeley. Ober, J. (1987) ‘Early Artillery Towers: Messenia, Boiotia, Attica, Megarid’, AJA 91: 569– 604. Ober, J. (1985) Fortress Attica: The Defense of the Athenian Land Frontier 404–322B.C. Leiden. Oleson, J.P. (ed.) (2009) The Oxford Handbook of Engineering and Technology in the Classical World. Oxford. Oliver, G. (ed.) (2000) The Sea in Antiquity. Oxford. Pritchard, D.M. (2010a) ‘The Symbiosis between Democracy and War: The Case of Ancient Athens’, in Pritchard (2010) 1–62. Pritchard, D.M. (ed.) (2010b) War, Democracy and Culture in Classical Athens. Cambridge. Pritchard, D.M. (2015) ‘Public Finance and War in Ancient Greece’. G&R 62: 48–59. Pritchard, D.M. (2016) Public Spending and Democracy in Classical Athens. Austin. Rawlings, L. (2007) The Greeks at War. Manchester. Rhodes, P. (2006) A History of the Classical Greek World 478–323BC. Oxford. Rich, J. and Shipley, G. (eds.) (1993) War and Society in the Greek World. London. Sabin, P., Wees, van H. and Whitby, M. (eds.) (2008) The Cambridge History of Greek and Roman Warfare, Volume 1, Greece, the Hellenistic World and the Rise of Rome. Cambridge. Schellenberg, H.M. (2006) ‘Diodor von Sizilien 14,42,1 und die Erfindung der Artillerie im Mittelmeerraum’, Frankfurter Elektronische Rundschau zur Altertumskunde 3: 14– 23. Schwartz, A. (2010) Reinstating the Hoplite: Arms, Armour and Phalanx Fighting in Archaic and Classical Greece. Stuttgart. Seaman, M. (2020) ‘Early Greek Siege Warfare’, in Brice (2020) 17–27.

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Souza, P. de (1998) ‘Towards Thalassocracy? Archaic Greek Naval Developments’, in Fisher and van Wees (1998) 271–294. Souza, P. de (2008) ‘Naval Battles and Siege Warfare’, in Sabin, van Wees, and Whitby (2008) 434–460. Souza, P. de (2009) ‘Greek Warfare and Fortification’, in Oleson (2009) 673–690. Strauss, B. (2008) ‘Naval Battles and Sieges’, in Sabin, van Wees, and Whitby (2008) 223– 247. Trundle, M. (2010a) ‘Coinage and the Transformation of Greek Warfare’, in Fagan and Trundle (2010) 225–253. Trundle, M. (2010b) ‘Light Armed Troops in Classical Athens’, in Pritchard (2010b) 139– 160. Trundle, M. (2020) ‘Wealth and the Logistics of Greek Warfare: Food, Pay, and Plunder’, in Brice (2020) 17–27. Van Wees, H. (2004) Greek Warfare: Myths and Realities. London. Walbank, F., Astin, A.E., Frederiksen, M.W., and Ogilvie, R.M. (eds.) (1984) The Cambridge Ancient History, 2nd edn. Vol. 7, Part 1. The Hellenistic World. Cambridge. Wallinga, H.T. (1993) Ships and Sea-Power Before the Persian War. Leiden. Wilson, A.I. (2009) ‘Machines in Greek and Roman Technology’, in Oleson (2009) 337– 367. Winter, F.E. (1971) Greek Fortifications. Toronto.

chapter 8

Women on the Walls? The Role and Impact of Women in Classical Greek Sieges Jennifer Martinez Morales

Women have a strong connection to the landscape of war in ancient history.* They contributed in many ways to the war effort by throwing roof tiles and stones from houses, cooking in military garrisons, and distributing missiles to fighting men, among others. But if their city fell to enemy hands, women were considered as part of the booty acquired once conflict subsided and sometimes even while conflict was still occurring. The impact of ancient sieges on women was appalling: as war captives, women were sold into slavery, endured rape and sexual violence at the hands of their captors, and lost any rights they once had as freeborn women in the ancient world. Ancient siege warfare raised the stakes in any conflict. Besides civil war, this is the only other time that war comes directly (and literally) to the household. Men, as guardians of the women of the household, were solely responsible for the protection of the oikos. They knew what they could lose if their side lost. The constant presence of the enemy outside the walls acted as a reminder of this every day of the conflict. City walls are an extension of the city at war: they support men fighting the enemy beyond the walls, they support the men who make the rounds on the walls, and they support individuals distributing missiles to the fighting men. It is the last which merits attention here, because these individuals were often women. The presence of women on city walls is as old as time. King Abimelech of the Hebrew Bible, during his siege of Thebez, was mortally wounded by a woman who threw a grinding stone from a tower within which the population had barricaded themselves. Abimelech then called one of his men to kill him so that people do not say that a woman killed him (Judges 9:50–57). A slab part of the Nereid Monument, now in the British Museum, clearly depicts a woman on the city walls.1 The traditional interpretation of this slab is that she * I would like to express my appreciation to the editors for inviting me to contribute to this volume. 1 BM 1848,1020.65. Translations in this chapter are from the Loeb Classical Library unless otherwise stated.

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is showing signs of distress, but as I argue elsewhere,2 the context—and the fact that her hand is clenched (most likely once holding a missing object, like a stone)—indicates that she is engaged in a wartime task much like the soldiers around her. There existed another connection between city walls and women which can be seen in the protective aspect that walls project: just as walls protect its citizens, women protect their children at times of war. The reader will notice that in many (if not all) of the accounts discussed in this chapter, women are mentioned alongside children by our sources. This not only reflects of the gendered-specific activities women performed in peacetime regarding motherhood and childrearing, but it also has to do with the fact that once the man left to fight in war, the protection of their children rested in the hands of women. In wartime, women became the guardians of their children. Writing the history of women in ancient sieges is no easy task. We are dealing with fragmentary evidence spread across different genres, and numerous ancient authors, with different agendas (and biases). For the most part when sources refer to women at all in their narratives about war, they do so briefly. There is not a single comprehensive account of women in ancient sieges, but we can reconstruct their experiences, roles, and impact through brief accounts. One can only hope to capture some of the ancient realities as they once were for both men and women in ancient warfare. Because of this, I have decided to focus on the Classical period of ancient Greece. This is where we find most of our evidence for women in ancient sieges. But that is not to say that many of the subjects discussed here did not occur in other times and periods. Women’s role in and impact on ancient sieges, for example, are deeply embedded in the ancient imagination. Carthaginian women assisted men in preparations for war by working in workshops throughout their city and by providing their hair for repairs of siege machinery (App. Pun. 13.93), other women took up arms against Roman soldiers (App. Hann. 5.29), while others were killed by their own men rather than incur shame after war by falling prey to the enemy (Polyb. 16.34.8–12). In the Near East, women also played a key role in conflicts.3 Women, as bearers of future warriors, seem to have been a primary concern in Near Eastern wars. Special attention was paid to the women who could produce sons, who in the future could become warriors for the King. But this same attention was paid to the women of the enemy, as in more than one occasion we hear of the ‘ripping up’ of pregnant women in the context of the destruction of cities.4 There 2 Martinez Morales (forthcoming). 3 See Kuhrt (2001). 4 See Lambert (1983) 214; Cogan (1983); Kuhrt (2001) 7–8. More recently, see van Wees (2010).

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is evidence of some queens, and exceptionally powerful women, who had the political means and ability to act as military commanders, but they were the exception (the ninth century BC Assyrian queen Semiramis, for example). Most of the evidence for women in warfare in the Near East relates to the deportations of populations.5 We have less evidence for the involvement of women in war in other regions. In Africa, for example, we hear of the women of the Zaueke. Briefly mentioned by Herodotus and Hecataeus, these women are said to have driven their chariots to war (Hdt. 4.193; FGrHist 1 F 336). Modern scholars have made some attempts to identify these women in the historical record. Walter Wyberg How and Joseph Wells argue that they may be ‘… perhaps the predecessors of the Zeugi, from whom part of Roman Africa got its name Zeugitania’.6 Unfortunately, little is known about them. Although one has little evidence for other regions, it seems that women’s involvement in ancient wars, including sieges, was prevalent in many societies. We only hear of them because outsiders thought it might be worth reporting or because they made good examples of the inversion of societal norms (as we will see, Herodotus resorted frequently to this gender inversion motif). Scholars have approached the subject from different perspectives. Some, while looking at ancient warfare, group all women, regardless of their social and economic circumstances and status, within the non-combatants of a city under siege.7 Others, while looking at gender and sexuality in the ancient world, pay some attention to women in war contexts.8 None, however, have looked at both through the same lens and with diversity of experiences in mind. What follows is not an attempt to have the final say on women in ancient sieges. This chapter will merely begin to address the role and impact of women in these events. It will not only argue that women, as members of the community, were an integral part of any city under siege, but it will also try to place them in their wartime contexts. As noted in the abstract, scholarship has traditionally addressed the wartime representation of women like Andromache through a mythical lens. This chapter, by contrast, addresses historical women and historical sieges and conflicts. These women are addressed by our sources in a collective setting. Sources frequently stress how sieges affected communities. Women, as part of these communities, had a significant role in ancient siege 5 6 7 8

On women and war in the Near East, see Clancier (2014). How and Wells (1912). See, for example, Schaps (1982); Kern (1999); and Loman (2004). The recent edited collection of essays titled Women and War in Antiquity is the start of the conversation about this subject. See Fabre-Serris and Keith (2015).

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warfare. The strong relationship between city walls and siege warfare needs no restating here. Women’s contributions, however, do. I seek to create a much broader picture where women’s contributions are not limited to the battlefield or to throwing tiles and stones from houses. By focusing on these single actions, scholars overlook the plethora of other activities that women engaged in, such as participation in wall-building programs and distribution of food and missiles. This chapter, for instance, focuses on wall-building as a community effort in which women were a vital component. It also explores women’s direct contributions to siege warfare, women’s involvement in military tactics, and women’s diverse behaviour in war. I argue that women’s involvement in sieges was not exceptional, as some have claimed.9 However, hurling tiles and stones is not combat and we cannot judge women’s actions during war by comparing them to men since women were never expected to fight in the first place. This was just what individuals did when the enemy was at their doorstep. Women were not going out of their way to engage with the enemy. It was the enemy that transgressed boundaries and it was exactly what any individual, regardless of gender, would have done in any ancient siege.

1

Telesilla: A Unique Story

It is perhaps best to start with a well-known example of women’s direct roles in ancient Greek sieges. Telesilla of Argos is arguably the most renowned woman who participated directly in an ancient siege. Surviving texts and fragments celebrate her life as a poet. Both Plutarch and Pausanias describe her exploits and that of the women of Argos during the war against the Spartans under King Cleomenes I (Plut. Mor. 245c–f; Paus. 2.20.8–10). Telesilla was said to have roused the women and together they surrounded the walls (τείχη) with arms ultimately saving their city. The women who died in the conflict were said to have been buried by the ‘Argive Road’ (Plut. Mor. 245D). Pausanias, by contrast, is much more specific in his version of events. He starts his account by describing the statue of Telesilla he saw in the sanctu-

9 Louis Rawlings, for instance, claims that ‘these were acts of desperation; normally, women were not expected to involve themselves in combat’ (Rawlings [2007] 217). Philip De Souza argues similarly that ‘the active role of women in a city that was under attack was limited to hurling roof-tiles at the enemy once they were inside the walls, a desperate measure which could occasionally have a significant impact’ (De Souza [2007] 459). Barry Strauss likewise states that ‘one of the few good things about life under siege was a slight relaxation of the usual restrictions on women’s freedom’ (Strauss [2007] 246).

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ary of Aphrodite in Argos. Her connection to war is immediate: she is depicted looking at a helmet in her hand while books lie scattered at her feet. In his version of the story, Pausanias describes the city of Argos devoid of men, who had all been killed by Cleomenes’ forces. Telesilla is said to have ‘mounted on the walls’ (ἀνεβίβασεν ἐπὶ τὸ τεῖχος) all the household slaves (οἰκέτας) and those who could not bear arms due to old age and youth (Paus. 2.20.9). She supplied those women who were ‘in their prime’ or ‘most vigorous’ (ἀκμάζω) with arms found in sanctuaries and posted them where she understood the enemy were to make their attack. Many modern scholars are somewhat sceptical of the authenticity of Telesilla’s role, mainly because Herodotus does not mention her in his account of the war and because some claim that it was only used as an aetiological story for the Hybristika.10 However, there is nothing in either account to suggest this is an implausible story. If anything, with the exception of Telesilla’s leadership role in the war, both accounts fall directly in line with other accounts of women in ancient Greek sieges. There is, for instance, an explicit connection with the household in Pausanias’ account. One can argue that these would have been exactly the people left in a city under siege. The men of fighting age engaged in the conflict away from the city, while the rest of civilians are left at home. This is the same situation we see during the Theban invasion of Laconia in 370/369 BC where, by contrast, we are told that the women were in utter panic and even caused more confusion than the enemy (Plut. Ages. 31.4; Xen. Hell. 6.5.28; Pl. Laws. 806a–b; Arist. Pol. 1269b). Another woman whose actions proved to be remarkable during a siege is Timocleia of Thebes. When Alexander the Great’s forces sacked the city of Thebes, a Thracian commander stormed her house and raped her. After he asked for any valuables, she led him outside and pushed him down the well to his death. She was brought to Alexander, who was so impressed by her proud demeanour that he supposedly set her free together with her children (Plut. Alex.12; De Mul. Vir. 24). Their stories, however, are unique and do not reflect the experience of ordinary women in ancient Greek sieges. Instead of dividing the role and impact of women in ancient sieges into artificial categories, as others have traditionally done, I will follow the sources.11 Consequently, if the accounts analysed here 10

11

The Hybristika was an Argive festival where women were clothed in men’s cloaks and men in women’s clothing (including veils); during the festival they both hurled insults at one another (Plut. Mor. 245d–f). See, for example, McIntosh Snyder (1989) 61–62. For categories see Schaps (1982) and Loman (2004). Women’s role in war has been divided in three main areas: (1) active participation, (2) supportive actions, and (3) contributing

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seem in any way disparate, it is purposely so. In war narratives, women are not the primary focus of ancient authors, so when they are mentioned, we need to represent as best as possible what these authors are trying to say about them.

2

Ordinary Women: A Community Story

Aeneas Tacticus in his Poliorketika explicitly mentions women in several occasions.12 Women appear most frequently in the accounts that deal with military deceit. The assault on the city of Sinope illustrates the potential for women to have a psychological impact on the enemy. Aeneas says that when the people of Sinope were short of men they disguised their women and paraded them on their walls with bronze utensils to make them look like weapons and armour from afar (Aen. Tac. 40.4).13 We also see women in deceptive roles during the failed Megarian night raid on Athenian women during the Thesmophoria, where we are told that Peisistratus discovered the enemy’s plan (of taking women and carrying them back to Megara) beforehand and ambushed them. He then proceeded to fill the ships ‘taking from the women those best suited to accompany a naval expedition’ (τὰ πλοῖα ἔλαβε τῶν γυναικῶν τὰς ἐπιτηδειοτάτας συμπλεῦσαι) (Aen. Tac. 4.10). The people of Megara thought that their soldiers had conducted a successful raid and came to see what they thought were female captives. Needless to say, they were surprised by what they found.

12 13

to the morale of the community (of both fighters and non-combatants). By active participation I, of course, do not mean that women fought in conflict. I refer here to their overall contributions to the war effort. In the first category we find women contributing to ancient sieges when they throw missiles like roof tiles and stones from houses, we find them employed in military deceptive tactics, and distributing missiles on city walls. In the second category we find women cooking in garrisons and rebuilding city walls. In the morale category we find more complexity as sources suggest that women could either serve as inspiration for soldiers (often through religious contributions like praying in temples) or hinder and distract them from fighting. Aen. Tac. 2.6, 4.10–11, 5.1, 24.7, 31.7, 31.24, 40.3, and 40.4. Aeneas includes his characteristically ancient Greek comment at the end of the passage not because he is recommending his audience to not let women throw missiles in all siege warfare—Aeneas is aware of the benefits of this from his account of the Theban attack on Plataea at 2.6. Instead, he is adamant that defenders should not allow their women to do this (meaning that it was common for women to throw missiles from walls) when the enemy is away at a distance. In this case, because it will allow the enemy to see that these are women on the walls and not soldiers. Contra Strauss who claims that ‘while letting women play a masculine role, the men of Sinope none the less maintained gender policing by forbidding the women from throwing anything, since “a woman is recognizable a long way off by the way she throws” ’ (Strauss [2007] 246).

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While Aeneas uses this example for the need of prearranged signals, it also sheds light on the way in which women could be used in deceitful military tactics. What is interesting about this passage is not only that women were used in a deceitful military tactic, but that not all women were put on board the ships. There is clearly a selection process that we seldom hear about in our ancient sources. One can only speculate about the criteria by which the men selected women from the groups of prisoners of war. What is the meaning of this selection? Were they the most physically suitable women, as David Whitehead assumes?14 Whitehead compares this episode to that of the women of Sinope where another selection took place: ‘[the men of Sinope] disguised and equipped the most physically suitable of their women to make them look as much as possible like men …’ (ῶν γυναικῶν τὰ ἐπιεικέστατα σώματα μορφώσαντες καὶ ὁπλίσαντες ὡς ἐς ἄνδρας μάλιστα, Aen. Tac. 40.4). However, the contexts of each scenario are completely different. In the former, the women needed to be able to pass as captives, while in the latter they needed to pass as men. Therefore, the selection criteria in each scenario were going to be different. Kathy L. Gaca, who has rightly identified a similar selection process, insists on unusually specific selection criteria where soldiers only selected the following: ‘young women, adolescent girls, semi-grown but prepubescent girls and boys, and girls and boys who are even younger but past the age of needing to be fed, cleaned, or changed’.15 Needless to say, no ancient source is ever this explicit. If the Megara episode refers to physical beauty, then it is the earliest reference (the event has been dated to before 561BC) we have where physical appearance is a criterion to select and differentiate between groups of captive women. Ultimately, it seems that Aeneas’ passage most likely refers to a combination of both age and physical beauty.16 Aeneas also mentions a ruse by the mercenaries of Charidemus who dressed as captives (i.e., in ‘tattered clothing’) to enter Ilion. We are told that in order to look more convincing they took with them women and children also dressed in a similar manner (Aen. Tac. 24.7). Even one of the most famous passages on the Poliorketika deals with women being smuggled into a city (Aen. Tac. 31.24), but the passage is only well-known due to the dating implications for the treat-

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Whitehead (2001) 108. I follow Whitehead’s translation of the Poliorketika. Her criteria are based on quite late evidence (Leo the Deacon, for example). See Gaca (2010) 138, 135–142. Schaps assumed beauty to be a selection criterion when he argued that women’s ‘lot was to be apportioned to a soldier or sold on the block, to a life of drudgery if they were old or ugly, degradation if they were young and beautiful’ (Schaps [1982] 205).

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ise.17 Why deceit? It could be that women were able to move freely in a city and they did not arouse suspicion precisely because of their gender. In ancient accounts, it seems that war happened around women, yet our sources rarely acknowledge their contributions—even when stating the many ways in which women contributed to the war effort, especially in sieges. Women also had a role transporting and delivering secret messages into a city. Aeneas again tells us how ‘a written message can also be carried in [to the city] on thin [sheets] of lead, rolled up and worn in women’s ears instead of ear-rings’ (εἰσενεχθείη δ’ ἂν γραφὴ καὶ ἐν τοῖς τῶν γυναικῶν ὠσὶν ἔχουσιν ἀντ’ ἐνωτίων ἐλασμοὺς ἐνειλημένους λεπτοὺς μολιβδίνους) (31.7). The only known (direct) reference to female spies in Classical Greece appears in Aristotle’s Politics. Aristotle examines the subject of the preservation of tyrannies, and in his discourse of what a tyrant should and should not do he states the following: … and to try not to be uninformed about any chance utterances or actions of any of the subjects, but to have spies like the women called ‘provocatrices’ at Syracuse and the ‘sharp-ears’ that used to be sent out by Hiero wherever there was any gathering or conference (for when men are afraid of spies of this sort they keep a check on their tongues, and if they do speak freely are less likely not to be found out).18 Who are these ‘ποταγωγίδες’? Russell argues that these women ‘were probably recruited from flute girls and prostitutes (hetairai), who would have access to the private gatherings and drinking parties of prominent citizens’.19 Russell’s interpretation is most likely correct since the only woman whom one can identify as a female wartime spy was, in fact, also a woman of lesser status in society: a war captive named Antigone in Alexander’s camp (Plut. Alex. 48.4– 5).20 Even though the reference above to female ποταγωγίδες refers to them in what appears to be in a pre-emptive context, it is nevertheless crucial because it is still a civic context. This is suggested by the remark about Hiero sending them to gatherings, which stresses the official nature of their enterprises. Unfortunately, given the enigmatic and brief reference, nothing more can be said of them.

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See Whitehead (2001). Arist. Pol. 1313b11–16. Russell (1999) 109. Contra Richmond who claims that ‘there seems to be no hint of women spies’ (Richmond [1998] 13–14). Antigone was used to spy on Philotas after she reported what he used to say about Alexander (Plut. Alex. 48.4–5).

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The references in Aeneas all share a common element: women are mentioned as collective groups. This is not particular to this author as it is a pattern we find across the ancient corpus, with the exception of uniquely powerful women like Artemisia at Salamis (Hdt. 7.99). Sources often highlight the role and impact of women in ancient siege warfare in a collective manner. The female cooks left in a military garrison at Plataea are the perfect example of this. In his account of the Spartan siege of Plataea in 431 BC, Thucydides tells us that the city was evacuated and the women and children taken to Athens (2.6.3). The act of sending women and children to a neighbouring city suggests that there was an element of trust between both parties. The Plataeans, being allies of Athens, placed their trust in that city. Actually, the Plataeans use the fact that their women and children are in Athens as one of the reasons why they feel they must reject Archidamus’ offer (Thuc. 2.72). It indicates also that protection was guaranteed. Moving complete households was an immense task and ancient evacuations of populations were not carried out unless absolutely necessary. The evacuations of complete households, including women, during the Persian Wars are a perfect example of this (Hdt. 8.41, 8.142, 8.144; Thuc. 1.89.3; Plut. Them. 1–6; Paus. 2.31.7).21 Thucydides also states that 110 women were left as ‘bread-makers’ (σιτοποιοί) in the military garrison (2.78.3). These same women were taken as slaves (ἀνδραποδίζω) after the siege was over (Thuc. 3.68.2). Paul Kern argues that these women ‘suffered the most, as they would have been in the shortest of rations and the first to be denied food altogether’.22 The suffering these women endured is unimaginable. They also had to endure the same tribulations as the men under siege. However, whether they would have been ‘denied food altogether’, as Kern proposes, is another matter completely. It is not wise to deny food to those who provide it for you, especially in a siege context where the enemy controls the territory outside the city and also controls the ability of the defenders to enter or leave of the city. The only source of sustenance for the Plataeans were the provisions the Athenians brought at the beginning of the siege (Thuc. 2.6), any provisions collected by the Plataeans themselves, and these women. It is unfortunate that Thucydides does not give a number for the

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When we think of wartime evacuations we should not think of them as total evacuations. Some women were required to stay behind, as we saw with the female cooks in the military garrison at Plataea. According to the so-called ‘Decree of Themistocles’, the priestess of the Acropolis, for instance, was also required to stay behind when Athenian households were evacuated to Troezen, Aegina, and Salamis before the Persian invasion of Athens in 480 BC. Kern (1999) 112.

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total of women who survived the siege as he does with the numbers of men. This would have given one an indication (no matter how imprecise his numbers may be) of how women fared during the siege. Out of 400 Plataeans, around 200 were killed by the Lacedaemonians afterwards and out of 80 Athenians, 25 were killed afterwards as well. As for the women, we are only told that they ‘made slaves of the women’ (Thuc. 3.68.2). Given that Thucydides did not set out to write an account of women in war, his account of Plataea does tell us that women were considered a crucial part of the preparations of a city under siege. By being as specific as possible in his account of the siege though, Thucydides unknowingly gives us one of the best descriptions of siege preparations involving women. It should be noted that Thucydides says that the women and children who were relocated to Athens were considered ‘ἀχρεῖος’ (Thuc. 2.6). The word is often translated as ‘useless’, but it has military connotations as it is frequently used to refer to persons who are unfit for war, especially non-combatants (e.g., Xen. Hell. 7.2.18). By the fourth century the orator Lycurgus described women alongside children as people useless (achrēstos) for war (Lyc. 1.53). Taking into account the context, the best translation of the term is probably ‘unserviceable’. This is a crucial definition that deserves some attention, especially when it comes to the 110 women who were indeed considered (albeit not explicitly stated) serviceable to the war effort. The concept of usefulness in Classical Greece was tied down to one’s direct service to the polis, which generally excluded women from much consideration in our sources. Modern scholarship has recognised women’s usefulness the most when they throw stones and tiles from rooftops during sieges.23 Notably, William D. Barry’s study of ancient roof tiles acknowledges the significance of women’s participation when it came to siege warfare.24 However, some argue that women’s participation in ancient siege warfare had no impact on the conflict.25 In my view, whatever the population of a city under siege does to keep the enemy at bay is worthy to be considered as useful for the defence of the polis. Even if women’s contributions were not decisive to the outcome of a particular conflict, their potential to resist and inflict casualties must be recognised.26 There are three crucial episodes where women are mentioned as having a significant impact on the defence of their city under siege. The first is the siege of Plataea (Thuc. 2.4.2; Aen. Tac. 2.3–6; Diod. Sic. 12.41.6), the second is the stasis of Cor23 24 25 26

See, for example, Barry (1996). Barry (1996). Graf (1984). Contra Ducrey (2015) 184.

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cyra in 427BC (Thuc. 3.74.1–2), and the third is the siege of Selinus in 409 BC (Diod. Sic. 13.55–59). At Plataea, the women and slaves were on the roofs of houses, screaming and yelling, and they kept pelting the enemy with stones and tiles (Thuc. 2.4.2). The women were helpful in confusing the Thebans who were running about the city desperately trying to find a way out. The Thebans finally surrendered when they understood that they had no hope of escaping. Only one woman acted suspiciously, when she gave an axe to a group of Thebans who managed to escape. At Corcyra, although not technically a city under siege, the women also threw stones and tiles from their houses (Thuc. 3.74.1–2). Women’s efforts also had an impact on the fighting, in which the people managed to gain the upper hand (at least for that day) against the oligarchic party. Lastly, during the siege of Selinus, the women were able to help keep the Carthaginians at bay until the afternoon when they became exhausted. The city eventually fell to Carthaginian forces, but the citizens evidently put up a good defence of their city.27 In the history of the Peloponnesian War we often hear of women’s association with city walls. Throughout the fifth century one measure in particular is repeated in literature: the fortifying and building of city walls. This was one of the most crucial efforts in ancient sieges: without walls, the city falls. Women’s contributions to wall-building during sieges have been overlooked in modern scholarship in favour of other more direct activities like tile-throwing. But this was a community effort and there was not, I argue, a dissolution of gender boundaries as some argue. Themistocles is said to have urged the population to build the wall of Athens to a degree where it was essential for defence. Both women and children were to help in this building program in 478 BC: ‘the whole population of the city, men, women, and children, should take part in the wall-building, sparing neither private nor public edifice that would in any way help to further the work, but demolishing them all’ (τειχίζειν δὲ πάντας πανδημεὶ τοὺς ἐν τῇ πόλει, καὶ αὐτοὺς καὶ γυναῖκας καὶ παῖδας, φειδομένους μήτε ἰδίου μήτε δημοσίου οἰκοδομήματος ὅθεν τις ὠφελία ἔσται ἐς τὸ ἔργον, ἀλλὰ καθαιροῦντας πάντα) (Thuc. 1.90.3–4).28 This building program was carried out in secret from the Lacedaemonians, who kept hearing reports of the Athenian wall getting higher and higher while at the same time Themistocles kept persuading

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For the fate of the survivors, see Diod. Sic. 13.58.3. The survivors became wartime refugees in the neighbouring city of Acragas and were received with all possible kindness by the citizens of that city. Jones’ Oxford Classical Texts edition brackets the specific mention of women and children (καὶ αὐτοὺς καὶ γυναῖκας καὶ παῖδας) because ‘non legit Schol.’, but both Gomme (1956) and Harvey (1985) argue for their retention.

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them to dismiss these reports (Thuc. 1.91.2). A large number of individuals who did not usually contribute to war efforts contributed to the building of the wall since Thucydides actually remarks that ‘even today the structure shows that it was put together in haste’ (1.93.2). That the wall was built in a short period of time (1.93.2) further suggests that a large part of the population helped in the construction in order for it to be completed so quickly. Thus the women were indeed hard at work during this period. This is not the only time women helped to build the wall of a city; the Argive women and slaves also helped build the walls of Argos in 417 BC: ‘The whole Argive people, men, women, and household slaves, set to work upon the walls’ (καὶ οἱ μὲν Ἀργεῖοι πανδημεί, καὶ αὐτοὶ καὶ γυναῖκες καὶ οἰκέται, ἐτείχιζον) (Thuc. 5.82.5). Schaps sees this episode as an instance when ‘a particular emergency might bring out the women for a particular non-combatant participation’.29 However, it is hard to see the particular ‘emergency’ here; the Argives were clearly weary of the Lacedaemonians but no conflict had arrived to the city yet. This building program originated, Thucydides tells us, because the Argives feared the Lacedaemonians, so here we have again a pre-emptive measure where conflict is expected from one side and where women are helping in the pre-war fortification of their city. These women, however, had help from outsiders because workers—carpenters and stonemasons—arrived from Athens to help with the construction (Thuc. 5.82.6); this was not only the effort of a whole community, but of two allied cities. When the battering-rams of the Carthaginians damaged the walls of Gela during the siege of 405 BC, the women and children helped to rebuild them at night (συνυπηρετουσῶν τῶν γυναικῶν καὶ παίδων) (Diod. Sic. 13.108.2–11). The women of Gela deserve a brief mention here. They were in the city because they requested, and in fact they supplicated, to be left in the city to share the same fate as the men. The people of Gela initially voted to remove their women to Syracuse, but the women ‘fled to the altars around the market-place and pleaded to share the same fate as the men, they [the men] yielded to them’ (τῶν δὲ γυναικῶν ἐπὶ τοὺς κατὰ τὴν ἀγορὰν βωμοὺς καταφυγουσῶν καὶ δεομένων τῆς αὐτῆς τοῖς ἀνδράσι τύχης κοινωνῆσαι, συνεχώρησαν) (Diod. Sic. 13.108.6).30 While the two episodes above show

29 30

Schaps (1982) 195. The religious element is worth pointing out here, as part of women’s community work under siege was religious. Women often find themselves in temples at times of war not only to seek refuge, but to ask the gods for favour against the attackers. For example, the women of Corinth are said to have put up a dedication (painting or sculpture depending on the source) asking Aphrodite to instill desire or passion (ἔρωτα) in their men to fight off the Persians in 480–479 BC (Plut. Mor. 871a–b, Ath. 13.573c–e). The debate on

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the women engaged in pre-war construction, this episode, on the other hand, shows a different conflict context where fighting already started. Women therefore repaired and built walls in at least two wartime contexts: upon the expectation of conflict and while conflict was already happening. Wall-building was a community effort and when the demands of war were pressing, the whole population was called forth to contribute, including women. Women and children were just as much part of the population of a city as the citizen men, and if a city is under the threat of war, it makes sense for that city to use all of its population for better preparations. Even though women had responsibilities in the household, they were not tied to this space exclusively. As these examples illustrate, women also had responsibilities outside if the polis needed their help during sieges. The presence of women on city walls appears to continue throughout the Classical period. By the end of the fifth century BC, women are still attested as having a prominent role on city walls in ancient sieges. Diodorus, in his account of the siege of Selinus in 409BC, states that the whole population of Selinus fought the enemy from the walls. During the siege, the younger men were engaged in repelling the enemy from the walls, while the older men ‘made the rounds on the wall’ and the women and girls ‘supplied food and missiles’ to the fighters (Diod. Sic. 13.55.4–5). City walls also provided women a platform from which to watch ancient siege warfare. Women as spectators of conflict are attested from Homer onwards. The shield of Achilles depicts women on city walls (Hom. Il. 18.515), Helen is on the walls of Troy (Hom. Il. 3.154), and the family of Hector is also watching from the same walls (Hom. Il. 6.370ff.). Even men unfit and useless (ἀχρεῖος) for war are considered sufficient to guard city walls (Thuc. 1.93.6). Classical city walls are not seen today as a female space during war, but they were a female space in wartime. When the Athenians engaged in a naval battle with the Syracusans just offshore from the harbour of Syracuse in 413 BC, Diodorus reports that the whole community, including women and unmarried girls, were eagerly watching the battle (13.14.5). Again, when the men of Himera went outside their city walls to engage in battle with the Carthaginian forces

the identity of the women (whether hetairai or not) is not relevant here, although it is indeed significant for ancient women’s religious communities. I follow here (and elsewhere) the scholiast’s account based on Theopompus which simply states γυναῖκας (FGrH II 115 fr. 285). Thank you to the anonymous reviewer for pointing out the importance of women’s religious wartime contributions in Roman contexts as well. Prayers and vows were indeed major wartime contributions throughout the ancient world, not just Classical Greece.

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that were besieging the town in 409 BC, Diodorus explicitly says that: ‘The Himaereans, having as spectators from their walls their parents, their children, and further their entire households [certainly including women], they [the Himaerean soldiers] spent/used up their own lives cheaply/enthusiastically for the common salvation of them all’ (οἱ δ’ Ἱμεραῖοι θεατὰς ἔχοντες ἀπὸ τῶν τειχῶν γονεῖς καὶ παῖδας, ἔτι δὲ τοὺς οἰκείους ἅπαντας, ἀφειδῶς ἐχρῶντο τοῖς ἰδίοις σώμασιν εἰς τὴν κοινὴν σωτηρίαν, Diod. Sic. 13.60.4).31 The impact of war on women was diverse and complex. Just as in the modern world, ancient women endured rape and sexual violence in the aftermath of their cities being captured.32 Women experienced social and economic impacts that affected them disproportionately in wartime (Dem. 57.30, 34, 35, 41–42). They could also be released without enduring a life of slavery (Thuc. 2.70.3). Ancient siege warfare was no different. The psychological impact of seeing your city destroyed, your crops decimated, your property being taken by the enemy, your fellow women and girls losing any rights they had as freeborn women, and your men dying trying to protect all of this, must have been unbearable for women throughout the ancient world. No modern scholarship can ever get close to what it must have felt like for women to experience this. Two enigmatic phrases are extremely common in our sources when they refer to the impact of sieges on women: they were ‘sold into slavery’ and ‘reduced to slavery’.33 These phrases are synonymous and do not describe two different processes, they are just merely different translations for the same term of ‘andrapoda’. Gaca studied this word and its related verb forms and concluded that the mercantile aspect should not be included in the definition of the word. However, I find Gaca’s proposals problematic in their disregard of mercantile aspects. I follow here, instead, Pritchett in his interpretation of the word andrapoda and its cognates to refer to the experiences of both male and females after conflict.34 This is contrary to Gaca, who claims that ‘andrapodizing’ was done only to women and girls as part of the non-combatant population, and who believes that fighting males were not ‘andrapodized’.35 31 32 33 34 35

Diodorus’ sources for this siege are Timaeus and Ephorus (Diod. Sic. 13.60.5). See, for example, the fate of the women of Olynthus which is attested by several sources (Dem. 19.193–195; Dem. 19.309; Aeschin. 2.156; and Diod. Sic. 16.55.3). There are numerous references for this, but see, for instance Hdt. 6.19; Thuc. 3.36.2, 3.68.3, 4.48.4, 5.3.2–4, 5.32.1, 5.116.4; Xen. Hell. 4.5.5; and Diod. Sic. 12.73.3, 16.34.3. Pritchett (1991). The most recent discussion, and compilation of instances, is Gaca (2010), (2011a), (2011b), and (2014). In my view, the word and its related verb forms refers to a group of experiences women suffered after war once they lost their essential freedoms as freeborn women by becoming property of the enemy. It is interesting to note that slave women are not expli-

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The most representative example of women’s experiences after sieges can be found in the description of the aftermath of the Carthaginian siege of Selinus in 409 BC. Diodorus says that the Carthaginians managed to breach the walls and gain access to the city. Once inside, they set upon a path of destruction which included women and children. Both women and children were killed, some burned inside their homes. Only those women and children who took refuge in temples were spared—apparently not because of pity, but because the Carthaginians feared they would burn themselves with the valuables inside the temples (Diod. Sic. 13.57.2–5). What happened to the women is worth quoting at length: The women, deprived now of the pampered life they had enjoyed, spent the nights in the very midst of the enemies’ lasciviousness, enduring terrible indignities, and some were obliged to see their daughters of marriageable age suffering treatment improper for their years. For the savagery of the barbarians spared neither free-born youths nor maidens, but exposed these unfortunates to dreadful disasters. Consequently, as the women reflected upon the slavery that would be their lot in Libya, as they saw themselves together with their children in a condition in which they possessed no legal rights and were subject to insolent treatment and thus compelled to obey masters, and as they noted that these masters used an unintelligible speech and had a bestial character, they mourned for their living children as dead, and receiving into their souls as a piercing wound each and every outrage committed against them, they became frantic with suffering and vehemently deplored their own fate; while as for their fathers and brothers who had died fighting for their country, them they counted blessed, since they had not witnessed any sight unworthy of their own valour.36 This account is the most vivid description we have for the impact of sieges on women. It is, of course, a biased account and the old paradigm of ‘Greek versus barbarian’ is very much at work here. Notice how the Greeks, even though serving as allies of the Carthaginians, ‘felt pity’ for the women and how they are represented as not taking part in these wartime atrocities. But this account nevertheless represents some of the post-war experiences of women, even if it

36

citly stated as being andrapodized. This prompts the question of whether our sources are grouping all women together irrespective of their social, economic, and class status in the ancient world. Diod. Sic. 13.58.1–2.

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is through the classic paradigm of ‘only barbarians commit these acts’, which was not accurate at all, it is just that the ancient Greeks did not write about their own wartime atrocities for obvious reasons. This was the fate for those women who earlier had valiantly defended their city from the city walls.

3

Conclusion

In this brief survey I attempted to give a glimpse of women’s experiences of ancient sieges as portrayed by our sources for the Classical Greek world. As stated in the introduction, I focused on the roles and impact of ancient sieges in this period because of the very nature of our evidence, not because there is not similar evidence that points to the same direction in other regions and periods. The overall consensus is that women’s roles and impact in ancient sieges were diverse. By pleading to stay in Gela during the Carthaginian siege of 405 BC, the women increased the number of people in the city able to help in preparations and defence. These women were also able to prolong the fighting by helping to reconstruct fortifications. The women of Sinope, by contrast, stood on the walls of their city and deceived the enemy into thinking that they were in for a difficult fight. At Sinope, Datamas’ forces saw what looked like double the number of soldiers all thanks to the women. Therefore, by reducing women to throwing stones and tiles, we miss a wealth of roles that are equally important in any city under siege. Of course, women threw stones and tiles from rooftops of houses to fend off the enemy, but they also provided missiles and food to their men, they made rounds on the walls of cities with elderly men, they asked the gods for favour in temples, and they rebuilt city walls. This was a community effort and women, being part of that community, needed to be serviceable to the polis at large in times of sieges.

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De Souza, P. (2007) ‘Naval Battles and Sieges’, in Sabin, van Wees, and Whitby (2007) 434–460. Dowdall, A. and Horne, J. (eds.) (2018) Civilians Under Siege from Sarajevo to Troy. London. Ducrey, P. (2015) ‘War in the Feminine in Ancient Greece’, in Fabre-Serris and Keith (2015) 181–199. Evans, J.K. (1991) War, Women and Children in Ancient Rome. Routledge. Fabre-Serris, J. and Keith, A. (eds.) (2015) Women and War in Antiquity. Baltimore. Figueira, T.J. (ed.) (2004) Spartan Society. Swansea. Futo Kennedy, R. (2014) Immigrant Women in Athens: Gender, Ethnicity, and Citizenship in the Classical City. New York. Gaca, K.L. (2010) ‘The Andrapodizing of War Captives in Greek Historical Memory’, TAPA 140: 117–161. Gaca, K.L. (2011a) ‘Girls, Women, and the Significance of Sexual Violence in Ancient Warfare’, in Heineman (2011) 73–88. Gaca, K.L. (2011b) ‘Manhandled and ‘Kicked Around’: Reinterpreting the Etymology and Symbolism of ἀνδράποδα’, IF 116: 110–146. Gaca, K.L. (2011c) ‘Telling the Girls from the Boys and Children: Interpreting Παῖδες in the Sexual Violence of Populace-Ravaging Ancient Warfare’, ICS 35–36: 85–109. Gaca, K.L. (2014) ‘Martial Rape, Pulsating Fear, and the Sexual Maltreatment of Girls (παῖδες), Virgins (παρθένοι), and Women (γυναῖκες) in Antiquity’, AJP 35: 303–357. Gomme, A.W. (1956) A Historical Commentary on Thucydides. Oxford. González Almenara, G. (2005) ‘El Precio de la Mujer: la Mujer como Botín de Guerra en la Obra de Jenofonte’, Fortunatae 16: 73–80. Graf, F. (1984) ‘Women, War, and Warlike Divinities’, ZPE 55: 245–254. Hacker, B.C. and Vining, M. (eds.) (2012) A Companion to Women’s Military History. Leiden. Hall, J.R. (2018) ‘As They Were Ripped from the Altars: Civilians, Sacrilege and Classical Greek Siege Warfare’, in Dowdall and Horne (2018) 185–206. Hanson, V.D. (ed.) (2010) Makers of Ancient Strategy: From the Persian Wars to the Fall of Rome. Princeton. Harvey, D. (1985) ‘Women in Thucydides’, Arethusa 18: 67–90. Heineman, E.D. (2011) (ed.) Sexual Violence in Conflict Zones: From the Ancient World to the Era of Human Rights. Philadelphia. Hölscher, T. (2003) ‘Images of War in Greece and Rome: Between Military Practice, Public Memory, and Cultural Symbolism’, JRS 93: 1–17. How, W.W. and Wells, J. (1912) Commentary on Herodotus. Oxford. Humble, N. (2004) ‘Reality and Ideology in the Representation of Women and War in Xenophon’, AncW 35: 166–183. Kern, P.B. (1999) Ancient Siege Warfare. Bloomington.

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Krentz, P. (2009) ‘Deception in Archaic and Classical Greek Warfare’, in van Wees (2009) 167–200. Kucewicz, C., Konijnendijk, R. and Lloyd, M. (eds.) (forthcoming) Beyond the Phalanx: Greek Warfare and the Mediterranean. Cambridge. Kuhrt, A. (2001) ‘Women and War’, Journal of Gender Studies in Antiquity 2: 1–25. Kulesza, R. (1999) ‘Population Flight: A Forgotten Aspect of Greek Warfare in the Sixth and Fifth Centuries B.C.’, European Review of History 6: 151–164. Lambert, W.G. (1983) ‘A Neo-Babylonian Tammuz Lament’, JAOS 103: 211–215. Lee, J.W.I. (2010) ‘Urban Warfare in the Classical World’, in Hanson (2010) 138–162. Loman, P. (2004) ‘No Woman No War: Women’s Participation in Ancient Greek Warfare’, G&R 51: 34–54. Loraux, N. (1987) ‘Oikeios polemos: la guerra nella famiglia’, StudStor 28: 5–35. Manicas, P.T. (1982) ‘War, Stasis, and Greek Political Thought’, CSSH 24: 673–688. Martinez Morales, J. (2015) ‘Women and War in Classical Greece’. PhD dissertation, University of Liverpool. Martinez Morales, J. (forthcoming) ‘Women, War, and Diversity Off the Battlefield’, in Kucewicz, Konijnendijk, and Lloyd (forthcoming). Martinez Rus, A. (2014) ‘Mujeres y guerra civil: un balance historiográfico’, Studia Historica. Historia Contemporánea 32: 333–343. McCredie, J.R. (1966) Fortified Military Camps in Attica. Hesperia Supplement XI. Princeton. McInerney, J. (2003) ‘Plutarch’s Manly Women’, in Rosen and Sluiter (2003) 319–344. McIntosh Snyder, J. (1989) The Woman and the Lyre: Women Writers in Classical Greece and Rome. Carbondale. Meineck, P. and Konstan, D. (eds.) (2014) Combat Trauma and the Ancient Greeks. New York. Panagopoulos, A. (1978) Captives and Hostages in the Peloponnesian War. Athens. Plácido Suárez, D. (1983) ‘De la muerte de Pericles a la stasis de Corcira’, Gerión I: 131– 143. Powell, A. (2004) ‘The Women of Sparta—and of Other Greek Cities—at War’, in Figueira (2004) 137–150. Pritchett, W.K. (1991) The Greek State at War. Part V. Berkeley. Raaflaub, K.A. (2014) ‘War and the City: the Brutality of War and its Impact on the Community’, in Meineck and Konstan (2014) 15–46. Rabinowitz, N. (2014) ‘Women and War in Tragedy’, in Meineck and Konstan (2014) 185–206. Rawlings, L. (2007) The Ancient Greeks at War. Manchester. Richmond, J.A. (1998) ‘Spies in Ancient Greece’, G&R 45: 1–18. Rosen, R.M. and Sluiter, I. (eds.) (2003) Andreia: Studies in Manliness and Courage in Classical Antiquity. Leiden.

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chapter 9

Demetrius the Besieger (and Fortifier) of Cities Thomas C. Rose

The bitter rivalries of the Diadochoi, the Successors of Alexander the Great, played out in large part against the backdrop of the Greek poleis, and the grim arts of attacking and defending fortified cities reached their fullest expression in the decades following Alexander’s death. In the late fourth century BC the construction of mobile siege towers, as well as colossal ships capable of bringing increasingly powerful artillery to bear against city walls and the maritime towers and barriers that protected closed harbours, prompted corresponding developments in fortifications. The driving force behind many of these advances was Demetrius, the son of Antigonus, who was known as Poliorcetes, ‘Besieger of Cities’. Demetrius’ spectacular assault on Rhodes in 305/04BC1 captivated the contemporary Greek world, provided a rich store of material for subsequent military science manuals devoted to the attack and defence of fortified cities, notably Philo of Byzantium’s Paraskeuastika and Poliorketika,2 and has commanded pride of place in treatments of Hellenistic military developments ever since. But the siege of Rhodes was, in many important respects, a singular event in the history of ancient Greek siege warfare. It was exceptional for the ingenuity and persistence exhibited by both besieger and besieged, for the scale of the resources expended by both sides, and, crucially, for the alliance of rival dynasts that coalesced in support of the beleaguered Rhodians.3 It was also exceptional for the outcome: Poliorcetes, who seized nearly every major city in mainland Greece in the course of his career, ultimately withdrew after failing to take Rhodes. But the abiding preoccupation with his assault on Rhodes diminishes Demetrius’ otherwise sterling record as a besieger of cities and obscures his efforts to secure cities after seizing them. This chapter 1 Henceforth all dates are BC unless otherwise noted. 2 Murray (2012) 105. On Philo’s Paraskeuastika and Poliorketika, see now Whitehead’s (2016) magisterial edition and commentary. 3 Alexander’s siege of Tyre in 332 was also an epic spectacle, and the ingenuity and grim determination of both the attackers and the defenders equalled anything on display at Rhodes nearly thirty years later. The Tyrians, however, were left to face Alexander’s onslaught unassisted. Although there were rumours that Carthage intended to send support to the besieged metropolis (Diod. Sic. 17.40.3; Curt. 4.3.19; Just. 11.10.12), none ever arrived, and Tyre eventually fell.

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takes Rhodes merely as its point of departure, focusing instead on Demetrius’ innovative approach to the attack and the defence of cities in the years immediately before and after the great siege. It closes with a brief examination of the links between the mastery of poliorcetics and the ability of the Successors (Demetrius in particular), to realise their regal, imperial, and divine aspirations.

1

The Siege of Rhodes

The Sicilian historian Diodorus deserves much of the credit for the enduring fascination with the siege of Rhodes. His lengthy and detailed account weaves together both Rhodian and pro-Antigonid sources, presenting events from the perspective of both besiegers and besieged in turn.4 The account is structured as a series of vignettes, distributed across two archon-years (306/5 and 305/4) in Diodorus’ annalistic scheme, which together capture the epic grandeur of Demetrius’ preparations, the ferocity of his varied attacks, and the desperate defence mounted by the Rhodians in the face of seemingly overwhelming odds.5 The siege has received a great deal of scholarly attention in recent years,6 and need not detain us any longer than it takes to establish the state of the poliorcetic art at the end of the fourth century. Demetrius’ assault on Rhodes did not represent a radically different approach to siege warfare;7 instead, he demonstrated a comprehensive mastery of existing tactics and technologies, combined with the imagination and the resources to scale those technologies up to unprecedented size. Alexander was the first to use artillery to shake the walls of a city at Tyre in 332 (Diod. Sic. 17.45.2), while Demetrius’ stone-projectors sheared the battlements from the walls of Cypriote Salamis in 306 (Diod. Sic. 20.48.4). At Rhodes, Demet-

4 Diodorus does not cite his sources for the siege, but he probably draws on the eye-witness account of Hieronymus of Cardia, who served three generations of Antigonid monarchs, as well as the Rhodian historian Zeno. On Diodorus’ sources, see esp. Hornblower (1981) 56–60; Wiemer (2001) 222–250; Wheatley (2016) 45–49. 5 Diodorus (20.81–88, 91–99) and Plutarch (Demetr. 21–22) provide the principal ancient accounts of the siege. For a useful compilation of the ancient evidence, see Wheatley (2016) 45 n. 10. 6 Notable recent works include Billows (1990) 165–169; Kern (1999) 237–248; Campbell (2006) 80–93; Bugh (2007) 284–286; Murray (2011) 112–118; Martin (2013) 675–676. PimougetPédarros (2011) provides an exhaustive account of the siege and its political, military, and religious implications. The most helpful account in English is now Wheatley (2016). 7 Martin (2013) 675.

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rius demonstrated the destructive power of torsion stone-projectors.8 His artillery, mounted both on ships and on mobile siege towers, repeatedly breached the walls of the city, bringing down both towers and whole sections of curtain (Diod. Sic. 20.86.2, 95.5, 97.7). Alexander had yoked together triremes to create floating platforms for siege machinery at Tyre (Diod. Sic. 17.43.4); at Rhodes, Demetrius’ engineers lashed cargo ships together to support siege towers that easily surpassed the height of the harbour fortifications and large artillery batteries shielded by protective chelōnai (‘tortoises’; Diod. Sic. 20.85.1, 20.88.7). In support of this machinery, a number of light craft were fitted with decks to support bolt-firing catapults and missile troops who trained their fire on the Rhodian defenders. When the attacks on the Rhodian harbours were foiled by the combination of foul weather and determined Rhodian resistance, Demetrius turned his attention to land-based attacks. Nearly 30,000 craftsmen and labourers were set to work on an extraordinary array of siege equipment, including mammoth battering rams and the so-called helepolis (‘city-taker’), a nine-story mobile siege tower.9 This tower was a larger version of the helepolis Demetrius had deployed against Cypriote Salamis in 306 and dwarfed the siege towers built by Dionysius I of Syracuse, Philip II, and Alexander.10 It was propelled by a designated force of 3,400 men and housed boltfiring catapults and stone projectors capable of hurling stones of up to three talents (78kg). When Demetrius turned these creations against the city, the Rhodians responded in kind. In a night attack on Demetrius’ machines, they unleashed a withering barrage of 800 incendiary missiles and 1,500 catapult bolts, forcing Demetrius to haul the helepolis out of range (Diod. Sic. 20.96.3– 97.2). Demetrius interleaved these spectacular attacks by land and sea with a battery of more subtle devices. In his Poliorketika (102.9–11), Philo describes a variety of ways in which a fortified city might be captured other than by direct assault (kata kratos): stealth (kata klopē: surprise attacks, either at night or timed to coincide with the celebration of a festival), treachery (prodosia: suborning an enemy by bribery), or starvation (limos).11 This alternative repertoire of siege techniques was exhausted at Rhodes: a secret attempt to undermine

8 9 10 11

On the development of torsion artillery, see esp. Campbell (2011) 680–682; cf. Marsden (1969) 54–64. Diod. Sic. 20.95; Plut. Demetr. 21.1–3; Vitruv. De arch. 10.16.4; Athen. Mech. Peri Mech. 27. On the mobile siege towers of the period, see Marsden (1969) 101–109 and Marsden (1971) 84–90. Whitehead (2016) 53–57, 382–383.

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the city walls was exposed at the last moment (Diod. Sic. 20.94.1–2); a Rhodian mercenary captain who agreed to lead a contingent of Demetrius’ troops through a tunnel and into the city proved to be a double agent (Diod. Sic. 20.94.3–5; P.Berl. 11632 ll. 26–34.); Demetrius was unable to enforce a naval blockade, as convoys bearing desperately needed food and reinforcements repeatedly sailed into the harbours—at one point arriving when the Rhodians were on the verge of surrender. Of all of these setbacks, none did more to undermine Demetrius’ efforts than the failed naval blockade, and morale remained high within the city even as the siege dragged on.12 By the spring of 304, however, Demetrius’ attacks had taken a heavy toll on the Rhodian fortifications, and much of the city lay in ruins. At one point 1,500 of Demetrius’ men managed to enter the city through substantial breaches in the wall, but they were nearly wiped out in bitter fighting near the theatre (Diod. Sic. 20.98.4–9). If Demetrius had continued to press the attack there can be little doubt that Rhodes would eventually have fallen,13 but the longer the siege persisted the more it undermined Antigonid attempts to present themselves as champions of the freedom of the Greeks, a posture they had maintained since Antigonus’ famous proclamation of Greek freedom at Tyre in 315 (Diod. Sic. 19.61.1–3). When deputations from Greek cities arrived in Rhodes seeking to mediate an end to the conflict, as they did at several points during the siege (Diod. Sic. 20.95.4, 98.2, 99.3; Plut. Demetr. 22.8), they must have emphasised that the attack on Rhodes, a free and unoccupied polis that had hitherto maintained cordial relations with Demetrius and his father, was not at all consonant with the tenor of Antigonid propaganda. They must also have reminded Demetrius that his attention was needed elsewhere, most notably in central Greece, where Cassander had forged an alliance with the Boeotians and laid siege to Athens.14 And so, in the spring of 304, the two sides agreed to terms, and Demetrius sailed for Boeotia. To commemorate the heroism of the

12

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Ships friendly to the Rhodian cause were able to gain access to the harbours on at least four occasions (Diod. 20.96.1–3, 98.1). On the ramifications of the failed blockade, see esp. Murray (2012) 117–118. Champion (2014) 140–141; Wheatley (2016) 66. Cassander’s invasion of Attica marked the climax of the so-called ‘Four Years’ War’ (the name is drawn from the honorary decree for Demochares [Plut. Mor. 851e]), a poorly documented conflict known to us primarily through contemporary Athenian inscriptions and several chronologically confused passages in Pausanias. Cassander’s primary goals seem to have been regaining control of Athens, which he had lost when Demetrius liberated the city in 307 (see below), and wresting Thebes and the Boeotian League from the Antigonid alliance, which they had joined in 313 (Diod. Sic. 19.75.6).

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city’s defenders, the Rhodians erected the famous Colossus, as well as the pillar monument featuring an image of Helios in a golden quadriga that stood in front of the Temple of Apollo at Delphi.15 In a siege lasting fully a year, Demetrius had emptied the existing poliorcetic playbook and added a few wrinkles of his own, all in vain. His withdrawal has often been seen as a humiliating defeat that dealt a serious blow to Antigonid prestige,16 and some commentators have even suggested that Demetrius’ epiklēsis, Besieger of Cities, was an ironic reference to Demetrius’ inability to seize Rhodes.17 But Demetrius secured his reputation as a besieger before Rhodes, and his most impressive poliorcetic feats followed his departure from the island. Courtiers in the courts of Demetrius’ rivals may have lampooned his withdrawal from Rhodes,18 but no ancient source so much as hints that Poliorcetes was a term of contempt, and there is ample evidence demonstrating that his contemporaries hardly viewed the siege as a defining failure. Indeed, before and after Rhodes, Demetrius’ siege train inspired fear and awe in equal measure. Over the course of his career many submitted to him rather than face an attack, and when he did assault a city, the same tactics that had failed at Rhodes proved irresistible. The defence of Rhodes may have provided a blueprint for resisting the onslaught of Poliorcetes, but it is telling that no other city was able to implement it.

2

The Besieger in Greece, before and after Rhodes

In the late spring of 307 Demetrius sailed from Ephesus with a fleet of 250 ships, a war chest of 5,000 talents, and orders to free the cities of mainland Greece (Diod. Sic. 20.45.1; Plut. Demetr. 8.1–4). The expedition began with an attack on Piraeus, the port of Athens. For ten years Athens had been in thrall to Cas-

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Laroche and Jacquemin (1986) 285–307; Rice (1993) 240–241. E.g., Berthold (1984) 79; Billows (1990) 169; Strootman (2011) 145. Murray (2012) 118–119 and Wheatley (2016) offer a useful corrective to this perspective, pointing out that Rhodes was an intimidating demonstration of Demetrius’ siege capability and his withdrawal did nothing to detract from the effectiveness of the display. Arnold Gomme (1945, 17 n. 1) noted that Demetrius was not known as Ekpoliorkētēs, ‘taker of cities’; Campbell (2006) 81–82; Heckel (1984); Berthold (1984) 79; Anson (2014) 168. For a more positive interpretation of the origins of the epiklēsis, see Lo Presti (2010) 311–312, 318; Pimouguet-Pédarros (2011) 307–310; O’Sullivan (2014) observes that Poliorcetes is ‘evocative of cultic titles’. Cf. Plut. Demetr. 25.7, where courtiers in Demetrius’ court assign derisive epithets to his rivals.

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sander, the brother-in-law and bitter rival of Demetrius, who controlled the city through a local proxy, the peripatetic philosopher Demetrius of Phalerum, and a garrison stationed in Piraeus. Diodorus, Plutarch, and Polyaenus give variant accounts of the assault on Piraeus that are difficult to harmonise, but it was clearly a brilliantly conceived and executed coup de main.19 Piraeus and her three harbours—Cantharus, Zea, and Mounychia—were strongly fortified and subject to strict surveillance,20 and no previous attempt to capture the walls of Piraeus by force had succeeded.21 To subvert these defences, Demetrius took elaborate measures to ensure the secrecy of his attack (Polyaenus Strat. 4.7.2), and seems to have timed his arrival to coincide with the celebration of an important Athenian festival, the Plynteria.22 According to Polyaenus (Strat. 4.7.6), Demetrius concealed most of his fleet off Cape Sunium, while his twenty swiftest ships sailed towards Salamis in the Saronic Gulf. These ships were spotted by Athenian watchmen, but mistaken for a Ptolemaic detachment headed for Corinth (Ptolemaic garrisons occupied both Corinth and Sicyon at the time). When the squadron turned suddenly towards Piraeus, they were able to sail into an unspecified harbour before the fortifications could be fully manned and the protective barrier (kleithron) raised.23 Tactical and topographical considerations suggest that Demetrius’ fleet, or at least the advance squadron that he personally commanded, made their initial assault on Zea harbour. The Hippodamian agora of Piraeus was situated immediately to the north of Zea, making the harbour an ideal site for Demetrius’ heralds to address the Athenian troops mustering to contest the attack.24 Prioritising the capture of Zea was also a tactically sound decision. Like the other Piraeus harbours, Zea was situated within the port city’s fortification circuit, and ships were forced to pass through a fortified sea-gate, punctuated by maritime towers, to enter the 19 20

21 22

23 24

The crucial importance of surprise in attacks on fortified cities is a recurring theme in the siege manuals of Aeneas Tacticus and Philo. By the fourth century, the defence of Piraeus was assigned to two Athenian stratēgoi. Aristotle (Ath. Pol. 24.3, cf. 62.1) describes a designated force of 500 men (φρουροὶ νεωρίων) selected by lot from the demes and tasked with keeping watch over the dockyards. Martin (2013) 682. Plutarch (Demetr. 8.5) gives the exact date of Demetrius’ arrival, 26 Thargelion. On that day the cult statue of Athena was ritually washed in the sea at Phalerum. On the Plynteria, see esp. Sourvinou-Inwood (2010) 135–220. On the significance of Demetrius’ advent during this festival, see Rose (2018) 8–10. On the development of various types of harbour barriers, see Garlan (1974) 388; Murray (2012) 135–136. On the location of the agora in Piraeus and its use as a mustering space, see Blackman et al. (2013) 197–199; on the agora as a mustering point for a civil defence force responding to a surprise attack, see Aen. Tact. 3.4.

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harbour. But the approach to Zea was rendered especially daunting by the construction of artificial moles that forced ships to negotiate several turns in a narrow sea corridor lined on both sides by walls and towers. When these defences were properly manned they created a gauntlet that hostile forces would have to run while exposed to artillery fire in order to gain access to the harbour.25 While the advance squadron took Zea, the rest of the fleet sailed down from Sunium and seized the fortifications and another harbour (Polyaenus Strat. 4.7.6).26 This was achieved, according to Diodorus (20.45.3), by an all-out assault from multiple directions in which a detachment of Poliorcetes’ men breached the walls at some point along the southern coast of Piraeus.27 These troops then admitted their fellows, who quickly gained control of the walls. This show of force was followed by some timely diplomacy. From the decks of his flagship, Demetrius’ heralds announced that he had arrived to expel Cassander’s garrison and restore democracy in Athens. The Athenians threw down their weapons and hailed Demetrius as their benefactor and saviour, while Cassander’s garrison retreated to a fortress atop Mounychia, the imposing conical hill that commands the eastern harbours of Piraeus (Plut. Demetr. 8.6–9.2). Demetrius surrounded the hill with a trench and palisade and then moved south against Megara, which had also been garrisoned by Cassander (Plut. Demetr. 9.4).28 The sources present the Megarian campaign in summary fashion: Demetrius stormed the city, ejected the garrison, and restored autonomy to the Megarians (Diod. Sic. 20.46.3; Plut. Demetr. 9.8). Demetrius then returned to Piraeus and trained his artillery on the Mounychia hill fortress. In a barrage that lasted for two days without interruption, his stone-projectors and bolt-firers drove the defenders from the walls, clearing the way for an escalade. The fortress was stormed and razed to the ground (Diod. Sic. 20.45.5–7; Plut. Demetr. 10.1). It was only after the capture of Mounychia and the departure of Cassander’s garrison that Demetrius entered the Athenian asty in triumph.

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28

On the Zea defences, see Lovén et al. (2007) 67–69; Blackman et al. (2013) 436. Polyaenus, Strat. 4.7.6: κατελάβοντο τοὺς πύργους καὶ τὸν λιμένα. Diodorus (20.45.3) locates the movement of the men that initially breached the fortifications with the rare phrase κατὰ τὴν ἀκτὴν. The phrase could simply denote an attack ‘along the coast’, but it could also be a specific reference to Acte, the southern promontory of the Piraeus peninsula. By the 320s, the Athenians entrusted the defence of Piraeus to two generals, one responsible for the Mounychia fortress, the other for Acte: Arist. Ath. Pol. 61.1; Tracy (2003) 21 n. 24. Diodorus (20.45–46) has Demetrius storm Mounychia before the liberation of Megara, but Plutarch’s sequence of events is confirmed by both the Parian Marble (BNJ 239 b 20–21) and the eyewitness account of Philochorus (BNJ 328 F 48).

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Demetrius left Athens in 306 to campaign against Ptolemy in Cyprus and did not return to mainland Greece for more than two years. In the summer of 304 he came to terms with the Rhodians and sailed for Aulis in Boeotia. He forced Cassander to abandon the siege of Athens, pursued him beyond Thermopylae, and routed him near Heracleia (Diod. Sic. 20.100; Plut. Demetr. 23.1–2). Demetrius then ejected Cassander’s garrisons from two strategically vital fortresses on the Attic frontier and entered Athens to another rapturous reception.29 He took up residence in the rear chamber of the Parthenon, where, according to Plutarch (Demetr. 24.1–6), he spent a proverbially dissolute winter in the company of a bevy of hetairai. In early 303, Demetrius emerged from his winter quarters and moved south to begin a whirlwind campaign that swept the garrisons of his rivals from southern Greece. From Athens, Demetrius moved first to Cenchreae, Corinth’s eastern port on the Saronic Gulf, where he devoted himself for a time to luxuriant revelry.30 According to Polyaenus (Strat. 4.7.3), this was a ploy designed to erode the vigilance of his enemies—evidently Demetrius was capable of exploiting his reputation for hedonism to gain a tactical advantage. He soon launched a daring night attack on an unexpected target: not Corinth, but neighbouring Sicyon, some twenty kilometres northwest of the Isthmian metropolis (Polyaenus Strat. 4.7.3). At a predetermined hour, a contingent of soldiers under the command of the mercenary officer Diodorus attacked the western gate of Sicyon while Demetrius and the main body of his army attacked from the east. At the same time, a naval contingent that Demetrius had secretly established in the Gulf of Corinth sailed into Sicyon’s harbour (Polyaenus Strat. 4.7.3; Diod. Sic. 20.102.2).31 The coordination of multiple forces attacking simultaneously by land and sea recalled the assault on Piraeus in 307; so too did the result. The garrison, overwhelmed by attacks on three sides, abandoned the lower town and fled to the acropolis. Although they occupied a formidable defensive pos-

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Plutarch (Demetr. 23.3) provides no details on the capture of the forts at Phyle and Panactum, but notes that both had been garrisoned by Cassander. It is unclear if Demetrius captured Cenchreae before taking up winter quarters in 304 (so Plut. Demetr. 23.2, cf. Polyaenus, Strat. 4.7.3) or if he seized the port city as the opening act of his Peloponnesian campaign in 303 (suggested by Diod. Sic. 20.103.2). It is unclear when or where Demetrius established a fleet in the Gulf of Corinth, but Aegosthena, a heavily fortified port in the western Megarid, would have made an ideal staging post for a naval attack on Sicyon. A Megarian decree (IG VII 1) that mentions troops established at Aegosthena by a King Demetrius may be connected with this campaign, but it is possible that the king in question is Demetrius II. On this and other Megarian proxeny decrees mentioning a King Demetrius, see Paschidis (2008) 295–299; Liddell (2009) 422–425; and Robu (2012).

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ition, Ptolemy’s troops were ‘terrified’ (kataplagentes) when Demetrius began moving his siege engines into position and promptly surrendered (Diod. Sic. 20.102.2).32 After the capture of Sicyon, Demetrius set out for Corinth with his entire force, his fleet coasting along with the army. A garrison commanded by Cassander’s key lieutenant Prepelaus held both the lower town and Acrocorinth (Diod. Sic. 20.103.1),33 the strategically vital acropolis of Corinth that was regarded as virtually impregnable.34 To capture the lower town Demetrius combined stealth and treachery. While a diversionary attack on a northern gate drew the attention of Prepelaus, Demetrius slipped into the city from the south, entering through a gate opened by a group of Corinthian citizens whose support he had obtained (or purchased?) in advance (Polyaenus Strat. 4.7.8; cf. Plut. Demetr. 25.1).35 With the city walls breached, the garrison fled for higher ground, some retiring within the formidable defences atop Acrocorinth, others occupying a fortress known as the Sisyphium (Diod. Sic. 20.1.3.2). The location of the latter is unknown, but Strabo (8.6.2) mentions a Sisyphium beneath Peirene, the spring in the southeastern corner of Acrocorinth (not to be confused with the famous Peirene fountain in the lower city), and Pausanias (2.5.1) too connects the upper Peirene with the mythological Sisyphus. Thus the Sisyphium was probably somewhere on the southeastern slope of Acrocorinth, but no trace of the ruined white marble temple or palace that Strabo saw there has been discovered. Demetrius turned his siege equipment against the Sisyphium, 32 33

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Diod. Sic. 20.102.2: μέλλοντος δ’ αὐτοῦ μηχανὰς προσάγειν καταπλαγέντες τὴν μὲν ἀκρόπολιν δι’ ὁμολογίας παρέδοσαν. Ptolemy still held Corinth when he and Demetrius squared off at Salamis in 306 (Plut. Demetr. 15.3). At some point in the intervening three years Corinth passed under the control of Cassander, but the details are obscure. Plutarch offers a striking assessment of the strategic importance and virtual impregnability of Acrocorinth in his Life of Aratus. When Acrocorinth is controlled by a garrison, Plutarch writes, ‘it hinders and cuts off all the country south of the Isthmus from communications, transits, and the carrying on of military expeditions by land and sea, and makes him who controls the place with a garrison sole master of the region’ (ἐνίσταται καὶ ἀποκόπτει τὴν ἐντὸς Ἰσθμοῦ πᾶσαν ἐπιμειξιῶν τε καὶ παρόδων καὶ στρατειῶν ἐργασίας τε κατὰ γῆν καὶ κατὰ θάλατταν, καὶ ἕνα κύριον ποιεῖ καὶ ἄρχοντα τὸνκατέχοντα φρουρᾷ τὸ χωρίον, Arat. 16.5). The strength of the position, however, dooms direct assaults on Acrocorinth to failure (φανερῶς ἀνέλπιστος ἦν ἡ ἐπιχείρησις, Arat. 17.1). Translations throughout are adapted from the Loeb Classical Library. The gate in question may be the southwestern gate mentioned by Pausanias, from which the road to Tenea debouched (so Billows [1990] 171), but Diodorus describes the gate as a postern (τινος πυλίδος), which suggests that Demetrius and his forces entered though a less prominent gate. Dixon (2014) 99 argues for the Phliasian gate on the west side of the city. Cf. Plut. Arat. 21.1.

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which he stormed after suffering heavy losses (Diod. Sic. 20.103.2). The surviving defenders of Sisyphium withdrew to Acrocorinth, but, just as at Sicyon, the garrison surrendered when Demetrius prepared to assault the position. Diodorus (20.103.6) attributes this capitulation in part to Demetrius’ fearsome reputation: ‘after striking the defenders with terror, he compelled them to hand over the citadel; for this king was absolutely irresistible in his assaults, being particularly skilled in the construction of siege equipment’.36 The sieges of Corinth and Sicyon are the best documented events in a campaign that also saw Demetrius storm through the Argolid, Achaea, and Arcadia. When the scant evidence allows, we can glimpse Demetrius’ tactical range and the irresistibility of his mobile siege unit. Argos was taken by a daring night attack during a festival of Apollo,37 while Arcadian Orchomenus fell to a direct assault after Demetrius’ siege engines threw down the walls (Diod. Sic. 20.103.6).38 This intimidating display of force prompted most of the garrisons holding the cities and strongholds of Arcadia to surrender, ‘since Demetrius was approaching with a large army and overwhelming siege machinery’.39

3

Demetrius the ‘Fortifier of Cities’

Demetrius’ Greek campaigns of 307, 304, and 303 were showcases for his abilities as a besieger of cities and for the coercive power of his mobile siege unit. For the Successors of Alexander, however, capturing a city was one thing, taking steps to ensure that one’s rivals could not emulate the feat was quite another. Demetrius’ actions immediately after capturing Athens, Corinth, and Sicyon reveal the other side of the poliorcetic coin—the construction of fortifications capable of protecting a city from the latest advances in siege technology. Soon after Demetrius’ triumphant entry into Athens early in the archon year 307/6, one of the most ambitious fortification projects in the history of the city commenced. An Athenian inscription (IG II2 463) from 307/6 preserves a decree and syngraphai (commissioned reports) for the comprehensive overhaul of the Athenian defences, including the fortification circuits of Athens and 36

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Diod. Sic. 20.103.3: τούτους καταπληξάμενος ἠνάγκασε παραδοῦναι τὴν ἄκραν· σφόδρα γὰρ ἦν ἀνυπόστατος οὗτος ὁ βασιλεὺς ἐν ταῖς προσβολαῖς, εὐμήχανος ὑπάρχων περὶ τὴν κατασκευὴν τῶν πολιορκητικῶν ἔργων. Moretti (1967) no. 39; Chaniotis (1991) 137; cf. Plut. Demetr. 25.1. Diod. Sic. 20.103.6: προσαγαγὼν μηχανὰς ὁ βασιλεὺς καὶ καταβαλὼν τὰ τείχη κατὰ κράτος εἷλε τὴν πόλιν. Diod. Sic. 20.103.7: τοῦ δὲ Δημητρίου μετὰ μεγάλης δυνάμεως καὶ μηχανῶν ὑπεραγουσῶν προσιόντος.

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Piraeus and the Long Walls that connected them.40 This fragmentary inscription and a brief mention in the honorary decree for Demochares of Leuconoe (Plut. Mor. 851D) represent the sum of the documentary evidence for the project, and neither gives any indication that the overhaul of the fortifications was an Antigonid initiative. But the work began when Demetrius and his fleet were based in Attica41 and cannot have been undertaken without his approval or his financial backing. The construction or revitalisation of an urban fortification circuit was a hugely expensive endeavour and posed logistical challenges of the first order.42 In 307 such a project was well beyond the means of the Athenians, even with contributions from wealthy citizens.43 The overhaul of the Athenian defences overseen by Conon in the period 394–391 provides an instructive parallel. The crews of Conon’s fleet worked alongside Athenians and volunteers from Boeotia and other Greek states to carry out the project, but the bulk of the funding was provided by Pharnabazus, the Persian satrap of Phrygia (Xen. Hell. 4.8.10; Plut. Ages. 23.1). Nearly a century later a similar scenario played out, with Demetrius in the role of patron potentate. Having arrived in Athens with the extraordinary sum of 5,000 talents of silver, he was amply equipped to do so (Plut. Demetr. 8.4). The syngraphai stipulate that the fortifications were to be rebuilt from the foundations up in some sections, and the provision that some stretches of the walls ‘should be repaired to ensure effective defence’ suggests that particular care was taken to shore up areas deemed particularly vulnerable to the newest siege technology.44 Anna Maria Theocharaki argues convincingly that this effort resulted in the first systematic application of all-stone construction in the fortification walls of Athens,45 most notably in the massive Dipylon gate complex, the sector of the city wall most exposed to attack. The Dipylon was rebuilt with two faces of Piraeus limestone around a solid core of conglom40 41

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Tarn (1933) 498; Carpenter, Bon, et al. (1936) 123; Maier (1959) no. 11; Theocharaki (2011) 121–124. Among the honours granted Demetrius when he entered the city in 307/6 was the creation of two new tribes with Demetrius and his father as eponyms (see below). The division of the work into ten tribal segments indicates that the administrative reorganisation required by the expansion to twelve tribes had not yet been completed, so the decree and syngraphai must date to early in the archon year 307/6. Camp (2000) 47: ‘walls represent by far the greatest physical expression of public, communal participation, whether we think in terms of money, labour, or organisation’. On the financing of fortifications, see Maier (1961) 55; Lawrence (1979) 117–118. IG II2 740, which dates to this period, honours prosperous citizens for the repair of a tower. [ὅπως ὡς βεβαιό]τατ[α] ἂν ἐπισκ[ε]υ[ασθ]ῶσιν, IG II2 463 l. 38. Theocharaki (2011) 123–124 identifies 25 contemporary sections of the excavated walls that use all-stone construction; cf. SEG 61 123.

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erate blocks.46 The flank walls were c. 4m thick, built all in stone to their full height of nearly 10m, and topped with a crenelated parapet.47 The towers at each corner of the courtyard-style complex were enlarged to accommodate artillery.48 Beyond the Dipylon, the outer proteichisma was carefully rebuilt in alternating courses of headers and stretchers to a height of approximately 8 m, one of several measures aimed at preventing an enemy from advancing siege machinery against the walls.49 This determination to secure a city after seizing it is also evident in the aftermath of Demetrius’ capture of Sicyon and Corinth in 303. The assault on Sicyon had demonstrated that the city was vulnerable to attack on all sides except the southwest, which was shielded by a triangular plateau that had hitherto served as Sicyon’s acropolis.50 Demetrius’ solution was characteristically bold: he relocated the entire city from its old site in the coastal plain to the readily defensible plateau. This was both the first example of metoikēsis by a foreign ruler in the Peloponnese,51 and further evidence of the extraordinary resources at Demetrius’ disposal. According to Diodorus (20.102.2), the king himself took part in the construction, labouring alongside the Sicyonians as the new city took shape.52 No doubt the first priority was the construction of the approximately nine-kilometre fortification circuit that encircled the plateau.53 The new site’s commanding position atop the step-sided plateau made it naturally difficult to assault; the new walls were intended to make it impregnable.54 Although only a few hundred metres of the circuit can now be traced, the irregular course of the extant walls suggests that the circuit followed the nature of the terrain and encompassed even the steepest and most inaccessible parts of the plateau. The circuit wall consisted of two ashlar faces in isodomic masonry with a rubble and earth fill. A concern with hostile artillery is evident in the dressing of the wall blocks, which were bossed to deflect projectiles.55

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Knigge (1991) 70. Coins and pottery confirm that the reconstruction of the Dipylon belongs to the period 307–304 (Gruben 1970, 125). Gruben (1964) 389; Theocharaki (2011) 124. Knigge (1991) 70, 72. Knigge (1991) 76–79. Lolos (2011) 188. In the fifth and fourth centuries the defences of Sicyon proved sufficient to repel attacks on the city (Diod. Sic. 11.88.2, Xen. Hell. 4.4.14). Kralli (2017) 99. Diod. Sic. 20.102.2: τῷ δὲ πολιτικῷ πλήθει συνεπιλαβόμενος τῆς οἰκοδομίας. Lolos (2011) 207. The natural strength of the position was such that it does not seem to have been fortified at any point before the metoikēsis of 303 (Lolos [2011] 188). Lolos (2011) 207–211.

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There is no literary evidence for Demetrius’ building activity in Corinth, and the destruction of Corinth in 146, along with the systematic quarrying of the walls for building stone that began with the Roman re-occupation of the city, complicate attempts to reconstruct the history of the city’s military architecture.56 Nevertheless, excavations in the lower town and studies of the extant defences of Acrocorinth have revealed an extensive revitalisation of the city’s fortifications at the end of the fourth century, just as Demetrius arrived in the city with his nearly unlimited resources.57 The work on the circuit protecting the lower city was directed towards the shoring up of vulnerable areas. This approach is readily evident in the east city wall, where a stretch of some 800 m was carefully rebuilt from the ground up. The most vulnerable part of this wall is the northeast corner, just south of the Isthmian Gate of the east Long Wall.58 Ravines and steep slopes shelter the rest of the wall, but this corner occupies a stretch of level ground with no protection offered by natural features, and the shallow depth of the soil above the bedrock precludes an effective ditch. In an attempt to compensate for these deficiencies, Demetrius turned to an innovative construction technique used nowhere else in the walls of Corinth. The wall at the northeast corner is up to 6m thick, with well-dressed outer faces of ashlar blocks enclosing a solid core of sun-dried bricks. This carefully laid brick core was preserved to a height of 2.25m at the time of excavation, so the ashlar faces must have risen at least as high, and this combination of stone face and brick core may have been carried to the full height of the wall.59 The extraordinary standard of the wall construction in this vulnerable sector was clearly a response to the threat of siege machinery. The combination of stone and brick was, in the judgment of A.W. Parsons, ‘the result of a deliberate effort, whether successful or not, to combine the best qualities of both materials and create a wall which should be, regardless of the type of weapon used against it, impregnable’.60 Contemporary with the work on the walls of the lower city was a refurbishment of the fortifications of Acrocorinth, the exact extent of which remains an open question.61 The capture of Corinth was among Demetrius’ greatest poliorcetic feats; the comprehensive overhaul of the Corinthian defences left the city with walls that were as formidable as any in Greece. 56 57 58 59 60 61

Carpenter, Bon, et al. (1936) 126. Carpenter, Bon, et al. (1936) 121–126, 294–296; Winter (1991); Dixon (2014) 131. The addition of an arch across the outer passage of the Isthmian gates belongs to the same building program. See Carpenter, Bon, et al. (1936) 124 and Winter (1991) 118. Carpenter, Bon, et al. (1936) 290. Carpenter, Bon, et al. (1936) 296. Carpenter, Bon, et al. (1936) esp. 126, 296. Winter (1991) assigns some of the Hellenistic work to a building phase later in the third century.

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Demetrius the King and God

Despite Demetrius’ withdrawal from Rhodes in 304, the last years of the fourth century saw the Antigonids ascendant in Greece and the Aegean, Anatolia, Syria, and Cyprus. Demetrius’ campaigns in mainland Greece in the period 307–303 culminated in the foundation of a league of Greek poleis under Antigonid hegemony. In 306, Demetrius and Antigonus became the first of Alexander’s Successors to claim the royal title for themselves. In the midst of these military and diplomatic triumphs Demetrius emerged as the pivotal figure in the evolution of Hellenistic ruler cult. Demetrius’ mastery of the poliorcetic arts was an important component in all of these developments. The Antigonids may not have viewed their policy of support for the freedom of the Greeks as anything more than a useful vehicle for harnessing the considerable military potential of the Greek poleis, but Demetrius’ campaigns of liberation in 307, 304, and 303 demonstrated that the Antigonid commitment to Greek freedom was not merely empty propaganda. By driving out the garrisons of his rivals, Demetrius had won the goodwill and support of many cities in central and southern Greece and amassed a great deal of political capital. He convened a meeting at the Isthmian Games in 302 that resulted in the foundation of the Hellenic League, a coalition of Greek states under Antigonid leadership (Plut. Demetr. 25.4). A fragmentary copy of the league charter found at Epidaurus (IG IV.1.68) shows that this alliance differed fundamentally from the Greek league established by Philip II in 338/7.62 While the earlier alliance was directed at an alien power, the primary aim of this league was the defeat of Cassander and the capture of his Macedonian realm for the Antigonids.63 In the summer of 302 Demetrius moved north to confront Cassander at the head of a massive army that included no less than 25,000 Greek hoplites (Diod. Sic. 20.110.4), willing allies in one Macedonian king’s bid to eliminate another. It was inevitable that one or more of the Successors would claim the vacant royal title once Cassander saw to the liquidation of the Argead line in 309.64

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Austin (2006) n. 50. Simpson (1959) 398; Will (1984) 58–59; Yardley, Wheatley, and Heckel (2011) 250; Kralli (2017) 101. Diod. Sic. 19.105.4: οὐκέτι γὰρ ὄντος οὐδενὸς τοῦ διαδεξομένου τὴν ἀρχὴν τὸ λοιπὸν ἕκαστος τῶν κρατούντων ἐθνῶν ἢ πόλεων βασιλικὰς εἶχεν ἐλπίδας καὶ τὴν ὑφ’ ἑαυτὸν τεταγμένην χώραν εἶχεν ὡσανεί τινα βασιλείαν δορίκτητον (‘there being no longer anyone to inherit the realm, each of those who had rule over nations or cities entertained hopes of royal power and held the territory that had been placed under his authority as if it were a kingdom won by

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In the absence of hereditary claims, military success provided the basis for the first assumption of the kingship outside of the Argead house.65 According to Plutarch (Demetr. 10.3), it was immediately after Demetrius’ successful siege of Mounychia in 307 that the Athenians became ‘the first of all people to hail Demetrius and Antigonus as kings’,66 but the Antigonids did not formally assume the royal title until a year later, when Demetrius seized Cyprus from Ptolemy. Demetrius’ Cypriote campaign is best known for his victory in an epic naumachia fought near Salamis, but that battle was the penultimate act of a sweeping campaign that saw Demetrius storm two cities, besiege another in spectacular fashion, and win a convincing victory in a land battle.67 Demetrius arrived in Cyprus in 306 and promptly took Ourania and Karpasia by direct assault.68 He then soundly defeated Ptolemy’s brother Menelaus in a battle near Salamis, the island’s principal city. When Menelaus and his army took shelter behind the formidable walls of Salamis, Demetrius laid siege to the city with an array of custom-built siege machinery, including a towering helepolis (Diod. Sic. 20.47–48). Although Demetrius raised the siege when Ptolemy himself approached Salamis with a large fleet, his siege unit evidently made quite an impression. Indeed, even after Demetrius won a smashing victory in the ensuing naval battle near Salamis, Ptolemy’s position on the island was still quite strong. His garrisons held nearly all of the Cypriote cities and his reserve fleet of 60 warships remained intact in the harbour of Salamis. And yet Ptolemy chose not to defend the Cypriote cities against the Besieger, even though he had held the island for nearly a decade and control of Cyprus was a principal strategic imperative for any ruler in Egypt.69 He withdrew to Egypt, ceding Cyprus, the fleet at Salamis, and the services of more than 16,000 garrison troops to Demetrius. The Cypriote campaign provided the Antigonids with the signal

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the spear’). For the murder of Alexander’s sons Alexander IV and Heracles, see Diod. Sic. 19.105.2, 20.28.3, Paus. 9.7.2, Just. 15.2.3–5. An entry in the Suda (s.v. Βασιλεία, Adler B 147) captures the military basis of Macedonian kingship after the Argeads: οὔτε φύσις οὔτε τὸ δίκαιον ἀποδιδοῦσι τοῖς ἀνθρώποις τὰς βασιλείας, ἀλλὰ τοῖς δυναμένοις ἡγεῖσθαι στρατοπέδου καὶ χειρίζειν πράγματα νουνεχῶς: οἷος ἦν Φίλιππος καὶ οἱ διάδοχοι Ἀλεξάνδρου (‘Neither nature nor justice gives kingdoms to men, but rather to those men who are able to lead an army and to handle affairs intelligently; such as Philip was, and the Successors of Alexander’). Plutarch Demetr. 10.3: πρῶτοι μὲν γὰρ ἀνθρώπων ἁπάντων τὸν Δημήτριον καὶ Ἀντίγονον βασιλεῖς ἀνηγόρευσαν. Notable recent treatments of the Cyprus campaign include Wheatley (2001); Yardley, Wheatley, and Heckel (2011) 237–240; and Murray (2012) 105–112. Diod. Sic. 20.47.2: εἷλε κατὰ κράτος Οὐρανίαν καὶ Καρπασίαν. On the strategic importance of Cyprus for Ptolemy and his successors, see esp. Hauben (1987).

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victory they needed to justify their assumption of the kingship. As Demetrius consolidated his control over the island, Antigonus claimed the royal title for himself and his son in a carefully orchestrated spectacle in Syria (Diod. Sic. 20.53.1–2; Plut. Demetr. 16.7–18.1). After the Cyprus campaign, King Demetrius’ prestige and reputation for poliorcetic brilliance was such that it actually helped legitimate the regal claims of several of his rivals. Cassander, Lysimachus, and Ptolemy were able to leverage their roles in thwarting Demetrius’ siege of Rhodes to claim the royal title in their own right: all three dynasts seem to have formally assumed the kingship during or shortly after the conclusion of the siege.70 Not to be outdone by the Macedonian Diadochoi, Agathocles of Syracuse also claimed the royal title. According to Diodorus (20.54.2), he immediately built a helepolis of his own and attacked Utica, ‘since he was eager to do something worthy of the title’.71 In exchange for his signal aid during the siege, King Ptolemy was also given divine honours in Rhodes including the cultic epithet Sōtēr (‘Saviour’), and a sacred precinct, the Ptolemaeum (Diod. Sic. 20.100.3–4). Ruler cult, the offering of divine honours to mortal men, was bound up with the prosecution of sieges from the very beginning. In 404, the Spartan admiral Lysander received the submission of the Athenians after besieging the city by land and sea. He resisted the calls of those allies who called for the destruction of the city and the mass execution of her citizens. Instead, he sailed into Piraeus where he burned most of what remained of the Athenian fleet and symbolically dismantled the walls of the port city to the music of aulos-girls (Xen. Hell. 2.2.23; Plut. Lys. 15). He then besieged Samos, the last stronghold of democratic resistance to Spartan hegemony in the Aegean. The Samian democrats surrendered in short order and were forced to leave the island in favour of members of the exiled oligarchic faction, whom Lysander restored and established in power (Xen. Hell. 2.3.6–7; Plut. Lys. 14.1). With his manifest ability to capture cities, to dictate their constitutional arrangements, even to destroy or preserve them, Lysander wielded power on a superhuman scale. The Samians responded by honouring Lysander as a god. According to the historian Duris of Samos (Duris BNJ 76 F26 = Plut. Lys. 18.3–4), they erected an altar for Lysander and offered prayers and sacrifices to the Spartan general at their principal festival, the Heraea, which was renamed the Lysandreia.72 70

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On the assumption of the kingship by the Diadochoi and the timing of the various claims, see esp. Seibert (1983) 136–140, with earlier bibliography; Gruen (1985); Billows (1990) 155– 160; Yardley, Wheatley, and Heckel (2011) 241–249. Diod. Sic. 20.54.2: τῆς προσηγορίας ταύτης ἄξιόν τι σπεύδων πρᾶξαι. The renaming of the festival is confirmed by I Samos 413.

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The creation of the cult of Lysander provides the earliest example of a phenomenon that became common only after the death of Alexander. In the early Hellenistic period, the Greek cities established cults for monarchs in response to actions of crucial significance and actions affecting their freedom or very existence.73 The proclamation of Greek freedom at Tyre earned Antigonus divine honours in the Troad,74 while Demetrius’ actions as a besieger, liberator, and builder during his Greek campaigns of 307, 304, and 303 resulted in an unprecedented array of divine honours and associations. The many successful sieges during those campaigns were spectacular displays of coercive power, but it was Demetrius’ willingness to deploy his siege unit as an instrument of liberation and to provide for the protection of the cities he freed that energised the nascent idiom of ruler cult. After storming the Mounychia fortress and ejecting Cassander’s garrison, Demetrius entered Athens early in the archon year 307/6. He convened an assembly, proclaimed the restoration of freedom and democracy, and announced a number of benefactions (Diod. Sic. 20.46.1, 46.4; Plut. Demetr. 10.1–2).75 The euphoric Athenians responded by showering Demetrius and his father with an extraordinary suite of honours, many of them divine in nature. They were hailed as Sōtēres (‘Saviours’), akin to the saviour gods Zeus and Athena, and a cult of the new saviours was established, complete with an altar, a priest, and an annual festival. The images of Demetrius and Antigonus were woven into the sacred peplos presented to Athena at the Panathenaea, golden statues of the Antigonids were set up in the agora, and two new tribes were created with Antigonus and Demetrius as eponymous phylai gods (Diod. Sic. 20.46.1–3; Plut. Demetr. 10.4–6).76 In 304, after Demetrius again delivered the Athenians from Cassander, he was hailed as Kataibatēs (‘Descender’), an epithet traditionally reserved for Zeus, and given the rear chamber of the Parthenon as his personal residence (Plut. Demetr. 10.5, 23.5).77 The Athenian reaction to their

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On the development of ruler cult in the early Hellenistic period, see esp. Habicht (1970); Price (1984); Mikalson (1998) 75–104; Chaniotis (2003); Parker (2011) 279–282; and Erskine (2013). OGIS 6; Austin (2006) no. 39. Demetrius promised to provide the Athenians with a large amount of grain and shipbuilding timber. Our sources are silent on the matter, but one wonders if Demetrius did not also announce a donation for the overhaul of the fortifications at this initial assembly. On the Antigonids as phylai gods, not merely eponymous heroes, see Versnel (2011) 451– 452. The litany of honours given here is far from complete. On the divine Demetrius, see esp. Habicht (1970) 44–55; Mikalson (1998) 75–104; Thonemann (2005); Chaniotis (2011); Versnel (2011) esp. 444–456; O’Sullivan (2014); and Rose (2018).

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liberation signalled the arrival of a new era in which mortals could be rewarded for exceptional achievement with honours that had hitherto been reserved for the gods, and a similar process of exceptional benefactions followed by divine honours unfolded in other cities. Demetrius received unspecified honours (presumably divine) after the siege and liberation of Megara (Diod. Sic. 20.46.3),78 and was assimilated to Apollo after capturing Argos in an attack that coincided with a festival of the god.79 The Sicyonians changed the name of their city to Demetrias and established annual sacrifices, festivals, and games in honour of the city’s (re)founder (Diod. Sic. 20.103.2–3; Plut. Demetr. 25.3). In 302 the divine King Demetrius was poised to crush Cassander in Thessaly and the reconstitution of the empire of Alexander seemed within the reach of the Antigonids. A year later those dreams came crashing down when Demetrius and Antigonus suffered a devastating defeat near the village of Ipsus in central Phrygia. Antigonus was killed and Demetrius escaped with only a token force (Plut. Demetr. 29–30.2). The Antigonid realm in Anatolia and Syria was carved up by Lysimachus, Seleucus, and Ptolemy, the Hellenic League melted away soon after news of the battle reached Greece, and the Athenians informed their Saviour that he was no longer welcome in the city (Plut. Demetr. 30.1–4). Demetrius did not return to mainland Greece for five years. His abilities as a besieger and fortifier were undiminished when he arrived in Attica in 296, but he had adopted a radically different posture towards the Greek cities. The erstwhile champion of Greek freedom now sought to enforce the quiescence of the Greek poleis through the imposition of garrisons, notably in Corinth, Athens, and Thebes.80 But the fortifications that Demetrius had constructed during his Greek campaigns of the late fourth century proved far more lasting than his commitment to Greek freedom or the honours it had won for him. Corinth remained a bastion of Antigonid power in southern Greece for more than a century.81 Sicyon was only known as Demetrias for a short while and Demetrius’ founder cult was neglected in time, but the inhabitants of the city continued to enjoy the advantages of the enviable site for centuries.82 Aemilius Paullus, who brought an end to Antigonid rule in Macedon with his victory at Pydna in 168, admired the defensibility of Sicyon during his tour of Greece (Polyb. 30.10.4).

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Diodorus (20.46.3) notes only that he received ‘noteworthy honours’ (τιμῶν ἀξιολόγων). Moretti (1967) no. 39 and Chaniotis (1991) 137. The garrison in Corinth was installed in 303, purportedly at the request of the Corinthians themselves (Diod. Sic. 20.103.3). On the enduring and mutually beneficial relationship between Corinth and the Antigonids, see Dixon (2014) 75–138. Diod. Sic. 20.102.3–4; Strabo 8.6.25; Plut. Demetr. 25.3; Paus. 2.7.1.

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Demetrius, fully aware of the strength of the Athenian fortifications, did not even attempt to force the walls when he besieged the city in 295; he enforced a naval blockade and starved the city into submission (Plut. Demetr. 33–34).83 Nearly a century later his great-grandson Philip V barely escaped with his life when he came under heavy fire in the courtyard of the Dipylon, and his subsequent attacks on the walls of Athens were beaten back (Livy 31.24, 31.26.5– 8).84 Philip’s actions prompted a damnatio memoriae of all things Antigonid in Athens: the names of the Antigonids were carefully chiselled off of inscriptions; a gilded equestrian statue of Demetrius was thrown into a well; the tribes Antigonis and Demetrias were abolished (Livy 31.44.4–5).85 If any of the rituals in honour of the divine Demetrius were still performed in Athens at the end of the third century they did not survive this wholesale rejection of the Antigonids. In the end, the most enduring legacy of the Besieger of Cities was the walls he built to protect them.

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Tamis, A., Mackie, C.J., and Byrne, S. (eds.) (2010) ΦΙΛΑΘΗΝΑΙΟΣ: Studies in Honor of Michael J. Osborne. Athens. Tarn, W.W. (1933) ‘The Heritage of Alexander’, in Bury, Cook, Adcock, Charlesworth, and Baynes (1933) 438–504. Theocharaki, A.M. (2011) ‘The Ancient Circuit Wall of Athens: Its Changing Course and the Phases of Construction’, Hesperia 80: 71–156. Thonemann, P. (2005) ‘The Tragic King: Demetrios Poliorketes and the City of Athens’, in Hekster and Fowler (2005) 63–86. Tracy, S. (2003) Athens and Macedon: Attic Letter-Cutters of 300 to 220B.C. Berkeley. Versnel, H. (2011) Coping with the Gods: Wayward Readings in Greek Theology. Leiden. Wallbank, F.W., Astin, A.E., Frederiksen, M.W., and Ogilvie, R.M. (eds.) (1984) The Cambridge Ancient History, 2nd edn. Vol. 7, Part 1. The Hellenistic World. Cambridge. Wheatley, P. (2001) ‘The Antigonid Campaign in Cyprus, 306B.C.’, AncSoc 31: 133–156. Wheatley, P. (2016) ‘A Floruit of Poliorcetics: The Siege of Rhodes, 305/04BC’, Anabasis 7: 43–70. Whitehead, D. (2016) Philo Mechanicus: On Sieges. Stuttgart. Wiemer, H.-U. (2001) Rhodische Traditionen in der hellenistischen Historiographie. Frankfurt am Main. Will. E. (1984) ‘The Succession to Alexander’, in Wallbank, Astin, Frederiksen, and Ogilvie (1984) 23–61. Winter, F. (1991) ‘The Chronology of the Ancient Defenses of Acrocorinth: A Reconsideration’, AJA 95: 109–121. Yardley, J., Wheatley, P., and Heckel, W. (2011) Justin: Epitome of the Philippic History of Pompeius Trogus. Volume II, Books 13–15: The Successors of Alexander the Great. Oxford.

chapter 10

Sic Deinde, Quicumque Alius Transiliet Moenia Mea: Early Roman Fortifications and Sieges Jeremy Armstrong

Fortifications and sieges form an important part of early Roman history, particularly in relation to the emergence of a distinct Roman identity.* In the literary sources, building fortifications, and specifically city walls, represented a core part of civic definition for the Romans, with a direct connection between the construction of walls and political restructuring. Both Romulus and Servius Tullius, Rome’s two great political innovators during the regal period, were known as great wall-builders as well. Indeed, as Livy suggests (Livy 1.6–7), when Romulus and Remus set about founding their settlements on the hills of Rome the first thing they did, following the taking of the auspices, was to fortify them. This action was vital to the foundation in the narrative, with the walls forming the key boundary separating ‘us’ and ‘them’. As Creighton noted in his study of ancient city walls more generally, ‘as much as walls originally encircled populations for reasons of defence, their roles as symbols of commercial advantage, individuality and separateness have been more enduring’.1 Following on from this point, the breaching of a city’s walls could also arguably be seen as a violation of the civic identity. This violation, and its importance, is perhaps most vividly demonstrated by the conflict between Romulus and Remus, where the surmounting of Romulus’ wall by Remus provoked the famous fratricide.2 But

* I would like to thank my co-editor and the anonymous reviewers of the volume for their helpful comments, as well as to Seth Bernard—who kindly read and commented on a draft. All errors and omissions, of course, remain my own. 1 Creighton (2007) 344. 2 An alternative reading of this narrative might also be that the major transgression was the crossing of the pomerium, or ritual boundary, although Livy’s attribution of the line ‘Sic deinde, quicumque alius transiliet moenia mea’ to Romulus clearly puts the emphasis on the walls themselves. This basic version is also found in Plutarch’s Romulus, although he has Remus leaping over a trench (τάφρος) where the wall (τεῖχος) would be: ‘When Remus knew of the deceit, he was enraged, and as Romulus was digging a trench where his city’s wall was to run, he ridiculed some parts of the work, and obstructed others. At last, when he leaped across it, he was smitten (by Romulus himself, as some say; according to others, by Celer, one of his companions), and fell dead there’. (Plut. Rom. 10.1, trans. Perrin). Dionysius (1.87) offers

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instead of being condemned, as one would expect for an act such as fratricide (generally so abhorrent to the normal order), the death of Remus was treated in a careful manner by the sources.3 Clearly a myriad of traditions exist for the myth, with various versions and aftermaths, but in the most common iteration, preserved in both Livy and Dionysius, the death of Remus is seemingly justified by his rash violation of Romulus’ wall, as seen by the threat which follows ‘Sic deinde, quicumque alius transiliet moenia mea’ (‘So also will perish whosoever else shall jump over my walls’ Livy 1.7.2, trans. Foster). The common juxtaposition of sieges and sexual violation, with not only the rape of women often following a successful siege but also more subtle literary associations—for instance Lucretia being raped by Sextus Tarquinius while the siege of Ardea was ongoing—also hints at the depth of emotion this act involved.4 To go over a city’s walls, to cross that boundary in a hostile fashion, seems to have represented one of the most powerful acts in the Roman mind. A visceral violation. Indeed, the act of besiegement remained an important aspect of Rome’s narrative throughout the archaic period. Many of the most important and transformative events in Rome during the early centuries of her history are set to the backdrop of a siege, including the war against the Sabines which followed the ‘Rape of the Sabine Women’ (where the Romans are reportedly besieged), the overthrow of the Roman rex Tarquinius Superbus, the epic siege of Veii (a ten-year affair which marks Rome’s final victory over her great rival), and of course the siege and sack of Rome by the Gauls in 390BC. Within these distinct narratives, and more generally in the histories of the period, sieges represent times of great tension—a prolonged struggle which formed the natural setting for some of the most important events in the life of the city. For Livy in particular, sieges represented ‘moral affairs’, where there was an implied emphasis on morale and motivation, confidence and aggression, and where the character of a community was expressed.5 In the histories of early Rome, fortifications and sieges, as two sides of the same phenomenon, were significant. Together they embodied the creation and defence (or destruction) of civic identity. a similar version: ‘… [Remus] cried, “Well, as for this wall, one of your enemies could as easily cross it as I do,” and immediately leaped over it. Thereupon Celer, one of the men standing on the wall, who was overseer of the work, said, “Well, as for this enemy, one of us could easily punish him,” and striking him on the head with a mattock, he killed him then and there’ (trans. Cary). 3 Wiseman (1995) 117–126. 4 See Gaca (2011) 73–88 for a full discussion of rape and its role in ancient warfare and sieges. See also Chapman (2004). 5 Levithan (2013) 83.

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The Archaeological ‘Discrepancy’

Moving away from the historical accounts though, all written in the late republican and imperial periods, the evidence is far more ambiguous about the importance of fortifications and sieges in the early history of the city. Although there is evidence for fortification building at the site of Rome, and elsewhere in Latium, from the early Iron Age, it is possible—and indeed likely—that these structures did not have the same character as Rome’s later fortifications.6 Often constructed using an agger and fossa (rampart and ditch) technique, they typically only secured portions of a site (often an ‘acropolis’ or hill)7 or reinforced the easiest approaches to a settlement and rarely, if ever, offered a complete circuit wall around the settlement until much later periods.8 It is only in the final quarter of the sixth century BC that full circuit walls, typically constructed in opus quadratum or polygonal masonry, appear anywhere in central Italy— first at small sites like Signia and Norba, in the fifth century BC at Veii, and finally at Rome in the middle of the fourth century BC,9 although, admittedly, this regional chronology is (often hotly) debated. The key issue is that, although usually founded in naturally defensible locations, often provided with a ready source of good materials, seemingly capable of monumental constructions/earthworks, and even displaying a propensity for fortification building in general, there is limited evidence for full circuit walls in central Italy until the late fifth and early fourth centuries BC.10 This type of fortification, which completely surrounded a settlement, is very rare (and indeed arguably non-existent) for much of the archaic period. Focusing specifically on Rome, during the early Iron Age, there are certainly sections of fortifications of the agger and fossa type on the slopes of various hills at Rome, including both the Palatine and Capitoline and also the Quir-

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For an overview of early fortifications in central Italy, see Fontaine and Helas (2016). See, for instance, the loam wall on the acropolis of Gabii, dated to the end of the ninth century BC (Helas [2017]) and a similar fortification at Colle Rotondo (Cifani et al. [2013], 273; Guidi and Nomi [2013]). However, Gabii’s agger and fossa were only constructed after c. 750 BC, and may not have surrounded the settlement completely. See Quilici (1994), and more recently Nijboer (2018) and Helas (2018), for an overview of the evidence. See Ziółkowski (2005) for discussion. For Signia and Norba see de Haas (2011) and de Haas and Attema (2016). For Veii see Biagi et al. (2014), Boitani (2008), and Boitani et al. (2014). The date for Veii’s full circuit walls is still debated. For Rome, see Nijboer (2018) for recent discussion and bibliography. See also, now, Tarquinia, whose wall has been recently dated to the early-to-mid sixth century BC on firm stratigraphic evidence (Bangnasco Gianni [2014] 429–453). See Ziółkowski (2016) for a recent summary.

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inal and Esquiline. The evidence for these is limited though, and it is entirely possible that at least some sections—for instance the eighth century BC wall excavated by Carandini on the Palatine—were simply retaining walls in specific areas instead of proper fortifications around an entire hill.11 This being noted, fortifications remain a distinct possibility as, beginning in the eighth century BC, the entire region seems to have experienced a spurt of fortification building, with particular attention paid to the strategic crossings of the Tiber river valley.12 This is likely connected to the rise in trade between the Greek communities developing in southern Italy and the Etruscan communities in the north and the increased importance of urban sites in this exchange.13 The sixth century BC also saw a spate of building projects throughout Latium, and particularly in Rome, which included improved fortifications, along with a number of temples and other structures (for instance the cloaca maxima in the forum Romanum).14 Thus we seem to have the impetus for fortification building at multiple points in Rome’s early history, coupled with the materials and manpower to create them. And indeed, the construction of fortifications, even limited ones which defended only certain areas, was a massive undertaking. Looking at the Esquiline agger and fossa alone, which likely date to the first half of the sixth century,15 the defences were 40 m wide and over 1.1 km long, resulting in an earthwork which was approximately 286,000 cubic meters—a construction which Cifani has estimated would have taken roughly 300 men almost 2 years to construct.16 But despite the obvious concern for defence, and the ability to construct substantial earthworks and constructions during this period, it must be reiterated that the evidence for full circuit walls at Rome before the fourth century BC is inconclusive to say the least.17 Although we have the remains of other 11

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Carandini (1992). This would certainly not hold true for the sixth century BC Esquiline agger and fossa of course, which are much more substantial, but will be addressed later. See Bernard (2012) and Andrews and Bernard (2017). Alessandri (2009) 581. Bietti Sestieri (1992) 21–75. See also Fulminante (2014). See Hopkins (2016) for detailed discussion. See Nijboer (2018) 117–118 on the date. Cifani (2016) 88. Bernard (2012) 37–38. Contra this position, see Ziółkowski (2016). However, Ziółkowski (and Cifani et al’s) stance is fundamentally based upon the accuracy of the literary evidence for this period. As he notes ‘Of course, since our archaeological evidence must remain incomplete, the skeptical view is bound to hang around, ready to be picked up by those who a priori refuse to admit that the historical memory of the Romans of the last century of the Republic was able to preserve an important datum about their City from five-four hundred years before’ (Ziółkowski [2016] 170). This, then, transitions the debate into the

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monumental structures from the areas between Rome’s hills, most notably in the Velabrum between the Capitoline and Palatine, there is no solid evidence for fortifications protecting these areas.18 As a result, and when one removes the assumptions of Rome’s late republican historians regarding the basic necessities of an ancient city, the archaeology actually only directly supports a Rome which featured a series of separate hilltop fortifications, with an agger protecting the eastern approach across the Esquiline plateau until the fourth century.19 This does not mean that Rome, or indeed other similarly fortified settlements, were completely undefended outside of these constructions. Most settlements were located on plateaus or hilltops which offered some natural defences as well, and indeed Cicero suggests that Rome’s hills were still nativa praesidia (Cic. Rep. 2.11), even in the late Republic.20 However, these types of fortifications would not have offered the sort of continuous and defining civic boundary which Livy and other late republican historians seem to have envisaged, and it is questionable how much of a hurdle they would have presented to an army attempting a determined siege or assault.21 Additionally, as many scholars have noted, it is unlikely the Romans and other central Italian communities/tribes possessed the logistical and technological ability to conduct siege warfare on a meaningful scale in this period.22 Although simple assaults and blockades would have been possible, ‘real sieges’, involving significant investiture and the construction of siege works, are often seen to come into Roman warfare only during the late fourth and third centuries BC, with the sieges of Saguntum and Syracuse being the best examples.23

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age old argument over the reliability of the literary tradition—see Armstrong and Richardson (2017) for discussion. Although some squared tuff blocks have been discovered in this area—see Lugli (1933) 22 and Cifani (2008) 63–66, with bibliography—their function is entirely uncertain. If they do indeed represent part of a set of fortifications, many of the more important structures in the area, including temples, markets, and industrial zones, would not have been included within their suggested circuit. Is it possible they may have formed part of the foundations or retaining walls for various structures at the site? See Hopkins (2016) for discussion of the constructions in the area with bibliography. Bernard (2012) 37–38. See Ziółkowski (2016) 165 for discussion. This point is, admittedly, contested—see particularly Ziółkowski (2016) contra. Levithan (2013) 82. There are, arguably, some hints of this in the fourth century—for instance with Dionysus of Syracuse’s siege of Motya, and his consequent sack of Pyrgi, which have been put forward by Cifani and others as moments where new siege technologies from the east may have been introduced to Italy. However Cosa, traditionally founded in 273BC, still represents the first wall circuit in Italy with protruding towers made, at least ostensibly, for artillery. See Benvenuti (2002).

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This seeming discrepancy between the literary and archaeological record, where the literature emphasises the importance of settlement walls while the archaeology seems to diminish it (or at least complicate it), is typical of many periods of ancient history, and particularly early Roman history, and is often easily explained based on rhetorical techniques and approaches. For instance, with regards to fortifications, it is likely that Roman historians were drawing on established Hellenistic precedents concerning the historical definition of communities and traditional (often epic) accounts of attacks on cities.24 The focus on walls could be just literary embellishment. This sort of argument introduces other problems, however, as once the literary importance of city walls is uncoupled from our understanding of early Roman society, we are left with a significant gap in our knowledge. If Roman walls did not symbolise the border of Rome’s urban identity, as Livy and Dionysius suggested, what did they mean for the Romans? Can we salvage any aspects of the literary tradition for early Roman fortifications and sieges? How and why were fortifications built? And why did they change during the early Republic? As a result, and despite the lack of direct archaeological support, some scholars have therefore still pushed for early circuit walls around a number of Latin settlements, including Rome, pointing to sixth century BC walls in opus quadratum built at sites like Lavinium, Castel di Decima, and Gabii as comparative evidence.25 Although the evidence for even these fortifications is far from complete, and indeed the walls at almost all of these sites seem to have been substantially rebuilt and altered during the fourth century BC, Cifani, Ziółkowski, and others—arguing, based in part, on their understanding of wider Roman/Latin society at the time—have suggested that full circuit walls were still likely the norm in Latium during the archaic period.26 After all, if you could build full circuit walls, why wouldn’t you? And, of course, the literary sources clearly emphasise the importance of walls from an early date.

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McNicoll (1997) 3. Bernard (2012) 8. Cifani has argued that ‘if archaic Rome was without city walls, it should mean that she was already strong enough to survive without fortifications, exactly like the contemporary city of Sparta, which had the best army in the whole of Greece, or rather like Rome in the early imperial phase, when the city lived without urban fortifications for almost three centuries.’ (Cifani [2016] 88). This argument, however, presupposes that Rome and the rest of central Italy engaged in a form of warfare bent on conquest and capturing cities, where full city walls were required. See also Guaitoli (1984) 370–373. Indeed, one of the key reasons offered why Rome must have had circuit fortifications is that ‘Some very important public areas of the city located in the valley bottoms, for instance the Forum, would have been left undefended’ (Cifani [2016] 88).

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Others, however, for instance Bernard (and, admittedly, the present author), have suggested that the evidence does not necessarily support this sort of positivist reading.27 First, the literary evidence is actually somewhat ambiguous about the nature of Rome’s early walls. In the early years of the Republic, Publicola supposedly constructed a house on the Velian hill which was supposedly at least naturally fortified (Plut. Pub. 10), and even as late as 390 BC we have at least the Capitoline hill reportedly being defended as an independent citadel.28 So, before the mid-fourth century BC, it is possible to read the sources as suggesting a piecemeal set of constructions focused on particular hills and areas. And on the archaeological front, while there is certainly strong evidence for early stone fortifications on the hilltops of sites like Rome and Gabii, there is minimal evidence for early fortifications between the hills or around the wider community—if, indeed, Rome featured such a thing. As Becker, de Haas, Attema, and others have shown, despite the construction of large public works in central Italian communities going back to the eighth century BC, and clear suggestions of increased complexity and the process of urbanisation from this period,29 evidence of full circuit fortifications is more often associated with the late fifth and fourth centuries BC.30 Although absence of evidence does not equal evidence of absence, this absence of early evidence is still troubling. While Ziółkowski may be correct in suggesting that demanding evidence for complete circuit walls is ‘scepticism in its most sterile’, I would suggest it is worth considering what the absence of circuit walls might mean before we accept them as a given.31 While evidence of early circuit walls at Rome may be unearthed in coming years, are there ways to explain their possible absence? As Cifani recently noted, ‘the way in which a city defines and defends its borders reveals the inner social structure … [and is] also an expression of the way of doing wars’.32 The present chapter will argue that the reverse is also true: a city’s inner social structure and way of doing wars defines the nature of her fortifications. Taking a holistic view of Roman society and warfare during the late sixth, fifth, and early fourth centuries BC, a period which witnessed dramatic changes and developments in both areas, it will argue that Rome’s

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See Bernard (2012) and Armstrong (2016). On the archaeological evidence for fortifications on the Capitoline, see Mazzei (1998) and Fabbri (2008), for the literary aspects see Delfino (2009) and (2014). See particularly Fulminante (2014) on these aspects. See Becker (2007), de Haas (2011), de Haas and Attema (2016), and Hopkins (2016) amongst others. Ziółkowski (2016) 170. Cifani (2016) 82.

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changing approach to and use of fortifications, culminating in the construction of the so-called ‘Servian Walls’ of the mid-fourth century BC, are a direct reflection of social changes. Effectively, that Livy and his contemporaries were correct in their assessment of the role and importance of walls for Rome— they did indeed represent the line of civic identity. And so, in periods like the archaic, during which this line does not seem to be particularly substantial or complete, one could speculate that the line which defined Rome’s civic identity was also insubstantial and perhaps uncompleted. Conversely, when we do start to see solid evidence for full circuit walls in central Italy, and particularly at the site of Rome, we might plausibly associate that with an increased civic cohesion—and, indeed, there are good reasons, outside of just fortifications, to do so.

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A More Diffuse Model

Although scholarship has increasingly pushed for a multifaceted understanding of ancient fortifications and their construction, which includes social, political, religious, and economic facets, one must never lose sight of their military aspects—even if these remain as potentialities. As a result, Roman and Latin fortifications must always be understood as existing within a larger military context, which helps to define their function and purpose. Understanding the military norms of central Italy during the archaic period is therefore vital to understanding how fortifications functioned during this period—and, unfortunately, there is an increasing amount of disagreement on this topic. Traditionally Rome’s regal and early republican armies were thought to have fought and functioned in much the same way as their late republican counterparts: engaging in wars of conquest to extend Rome’s power and representing the literal ‘cutting edge’ of Rome’s expanding, land-based empire. All of Rome’s reges are described as expanding Rome’s holdings and Rome’s early wars against the Latins, Etruscans, and other central Italian peoples were all seen as the prelude to their eventual conquest and integration during the middle Republic. Rome, at least as presented in the literary sources, was always interested in conquest. And in order to ‘conquer’, Rome and her armies presumably had a clear sense of ‘us’ and ‘them’—a border, territory, or power which they were able to extend. There are naturally some problems with this model though. Most notably, scholars have always wondered about the reason why it took Rome so long to conquer the Latins, who had remained independent until the 340s BC. Although Rome seems to have been the largest and most powerful community

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in Latium from the sixth century BC, Rome seemed unable to parlay this size and power in control.33 Indeed, much of early Roman warfare appears as ‘indecisive’ or ‘ineffective’ in our sources, especially if the community’s ultimate goal was domination.34 This seeming inability to conquer new territory in the fifth and early fourth centuries BC has often been explained, following the ancient sources, as a result of a combination of internal struggles, relating to both aristocratic competition and the ‘Struggle of the Orders’, alongside external pressures, most notably incursions from mountainous tribes. While Rome’s early reges were supposedly able to increase the size of the ager Romanus, this expansion slowed in the sixth century BC (perhaps due to increased tension amongst elites in Rome), and is usually thought to have stopped almost entirely in the fifth century, only picking up again in the middle of the fourth. With a lack of new public building, a decline in the evidence for portable wealth, possible population shifts, and the significant amount of social, political, and military turmoil which mark the fifth century BC narrative, Rome’s inability to expand during this period is generally subsumed, and explained, by the wider concept of a Roman ‘fifth-century crisis’.35 As Cornell suggested, ‘whatever later generations of Romans might have wanted to believe about the heroic achievements of their ancestors, the fact is that they did not succeed in effacing the dismal memory of the fifth century as a period of hardship and adversity’.36 Thus, the argument runs, the Roman spirit of expansion never wavered, but during the fifth century BC the community was too fractured and disunited to act on it. In recent years, however, the idea of a ‘fifth-century crisis’ has been challenged on multiple fronts.37 Although the period clearly saw many changes, it might not be entirely appropriate to think of change as the result of, or indeed related to, a ‘crisis’ or ‘decline’. Indeed, in terms of Roman warfare during this period, Rome’s seeming ‘inability’ to conquer is now understood as relating more to a ‘lack of desire’ to conquer. Increasingly it is thought that warfare in central Italy during the sixth, fifth, and early fourth centuries BC was not the exclusive purview of the region’s communities, but instead was driven by a range of different entities for a variety of different purposes.38

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This point is obviously debated. See Smith and Lulof (2017) for discussion. Rich (2007) 15–16. See, most notably, in the collection Crise et Transformation (1990). Cornell (1990) 290–291. See, for instance, Hopkins (2016) and Smith (2017a) for recent summaries. This is undoubtedly true for earlier periods as well. Indeed, Smith (2017b) has convincingly refuted the idea of a Roman territorial ‘kingdom’ during the regal period.

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Throughout the period in question the region’s powerful clans seem to have regularly engaged in raiding against both each other and the region’s communities, in a context which seems to bear remarkable similarities to the ‘reaving’ or cattle-raiding practised by (for example) Scotland’s clans.39 Indeed, if the sources are to be believed regarding such a detail, cattle would seem to be the prime target of warfare in the archaic period. Cattle receive specific mention in a number of incidents including in the attack of Porsenna on Rome (Livy 2.9–15 and Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 5.22–35), the war between the Fabii and Veii (Livy 2.52 and Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 9.15–23), and many others. The communities of Latium and their neighbours also likely engaged in raiding, either on their own or joining up with other local clans. Naturally, they had to defend against counter-raids as well. Sextus Tarquinius is recorded as mobilising the men of Gabii in the late sixth century BC (Livy 1.53 and Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 4.55–56, 4.85) and it is likely that the vast majority of warfare conducted by Rome’s armies, such as they were, was effectively raiding down to the late fifth century BC at least. Consequently, Roman warfare in the early Republic may not have been about conquest at all. The ‘strategic stalemate’ which seems to define the literary narrative for the sixth, fifth, and early fourth centuries BC may relate to more ephemeral goals of warfare based on a raiding ethos. Returning once again to the archaic fortifications of central Italy, it is interesting to see how well the ‘piecemeal’ varieties found in the archaic period seem to work within this type of military context. The seeming absence of both conquest and large-scale, full circuit, community fortifications in the archaic period may relate to a more heterogeneous and diffuse social and military model in central Italy, which was not yet dominated by communities, civic structures, or identities—despite the increasing size and importance of urban zones in other spheres.

3

Early Roman Fortifications in Context

As suggested previously, we can certainly say that the seeming lack of substantial and full circuit fortifications in central Italy was not due to a lack of warfare or indeed a lack of manpower, technology, or materials. Quite the opposite in fact, particularly with regards to manpower, as major building projects like the reclamation of the forum Romanum (begun in the second half of the seventh

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See Armstrong (2016) for more complete discussion.

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century BC) would have rivalled many of the more extensive fortification building projects of later periods in terms of required labour and resources. And, although they were often of limited scale or extent, central Italy, and particularly southern Etruria and Latium, represented a focal point for fortification construction in the Iron Age.40 These projects were aided by the presence of easily accessed tuff and naturally defensible plateaus—particularly in southern Etruria.41 Tuff, although not a particularly beautiful stone and generally unconducive to fine statuary or art because of its inclusions and tendency to erode (although it was used), is an incredibly useful building material, which is ideally suited for fortifications. Easily quarried and reasonably light, large blocks can be excavated quickly and readily shaped to fit without mortar.42 This type of building material, coupled with naturally defensible sites, often carved out of the tuff by rivers, created an ideal situation for fortification building.43 But resources are only part of the issue. One must also have need. Here the literature and the archaeology are fully in agreement that central Italy was inhabited by an elite who identified strongly with warfare and martial values. From the beginning of the Iron Age down through the fifth century BC, military equipment remained a strong and constant feature in elite male graves.44 Warrior scenes and warrior figurines are also ubiquitous in funerary and ritual contexts throughout the region, but particularly common in southern Etruria. The literary sources also indicate a strong martial flavour to Rome’s early identity, seen in the nature of archaic imperium, the evident military aspects of Rome’s archaic curiae, warfare being a defining feature of the Roman rex, and even more mythic elements, like Rome’s birth in blood through the various actions of Romulus (the death of Amulius, the death of Remus, the rape of the Sabine women, etc.). The literary sources, as previously suggested, also hint at almost constant raiding in the region, suggesting that the fortifications constructed at Rome and other Latin sites were not merely for show. Thus, we seem to have had the need for fortifications of some sort, as well as the resources and ability to create them. However, there may have been several social and cultural factors holding the Romans (and other central Italians) back from fully fortifying their settlements. Indeed the possible absence of full circuit walls in the early period may even help to explain a range of phenomena. For instance, the absence of circuit 40 41 42 43 44

See the introduction in Fontaine and Hellas (2016) for an overview. See Funicello (1995). See Becker (2007) 92–187 for full discussion and examples. See Bernard (2018), esp. chapter 2. Stary (1981).

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walls may help to explain the importance of the ritual pomerium in archaic times, and also Rome’s relatively open approach to immigration and emigration.45 Without a full circuit wall, entry into Rome was not officially controlled or limited in the same way as more fortified settlements, and given Rome’s location on the primary crossing point of the Tiber, between the regions of Latium and Etruria, it is likely that the city’s population represented an ever-changing flow of people. It must also be noted that Rome’s ‘piecemeal’ approach to fortifications may have, at least in part, reflected the city’s immense size. In the fourth century BC, when Rome’s first identifiable circuit walls were constructed, the line of fortifications stretched a full 11km.46 Although an ever-increasing body of archaeological evidence suggests that Rome was a wealthy settlement in the sixth century BC, and obviously capable of building some impressive monuments— most notably the temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus—fortifications of that size and scale may have been beyond her limits.47 Alternatively, smaller communities, like Rusellae in Etruria whose fortifications seem to represent the earliest in central Italy, were able to complete full circuit walls made of mud brick by the seventh century BC, replaced by stone walls in the sixth century, as they measured only 3.27km.48 Or, at the site of Gabii, the ‘loam wall’, dated to the end of the ninth century BC, may have only completely protected the ‘acropolis’ of the site. These more unified sets of early fortifications may have indicated the dominance of a single family, or alliance of families, in these periods. Indeed, given that many smaller communities also seem to have had fragmented sets of fortifications as well, it is also possible (and indeed likely) that social and cultural factors may have played a role in dictating their form. Public construction projects in Rome, despite their perceived benefit for the entire community, were largely the monopoly of individual elite families during the archaic period—and indeed after.49 As Smith has demonstrated, the decline of elite funerary depositions in Latium coincides directly with the rise of public building projects in Latin communities and, with the long tradition of euerget-

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Unless, of course, the wall and ritual boundary were intrinsically connected as, for instance, Carandini (1992) suggests. This is longer than any other set of fortifications in the wider region—the next longest being at Volterrae (7.28 km) followed by Signia (5km). See Becker (2007) for discussion. See Hopkins (2016) for discussion of Rome’s urban area in the archaic period. Becker (2013) 19. The notable exception is the Roman Forum, however—see Hopkins (2016) 39–65 for discussion.

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ism and building public structures to commemorate family achievements in Rome, it can be suggested that Rome’s fortifications may also be placed within this context.50 It is plausible then, that Rome’s ‘piecemeal’ fortifications were the result of individual families and gentes fortifying specific areas within the city while leaving other areas, perhaps uninhabited or outside their zone of control, undefended. Additionally, the style of warfare prevalent in archaic central Italy, with its focus on raiding, did not necessarily require full circuit walls. While complete circumvallation may have represented an ideal (something which is not entirely certain—as will be discussed), all that was really required during the archaic period was the ability to slow down an attacker and to stop them from quickly making off with cattle or other goods. Indeed, given the ephemeral relationship which many elite gentes had with communities during the archaic period, including Rome, it may not have been in their best interests to fortify the community too strongly.

4

Clans and Communities

The relationship between central Italy’s powerful gentes, or clans, and the region’s urban zones is a difficult one to unpick, and yet another point of early Roman history over which there is still quite a bit of modern disagreement.51 While Livy and other late republican writers naturally assumed that powerful families had always been drawn to Rome—and indeed, that identifying with Rome (being ‘Roman’) was always an important and positive thing—this is now increasingly accepted to be anachronistic. However, it is entirely unclear what sort of relationship should be put in its place. Some would argue that, while we might discard some aspects of Livy’s presentation of Roman citizenship and elite status as late republican, his core vision of early Rome’s aristocracy—a clearly identifiable and cohesive patriciate, along with an emerging plebeian nobility—was plausibly there.52 That Rome always had a reasonably stable Senate, and collection of senatorial families, who formed the elite core of Rome’s community and government. Others, however, have argued that Rome’s relationship with elite clans was limited by the more fluid and regional nature of

50 51 52

Smith (1996) 224–232. See Smith (2006), esp. 65–113, for discussion. Cornell (1995) still represents one of the more nuanced iterations of this more positive view. For more a more radical position, see Carandini (2011).

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these gentes down to at least the fifth century, and perhaps later.53 Although urban centres were likely important to the clans on a number of levels, they did not seem to have the same, long-term attachment to them in the archaic period as in later periods. The relationship was more ephemeral and practical, which may have complicated the construction of fortifications. It is worth reiterating, for instance, that all of Rome’s reges came from outside of the community, with only one family—the Tarquins—holding the office more than once. And in the early Republic powerful families seem to have come and gone from Rome regularly, with no real loss of status or power, as the arrival of the Claudii in 509BC and the ‘exile’ of various powerful individuals and their followers attest—Coriolanus, Camillus, etc. There is also evidence for what appears to be a fundamental disconnect between the health and fortunes of the region’s clans and even the communities with which they seem to have most regularly associated—at least in the early periods. For instance, based on the evidence from the archaic necropolis of Osteria dell’Osa, Bietti Sestieri suggested that gentes regularly buried their dead in a necropolis over multiple generations, even after the nearby settlement disappeared.54 Further, there is the commonly acknowledged absence of evidence (an admittedly problematic thing to argue from) for elite habitation within many urban zones in Latium until the fifth century BC.55 While temples and similar monumental structures begin to proliferate from the start of the sixth century, there is limited comparable evidence for elite houses within the communities of Latium until a century later—and even then, it is sporadic. In fact, most of the evidence for powerful gentes in archaic central Italy actually comes from outside of communities like Rome. There is evidence for what may be gentilicial habitation and agricultural investment in the hinterland of communities, seen in the rise of villas (or ‘proto-villas’) as well as small, possibly fortified sites (for instance Casal Boccone, or the supposed Fabian base near the Cremera river)56 across Latium from the sixth century BC.57 Almost all of Rome’s early rural tribes seem to have been named for gentes, plausibly indicating zones of control for each in the hinterland of the city.58 Even in later periods, what appear to be family or gentilicial tumuli seem to occupy liminal zones between communities, as at Laurentina Acqua Acetosa, rather than associat-

53 54 55 56 57 58

For instance Armstrong (2016). See also Bradley (2015) and (2017) and Terrenato (2011). Bietti Sestieri (1995). Mogetta and Becker (2014). Fulminate (2014) 143. Terrenato (2001). See also Fulminate (2014) 142–143. Taylor (2013) 3–16.

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ing closely as one might expect.59 While the growing urban zones clearly acted as an important hub of elite activity, from the mid-sixth century BC Latium’s gentes seem to have devoted at least equal attention to the hinterland where— most interestingly for the present conversation—they seem to have actually been based. Thus, the idea of constructing walls and fortifications around communities may have represented a fraught process for powerful gentes in this period. Although they may have increasingly had a permanent connection with a particular community, this did not mean that they resided within it, and so a wall or fortification around it may have actually served to separate them from it. Indeed, the extramural location and identity of the region’s gentes would have fundamentally changed their relationship to communities like Rome. While it seems clear that the region’s burgeoning communities were increasingly seen as important centres of communication, trade, and elite interaction from at least the seventh century, this does not necessarily mean that gentilicial elites would have benefited from building fortifications around them. The archaic community of Rome was important to local elites, not necessarily for what it held, but for the opportunities—most notably as a nexus for trade and communication—that it offered. And those opportunities required access. We have already touched on the potential mobility of many early gentes, but even for those who were a bit more settled, it is possible that they may have had a ‘foothold’ in multiple communities—as perhaps illustrated by inscriptions like that on the famous Lapis Satricanius, c. 500 BC, or the Caso Contouio inscription, c. 300BC.60 So, quite apart from outright migration, gentes may have regularly travelled between communities, exercising power in more than one. As a result, the idea of fortifying a community—which would have regulated access—may have been a worrying one.61 Additionally, as seen in the examples of the Tarquins, Appius Herdonius, Coriolanus, and others, it was not unheard of for gentilicial leaders to leave a community only to return and attack it at a later date. For many gentes, helping to construct fortifications around a community may have created more problems than it solved in the archaic period. While

59 60 61

See Bedini (1979) and (1980). CIL I2 (1986) p. 859, P. 2, 1. Indeed this is exactly what supposedly happened with the overthrow of Tarquinius Superbus. Tarquinius Superbus was at Ardea when the rape of Lucretia occurred, which was followed by the uprising led by Brutus. When he heard about events and returned to Rome, he found ‘the gates shut, and a decree of banishment passed against him’ (clausae portae exsiliumque indictum. Livy 1.60, trans. Foster).

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some elites may have wanted to protect their investments in temples and other structures located in the urban centre of a community, it is likely that the majority of their wealth was located in the hinterland, in the form of land, agricultural produce, and portable forms (cattle, trade items, etc.).62 A fortified community may have offered a refuge in the case of an attack which they were forewarned about, as perhaps with Porsenna in 509BC, but would not have helped against the types of sudden, small scale raids which the evidence suggests were the norm in this period.63 Additionally, many of the gentes may have worried about investing time, effort, and resources in fortifications which could easily have been used against them by rivals. The enduring connection between Latium’s more powerful gentes and communities like Rome should not be taken as a given. In this context, the limited fortifications of communities like Rome in the sixth and early fifth centuries BC make some sense.

5

Changes in the Fifth Century BC

The fifth century BC marked a period of intense change for Rome, and Latium more generally. The literary sources for Rome naturally focus on the internal political changes within the community—the transition from monarchy to republic, the ‘Struggle of the Orders’, etc.—but the environment outside of Rome was just as tumultuous. Migrations of tribal peoples from the mountainous interior of Italy put immense stress on the populations and settlements up and down the west coast of the peninsula.64 These incursions, by the Aequi, Volsci, and other groups, cut across the trade routes which had fuelled the development of communities in central Italy which helped to create the socalled ‘crisis of the mid fifth century BC’—a massive change in Latium’s economy evidenced by a marked decline in the wealth exhibited by communities in the region.65 The influx of peoples, coupled with the decline in trade flow-

62 63

64

65

See Carafa (2011) on this point. These sorts of refuges are often associated with the hillforts of Samnium, but are also evident in archaic Latium. Most notably, the fifth and fourth century BC fortifications of Norba seem to fit this model—see de Hass and Attema (2016) for discussion. See Cornell (1995) 304–309 for a general discussion. However, this general model is being challenged by the seeming continuity of culture visible in the places like the Liris valley— see Cifarelli and Gatti (2006). Drummond (1990) 113–171. As noted above, it is now increasingly argued that we should no longer consider the fifth century BC as a period of ‘crisis’, but instead as a period of ‘change and development’—and indeed, many of the trends visible in the seventh and sixth centuries BC are still evident.

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ing through the region, seems to have resulted in an increased interest in land and agriculture. This trend was obviously not entirely new, as recent surveys of Latium Vetus and other regions have revealed a gradual increase in the number of rural sites dotting the landscape beginning in the sixth century BC.66 But the fifth century BC represents an escalation of this trend as evidenced by the development of sites like the Auditorium Villa near Rome—where a small, late sixth century BC farmstead was developed into a significant villa complex during the course of the fifth century.67 The gentes seem to have slowly ‘settled down’ and created more permanent connections to communities from the middle of the sixth century, albeit initially from a location in the hinterland.68 It must be emphasised though that this was a slow process and the continued fluidity of the early elite has long been noted, as evidenced by things like De Sanctis’ relatively late date for the closing of the patriciate (‘la serrata’) in the late fifth century BC. One should also consider the massive changes which the sources suggest occurred with Roman citizenship and identity in the fourth century, with both the evolution of colonisation (new citizen colonies, municipia, etc.) and types of citizenship (including sine suffragio). Additionally, the evidence from sites like Gabii suggests site-wide reorganisation and increased elite habitation in the city from the fifth century BC. The best evidence, however, for elites residing permanently within the settlements of central Italy remains generally mid-republican.69 Indeed, Isayev’s work has suggested that migration and mobility were both common and important in Italy throughout the Republic.70 There were some significant changes, however, and some basic principles can be suggested. The decline in trade and increased focus on land and agriculture in Latium likely played a role in the gradual ‘settling down’ of the elite in the region, seen also in the ‘closing of the patriciate’ in Rome. This in turn may have resulted in the development of a more corporate identity amongst the elite, essentially providing the origins of the ‘Roman Nobility’ (as advocated by Gelzer and Hölkeskamp), and an attachment to the community which was likely only nascent previously. The alignment of defensive interests, no longer solely concerned with the protection of personal, portable wealth or cattle, but now with the defence of land and crops for the entire community, suggests the beginnings of Rome’s mid-republican attitude and approach to warfare. From 66 67 68 69 70

Cifani (2002). See also Carafa (2017). Terrenato (2001). See Armstrong (2016) 74–128 for more complete discussion. Mogetta and Becker (2014) 117–118. Isayev (2017). See also Bourdin (2012) for similar arguments.

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at least the late fifth century BC onward, Rome becomes increasingly interested in territorial conquest. Romans adopted a far more aggressive stance when their collective interests were threatened.71 These changes seem to have been mirrored in other central Italian communities, leading to prolonged conflicts between them. It is in this context that we can see Rome’s great contest with Veii. The relationships between the communities given the ever-changing leadership at the top belies a surprising level of continuity over time. Rome’s elite had prior to this been content to pursue their own individual interests, which resulted in a haphazard foreign policy and little to no strategic planning. Increasingly, the best interests of the Roman elite coalesced to increase the overall strength and capabilities of the community. This helped to preserve their own property and offered the opportunity to exploit the new spoils of war, which included Rome’s growing ager Romanus and, perhaps, a servile population.72

6

Changing Functions of Fortifications

Latium’s changing social, economic, and military environment naturally resulted in some interesting changes with regards to fortifications and sieges as well. The decline in prestige items in the region and the increased focus on agriculture led to a gradual decline in the efficacy of raiding. Although it is clear that Roman armies continued to raid for portable wealth throughout the fifth century BC, the immediate spoils of war were both not what they used to be and were also not as appealing to the soldiers in the armies. This transition is perhaps best evidenced in Rome’s capture of Bolae in 415 and 414 BC.73 After the initial capture in 415 BC, the city was evidently sacked. When the Romans returned in 414BC, the community had yet to regain its wealth and so a measure was put forward to distribute the land instead. A similar situation occurred with Fidenae in the 420sBC, and possibly with the conquest of Labici in 418 BC, after which a colony was supposedly founded.74 There is also, of course, the final capture and sack of Veii in 396 BC, which seems to have resulted in at least two different sets of land distributions in the years immediately following the capture.75 The initial capture of the city culminated in both the sacking of the 71 72 73 74 75

Roselaar (2008) 33. Armstrong (forthcoming). Livy 4.49–51; 4.59; 5.8; 5.13; 5.16. Livy 4.17–33 and 4.46. Livy 5.30; Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 14.102. See Roselaar (2008) for further discussion.

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city and viritane distributions of land. Then, following the sack of Rome by the Gauls, the territory of Veii was formally incorporated into the Roman state with the creation of two new rural tribes (Livy 6.5). Indeed, Rome’s relationship with Veii represents an interesting microcosm of the larger trends in Latin warfare during the fifth century BC. In the first half of the century, the Romans and the Veientines were engaged in almost constant warfare, but of a generally low level which Livy (2.48) dubbed latrocinium (‘piracy’ or ‘freebooting’). However, as the century progressed, Rome’s wars with Veii gradually took on another tone. By the time of the so-called Second Veientine War in the 430s BC, the Romans seem to have become far more interested in long-term regional goals, and particularly control of Fidenae. Although the events of this war are complex and convoluted to say the least, with Fidenae evidently changing hands multiple times, the overarching trend is clear as Rome battled with Veii for control of the strategic northern crossing point of the Tiber.76 The Third Veientine War, traditionally dated to 405–396BC, culminated with the capture of Veii after a prolonged siege of ten years. The problems with the narrative for this war are also myriad. Paramount among these are the obvious parallels to the Trojan War. That stated, the overarching trend is again clear, with Rome capturing the fortified settlement of Veii by siege and distributing the land via viritane distributions.77 This sequence of events, far from being exceptional (except in its scale, scope, and regularity), presents a clear and coherent model which illustrates the arc of Roman military development during the period—from simple raiding of communities, to more strategic acquisitions, to the conquest-driven capture of fortified settlements. Roman warfare c. 400BC therefore suggests a different approach to warfare and defence of property than that which existed previously. Earlier communities had been concerned with protecting against raids for portable wealth, increasingly they were both representing the desire of a wide network of connected elites and needing to defend against large scale incursions focused on conquest and the long-term control of land. This change in warfare likely played a role in the sudden development of large-scale, ashlar, fully circumvallating fortifications which started to appear throughout central Italy during this period. Some of the earliest and most impressive are the new city walls of Veii, which date to the second half of the fifth century BC.78 The style of the fortifications at Veii built upon the existing medium with a huge agger 76 77 78

See Ogilvie (1965) 567–585 for discussion of the relevant passages in Livy. Ogilvie (1965) 669–681. Ward-Perkins (1961) 36.

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(20m wide and 5–6m tall) which included a solid wall of tuff emerging halfway up the front face and built into the rampart.79 The inhabitants at Veii also continued to use the natural defences of the community wherever possible and so followed the existing line of the rock. These walls enhanced the previously existing defences, as opposed to completely reworking them, but they do indicate a shift, seen across central Italy, from relying on naturally fortified positions toward the construction of purpose-built defensive systems.80 Similar, purpose-built fortifications, often of polygonal masonry, were also constructed during this period at Anxur/Terracina,81 Arpinum,82 Circeii,83 and many other sites.84 And of course the early fourth century BC saw the likely construction of Rome’s so-called ‘Servian Walls’, whose 11km run fully encircled the community with a massive set of fortifications in polygonal masonry made from tuff quarried near the site of Veii and possibly using Greek craftsmen.85 During the fourth century BC, there is also a proliferation of small fortified sites in central and southern Italy, particularly in the areas of Samnium, Lucania, and Bruttium. As Gualtieri argued, these fortified settlements likely represent a material expression of economic, social, and perhaps political, transformations occurring during the fourth century BC in the Italian hinterland which necessitated a more direct and enduring control of land.86 These types of fortifications are also visible in Latium, and indeed in the hinterland of Rome (particularly at Ostia Antica, Ficana, La Giostra, and località La Rustica), in the fourth century BC and form part of a clear trend in fortifying the hinterland of various communities.87

7

Conclusions

The construction and likely purpose of late fifth- and fourth-century BC fortifications in central Italy are markedly different from the fortifications which came before. First, and most notably, all of the fortifications built during this period seem to have completely surrounded their respective communities and were 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87

Ward-Perkins (1961) 32. Becker (2013) 19. Lugli (1957), 1.147. Sommella (1966) 25. Lugli (1957) 1.151. See Becker (2007) 114–139 for a comprehensive list for Latium. Frank (1918) and Frank (1924). Gualtieri (1987) 41. Becker (2007) 164. See also, recently, Torelli and Marroni’s (2018) work on the Castrum Inui.

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equipped with fortified entrances/gatehouses.88 This stands in stark contrast to the haphazard and often incomplete sets of fortifications which communities had previously used. The reasons behind this shift are likely many and varied, with increased exposure to Hellenistic fortifications key amongst them.89 However, as Becker has argued, these defined boundaries also likely indicated a more clearly defined sense of community and identity,90 which mirrors perfectly what the literary sources suggest was occurring socially and politically at Rome during this period with the ‘closing of the patriciate’ and the eventual end to the ‘Struggle of the Orders’. The impetus and funding for the fortifications was also likely derived from this new, more cohesive society, as it contained an elite who seem to have become increasingly invested in the community for the long-term. From a military standpoint, these new circuit walls were likely built in response to the new, conquest-driven, mode of warfare in central Italy. While previously communities merely needed to keep raiding parties at bay or quickly secure portable wealth for a short period, by the second half of the fifth century BC, communities were increasingly required to defend against determined assaults by much larger armies bent on the long term control of territory. This more holistic approach to fortifications and sieges at various Italian communities, and most notably Rome, sees them as part of a larger mode of warfare and representative of broader social, political, and economic factors. This should help to shed some light on the debate which still rages concerning the date of fortifications and particularly the full circuit walls. It is clear that some form of fortifications was desirable in central Italy from at least the start of the Iron Age, as the region was likely filled with a warlike elite who expressed their status, in part, through military items and, by association, likely actions to use them.91 Full circuit walls may have represented the ideal for at least some communities, but they do not seem to have been actually necessary. The vast majority of warfare continued to be low level raiding.92 In this military and economic environment, sieges and full-scale assaults were likely not in the best interests of the attackers and so did not need to be defended against. Additionally, the construction of large-scale fortifications may not have been in the best interests of the elite. The elites would likely have had to fund any

88

89 90 91 92

Although, as work from the Porta Collina and San Vito suggests, Rome did likely have at least one fortified entrance in the sixth century BC—although what its function was is debatable. See Cifani (1998) and Andrews and Bernard (2017) for discussion. See Marsden (1969) for a full consideration of this issue. Becker (2007) 92. Bietti Sestieri (1992) 239. Rich (2007) 15–16.

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building programme. Given the ephemeral nature of their relationship to various communities during this period, it is unlikely they saw enough benefit to outweigh the cost of such projects. As a result, settlements like Rusellae, with their stone, full circuit walls in the sixth century BC, seem to have been the exception rather than the rule. At Rome, the earliest settlements were located on the naturally defensible Capitoline and Palatine hills, and so likely did not require additional fortifications.93 This probably represented the norm, where communities relied on naturally defensible locations, bolstered by limited fortifications like the Esquiline agger, to limit the effects of raiding. As the fifth century BC wore on, however, the social, political, economic, and military situations changed. The decline in trade, pressure on land, and development of more cohesive and community-oriented elites across central Italy resulted in a marked decline in raiding and an increased focus on the conquest and control of land. This in turn led to more concerted attacks and sieges of settlements which, in combination with a host of other social and political factors, likely resulted in the appearance of full circuit, polygonal masonry walls throughout the region—a trend which continued into the third century BC.94

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Alessandri (2009) 300–305. This is not to say, however, that they did not bolster these natural defences to a certain extent, as the problematic eighth century BC wall on the Palatine (which may represent a fortification or a terrace wall) and similar constructions on the Capitoline (see Bernard [2012] for discussion) may indicate. As De Haas and Attema argued (de Haas and Attema [2016]), the fourth and third centuries BC seem to have witnessed a transformation in fortification strategies in Latium.

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dell’Etruria meridionale (IX–VI sec. a.C.) Stratigrafia, cronologia e urbanizzazione. Rome. Frank, T. (1918) ‘Notes on the Servian Wall’, AJA 22: 175–188. Frank, T. (1924) ‘The Letters on the Blocks of the Servian Wall’, AJP 4: 568–569. Frederiksen, R., Müth, S., Schneider, P., and Schnelle, M. (eds.) (2016) Focus on Fortifications: New Research on Fortifications in the Ancient Mediterranean and the Near East. Oxford. Fulminante, F. (2014) The Urbanization of Latium Vetus: From the Bronze Age to the Archaic Era. Cambridge. Funiciello, R. (ed.) (1995) Memorie descrittive della carta geologica d’Italia, vol. L. La geologia di Roma. Il centro storico. Rome. Gaca, K. (2011) ‘Girls, Women, and the Significance of Sexual Violence in Ancient Warfare’, in Heineman (2011) 73–88. Ghini, G. and Mari, Z. (eds.) Lazio e Sabina 9. Rome. Guaitoli, M. (1984) ‘Urbanistica’. Archeologia Laziale 6: 364–381. Gualtieri, M. (1987) ‘Fortifications and Settlement Organization: An Example from PreRoman Italy’, World Archaeology 19: 30–46. Guidi, A. and Nomi, F. (2013) ‘Colle Rotondo (Anzio, RM): Un aggere difensivo protostorico con armatura lignea’, Scienze dell’Antichità 19: 35–38. Heineman, E. (ed.) Sexual Violence in Conflict Zones. Philadelphia. Helas, S. (2018) ‘The Iron Age Fortifications of Gabii/Latium (Italy)’, in Ballmer, Fernández-Götz, and Mielke (2018) 123–134. Hopkins, J. (2016) The Genesis of Roman Architecture. Yale. Isayev, E. (2017) Migration, Mobility and Place in Ancient Italy. Cambridge. Levithan, J. (2013) Roman Siege Warfare. Ann Arbor. Lugli, G. (1957) La tecnica edilizia Romana con particolare riguardo a Roma e Lazio. Rome. Lugli, G. (1933) ‘Le mura di Servio Tullio e le cosiddette Mura Serviane’, Historia 7: 3–45. Marincola, M. (1999) I dauni e le origini di Ardea, Lucera, Roma. Rome. Marsden, E.W. 1969. Greek and Roman artillery: historical development. Oxford. Mazzei, P. 1998 ‘Nuovi dati per la topografia dell’Arce in Campidoglio,’ BCAR 99: 7–50. McNicoll, A. (1997) Hellenistic Fortifications from the Aegean to the Euphrates. Oxford. Mogetta, M. and Becker, J. (2014) ‘Archaeological Research at Gabii, Italy: The Gabii Project Excavations, 2009–2011’, AJA 118: 171–188 Nijboer, A. (2018) ‘Fortifications in and Around Rome, 950–300BC’ in Ballmer, Fernández-Götz, and Mielke (2018) 111–122. Ogilvie, R.M. (1965) A Commentary on Livy, Books 1–5. Oxford. Paoletti, O. (ed.) (2014) La città murata in Etruria. Rome. Roselaar, S. (2008) ‘Public land in the Roman Republic: a social and economic history of the’ ager publicus’. PhD Thesis, Leiden University.

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Roselaar, S., Helm, M., and Linke, B. (eds.) (forthcoming) Spoils in the Roman Republic. Berlin. Quilici, L. (1994) ‘Le fortificazioni ad aggere nel Lazio antico’, Ocnus 2: 147–158. Quilici, L. and S. Quilici Gigli (eds.) (2006) Orizzonti: Rassegna di archeologia VII. Rome. Smith, C. (1996) The Economy of Early Rome and Latium: c. 1000 to 500BC. Oxford. Smith, C. (2006) The Roman Clan: The Gens from Ancient Ideology to Modern Anthropology. Cambridge. Smith, C. (2017a) ‘The Fifth-Century Crisis’. Antichthon 51: 227–250. Smith, C. (2017b) ‘Ager Romanus antiquus’, Archaeologia Classica 69: 1–26. Smith, C. and Lulof, P. (eds.) (2017) The Age of Tarquinius Superbus: Central Italy in the Late 6th Century. Proceedings of the Conference ‘The Age of Tarquinius Superbus, A Paradigm Shift?’ Rome, 7–9 November 2013. Leuven. Sommella, P. (ed.) (1966) Studi di urbanistica antica. Rome. Stary, P.F. (1981) Zur Eisenzeitlichen Bewaffnung Und Kampfesweise in Mittelitalien (Ca. 9. Bis 6. Jh. V. Chr.). Mainz am Rhein. Taylor, L.R. (2013) The Voting Districts of the Roman Republic: The Thirty-Five Urban and Rural Tribes. With updated material by Jerzy Linderski. Ann Arbor. Terrenato, N. (2001) ‘The Auditorium site in Rome and the origins of the villa’, JRA 14: 5–32. Terrenato, N. (2011) ‘The Versatile Clans: Archaic Rome and the nature of Early CityStates in Central Italy’, in Terrenato and Haggis (2011) 231–244. Terrenato, N. and Haggis, D. (eds.) (2011) State Formation in Italy and Greece: Questioning the Neoevolutionist Paradigm. Oxford. Torelli, M. and Marroni, E. (eds.) (2018) Castrum Iniu: Il santuario di Inuus alla foce del Fosso dell’Incastro. Rome. Ulrich, R. and Quenemoen, C. (eds.) (2013) A Companion to Roman Architecture. Oxford. Walbank, F., Astin, A., Frederiken, M., and Ogilvie, R.M. (eds.) (1990) The Cambridge Ancient History, 2nd edn. Vol. 7, Part 2. The Rise of Rome. Cambridge. Ward-Perkins, J. (1961) ‘Veii: The Historical Topography of the Ancient City’, in PBSR 29: 1–119. Wiseman, T.P. (1995) Remus: A Roman Myth. Cambridge. Ziółkowski, A. (2005) ‘The aggeres and the Rise of Urban Communities in Early Iron Age Latium’, Archeologia 56: 31–51. Ziółkowski, A. (2016) ‘The Servian Enceinte: Should the Debate Continue?’ Palamedes 11: 151–170.

chapter 11

Voluntarii at the Gates: Irregular Recruitment and the Siege of Veii James Crooks

The siege of Veii marks a significant point in the development of the early Roman Republic. This war marked the third major conflict of the fifth century between these two neighbouring cities.1 The rivalry between Rome and Veii, according to the literary tradition, had existed from the earliest times and conflicts between the two cities supposedly go as far back as the reign of Romulus, continuing with some frequency throughout the regal period (see, for instance, Livy 1.14–15, 1.27 and 1.40–42). It has often been noted that the conflicts between Rome and Veii throughout the fifth century seem to take on a slightly different character in the sources to Rome’s other wars against the Sabines, Volscians, or the Aequians.2 Whereas the wars against the latter groups have generally been treated as glorified yearly raids, the wars between Rome and Veii, particularly the second and the third conflicts, were portrayed as being on a much larger scale.3 Additionally, all three of the Veientine wars are connected to significant or unusual events in Roman history. The ‘First Veientine War’ (483–474) contains the Fabian expedition (Livy 2.48–49).4 The ‘Second Veientine War’ (437–435) sees Aulus Cossus claim the spolia opima, only the second Roman to do so after Romulus himself (Livy 4.17–20; Prop. 4.10).5 The ‘Third Veientine War’ features the epic, ten-year siege. The siege of Veii was an undertaking of completely different magnitude than the previous two conflicts; the investiture of a large, fortified city—a task unprecedented at that point in the history of the early Republic—would have placed significant stress on a Roman military system more accustomed to short-term raiding.6 The significance of this conflict was not lost on Livy,

1 All dates given in this chapter are BC unless otherwise stated. 2 For example, Cornell (1995) 310 and Bradley and Hall (2017) 193–197. 3 Cornell (1995) 309–313. However, it seems that these conflicts did include some level of raiding, particularly during the ‘First Veientine War’. 4 For a slightly different tradition see, Ov. Fast. 2.193–474. 5 On the spolia opima, see Flower (2000). 6 On the scale of Veii, see Schiappelli (2013).

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the author of our lone surviving narrative account; and, perhaps correspondingly, the account of the siege has significantly more unique and curious events associated with it than either of the previous two wars with Veii.7 One series of unusual episodes during the account of the siege involves the implementation of an uncommon category of Roman troops: voluntarii. Throughout his first pentad, Livy refers only four times to the recruitment into the Roman army of troops of this kind: in 449, 406, 403, and 397. Of these four examples, the final three all occur in short succession and relate directly to the siege of Veii. Throughout the narratives of the early republican period, there are several recruitment episodes which do not fit the standard ‘Servian’ model, supposedly in place from the middle of the sixth century, as laid out in the literary tradition. In 495 and 494, the Roman army opened enrolment to nexi—individuals who had fallen into debt bondage. A second, quite different example of irregular recruitment in this period can be seen in the First Veientine War. It was during this conflict that the gens Fabia famously was supposed to have conducted campaigns against the city of Veii, before suffering complete defeat near the Cremera River. Both of these episodes have been discussed at length in modern scholarship and feature prominently in a number of treatments of the nature of early Roman warfare.8 The third example of irregular recruitment during this period—the use of voluntarii—in comparison has received little attention. These examples seem to show troops being incorporated into the Roman army, either through means other than the dilectus or who do not seem to qualify under the conditions of the ‘Servian Constitution’. Here, because of the problematic nature of the passages themselves, it may be useful to offer an analysis of those in which voluntarii are explicitly incorporated into the early Roman army. Following this, using comparanda from the later Republic, this chapter shall attempt to offer a plausible model for the use of such troops in the early Republic and, particularly, why these instances appear in such quick succession during the siege of Veii.

1

The ‘Servian’ System

All of the surviving literary sources for the early Republic describe a similar military system (See Table 11.1), based on the political and military reforms

7 See below. 8 See Brunt (1971) 638–664; Richard (1988); Armstrong (2008) with bibliography.

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attributed to the sixth of Rome’s traditional reges, Servius Tullius (Livy 1.42– 43; Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 4.13–21; Cic. Rep. 2.2). However, despite the unanimity of the literary tradition in claiming the existence of some kind of new, sociopolitical organisation brought about by Servius Tullius, it is generally thought that the full system, as it is described by Livy and Dionysius, did not exist until perhaps the middle Republic.9 The unanimity of the sources in describing the enactment of the ‘Servian’ system in the sixth century would suggest that all subsequent recruitment was expected to take place in accordance with that system. Any deviation from this style of recruitment in the literary tradition, therefore, ought to be noted and explained. Although most scholars doubt its sixth century origin, many believe that by the fifth century, and in particular the second half of the fifth century—the period which contains the highest number of references to voluntarii—some form of the ‘Servian’ system was likely in force at Rome.10 References to adsidui and proletarii in the Twelve Tables may support this theory and provide a terminus ante quam for the enactment of a formal military system akin to the one attributed to Servius Tullius.11 Servius’ supposed reforms would have radically transformed the political and military systems of Roman society.12 Our sources record that these reforms created two new political systems and structures, both of which remained important throughout the Republic. One new system divided individuals up into new tribes based on some geographical determinant.13 These new tribes made up the comitia tributa, which was primarily used in the later Republic for passing legislation, but had a number of other functions as well (see Table 11.2).14 The second of these new systems, as it is described in the literary tradition, categorised individuals into one of seven classes, primarily based on wealth (see Table 11.1).15 These classes were divided into centuries which 9

10 11 12

13 14 15

Armstrong (2008) 47; Cornell (2005) 58; Forsythe (2005) 111–115; for a full discussion of the Roman military during the regal period and early Republic, see Rawson (1971); Kienast (1975); Armstrong (2016). See Last (1945); Thomsen (1980); Cornell (1995); Sumner (1970); D’Arms (1943); Armstrong (2008); Armstrong (2011), among others. See Gell. NA 16.10.2–6; for these groups in the Twelve Tables see Cic. Top. 10 and the discussion in Crawford ([1995]588–589); see also Cornell (1995) 288–289. For an overview of various hypotheses regarding recruitment under earlier systems see Koptev (2005) esp. 403–404; Keppie (1994) 14–15; for the celeres see Livy 1.15; Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 2.13; Hill (1938); for the uses of the comitia curiata see Taylor (1966) 3–5. Taylor (1960) esp. 4–11. For the late republican institution see Taylor (1966) 6–8 and 59–83. It seems unclear from both Livy and Dionysius what qualifications were required to be part of the equites, but both suggest that there is an additional requirement on top of being wealthy.

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table 11.1

Class

An outline of the Servian Constitution as given in Livy and Dionysius of Halicarnassus. After Armstrong (2008) 62.

No. of centuries Required wealth (asses)

Equites 1st

18 80 + 22 (40 juniores and 40 seniores) 2nd 20 (10 juniores and 10 seniores) 3rd 20 (10 juniores and 10 seniores) 4th 20 (10 juniores and 10 seniores) 5th 30 + 23 (15 juniores and 15 seniores?) Capite Censi 1

Assigned military equipment

100,000(?)1 100,000

Cavalry Helmet, round shield, greaves, mail, sword, and spear

75,000

Helmet, oblong shield, greaves, sword and spear Helmet, oblong shield, sword and spear Spear and javelin [Oblong shield, sword]4 Slings and stones [javelin]4

50,000 25,000 11,000 [12,500] 4