The Evolution of Social Institutions: Interdisciplinary Perspectives [1st ed.] 9783030514365, 9783030514372

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World-Systems Evolution and Global Futures

Dmitri M. Bondarenko Stephen A. Kowalewski David B. Small   Editors

The Evolution of Social Institutions Interdisciplinary Perspectives

World-Systems Evolution and Global Futures Series Editors Christopher Chase-Dunn, University of California, Riverside, CA, USA Barry K. Gills, Political and Economic Studies, University of Helsinki, Helsinki, Finland Leonid E. Grinin, National Research University Higher School of Economics, Moscow, Russia Andrey V. Korotayev, National Research University Higher School of Economics, Moscow, Russia

This series seeks to promote understanding of large-scale and long-term processes of social change, in particular the many facets and implications of globalization. It critically explores the factors that affect the historical formation and current evolution of social systems, on both the regional and global level. Processes and factors that are examined include economies, technologies, geopolitics, institutions, conflicts, demographic trends, climate change, global culture, social movements, global inequalities, etc. Building on world-systems analysis, the series addresses topics such as globalization from historical and comparative perspectives, trends in global inequalities, core-periphery relations and the rise and fall of hegemonic core states, transnational institutions, and the long-term energy transition. This ambitious interdisciplinary and international series presents cutting-edge research by social scientists who study whole human systems and is relevant for all readers interested in systems approaches to the emerging world society, especially historians, political scientists, economists, sociologists, geographers and anthropologists. All titles in this series are peer-reviewed.

More information about this series at http://www.springer.com/series/15714

Dmitri M. Bondarenko
Stephen A. Kowalewski
David B. Small Editors

The Evolution of Social Institutions Interdisciplinary Perspectives

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Editors Dmitri M. Bondarenko International Center of Anthropology National Research University Higher School of Economics Moscow, Russia

Stephen A. Kowalewski Laboratory of Archaeology, Department of Anthropology University of Georgia Athens, GA, USA

Institute for African Studies, Russian Academy of Sciences Moscow, Russia Center of Social Anthropology Russian State University for the Humanities Moscow, Russia David B. Small Department of Sociology and Anthropology Lehigh University Bethlehem, PA, USA

ISSN 2522-0985 ISSN 2522-0993 (electronic) World-Systems Evolution and Global Futures ISBN 978-3-030-51436-5 ISBN 978-3-030-51437-2 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-51437-2 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2020 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, express or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. This Springer imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland

Contents

Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Dmitri M. Bondarenko

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Theoretical Approaches How Do People Get Big Things Done? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Stephen A. Kowalewski and Jennifer Birch

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Social Institutions and Basic Principles of Societal Organization . . . . . . Dmitri M. Bondarenko

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The Evolution of Sociopolitical Organizations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Henri J. M. Claessen

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Origins of the State and Urbanization: Regional Perspectives . . . . . . . . 101 Nikolay N. Kradin The Old World Fast Way Upstairs: Transformation of Assyrian Hereditary Rulership in the Late Bronze Age . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 133 Alexander A. Nemirovsky Evolution of Sociopolitical Institutions in North-East Yemen (The 1st Millennium BCE–The 2nd Millennium CE) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 161 Andrey V. Korotayev Heterarchy and Hierarchy in Eurasian Steppes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 185 Nikolay N. Kradin Evolution of Confucianism: Construction of Confucian Pacifism and Confucian Autocracy in Chinese History . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 205 Victoria Tin-bor Hui A Pathway to Emergent Social Complexity and State Power: A View from Southeast Asia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 225 Nam C. Kim

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Institutional Evolution of Ancient Greece . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 255 David B. Small Basic Features of Political Organization and Social Structure of Rurikid Polity in the Tenth Century . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 283 Aleksei S. Shchavelev The People and Its King: A Theory of Royal Power in the Thirteenth-Century Castilian Kingdom . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 293 Alexander V. Marey Bacon’s Playbook: An Unorthodox Exploration of the Social Institutions of Western Modernity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 311 Ken Baskin The Benin Kingdom (13th–19th Centuries): Megacommunity as Sociopolitical System . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 337 Dmitri M. Bondarenko The Evolution of Social Institutions in the British Protectorate of Nyasaland (Now the Republic of Malawi) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 359 Ariadna P. Pozdnyakova The Role of Traditional Leaders in the Political Life of West Africa: The Case of Ghana . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 371 Tatiana S. Denisova The New World Sociopolitical Structural Tensions and the Dynamics of Culture Change in Middle-Range Societies of the Northern Plateau of Northwestern North America, ca. 1800–400 cal. B.P. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 387 Lucille E. Harris Social Institutions and the Differential Development of Northern Iroquoian Confederacies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 419 Jennifer Birch The Transformation of Social Institutions in the North American Southeast . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 437 David H. Dye To Save the Town Harmless: Social Evolution in Early New England . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 471 Gleb V. Aleksandrov Mesoamerica as an Assemblage of Institutions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 495 Stephen A. Kowalewski and Verenice Y. Heredia Espinoza

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People, Fields, and Strategies: Dissecting Political Institutions in the Tequila Valleys of Western Mexico . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 523 Christopher S. Beekman The Evolution of Social Institutions in the Central Andes . . . . . . . . . . . 555 Charles Stanish Power Theory and the Rise and Reproduction of Patriarchy in Contact-Era New Guinea . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 577 Paul Roscoe Polynesia: Sociopolitical Evolution . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 603 Henri J. M. Claessen Building Societies on Outer Islands: Sociopolitical Institutions and Their Names in Polynesian Outliers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 627 Albert I. Davletshin In Conclusion: Two Thoughts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 657 David B. Small

Editors and Contributors

About the Editors Dmitri M. Bondarenko is an anthropologist, historian, and Africanist. Dmitri has graduated with M.A. (cum laude) in World History, Anthropology and English from Lomonosov Moscow State University and completed Ph.D. (World History and Anthropology) at the Russian Academy of Sciences from which he also holds the Doctor Habilitatus degree in the same disciplines. He holds the titles of Professor in Ethnology from the Lomonosov Moscow State University, Professor in Global Problems and International Relations from the Russian Academy of Sciences, and Corresponding Member of the Russian Academy of Sciences in History. Dmitri is Vice-Director for Research of the Institute for African Studies, Russian Academy of Sciences, Director of the International Center of Anthropology, National Research University Higher School of Economics, and Full Professor in Ethnology, Russian State University for the Humanities. Bondarenko was a visiting scholar with the Program of African Studies of Northwestern University (Evanston, USA), Institut für Geschichte (Göttingen, Germany), and Maison des sciences de l’homme (Paris, France). Besides several Moscow-based universities, Dmitri has taught at the Agostinho Neto University in Angola. He has delivered guest lectures at universities of the USA, Egypt, Tanzania, Slovenia, and Uganda. Dmitri is a co-founder and co-editor of the international journal “Social Evolution and History”. His major research interests include anthropological, social, and historical theory, political anthropology, pre-modern societies, culture and history of Africa south of the Sahara, socio-cultural transformations and intercultural interaction (including ethnic, racial, and religious aspects) with special focus on Africa and people of African descent worldwide. Bondarenko has conducted fieldwork in a number of African countries (Tanzania, Nigeria, Benin, Rwanda, Zambia, and Uganda), as well as among people of African origin in Russia and the USA. Dmitri has authored over 500 publications, including seven monographs published in Russia, Germany, USA, and UK.

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Stephen A. Kowalewski was raised in rural Pennsylvania. He went to college at DePauw University and received his Ph.D. in Anthropology from the University of Arizona in 1976. He has taught anthropology at Lehman College and Hunter College, City University of New York, and since 1978 at the University of Georgia, where he is now Professor Emeritus based at the Laboratory of Archaeology, Department of Anthropology. He has done archaeological field work in Arizona and Georgia and carried out regional-scale archaeological settlement pattern surveys in Oaxaca, Mexico, covering the Valles Centrales, Peñoles, central Mixteca Alta, and the Coixtlahuaca valley. Kowalewski’s main research interests are demography, human ecology, economic anthropology, regional analysis, social history, and most recently, the archaeology of social institutions. Representative publications (most are co-authored with colleagues) include Monte Albán’s Hinterland, Part II: Prehispanic Settlement Patterns in Tlacolula, Etla, and Ocotlán, the Valley of Oaxaca, Mexico (1989), The Archaeology of Regions: The Case for Full-Coverage Survey (2009), Ancient Oaxaca: The Monte Albán State (1999), Origins of the Ñuu: Archaeology in the Mixteca Alta, Mexico (2009), and La Antigua Coixtlahuaca (in press with 1450 Ediciones). David B. Small is Professor of Archaeology in the Department of Sociology and Anthropology at Lehigh University in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, USA. He obtained a Ph.D. from Cambridge University. In 2015, David was a Fulbright Fellow in the Department of History and Classical Studies at the University of Crete in Rethymno. Small has published often on issues of social structure and evolution in ancient Greece, Mesoamerica, and Polynesia. His monograph Ancient Greece: Social Structure and Evolution was published by Cambridge University Press in 2019.

Contributors Gleb V. Aleksandrov is a historian, specializing in Early Colonial New England. Gleb has graduated with M.A. in World History and English from Lomonosov Moscow State University, where he also completed his Ph.D. (World History). He is a Senior Research Fellow at the International Centre of Anthropology, National Research University Higher School of Economics. His research focuses on native-colonial relations in XVII century British colonies in North America. His main areas of interest include the variety of social interactions in early colonial societies and the influence of the colonial experience on social and political, and ideological evolution of the colonies, which determined the distinct nature of those societies. Until 2020, Gleb was also a Research Fellow at the Institute of US and Canadian Studies of the Russian Academy of Sciences, focusing on the current socio-demographic policies and political culture in the USA, specifically the shift towards more radical politics in recent years. Gleb also has significant experience in

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editing and preparing academic articles for publication, both in Russian and in English, due to his work as the English-language editor for the “Public Administration” (an electronic peer-reviewed publication of the Lomonosov Moscow State University’s School of Public Administration). His publications include the monograph “Saints” and “Savages”: Colonists and Natives in XVIIth Century New England (Moscow: URSS, 2020; in Russian). Ken Baskin is an independent writer and speaker who specializes in examining issues from the perspective of complexity science and the emerging scientific paradigm of which it is a part. He has written essays, in both scholarly journals and books of collected essays, in fields ranging from healthcare and anthropology to organizational and religious studies. His first book, Corporate DNA: Learning from Life, examined how managers could think about their organizations as living things rather than machines. More recently, his book The Axial Ages of History: Lessons for the 21st Century, co-authored with Moscow anthropologist Dmitri Bondarenko, compares the Axial Age and Modernity as periods in which dominant social structures transformed to meet overwhelming changes. He is currently reinterpreting religion, as a human habit of inquiry by which groups of people come to know and respond to the powerful, sometimes-mysterious forces that surround them. In 1977, Baskin earned a Ph.D. in English Language and Literature from the University of Maryland, teaching for several years at Temple University in Philadelphia. In subsequent years, he has written for a number of corporations, both as a staff member and as a consultant. He still lives in Philadelphia with his wife Martha Aleo. Christopher S. Beekman (Ph.D. 1996 Vanderbilt University) is Associate Professor of Anthropology at the University of Colorado Denver, where he has taught since 2001. Dr. Beekman’s research focuses on sociopolitical practices in ancient Western Mexico, and that region’s interaction with its neighbours. He has been particularly interested in multidisciplinary approaches and subverting or disrupting static models of subsistence, settlement, and political activity. He has directed excavation projects at Llano Grande and Navajas, and surveys in the La Primavera region and in the Magdalena Valley (with Verenice Heredia Espinoza), Jalisco, Mexico. He is currently working with Verenice Heredia Espinoza on the unpublished collections from Los Guachimontones, Jalisco. He has held fellowships at Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and the Sainsbury Research Unit at the University of East Anglia, and has participated in workshops at the Casa Herrera, the Amerind Foundation, the Getty Research Institute, Yale University, Arizona State University, and the University of Gothenburg. He has been an invited professor at the Institut d’Art et Archéologie, Université Paris I—Panthéon-Sorbonne. Dr. Beekman is a co-author of La Cerámica Arqueológica de la Tradición Teuchitlán, Jalisco (2000), and of the first volume of the Historia de Jalisco (2015), compiled by José M. Muriá. He has edited or co-edited several books including Nonlinear Models for Archaeology and Anthropology (2005, with William Baden), La Tradición Teuchitlán (2008, with Phil Weigand and Rodrigo Esparza), Shaft Tombs and Figures in West Mexican Society (2016, with Robert Pickering),

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Migrations in Late Mesoamerica (2019), Ancient West Mexicos: Time, Space, and Diversity (with Joshua Englehardt and Verenice Heredia), and Anthropomorphic Representations in Highland Mesoamerica: Gods, Ancestors, and Human Beings (with Brigitte Faugère). His co-edited volume Mobility and Migration in Mesoamerica (with Marie-Charlotte Arnauld and Gregory Pereira) is forthcoming. Jennifer Birch, Ph.D., is Associate Professor in the Department of Anthropology at the University of Georgia. Her research interests are concerned with the development of organizational complexity and diversity, particularly among the Native societies of eastern North America. She approaches these topics through multiscalar research designs focused on reconstructing the archaeological histories of communities and regions. Henri J. M. Claessen studied Geography, Anthropology and History at the University of Amsterdam. There he took his Ph.D. in 1970, titled Van Vorsten en Volken (Of Princes and Peoples). Shortly after that, Henri was appointed Associate Professor of Anthropology at Leiden University, where in 1984 he was appointed Full Professor. From 1982 till 1992 Claessen was a Vice President of the International Union of Anthropological and Ethnological Sciences (IUAES). Henri Claessen’s main publications include: The Early State (The Hague: Mouton, 1978 —co-editor), Political Anthropology—The State of the Art (The Hague: Mouton, 1979—co-editor), The Study of the State (The Hague: Mouton, 1981—co-editor), Development and Decline; The Evolution of Sociopolitical Organization (South Hadley, MA: Bergin and Garvey, 1985—co-editor), Early State Dynamics (Leiden: Brill, 1987—co-editor), Lost Kingdoms and Lost Civilizations (Assen: Van Gorcum, 1991; in Dutch), Early State Economics (New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Publishers, 1991—co-editor), Ideology and the Formation of Early States (Leiden: Brill, 1996—co-editor), Structural Change; Evolution and Evolutionism in Cultural Anthropology (Leiden University: CNWS, 2000). Albert I. Davletshin was born in Norilsk, the Taimyr Peninsula. He completed his Ph.D. on palaeography of Maya hieroglyphic writing and his M.A. on Totonacan historical phonology (at the Russian State University for the Humanities, Moscow). He collaborated with Yuri Knorozov, Alfonso Lacadena and Sergey Starostin. His main research interests are hieroglyphic writing systems and Mesoamerican and Polynesian languages. He is the founder of the projects on proto-Totonacan (University of Mexico, 2007) and on Nahuatl hieroglyphic script (Bonn University, 2007–2009). Davletshin is a Senior Research Fellow at the International Centre of Anthropology, National Research University Higher School of Economics. He is also employed by the Russian State University for the Humanities. Albert carried out linguistic fieldwork with Nukeria (Papua New Guinea), Pisaflores Tepehua (Mexico), Rapanui (Easter Island), Sym Evenki and Kellog Ket (Siberia). Tatiana S. Denisova is a Russian historian and Africanist. She graduated from the Moscow State Pedagogical University and holds a Ph.D. in History from the Institute for African Studies of the Russian Academy of Sciences. She has been working at the Institute for African Studies since 1974, at present in the positions of

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Leading Researcher and Head of the Centre for Tropical African Studies. Denisova has conducted fieldwork in Ghana, Nigeria, and Ethiopia. Her research interests include social and political problems of Tropical Africa, political leadership, government and opposition, and conflicts in Africa. She has published over hundred research papers and a number of monographs. The most recently published monograph by Tatiana S. Denisova is Tropical Africa: the Political Leadership Evolution (Moscow: Institute for African Studies Press, 2016; in Russian). David H. Dye, Ph.D., is Professor of Archaeology at the University of Memphis. He has conducted archaeological excavations in the American Great Basin, Midwest, Plains, and Southeast. His current research interests focus on prehistoric and early contact period archaeology in the Lower Mississippi Valley, as well as climate change, documentary object and landscape photography, and Mississippian iconography, ritual, and warfare. Lucille E. Harris received her Ph.D. in archaeology from the University of Toronto in 2012. She specializes in the archaeology of Western North America. Her research interests include middle range societies, settlement patterning, Middle Holocene experimentations with sedentism in Western North America, and lithic technology. She currently lives in Boise, Idaho, and splits her time between running a small archaeological consulting business and working as an archaeologist for the Boise National Forest. Verenice Y. Heredia Espinoza received a Ph.D. in anthropological archaeology from Purdue University in 2005. She is a Professor at El Colegio de Michoacán in the Centro de Estudios Arqueológicos and served as chair of her department from 2010–2014. Her primary interests include social complexity, cross-cultural analysis, archaeological method and theory, economic anthropology, political economy, and regional analysis. Dr. Heredia has worked in several areas of Mesoamerica including Oaxaca, Tlaxcala, and Jalisco. Her publications include edited books, articles, and book chapters that deal mainly with alternative pathways to complexity. She currently directs the Teuchitlán Archaeological Project at the Los Guachimontones site in Teuchitlán, Jalisco, Mexico. Victoria Tin-bor Hui is Associate Professor in Political Science at the University of Notre Dame. She received her Ph.D. in Political Science from Columbia University and her B.Sc. in Journalism from the Chinese University of Hong Kong. Hui’s core research examines the centrality of war in the formation and transformation of “China” in the long span of history. She is the author of War and State Formation in Ancient China and Early Modern Europe (Cambridge University Press, 2005). She has also published “Towards a Dynamic Theory of International Politics” in International Organization, “Testing Balance of Power Theory in World History” in The European Journal of International Relations, “The Emergence and Demise of Nascent Constitutional Rights” in The Journal of Political Philosophy, “Building Castles in the Sand” in The Chinese Journal of International Politics, “History and Thought in China’s Traditions” in The Journal of Chinese Political Science, and book chapters “How Tilly’s Warfare Paradigm Is

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Revolutionizing the Study of Chinese State-Making,” “Cultural Diversity and Coercive Cultural Homogenization in Chinese History,” “The China Dream: Revival of What Historical Greatness?”, “Confucian Pacifism or Confucian Confusion?”, “The Triumph of Domination in the Ancient Chinese System”, and “Problematizing Sovereignty”. As a native from Hong Kong, Hui also studies the democracy movement in the city. She has testified at the US Congress and has written “Hong Kong’s Umbrella Movement: The Protest and Beyond” in The Journal of Democracy, “Will China Crush the Protests in Hong Kong?” in Foreign Affairs, “Beijing’s All-Out Crackdown on the Anti-Extradition Protests in Hong Kong” in China Leadership Monitor, “Beijing’s Hard and Soft Repression in Hong Kong” in Orbis, and “Today’s Macau, Tomorrow’s Hong Kong”? What Future for “One Country, Two Systems?” for the Italian Political Science Institute’s report on Hong Kong. She also maintains a blog on Hong Kong https://victoriatbhui. wordpress.com. Nam C. Kim Ph.D., is employed by the Department of Anthropology, University of Wisconsin-Madison, USA. He investigates prehistoric societies and lifeways using data gathered through archaeological fieldwork. He is interested in the cultural factors and historical trends that led to the emergence of some of the earliest forms of urbanism and archaic states worldwide. His fieldwork in recent years has been focused on the site of Co Loa, an ancient settlement located outside of modern-day Hanoi in Vietnam. Known through legend and believed by many to be the first political capital of an incipient, proto-Vietnamese civilization, Co Loa is connected to national meta-narratives regarding the origins of Vietnamese identity and culture. Kim’s work also explores the intersections between the ancient past and the concerns of the present, dealing with the uses and appropriations of prehistoric sites, artifacts, and archaeological landscapes for ritual functions, tourism, politics, and constructions of contemporary ethnic and national identities. In addition, Kim performs research on organized violence and warfare. This work explores various dimensions of violence through time and space, including associated cultural practices, attitudes, and belief systems, and how both competitive and cooperative behaviours may have been linked to our biological and social evolution. Andrey V. Korotayev is a Russian Middle Eastern scholar, anthropologist, comparative political scientist, demographer and sociologist. He has a Ph.D. in Middle Eastern Studies from the University of Manchester and a Doctor Habilitatus in History from the Russian Academy of Sciences. He is currently the Head of the Laboratory of Monitoring of the Risks of Sociopolitical Destabilization at the National Research University Higher School of Economics, and a Senior Research Professor at the Institute for African Studies of the Russian Academy of Sciences as well as in the Institute of Oriental Studies. In addition, he is a Senior Research Professor of the International Laboratory on Political Demography and Social Macrodynamics (PDSM) of the Russian Presidential Academy of National Economy and Public Administration, as well as a Full Professor of the Faculty of Global Studies of the Moscow State University. He is co-editor of the “Social Evolution

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and History” and the “Journal of Globalization Studies”, as well as a member of Editorial Boards of “Cliodynamics” and “Age of Globalization”. He is the author of over 300 scholarly publications, including 17 monographs. He is a laureate of the Russian Science Support Foundation in “The Best Economists of the Russian Academy of Sciences” Nomination (2006); in 2012, he was awarded with the Gold Kondratieff Medal by the International N. D. Kondratieff Foundation. His current research focuses on social evolution, political anthropology, political demography, sociopolitical transformations in the MENA region, global political, economic and technological trends. Nikolay N. Kradin holds Ph.D. and Doctor Habilitatus degrees from the Russian Academy of Sciences. He is a Corresponding Member of the Russian Academy of Sciences. Nikolay is the Director of the Institute of History, Archaeology and Ethnology of the Far East Branch of the Russian Academy of Sciences. His research focuses on archaeology, history, and anthropology of Inner Asian nomads, political anthropology, and world-system analysis. Kradin is an organizer and participant of numerous archaeological and ethnological expedition in Mongolia, China, Siberia, and the Russian Far East. He was Professor and Head of Department of World History, Archaeology, and Anthropology of the Far Eastern Federal University, Visiting Professor at the University of Nomadic Civilizations in Ulaanbaatar, University of Pardubice, EPHE, Sorbonne in Paris, and Inner Mongolian University. Kradin is the author of over 500 publications, including the books: Nomadic Societies (1992), The Xiongnu Empire (1996, 2002, 2012), Political Anthropology (2001, 2004, 2008, 2010, 2011), The Chinggis Khan Empire (2006—in co-authorship), History of the Khitan Empire of Liao (2014—in co-authorship) (all in Russian), Nomads of Inner Asia in Transition (2014), and others. Alexander V. Marey is a historian, specializing in the history of Mediaeval Spain and—wider—Mediaeval and Early Modern Europe. Alexander had graduated with M.A. (cum laude) in Mediaeval History from the Russian State University for the Humanities, where later he also made his Ph.D. in History of Law and Institutions. At present, Alexander is Associate Professor in History of Political and Juridical Thought at the National Research University Higher School of Economics (Moscow, Russia). His research focus within Mediaeval and Early Modern studies is on the history of law and institutions, political philosophy and concepts in Spain and beyond. Marey’s publications include the Russian translations of the Visigothic Code (with Oleg Aurov), Justinian Digest (under the supervision of Leonid Kofanov), and Alphonse X’s History of Spain (with Oleg Aurov), and monographs on the juridical language of Mediaeval Spain and on the phenomenon and concepts of authority (both in Russian). Alexander A. Nemirovsky is a historian, specializing in the Ancient Near East. Alexander graduated with M.A. in World History and English from Lomonosov Moscow State University (1992). In 1997, Nemirovsky earned a Ph.D. in World History from the same university. He is a Senior Research Fellow at the

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International Centre of Anthropology, National Research University Higher School of Economics, and Department of Comparative Studies of Ancient Civilizations, Institute of World History of the Russian Academy of Sciences. His research focuses on ethno-political history of, and historical traditions and concepts in the Ancient Near East. His main areas of interest include the geopolitical aspect of history, socio-ethnic identities and identifications, and patterns of official and non-official conceptualization of the historical past, as well as formation and evolution of literary-historical traditions in ancient societies from primeval folklore to developed state propaganda (including traditions on the Hyksos of Egypt). His peculiar interests in political history are concentrated on the Dark Age of the Ancient Near East (seventeenth–sixteenth centuries BCE) and the “great kingdoms” system of the subsequent Late Bronze Age (especially interactions in Northern Mesopotamia and adjacent areas). His publications include the monographs: At the Origins of Hebrew Ethnogenesis. The Old Testament Tradition of the Patriarchs and Ethno-Political History of the Ancient Near East. Moscow: Russian Academy of Sciences, 2001; “I rely on the Sun, My Father”: IBoT I 34 and the History of Upper Mesopotamia in the 13th Century BCE. Moscow: Institute of World History, 2007 (together with Boris E. Alexandrov), and “The Shepherds and the Thebans”. Division and Duration of Dynasties of the Hyksos Time (XVth–XVIIth) in Manetho. Moscow: Institute of World History, 2019 (all in Russian). Alexander lives in Moscow. Ariadna P. Pozdnyakova is a Russian Africanist. She graduated from the Moscow Pedagogical University. She has been working at the Institute for African Studies since 1969, at present in the position of Senior Researcher of the Centre for Tropical African Studies. Pozdnyakova has conducted fieldwork in the Republic of Uganda (1973–1974, 1976–1977, 1990). She is specializing in country studies focusing mainly on political and socio-economic issues of such African states as the Republic of Uganda, the Republic of Malawi and the Democratic Republic of São Tomé and Principe. She has made nearly two hundred publications including a number of monographs. Among her monographs are: Malawi (Moscow: Institute for African Studies Press, 1989; 2nd ed.—2004), Uganda (Moscow: Institute for African Studies Press, 1998; 2nd ed., under the title The Republic of Uganda— 2012), The Democratic Republic of São Tomé and Principe (Moscow: Institute for African Studies Press, 2012), The History of Malawi (Moscow: Institute for African Studies Press, 2018). Paul (“Jim”) Roscoe is Professor Emeritus of Anthropology and Cooperating Professor in the Climate Change Institute at the University of Maine. He holds a B.Sc. in Physics, M.Sc. in Liberal Studies in Science, and M.A. (Economics) in social anthropology, all from the University of Manchester (UK), and earned his Ph.D. in Anthropology from the University of Rochester (USA). He conducted four periods of ethnographic fieldwork among the Yangoru Boiken of Papua New Guinea (1979–1981, 1987, 1992, and 1997) and has archival specializations in both New Guinea and ancient Polynesia. His research interests include the anthropology of war, the evolution of political and social complexity, ecological anthropology,

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climate change, and hunter-gatherers. He is co-editor of three edited volumes and has authored or co-authored papers in American Anthropologist, American Ethnologist, Behavioural and Brain Sciences, Current Anthropology, Human Ecology, Journal of Anthropological Archaeology, Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory, Man/Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society—B, Proceedings of the National Academy of Science, Royal Society Open Science, and World Archaeology, along with other journals. Aleksei S. Shchavelev is an alumnus of the Lomonosov Moscow State University (2001), Ph.D. in History (2005). Aleksei is Senior Research Fellow at the Department of History of Byzantium and Eastern Europe, Institute of World History of the Russian Academy of Sciences, Senior Research Fellow and Associate Professor at the International Centre of Anthropology, National Research University Higher School of Economics, and Associate Professor at the Historical Faculty of the State Academic University for the Humanities. He is the author of more than 170 publications on history, archaeology, philology, historical geography, historical, social and political anthropology. Shchavelev’s main research fields are the history of “barbarian” peoples of Western Eurasia in the First Millennium CE, the Byzantine Empire in the tenth century, and Rus’ in the tenth–twelfth centuries. Aleksei S. Shchavelev is the author of the monograph Slavic Legends about the First Princes. A Comparative Historical Study about the Models of Power among the Slavs (Moscow: Severny palomnik, 2007; in Russian) and the non-fiction book Vikings. Between Scandinavia and Rus’ (with A. A. Fetisov and A. S. Severyanin; Moscow: Veche, 2009; reprinted in 2013, 2017, 2019; in Russian). Aleksei S. Shchavelev is a member of the editorial boards of the annuals The Ancient States of Eastern Europe and Historical Geography (both published in Moscow in Russian), and of the international journal Studia Slavica et Balcanica Petropolitana (St. Petersburg). Charles Stanish (Ph.D., Chicago) is Executive Director of the Institute for the Advanced Study of Culture and the Environment at the University of South Florida. He served as director of the Cotsen Institute of Archaeology, UCLA, and curator/chair of the Anthropology Department of the Chicago Field Museum. His extensive research in Peru, Bolivia, and Chile addresses the roles that trade, war, ritual, and labour organization played in the development of human co-operation and complex society. Stanish has authored several books that include, Ancient Andean Political Economy (1992), Ritual and Pilgrimage in the Ancient Andes (with B. Bauer, 2001), Ancient Titicaca: The Evolution of Complex Society in Southern Peru and Northern Bolivia (2003), and Evolution of Human Co-operation (2017). For six years, he served as Senior Fellow of Pre-Columbian Studies, Dumbarton Oaks. He is a fellow of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences and is a member of the National Academy of Sciences of the USA.

Introduction Dmitri M. Bondarenko

The main aim of this volume is to present a novel approach to the study of social evolution. This approach is based on an examination and analysis of social evolution through the evolution of social institutions associated with the rise and development of social complexity. Evolution is defined as the process of structural change (Carneiro 1973; Claessen 2000). Within this framework, the society, or culture, is seen as a system composed of a great number of various social institutions that are interacting and changing. As a result, the whole structure of society is changing, that is evolving. “It had been widely believed, at least since the time of Aristotle, that things changed in accordance with an inner principle of development” (Carneiro 2003: 1). Thus, documenting the internal factors fueling changes in selected social institutions, the authors of the volume analyze the contribution of this dynamic interplay to the advent of, and changes in complex sociopolitical systems. Society should be seen as the result of the compound effect of the interactions of social institutions specific to it. Thus, the nexus of social institutions that have risen along different pathways serves as a catalyst for social change. From one society to another, the hierarchy of institutions, the principles of their interrelation and directions of change may differ, determining a specific way of transformation of the society as a whole. This means that every society may follow a specific evolutionary trajectory and pace. Thus, social evolution does not have any “general” direction, not only in a unilinear but even in a multilinear sense; for example, in the sense Marshall Sahlins (1960) used the notion of “general evolution” as opposed to “specific evolution” of a separate culture. We suggest that social evolution is nonlinear, and combination of evolving social institutions, specific in every case, D. M. Bondarenko (&) International Center of Anthropolgy, National Research University Higher School of Economics, 21/4 Staraya Basmannaya St., 105066 Moscow, Russia e-mail: [email protected] Institute for African Studies, Russian Academy of Sciences, 30/1 Spiridonovka St., 123001 Moscow, Russia © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2020 D. M. Bondarenko et al. (eds.), The Evolution of Social Institutions, World-Systems Evolution and Global Futures, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-51437-2_1

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explains its nonlinear character. Contrary to classical neoevolutionist models (e.g., Fried 1967; Service 1971[1962], 1975), the development of social complexity does not mean constant unilinear growth and societies’ inevitable progression from less to more complex organizational forms. As well, the level of social complexity is not the same as the level of social hierarchization. Any significant change (i.e., transformative of the societal structure) in any direction is evolutionary. In particular, not infrequently societies transform cardinally in the level of hierarchization without a change of their overall level of complexity, apart from cases of social simplification (Bondarenko 2006; Claessen 2006; Korotayev et al. 2000). Remarkably, in the theory of biological evolution the transition from a more to less hierarchical structure is not regarded as a sign of degradation or regress if this transition does not lead to diminishing of adaptiveness to the environment (see, e.g., Futuyma 1997). “… Darwin’s framework… harbors no necessary expectation of increasing complexity over the long term” (Spencer 2019: 186). To show the nonlinear nature of social evolution, it is crucially important to discuss cases from different culture areas, historical periods including recent, and levels of overall sociocultural complexity. That is why the chapters in the volume deal with particular cases from many parts of Eurasia, Africa, the Americas and Insular Pacific, with cultures from ancient to contemporary, and from hunter-gatherer to industrial. Respectively, the chapters are based on different kinds of sources—archaeological, historical, anthropological (ethnographic) and sociological. This analysis will shed light on the various ways by which social institutions developed in different societies through time and space and on how these institutions and their interaction may have fostered their social evolution. Therefore, this publication may enhance our understanding of social evolution via the integration of various kinds of evidence within a specific conceptual framework. As is noted above, evolution is understood in this volume as the process of structural change. This process takes place in the form of transformation of social institutions and the relations between them within separate societies and their aggregates up to world-systems. This is why it is important to describe and discuss the notion of social institution in at least some detail.

1

The Social Institution: A Brief History of the Notion and Its Conceptualizing

The term “institution” was used already in the early eighteenth century by the philosopher and progenitor of sociology Giambattista Vico (1668–1744) (Vico 2002 [1725]). With the maturing of social sciences in the nineteenth century, understanding of society as consisting of social institutions (the institutional approach) and the very notion of “the social institution” became these sciences’ part and parcel. Understanding of society as an “organism” whose “organs” are different forms of social organization (the family, state and so on) characterized the first classics of sociology—Auguste Comte (1798–1857) and Herbert Spencer (1820–

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1903) (Comte 1875–1877 [1851–1854]; Spencer 1890–1899, 1971). Although they did not give a definition of “social institution,” Comte and Spencer became the founders of the institutional approach in sociology. The notion of social institution established itself thanks to Karl Marx (1818– 1883), who used it since his early works of the 1840s. Marx (1970 [1843–1844]: 40) defined institutions as “modes of man’s social existence” whose nature and transformations were determined historically by economic modes of production and their change. In the mid-nineteenth century, the institutional approach found supporters among outstanding historians. In particular, Numa Denis Fustel de Coulanges (1830–1889) studied societies of antiquity through this approach—he looked at their history as a history of institutions birth and transformations (1877 [1864], 1964 [1875]). In the late nineteenth century, an institutional school formed in political economy due to Thorstein Veblen (1857–1929). Veblen’s crucial point was that economic institutions should be analyzed not as isolated units but rather in their interaction with cultural and social institutions (Veblen 1994 [1899]). During the same years, Maurice Hauriou (1856–1929) laid the foundation for the study of institutions in jurisprudence (Hauriou 1986 [1933]). Also in the late nineteenth century, Émile Durkheim (1858–1917) wrote about society as not a simple set but rather a system of institutions (Durkheim 1982 [1895], 1997[1893]). Durkheim and his disciples, Marcel Mauss (1872–1950) and Paul Fauconnet (1874–1938) (1969 [1901]), studied the objective social (“collective”) nature of institutions and the role of subjective human agency (activities of “individuals”) in their functioning. These scholars had taken stock of thinking about institutions by the beginning of the twentieth century and argued powerfully that precisely the study of institutions was the subject of sociology. A major new contribution to the theory of social institutions was made by Max Weber (1864–1920) in the early twentieth century. His special merit is a study of the normative aspect of institutional formation and functioning. He emphasized institutions’ interdependence and (contrary to Marx) argued that no institution determines others, and causes and effects of interaction between institutions are unpredictable (Weber 2011). In the 1930s, another sociologist, Talcott Parsons (1902–1979), approached social institutions within his theory of social action as kinds of actions regulated by stable and mutual expectations of interacting actors. Parsons looked at institutions as at structural components of society whose functioning provides for its existence as social system (Parsons 1968 [1937], 1982). In the first decades of the twentieth century, study of social institutions and the society as their system started in anthropology, first by Alfred Radcliffe-Brown (1881–1955) and Bronislaw Malinowski (1884–1942). For both, societies were systems of interrelated and interdependent institutions. However, while for Radcliffe-Brown (1952, 1958) the institution is a set of written and unwritten norms that regulate relations in a social group, for Malinowski (1944) social groups themselves are institutions whose functioning is regulated by norms. In the second half of the twentieth–early twenty-first centuries, the development of theory about social institutions continued within different disciplines and in many directions. In particular, the philosopher and economist Friedrich Hayek

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(1899–1992) (1948, 1973–1979) likened institutions to living organisms struggling for survival. The inevitable winners in this struggle, Hayek argued, are the best adapted to the environment, i.e., the most adequate to the conditions in which their society exists. This is how Hayek based liberalism as ideology that reflects a “natural” move of social processes and criticized socialism as an ideology that sanctions unnecessary, destructive intrusion in it (Hayek 1988). Also from the perspective of liberalism, the philosopher John Rawls (1921– 2002) studied one of the key aspects of the social institutions theory—the ratio of collective and individual in their appearance and functioning. According to Rawls (1972, 1999), agencies and organizations that form social institutions do not promote achieving one and the same collective goal of the people involved in them, but serve these people as a common tool for achieving their individual competing agendas. People create agencies and organizations not because they ostensibly have the same desires but because it is easier to achieve individual goals through commonly created institutions. The sociologist Erving Goffman (1922–1982) began to study social institutions of a specific kind that he called “total institutions.” These institutions (the army, monastery, jail and so forth) are those in which big groups of people are cut off from the wider society for a long time and share a common life whose forms are thoroughly regulated and that cannot be hidden from other members of the group (Goffman 1961). Goffman’s work gave rise to a whole body of the literature on various closed communities in different countries. The philosopher Michel Foucault (1926–1984) also explored institutions dominated and coordinated by state power—disciplinary institutions. For him, school, asylum, prison, army barracks or the hospital are examples of such institutions, all created in their modern form in the nineteenth century with the Industrial Revolution. According to Foucault, political institutions exist to transmit and apply orders to citizens, make the citizens obey these institutions and punish those who do not obey them (Foucault 1979 [1975]). Foucault also introduced the post-structuralist concept of the “discursive fields” in attempt to trace the interrelation of institutions and discourses. Such fields, for instance the family, contain several contradictory and competing discourses with varying degrees of power to organize social institutions (Foucault 1972 [1969]). For the sociologist Anthony Giddens (b. 1938), the central problem is that of social institutions’ stability and change, and of entire social systems’ creation and reproduction. Giddens’ theory of structuration is based on the premise that the appearance and change of social systems (i.e., systems of social institutions of all kinds) are outcomes of social practices at the intersection of structures and agents (Giddens 1984). Giddens underlines that “institutions by definition are the more enduring features of social life” (1984: 31) but their internal characteristics are changing from one historical period to another. The most radical changes in social institutions took place at the transition from the Middle Ages to Modern Time— from the “pre-modern” to “modern” era (Giddens 1976, 1984). Giddens sees the study of society as primarily the study of social institutions. It is noteworthy that

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this view that has a long tradition since the works of Durkheim and other classics of the past is shared by many contemporary social scientists.

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Social Institutions: Main Characteristics and Functions

The most widespread view of social institutions in contemporary social sciences is the view of them as complex self-reproducing social forms in different spheres of life. In particular, according to the prominent sociologist Jonathan Turner (1997: 6), a social institution is “a complex of positions, roles, norms and values lodged in particular types of social structures and organizing relatively stable patterns of human activity with respect to fundamental problems in producing life-sustaining resources, in reproducing individuals, and in sustaining viable societal structures within a given environment.” As a rule, institutions are studied as constituent parts of separate societies seen, in their turn, as more or less closed and self-sufficient sociocultural units. However, institutions may be trans-societal (e.g., legal institutions like international tribunals or institutions of international trade) and even institutions that operate in one society can rise as a reaction to trans-societal trends and demands (e.g., political institutions of the Western type in colonial and post-colonial states). This is true for the pre-modern world (e.g., Balkansky et al. 2000; Bondarenko and Korotayev 2000; Chase-Dunn and Inoue 2017; Feinman and Neitzel 2019; Knappett 2017; Kowalewski 2003; Kristiansen 1998). It is even more so for the world of Modern Times (Baskin and Bondarenko 2014; Osterhammel 2010 [1995]) and especially obvious in the present-day world whose cultures have become so complex that the world has become a fully globalized community and the nation-state is no longer sufficient for governing the world effectively. The critical challenges people throughout our world face today—global warming, terrorism, nuclear proliferation, migration crises, pandemics, etc.—cannot be addressed effectively by nations acting separately, without some supranational political institutions (Bondarenko and Baskin 2017). So, it may be more productive to look at institutions even within a separate society as parts of trans-societal systems of institutions. However, it should also not be overlooked that, at all their interconnectedness, societies still have boundaries, and their members usually know and respect them, even if the political borders between them are blurred or lifted as it was in many pre-modern world-systems or as it is in some contemporary regional unions, for example, the European Union. Another important point regards societies as systems of social institutions of different kinds and multi-societal networks as trans-societal systems of institutions. It should always be taken into account that the mechanism of systems of functioning institutions cannot be likened to, for example, that of the clock. In the clock, the work of all details is in harmony and just this ensures the operation of the whole mechanism. In society or a societal network, institutions may not only complement each other but also conflict with one another. Furthermore, this conflict of institutions may be a feature that gives dynamism to a whole societal or trans-societal

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system, especially when different institutions are products of societies of different socioeconomic types and culture areas, for instance, when pre-industrial and industrial, originally local and Western institutions combined in colonial and post-colonial societies (Balandier 2004 [1971]; Gulbrandsen 2014; Højbjerg et al. 2013; Mamdani 2018; Niang 2018; Njoku and Bondarenko 2018; Onoma 2010; Osterhammel 2010 [1995]; Young 2012). Institutions may not only complement or conflict with each other. It may also happen that social principles and values that rose in a particular institution and were essential for it, in the course of society’s historical transformation, will transcend that particular institution and become no less fundamental for more modern institutions in a more complex society. A good example here is the principle of communality, a foundation of sub-Saharan Africa’s sociocultural tradition. The local community has always—from the earliest days of history to the present—remained the basic social institution in Africa. But in complex African societies, from pre-colonial to colonial to post-colonial, the principle of communality manifests itself in the capacity of the original and essentially communal worldview, consciousness, behavioral pattern, sociopolitical norms and relations to spread far beyond community as an institution. These communal principles now play a crucial role at all levels of societal complexity and in a great variety of institutions including, though in modified or sometimes even corrupted form, sociologically supra- and non-communal formations, up to modern cities and diaspora networks (Bondarenko 2015). The social nature of institutions is presupposed by people’s aggregation in societies—by virtue of this, the forms of their organization have not an individual but collective nature. This fact explains the main characteristics of social institutions. Firstly, social relations and behavioral models that reproduce themselves from generation to generation form within social institutions. Many institutions are systems of organizations themselves (Scott 2001). People occupy roles in organizations that become constituent parts of institutions, and individuals or their groups can create them consciously and purposefully—people create industrial corporations and universities, political parties and religious communities. So, social institutions should not be anthropomorphized—they do not rise and function on their own but are created and transformed by human agency. Outstanding persons can put an especially clear imprint on an institution’s form and essence, as Peter the Great did with the political institutions of Russia or as Henry Ford did with capitalist economic institutions. However, the appearance and existence of the very phenomenon of social institutions are by no means a manifestation of someone’s conscious will. Social institutions are a result of unintended social self-organization. They exist because they justify themselves as the optimal structural social unit, throughout the whole human history. By setting the rules of behavior for the people involved in them and in this way restricting their individual freedom, institutions order and regulate interpersonal and intergroup, i.e., social, relations, in this way allowing societies to exist and change. The question of why people usually voluntarily agree to accept social norms and thus limit their personal freedom of behavior was already raised in antiquity particularly by Aristotle, and it remains a matter of debates in contemporary social sciences including anthropology (e.g.,

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Austin 1962; Claessen 2005). In social philosophy, the collective acceptance theory of institutions argues that people accept institutions because they always are products of joint action—people create institutions jointly and accept the limits they set on their behavior as conventionally established by themselves, not by an outside force (Searle 1995, 2010; Sintonen et al. 2003: 169–278; Tuomela 2002, 2007, 2013; Ziv and Schmid 2014). In some other social sciences, particularly in anthropology, collective action theory proposes basically the same perspective (Blanton and Fargher 2008, 2009; Blanton with Fargher 2016; Carballo 2013). It should also be noted that when people still desire to challenge and alter their social institutions, they do it through collective action, too (Francisco 2010; Melucci 1996). “… a society’s fundamental institutions owe their stability to the acceptance, or at least acquiescence, they command from the citizens. If that acceptance or that acquiescence disappears, the said institutions go with it as the floodgates to collective action open up” (Medina 2007: xviii). Secondly, the rise of social institutions and the forms they take are always historically and socioculturally determined (e.g., Mahoney and Thelen 2010; North 1990; Thelen 2004). Although human activities are not completely programmed by the historical and sociocultural conditions of their times, these conditions still set forth a fairly specific framework for the manifestations of actors’ free will. For example, the university as an educational institution could not appear in an archaic society—there were no social prerequisites needed for such an institution. However, this does not mean that there were no institutions of teaching and learning in archaic societies. They were, but they were different, adequate to the realities of those societies. Training there consisted primarily in the assimilation of socially useful skills by observing the actions of senior members of society and following their instructions, learning to practice different activities. Thirdly, the social nature of institutions manifests itself also in their rise as response to various needs of a social network, a separate society or its part. In the course of changing needs, the respective institutions transform or disappear. For example, the institution of local (village) community rose as a form of satisfying a whole complex of human needs—economic, sociocultural, etc.—in pre-industrial societies. Throughout the precapitalist history of humankind, the community acquired various forms adequate to the needs of societies of their particular period and region; for instance, the Neolithic Near Eastern community was different in many ways from that of medieval Europe. With the rise of capitalism in Western Europe, the community began to decompose, as it did not satisfy the needs of the industrial society and could only hinder the new development (e.g., Kamen 2000: 126–137). However, in most colonial and post-colonial nations, the community remained and remains a fundamental institution, as, despite imposition of many essentially capitalist institutions and relations, there still were and are important spheres and segments of life in those societies (especially in rural settings) which the community can serve adequately (Bondarenko 2015; Meillassoux 1991 [1975]). In particular, “African development must build on independent nation-states whose economic base is pre-industrial agriculture” (Hart 2011: 13). Yet, in Africa too, where capitalist developments in rural areas still take place, “depeasantization”

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begins to challenge the existence of community as a social institution (Bryceson 2018; Butovskaya 2019), despite the noted above preservation of the principle of communality. Fourthly, institutional functioning is based on norms. Some scholars even argue that social institutions are just codes of norms (social conventions, rules) rather than agencies and organizations (North 1990, 1992; Schotter 1981; Taylor 1985, 1993). Norms define the rules of people’s behavior within the framework of specific institutions and the very framework of the institutions—a set of situations and spheres of life in which people must behave in accordance with a given institution’s norms. Thereby, norms make impact on people’s public behavior in the framework of institutions, ascribing, admitting or prohibiting their social roles and respective modes of behavior. A violation of norms can inflict sanctions. Both norms and sanctions can be enshrined in written or oral form, and institutions can be formal and non-formal, respectively. Naturally, norms and sanctions are always unwritten in nonliterate societies. However, this does not mean that they are less strict or that institutions are always more amorphous in nonliterate societies than in literate. Unwritten norms are based on customary law that manifests the sociocultural tradition of a people. The tradition is perceived as unshakable, not needing proof of its value and truth; so, behavior that contradicts it can be strictly punished and is infrequent. In literate societies, the activities of major institutions are formalized and officially (legally) regulated to a considerable degree. However, room for informal institutions (political clans, kin groups, etc.) and unwritten norms always remains. In informal institutions in contemporary societies, sanctions are based on the power of public opinion, as well as on moral condemnation, rather than formal punishment. The process of a social institution formation (institutionalization) begins with the appearance of a public need in it and finishes with the establishment of norms based on which it will function and the elaboration of a hierarchy of statuses and roles for the individuals and groups involved in it. The systems of statuses and roles in the framework of a social institution form its internal structure. Since in the course of time, the conditions of social institutions’ existence are changing, the systems of statuses and roles in them are also transforming. Thus, the structure of institutions is dynamic, and the history of transformation of the systems of their statuses and roles is the core of the history of social institutions. A whole society—separate, “world-system,” and nowadays the transnational global community—may be represented as a system of social institutions. Social institutions are the units of their organization, and their transformations take the form of institutional transformations. Every person is included in many of the institutions that constitute his or her society. In the course of social history, societies and their networks are becoming more and more complex systems, so the number and variability of the institutions in which the person is included are growing. As a member of society, a person is inevitably and constantly involved in social relations, and thereby spends all his or her life in the framework of social institutions, “moving” daily from one institution to another depending on situation.

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Separate societies and world-systems consist of social institutions, but they are not just their aggregates and are more complex than a construction of individual parts fit together, like a house made of bricks. Social institutions are to a certain degree autonomous but are never isolated from each other. Significant changes in one institution invariably affect other institutions. A society is a complex dynamic system of intersecting, interdependent, constantly and multidirectionally interacting social institutions. In the final analysis, society is a system of interrelated social institutions. It is so—that is, a system—because the complex of social institutions satisfies the whole complex of society’s separate needs, which in turn must be accomplished in some fashion if there is to be a continuous self-reproduction of society itself, which can be seen as an overarching need. As a rule, social institutions have not only main but also secondary functions. For example, the main function of the contemporary institution of higher education is preparation of an intellectual labor force capable of contributing to the society’s development and reproduction. However, the institution of higher education clearly has other, secondary functions, too: particularly, economic, by providing livelihood for a part of society employed in this sphere—college and university teachers. Functions of different social institutions can intersect. For example, the institutions of the family, education, culture and religion fulfill the function of socialization of the individual. Both main and secondary functions of social institutions are manifest, i.e., declared. However, besides manifest, social institutions have latent, that is unplanned, functions as “by-products” of institutions’ functioning (Helm 1971; Merton 1968: 73–138). For instance, an educational institution can fulfill a latent function of political socialization of the students. While parts of societal systems, separate institutions are organized social systems themselves, albeit less complex. As that of any system, the structure of social institutions is both stable and variable. Therefore, the concrete forms in which institutions perform their functions in a society vary from one historical period to another. They vary even more so between societies of different culture areas. However, the very mission of certain institutions to perform certain functions to meet certain public needs through the reproduction of social practices and relations remains unchanged. At the same time, to reveal the function of a social institution does not mean to explain how it has appeared and acquired its current form: The function of an institution can change, while its form can remain generally the same. Thus, every social institution performs functions of its own—main and secondary, manifest and latent. However, there also are functions that all institutions share as elements of a social system. One of the most important among them is the function of making social relations stable and reproducing them by establishing social control within institutional frameworks. Another institutions’ common function is regulation of social relations through the elaboration and establishment (sanctioning, recognizing as right) of modes of behavior and social roles of certain members of society in certain common situations. This function is related to the communicative and socializational functions of institutions: knowledge of the accepted modes and norms of behavior, and the skills of following them, must be

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effectively transmitted within and between generations. One more function common for social institutions is ensuring the cohesion of society based on the sociocultural values and norms shared by society members despite all differences between them. It would be wrong to consider the functioning of social institutions mechanically, as a completely predetermined, unconditionally forecasted process in which one inevitable phenomenon also inevitably generates another. The possibilities for institutions’ self-regulation are not limitless. As emphasized above, despite institutions’ social nature, humans are acting within them, and human subjectivity cannot but manifest itself in the ways and results of institutional functioning. For example, the activities of political institutions in the Russian Empire in the early twentieth century did not pursue the goal of changing the state order; on the contrary, their aim was to keep the monarchy. However, the actions of those in power led to its collapse. A high degree of personalization of institutions—an excessive influence of individuals on their activities—is a clear manifestation of their instability, evidence of their being in crisis. At the same time, however subjective the reasons for “failures” in the functioning of institutions might seem, their dysfunction always has a fundamental objective prerequisite. Basic social needs always remain, but the forms in which they may be satisfied cannot remain the same forever. Social institutions have to change as the society demands new forms of satisfying its needs, but apologists of the old order can hinder their transformation. So, social institutions exist throughout the whole of human history because they have and perform functions, i.e., the tasks to satisfy social needs and thus allow the society or societal network to constantly reproduce itself. In the framework of social institutions, not only the society as a whole but also groups and individuals satisfy their needs and negotiate and renegotiate their status–power relations (Kemper 2017). Social institutions do not remain unchanged: Even performing the same functions, they are transforming from generation to generation. Thereby, the society as a system of institutions is changing.

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Overview of Chapters

The chapters in the volume fall into three parts. Part I, “Theoretical Approaches,” consists of general chapters, while Parts II, “The Old World,” and III, “The New World,” include case studies. The volume closes with a concluding chapter. Part I opens with the chapter by Stephen A. Kowalewski and Jennifer Birch which central question is: How does the human past help us figure out how to solve the biggest problems facing humanity today? The discussion is based on the statement that for humans, getting things done is always social. Institutions are organized and socially reproduced ways of accomplishing objectives. Since people are always faced with multiple, different problems, they tend to create institutions that are varied, non-isomorphic and even non-congruent. The recent expansion of archaeological information now allows scholars to move beyond gross types (tribal

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society, Bronze Age Culture, etc.) toward documenting the histories of institutions and assemblages of institutions. Archaeology’s language (its units of analysis and how its data are packaged) can be reshaped to recognize the sociological, organizational nature of actors’ responses to pressing challenges. The archaeological record provides case material regarding long-enduring institutions, times of highly creative and rapid institution building, societies that had many institutions and others that had few, and societies composed of non-isomorphic, non-centralized institutions and a few others whose institutions were more centralized. Outstanding research problems include better understanding of synchronous variation, rapid versus gradual change, internal and external causes leading to change in the relative importance or power of institutions, and the social means of limiting concentration of power. From these archaeological and historical perspectives, we suggest that if humanity makes an adequate response to contemporary global pollution and climate change, the response will be social and organizational. Existing institutions may be transformed, and new ones may be created. But totalizing, meta-institutions are less effective than multiple, crosscutting institutions. The author of the next chapter, Dmitri M. Bondarenko, points out that aside from complexity measured in levels of political integration, societies as systems of social institutions have another fundamental characteristic that can be called a “basic principle of societal organization.” The principle of organization a society embodies depends on the way its institutions are arranged with respect to one another. Two basic principles can be distinguished: heterarchy—“… the relation of elements to one another when they are unranked or when they possess the potential for being ranked in a number of different ways” (Crumley 1995: 3) and its opposite —a condition in society in which relationships in most contexts are ordered mainly according to one principal hierarchical relationship. This organizational principle may be called “homoarchy.” The notions of heterarchy and homoarchy should be applied to societal structure in general rather than to power relations only. There have never existed non-hierarchical societies in the proper sense of this expression —hierarchy is an attribute of any social system. However, vertical and horizontal links play different parts in different societies at every concrete moment. So, the question of differences between societies from the point of view of their organization as systems of institutions is not whether institutions form hierarchies, but how these hierarchies of institutions are interrelated—if they are rigidly ranked one and only one possible way, or not. Homoarchy and heterarchy represent the most universal “ideal” (generalized) principles and basic trajectories of sociocultural organization. There are no universal evolutionary stages: cultures can be (generally) heterarchical or homoarchical having an equal level of complexity. A culture could change its basic organizational principle without transition to another complexity level. Alternativeness also exists within each of the types. So, the heterarchy– homoarchy dichotomy runs throughout the whole of human history: it is observable on all levels of social complexity in all historical periods and culture areas, including the globalized world of our time. The analysis provided in this chapter shows that transformations in the ways social institutions and their sets, societal

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subsystems, are ranked (homoarchically or hetrarchically) on the one hand and changes in the overall cultural complexity on the other are two different, largely unrelated processes. Henri J.M. Claessen discusses the evolution of sociopolitical organizations as structural change. The chapter consists of three parts. The first part presents the emergence of sociopolitical structures. The second part discusses evolutionary streams with Polynesia and Africa south of the Sahara as examples. In the third part, an explanation is sought for the similarities in the sociopolitical structures of societies found in different times and places. Nikolay N. Kradin examines some crucial themes related to origins of the state: the factors of political centralization, stages of statehood and the role of urbanization in state formation. The chapter deals with the specificity of regional aspects of the rise of complexity and urbanization on the example of two polities of the Russian Far East and Manchuria—the Bohai Kingdom and the Jurchen Empire. Alexander A. Nemirovsky, whose chapter opens Part II, deals with main institutional and conceptual aspects of transition of Assyrian polity from city-state with a quite limited power of hereditary rulers to territorial state and empire with royal autocracy and developed bureaucratic apparatus at the latter’s disposal. That process took place in the mid-fourteenth–early thirteenth centuries BCE. The situations before and after that period, including their institutional dimensions, are well known from complexes of sources dated back, respectively, to the nineteenth to eighteenth and late fourteenth to eleventh centuries BCE, but the course of transition itself and its stages are more obscure. Changes in titles and epithets of the rulers in official and legal formulas, in ways of references to the rulers or their polity made by foreigners in diplomatic documents, etc., can to some degree serve as indicators of these stages. On the whole, it can be concluded that the main factor of the transition in question was successful military–territorial expansion which seems to have arisen in an explosive way under Aššur-uballit I. Apparently, the beginning of that expansion became possible due to successful usage of the unexpectedly emerged and exceptional international conjuncture. Then, the expansion developed more or less constantly and increasingly. The author of the chapter makes an attempt to reconstruct some reflection of Assyrians themselves on this process and its key figures. He also attracts attention to some analogies between the Assyrian case and transition from the republican political order of a city-state to the regime of sole rule in classic antiquity. Andrey V. Korotayev demonstrates that in the late 1st millennium BCE a relatively strong ancient Sabaean state was transformed into the Middle Sabaean political system that may be characterized as consisting of a weak state in its center and strong chiefdoms on its periphery. In the 1st millennium CE, the North-East Yemen political system consisting of a weak state in its center and strong chiefdoms on its periphery appears to have been transformed into a system consisting of a bit stronger state in its center and true tribes (but not chiefdoms) on the periphery. Within this system, the tribes and state constituted one well-integrated whole. There does not seem to be any grounds to consider these transformations as a “degeneration,” “regress” or “decline”; as there was no significant loss of the general

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system complexity and elaboration, one complex political system was transformed into another one, structurally different, but no less complex, highly organized and sophisticated. In many respects, the tribe of the North Yemeni type could be regarded as a rather developed form of political organization, whose complexity could quite be compared with that of the chiefdom (and it is by no means more primitive than the chiefdom), implying first of all a very high level of development of political culture and the existence of an elaborated system of sociopolitical institutions of arbitration, mediation, search for consensus and so on, a wide developed network of intensive intercommunal links on enormous territories populated by tens and hundreds of thousands of people. In his second contribution to this volume, Nikolay N. Kradin discusses the relationship between hierarchy (actually, homoarchy) and heterarchy among Eurasian pastoralists and nomads. He theorizes that in the case of pastoral nomads heterarchy and hierarchy should not necessarily be considered as two separate directions, but instead may be seen as two different levels of political centralization and two directions of evolution of political institutions. A multitude of combinations and dichotomies of both heterarchical and hierarchical polities are possible among nomads. While personal authority remains weak, nomadic societies are organized as a heterarchical tribe or chieftainship. As personal authority grows, those are transformed into a hierarchical chiefdom and nomadic empire. Victoria Tin-bor Hui examines and deconstructs a well-known institution in China: Confucianism. China is often presumed to be different from Europe: while the Western world was simultaneously cursed by a Hobbesian state of war and blessed by a deeply ingrained tradition of constitutionalism, the East was supposed to be endowed with peace but burdened with autocracy. Confucianism, a political philosophy that emphasizes benevolence, is often taken to prescribe pacifism in China’s external relations and paternalism in China’s state–society relations. Yet, the author of the chapter argues Confucianism is not unlike other world philosophical thoughts in that it contains both elements that support peace and those that justify war, and components that champion freedom and those that defend autocracy. The chapter traces Confucianism’s evolution from its birth in the Spring and Autumn and Warring States periods (770-221 BCE) to its construction in the Imperial era (221 BCE to 1911 CE). It shows that China history had roughly equal parts of pacifism and aggression, and limited government and imperial despotism. Confucianism has continued to be reconstructed to this day to support the official line of “peaceful rise” in international relations and one-party dictatorship in state– society relations. Nevertheless, this deep historical analysis suggests that both the past and the present have suppressed alternatives truer to the Confucian legacy. Nam C. Kim adds to ongoing scholarship and debates with a case study from Southeast Asia, examining a pathway to “state” formation in the Red River Valley of present-day northern Vietnam, also known as the Bac Bo region. Specifically, the ancient settlement known as Co Loa provides an interesting context of emergent complexity that was unprecedented in the RRV region, one that was shaped by both its geographic positioning and its interactions with societies of neighboring regions. In addition to local variables of social, economic and political change, a prominent

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factor for the Co Loa phenomenon pertains to interactions with emergent Sinitic civilization to the north. The chapter highlights both local and extra-regional factors for social change that stimulated the formation of the Co Loa Polity during the third century BCE. In doing so, it provides an argument for a punctuated nature of state development. David B. Small documents that Ancient Greece went through a number of significant phases in its evolutionary path. Its Neolithic is signaled by a strong focus on the institutions of the household. The first millennium of the Bronze Age is signaled by large domestic construction on the Mainland with a possible first presence of institutions beyond the household. The Cyclades is noted for its connections to an active intercommunity sanctuary. Crete presents little material, except for an active funerary context and the village of Myrtos. The next evolutionary period is marked by the rise of palaces on Crete, and the later rise of palaces on the mainland. The fall of these mainland palaces is perhaps better understood, with significant rise of major social institutions involving religion, warfare, politics and domestic life. The injection of new wealth into Greek communities in the eighth century resulted in a dramatic community fissioning with a range of new or modified social institutions, based on civic religious practice, warfare, domestic life, economics and politics. These new institutions were built on an armature that lasted until the early third century CE. The key goal of Aleksei S. Shchavelev’s chapter is to summarize the most promising ideas about, and approaches to the history of the people named Rus’ of the ninth to tenth centuries and to Rurikid polity created by one of Rus’ groups around Kiev circa 900. It was not a long process of its political structure’s “maturing” from deep antiquity, but rather a fast outburst that required risky experiments from this Rus’ Kiev community. This was the process of rapid transformation. Rurikid polity on the Dnieper River in the mid-tenth century was a compact polity with the center in Kiev around which other fortified settlements of the Rus’ people were grouped along the radius. This nuclear territory around Kiev was surrounded from almost all sides by the limitrophic territories of subordinated Slavic communities. The structure of the territory was vividly “segmentary.” It was a typical chiefdom with two (later three) levels of political control and a leading kin (lineage) of the Rurikids at its head. All attempts made by now to prove that this polity had been a “state” were inspired by wishful thinking and by attempts of retrospective projection of the realities of the eleventh century on the previous tenth century. In the next chapter, Alexander V. Marey discusses the royal power theory as it was developed and accepted in the Castilian Kingdom of the mid-thirteenth–early fourteenth centuries. The central figure of the chapter is the king of Castile and Leon Alfonso X the Wise (1252–1284). Claiming his rights not only to the throne of Castile but also to the Holy Roman Empire, Alfonso X developed a new conception of the royal power. Within it, a king was not only a vicar of God in his kingdom but also the head, heart and soul of the people. The latter, in turn, was depicted as a body which had not only a head and heart but also a soul. The author stresses that Castilian lawyers and theologians, having a goal to describe the bodily

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relations between a king and a people, invented the concept of the people’s soul. For exposing it, they used two principal kinds of sources: the Augustinian tradition in theology, which stated that the people are a rational multitude united by love to the common thing, and Muslim (Arab) commentaries on Plato and Aristotle’s philosophical works. It is also worthy to note that in the tactical perspective, Alfonso X lost his game because as a result, he had to derogate his laws. However, strategically, he won, as his legislation was actively used by Carlos I and other Modern Spanish monarchs. Ken Baskin argues that by the middle of the seventeenth century, Western European society needed a new way of understanding and experiencing the world, as it was exhausted from more than a century of religious wars, as well as the collapse of the feudal system. That need would produce the image of the universe as a machine made of passive matter that could be re-engineered by the main source of free will in the universe, the human mind. Francis Bacon’s Novum Organum would become the playbook by which Western Modernity would attack this task in order to build a stable, peaceful society. And Western Modernity would realize much of Bacon’s vision, replacing religion as the source of society’s shared way of understanding the world with science. In doing so, this society created a series of new social institutions, the most important of which are Western science, the nation-state and capitalism. By examining how these social institutions evolved, it becomes clear that, in spite of their many successes, they made a series of existential challenges possible that, today, threaten our ability to maintain human societies. Bacon’s vision has become a nightmare—society as a juggernaut threatening to run out of control and destroy itself. In the chapter on the Benin Kingdom (in contemporary South-Western Nigeria), Dmitri M. Bondarenko provides an anthropological analysis of its sociopolitical system from coming to power of the Second (Oba) dynasty presumably in the mid-thirteenth century till the British conquest in 1897. The course of formation of this system of institutions and its basic characteristic features are outlined. It is argued that the Benin Kingdom of the thirteenth to nineteenth centuries was a supercomplex system of institutions (society) but not a state, as it was not based on suprakin (territorial) social ties and there was no professional (bureaucratic) administration in it. The kin-based extended family community always remained this society’s focus, and supracommunal institutions were built up by its template, what is impossible in a state. So, being no less complex and developed than many so-called early states (Claessen and Skalník 1978) or archaic states (Feinman and Marcus 1998), Benin was not a state but rather a specific alternative to the state. This form of sociopolitical organization can be called “megacommunity” and depicted as four concentric circles of institutions forming an upset cone: the extended family, the community, the chiefdom and finally the kingdom. Ariadna P. Pozdnyakova explores the development of social institutions in the British protectorate of Nyasaland (now the Republic of Malawi). In the last decade of the nineteenth century, the abolishment of human trafficking previously carried out by Arabs pacified almost all disaffected native groups. At the early stages of development of the colonial administration, financial resources were sought to

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establish colonial order. One of the means of replenishing the treasury was the introduction of a hut tax. Postal and stamp duties and licenses for various economic activities were introduced, and government buildings for postal, tax and other services were built. Means of communication developed: post, transport, telegraph and later telephone. In addition, a land reform was carried out, as a result of which the local population lost almost all their land, since most of the fertile land was secured by Europeans. The rest of the land was declared crown lands, and the natives were allowed to rent plots for family’s livelihood. As a result of the introduction of taxation and of the land reform, labor market was formed. The natives were hired on plantations or went to neighboring countries in search of work in the mines and on the estates of Europeans. The first leaders of protectorate did not consider it possible to involve aborigines in the management of the country. Direct colonial rule was established. However, the subsequent leaders, concerned about growing dissatisfaction of the natives, began to involve tribal leaders in local governance. The foundations of the indirect rule were laid in 1912, and by 1933 it was legislated and remained the governing principle for social and political developments until 1953. Tatiana S. Denisova demonstrates that although histories of West African countries and peoples vary greatly, in terms of political traditions the states of the region have more similarities than differences. One of the factors that make it possible to talk about the similarity of political systems in West African states is the viability of the institution of chiefdom, i.e., the preservation of power and influence on the economic and sociopolitical development of local communities, regions and the nation as a whole by traditional leaders. Relations between the political center and traditional authorities have varied across countries throughout the post-colonial period, but almost all states in the region have witnessed a resurgence of the institution of chiefdom, both formal and informal, since the 1980s. This was partly due to the introduction of constitutional amendments that expanded and strengthened official powers of traditional leaders. Another reason was the inability of the state to provide the necessary services to citizens, which prompted the latter to turn increasingly to the traditional authorities. One way or another, the experience of traditional leaders and their ability to make responsible decisions at local level have become relevant again. Ghana is among the countries where transformations of the institution of chiefdom, its ups and downs, have been most noticeable during the periods of decolonization and independent development. During the colonial period, many traditional leaders in Ghana strengthened their positions through cooperation with the authorities, but then lost their status and privileges at the constitutional level during the presidency of Kwame Nkrumah. After his overthrow in 1966, traditional leaders regained power, which they have kept until today with varying success. The institution of chiefdom in Ghana has formed over the past hundred years in the struggle for survival, power and control over local resources. The present chapter is devoted to the current state of this institution. Part III opens with the chapter by Lucille E. Harris in which she traces the rise and examines the nature of complexity among hunter-gatherers of south-central British Columbia. Middle Fraser Canyon situated there is well known for the large Late Prehistoric aggregated pithouse villages that line the terraces of the region’s

Introduction

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major rivers and tributaries. These villages, which date to ca. 1800–1000 cal. BP, represent a dynamic period in the history of Northern Interior Salish societies. Our understanding of the cultural dynamics underlying the formation and breakup of these large villages has been limited by reliance on theories that are rooted in notions of hierarchy and institutionalized forms of status and wealth inequality. The author introduces a model of Interior Salish Secwepemc sociopolitical dynamics originally proposed by cultural anthropologist Elizabeth Furniss (1999, 2004) and offers a reinterpretation of the aggregated Mid-Fraser villages that sees their formation and breakup as part of an ongoing cyclic shift in the balance of influence between family autonomy and the band political structure. Rather than representing a shift between egalitarian and nonegalitarian forms of organization, aggregated village formation and breakup represent different ways a heterarchically organized egalitarian system can organize itself as sociopolitical influence shift across scales. Jennifer Birch explores political units labeled as confederacies that have received significantly less theoretical attention than other complex societies organized into chiefdoms and states. An analytical approach that focuses on the development, transformation and articulation of the social institutions that comprise confederacies is suggested as one way to overcome this deficiency. The author reviews ethnographic and archaeological evidence for the development of the Wendat (Huron) and Haudenosaunee (Iroquois), two historically documented northern confederacies, and uses such an institutional approach to analyze each. The results reveal key differences in the character of these indigenous institutions and their constituent parts. This includes the legacies of agglomerative versus rapid politogenesis, the role of geography in forging strong versus weak ties between institutions, and the multidimensional nature of power in middle-range societies. David H. Dye documents that corporate institutions, which transformed in the American Southeast over some 14,000 years, include social heterarchies and hierarchies that arose within the institutional contexts of descent groups, ritual sodalities and social houses. The strategic and tactical actions of competitive and cooperative agents contributed to differing expressions of organizational changes through a variety of forms, including feasting, feuding/warfare, inalienable goods circulation, indebtedness, monumental constructions, mortuary events, processions/rogations, strategic marriages, and additional ritual and social practices. The nexus of social institutions that arose along these pathways served as a catalyst for social changes, including the ways through which social institutions became transformed. Such social processes inform archaeologists of the agency, organization and practice of people who not only invented and manipulated cosmologies, ideologies, institutions and resources to achieve varying degrees of inequality, power and wealth, but also those who resisted the efforts of aggrandizers. The author’s arguments focus on aristocratic social actions and actors, and the practices that enabled them to gain power and wealth through exclusive and restrictive corporate institutions. Gleb V. Aleksandrov examines social evolution in the seventeenth-century British New England colonies of Plymouth, Connecticut, Massachusetts Bay and New Haven. The author focuses primarily on two aspects of this evolution, the

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formation of the New England town and the institutions controlling various aspects of native–colonial relations. The New England town as a unit of social organization was certainly connected to the English town and parish. In the late sixteenth century, the English town had acquired a number of functions it did not previously have, at least formally. In New England, the process of political empowerment of the town, guided by Puritan ideology and facing no resistance from either local elite or the population in general, went much further, creating an entirely new power distribution, which helped shape the distinctive political economy of New England and introduced significant heterarchical elements into the social structure. Native relations also influenced the development of New England in various ways. Firstly, the colonies, facing a significant labor shortage, attempted to draw the natives into their labor pool, creating the basis of enforced labor system, which in turn was one of the foundations of later policies for “dealing” with the American Indians living within the borders of the colonies. But in the seventeenth century, colonial domination was far from certain. Native and colonial communities were tied together by social, economic, political and even personal links, to the point of codependence. The political domination of the colonies at this stage was based not on force of arms, but on political unity, fostered and supported by specific institutions unknown to other regions of colonial expansion. As a result, a distinctive political structure emerged, a multipolity consisting of both the colonies and the neighboring native communities. Stephen A. Kowalewski and Verenice Y. Heredia Espinoza reviewed the ethnohistorical and archaeological literature to look for research describing institutions in pre-Columbian Mesoamerica. They found consistent evidence for the following as social institutions: states, cities, districts or neighborhoods, rural communities, marketplaces, temples, irrigation societies, guilds and households. These had a strong and recognizable material imprint, but they varied from place to place and over time. They were durable and persistent, some traceable to as early as the second millennium BC. In many cases, they persisted through the Colonial period and actually comprise a large part of the corpus of Mesoamerican ethnology and social anthropology. Temple institutions and their personnel were entwined in the activities of all the other important institutions, acting as a sanctioning lubricant. The authors argue that the reason we keep finding the same persistent institutions— in their variant forms—is that these were the means by which people organized their efforts to manage omnipresent human ecological problems critical to social life in this part of the world. Yet, these institutions also lasted because they were adaptable to changing circumstances. Mesoamerica was not structured by any one institution (such as the state). Instead, the jostling of the whole assemblage set the course of social evolution. It may therefore be possible to predict variation in one type of institutions as a partial function of its relation to other critical institutions in its assemblage. Christopher S. Beekman synthesizes and expands prior studies of the role of sociopolitical institutions in the Teuchitlán culture (1000 BCE—CE 500) of the Tequila Valleys, Jalisco, Western Mexico. Western Mexico lies geographically intermediate to the contemporary urban center of Teotihuacan in central Mexico,

Introduction

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and the later Puebloan societies of the American Southwest. The Teuchitlán culture shares elements of collective governance with both groups. In a discussion that alternates between theory and archaeological evidence, Beekman addresses the association of elites with different forms of capital, and how we can better incorporate commoners through an assessment of the resources available to them. He then elaborates upon prior work that found certain types of formal architecture were more appropriate for the enactment of exclusionary or corporate strategies. With these strands in place, the author relates these proposals to the evidence for the diversification and interaction of strategies and institutions in the Tequila Valleys. The author of the next chapter, Charles Stanish, points out that the earliest complex societies in the Andes appeared at the end of the 4th millennium BCE. The chapter traces the evolution of these sociopolitical institutions from their beginnings in the north coast of Peru to the sprawling Inca Empire of the fifteenth century CE. For each period, he describes the kinds of social institutions that developed among the varied societies of this vast region. The evolutionary process centers on monumental architecture requiring coordinated labor. After two millennia of complex social development, state societies emerged by co-opting trade networks and barter fairs. The states focused on the control of roads and strategic colonies throughout their region. An elite style of architecture and statecraft was based on earlier, nonstate political and economic institutions. These grew slowly and lasted for at least a half a millennium. State collapse was followed by political and social realignments, the context for the rapid growth of the Inca Empire in the fifteenth century. The Inca state covered over 1 million square kilometers. Unlike the first states, it was characterized by contiguous provinces and an imperial bureaucracy that administered dozens of distinct ethnic groups and provinces. The earlier relationships between trade, production and distribution were co-opted by the Inca into a grand imperial strategy of population concentration and the creation of industrial enclaves. The rapid rise of the Inca was followed by its relatively quick political collapse at the hands of European invaders, though resistance to colonial rule lasted for a generation. Paul Roscoe explores patriarchy—a social system in which men hold primary power and predominate in roles of political leadership, moral authority, social privilege and control of resources. He points out that by the early 1990s, cross-cultural investigations of patriarchy had largely petered out in anthropology, ostensibly because the approach was too simplistic, global, ethnocentric and inappropriate to the phenomenon. Arguing that these criticisms are deeply flawed, Roscoe applies a power theory perspective (Roscoe 2020; Roscoe et al. 2020) to data from New Guinea to examine: (a) how patriarchy was reproduced in contact-era New Guinea and (b) how it may have arisen. Because patriarchy is at base an asymmetry in gendered power, power theory argues that to understand it we must focus on the nature of power, its properties and factors that constrain or enable its construction. In the case of patriarchy in New Guinea, the most important of those factors was the portion of an agent’s time budget that he or she could devote to political interaction and hence to building power. Male agents in New Guinea were able to reproduce patriarchy because the sexual division of labor afforded

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them more time and opportunity than it did women to interact others and hence build power. Extrapolating this argument, the chapter proposes that the necessary condition for New Guinea patriarchy lays in the sexual division of military labor, which in turn ordained the broader division of labor in New Guinea—the condition that allowed men to reproduce an asymmetric power over women. In the other chapter by Henri J.M. Claessen, the evolution of the Polynesian culture is discussed. The developments in the main islands and in some atolls are described. Those developments started when some people—the Lapita—from Melanesia, made the voyage to the Tonga–Samoa islands. Here gradually the Ancestral Polynesian Culture developed. From this beginning, the Polynesian culture spread over the Oceanic world. The following islands are discussed: Samoa, Tonga, Tahiti, the Marquises, Hawai’i, Easter Island, and of the atolls were selected the Tokelau Islands, Puka-Puka and Raroia. In each case, the developments were followed till the colonization by Western countries. Where this happened the development of Polynesian culture came to an end. In order to explain the developments on the islands, the Complex Interaction Model was used. With the help of this model, it was established that the basic factor for social change on these islands and atolls was the Societal Format (the number of people in relation to the surface of arable land). The aim of Albert I. Davletshin is to examine sociopolitical terms in Polynesian Outlier societies, propose their etymologies and derive possible historical implications from these. Outliers represent several independent migrations from West Polynesia into Melanesia and Micronesia, many developed in significant isolation under severe ecological constraints. Their typical size is a few hundred persons; some were reduced to fewer than twenty in the nineteenth century and later restored their size. Surprisingly, these societies are complex, stratified into “nobles,” “commoners” and “slaves,” with a wide range of variation regarding how leadership is organized. One can speculate that their way of life is largely due to the ideas inherited from the great ancestors who lived on big islands in West Polynesia. Etymologies of sociopolitical terms in six Polynesian Outliers imply that the institutions of leadership and larger social groups were constantly created and reinvented in the history of these islands, frequently in accordance with the principle of the growing conical clan. Interestingly enough, many terms for social groups are derived from the words denoting places of residence, indicating that the social groups are constructed as landholding corporations. Expectedly, the words “chief” and “noble person” are more stable than “commoner” and “slave” in the history of Polynesian Outliers. The concluding chapter by David B. Small, basing on evaluation of the chapters in the volume, outlines the prospects for future research by using institutions as analytical windows into social change in general. Discussing the possible “next steps” and urging that scholars avoid putting various forms of complexity into habitual categorical types, Small particularly raises the question of useful units of analysis, or, in other words, of units of what scale would be more legitimate to consider and analyze as institutions—for example, to analyze ancient Greek

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temples as an institution or subdivide temples into a variety of institutions (public celebration around a temple; elite celebration in the porch of the temple, which was connected to the imperial cult; etc.). The authors and editors of this anthology believe that it will become a contribution to a significant variety of disciplines that study human societies and cultures of the past and the present—archaeology, cultural anthropology, history, sociology and political science. They also believe that the volume will be equally useful for those who study human sociality from the world-system, global perspective and in the regional or local context. Acknowledgements Support from the Basic Research Program of the National Research University Higher School of Economics is gratefully acknowledged.

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Carballo, David M. (ed.). 2013. Cooperation and Collective Action: Archaeological Perspectives. Boulder, CO: University Press of Colorado. Carneiro, Robert L. 1973. Structure, Function, and Equilibrium in the Evolutionism of Herbert Spencer. Journal of Anthropological Research 29 (2): 77–95. Carneiro, Robert L. 2003. Evolutionism in Cultural Anthropology. A Critical History. Boulder, CO: Westview Press. Chase-Dunn, Christopher, and Hiroko Inoue. 2017. Power and Size: Urban and Polity Size Swings and Changes in the Distribution of Power among States in Interstate Systems since the Bronze Age. Social Evolution and History 16 (2): 52–75. Claessen, Henri J.M. 2000. Structural Change. Evolution and Evolutionism in Cultural Anthropology, trans. R. Robson-McKillop. Leiden: Leiden University. Claessen, Henri J.M. 2005. Early State Intricacies. Social Evolution and History 4 (2): 151–158. Claessen, Henri J.M. 2006. Developments in Evolutionism. Social Evolution and History 5 (1): 3–40. Claessen, Henri J.M., and Petr Skalník (eds.). 1978. The Early State. The Hague: Mouton. Crumley, Carole L. 1995. Heterarchy and the Analysis of Complex Societies. In Heterarchy and the Analysis of Complex Societies, ed. R.M. Ehrenreich, C.L. Crumley, and J.E. Levy, 1–5. Washington, DC: American Anthropological Association. Comte, Auguste. 1875–1877 [1851–1854]. System of Positive Polity [Système de politique positive, ou traité de sociologie instituant la religion de l’Humanité]. Vols. 1–4, trans. J.H. Bridges, F. Harrison, E.S. Beesly, and R. Congreve. London: Longmans, Green and Co. Durkheim, Émile. 1982 [1895]. Rules of Sociological Method [Les règles de la méthode sociologique], trans. W.D. Halls. New York: Free Press. Durkheim, Émile. 1997 [1893]. The Division of Labour in Society [De la division du travail social], trans. W.D. Halls. New York: Free Press. Feinman, Gary M., and Joyce Marcus (eds.). 1998. Archaic States. Santa Fe, NM: School of American Research Press. Feinman, Gary M., and Jill E. Neitzel. 2019. Deflating the Myth of Isolated Communities. Science 366 (6466): 682–683. Foucault, Michel. 1972 [1969]. The Archaeology of Knowledge and the Discourse on Language, trans. A.M. Sheridan Smith. New York: Pantheon Books. Foucault, Michel. 1979 [1975]. Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison, trans. A.M. Sheridan Smith. New York: Vintage Books. Francisco, Ronald A. 2010. Collective Action Theory and Empirical Evidence. New York: Springer. Fried, Morton H. 1967. The Evolution of Political Society. An Essay in Political Anthropology. New York: Random House. Furniss, Elizabeth. 1999. The Burden of History. Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press. Furniss, Elizabeth. 2004. Cycles of History in Plateau Sociopolitical Organization: Reflections on the Nature of Indigenous Band Societies. Ethnohistory 51 (1): 137–170. Fustel de Coulanges, Numa Denis. 1877 [1864]. The Ancient City: A Study on the Religion, Laws and Institutions of Greece and Rome (La Cité antique), trans. W. Small. Boston: Lee & Shepard, New York: Charles T. Dillingham. Fustel de Coulanges, Numa Denis. 1964 [1875]. L’histoire des institutions politiques de l’ancienne France. Bruxelles: Librairie Culture et Civilisation. Futuyma, Douglas J. 1997. Evolutionary Biology, 3rd ed. Sunderland, MA: Sinauer Associates. Giddens, Anthony. 1976. New Rules of Sociological Method. London: Hutchinson. Giddens, Anthony. 1984. The Constitution of Society: Outline of the Theory of Structuration. Cambridge: Polity Press. Goffman, Erving. 1961. Asylums. Chicago: Aldine Publishing. Gulbrandsen, Ørnulf. 2014. The State and the Social. State Formation in Botswana and Its Precolonial and Colonial Genealogies. New York, Oxford: Berghahn Books.

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Hart, Keith. 2011. Jack Goody’s Vision of World History and African Development Today. Goody Lecture 2011. Halle/Saale: Max Planck Institute for Social Anthropology. Hauriou, Maurice. 1986 [1933]. Aux sources du droit: le pouvoir, l’ordre et la liberté. Caen: Université de Caen. Hayek, Friedrich August von. 1948. Individualism and Economic Order. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Hayek, Friedrich August von. 1973–1979. Law, Legislation and Liberty, vols. 1–3. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Hayek, Friedrich August von. 1988. The Fatal Conceit: The Errors of Socialism, ed. W.W. Bartley. London; New York: Routledge. Helm, Paul. 1971. Manifest and Latent Functions. The Philosophical Quarterly 21 (82): 51–60. Højbjerg, Chrisitan K., Jacqueline Knörr, and Anita Schroven. 2013. The Interaction of Global and Local Models of Governance: New Configurations of Power in Upper Guinea Coast Societies. Working Paper No 149. Halle/Saale: Max Planck Institute for Social Anthropology. Kamen, Henry. 2000. Early Modern European Society. London, New York: Routledge. Kemper, Theodore D. 2017. Elementary Forms of Social Relations. Status, Power and Reference Groups. London, New York: Routledge. Knappett, Carl. 2017. Globalization, Connectivities and Networks: An Archaeological Perspective. In The Routledge Handbook of Archaeology and Globalization, ed. T. Hodos, 29–41. London; New York: Routledge. Korotayev, Andrey V., Nikolay N. Kradin, Victor de Munck, and Valery A. Lynsha. 2000. Alternativity of Social Evolution: Introductory Notes. In Alternatives of Social Evolution, ed. N.N. Kradin, A.V. Korotayev, D.M. Bondarenko, V. de Munck, and P.K. Wason, 12–51. Vladivostok: Far Eastern Branch of the Russian Academy of Sciences Press. Kowalewski, Stephen A. 2003. What is the Community? The Long View from Oaxaca. Mexico. Social Evolution and History 2 (1): 4–24. Kristiansen, Kristian. 1998. Europe before History. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Mahoney, James, and Kathleen Thelen (eds.). 2010. Explaining Institutional Change: Ambiguity, Agency, and Power. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Malinowski, Bronislaw. 1944. A Scientific Theory of Culture. Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina. Mamdani, Mahmood. 2018. Citizen and Subject: Contemporary Africa and the Legacy of Late Colonialism. Princeton, NJ; Oxford: Princeton University Press. Marx, Karl. 1970 [1843–1844]. Critique of Hegel’s “Philosophy of Right” (Zur Kritik der Hegelschen Rechtsphilosophie), trans. A. Jolin and J. O’Malley. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Mauss, Marcel, and Paul Fauconnet. 1969 [1901]. La sociologie: objet et méthode. In M. Mauss. Oeuvres, t. 3, 139–177. Paris: Les Éditions de Minuit. Medina, Luis Fernando. 2007. A Unified Theory of Collective Action and Social Change. Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press. Meillassoux, Claude. 1991 [1975]. Maidens, Meal and Money: Capitalism and the Domestic Community. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Melucci, Alberto. 1996. Challenging Codes: Collective Action in the Information Age. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Merton, Robert K. 1968. Social Theory and Social Structure. New York: The Free Press. Niang, Amy. 2018. The Postcolonial African State in Transition: Stateness and Modes of Sovereignty. New York, London: Rowman & Littlefield. Njoku, Carol Ijeoma, and Dmitri M. Bondarenko. 2018. State Building, States, and State Transformation in Africa: Introduction. Social Evolution and History 17 (1): 3–15. North, Douglass C. 1990. Institutions, Institutional Change and Economic Performance. New York: Cambridge University Press. North, Douglass C. 1992. Transaction Costs, Institutions, and Economic Performance. San Francisco: ICS Press.

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Onoma, Ato Kwamena. 2010. The Politics of Property Rights Institutions in Africa. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Osterhammel, Jürgen. 2010 [1995]. Colonialism: A Theoretical Overview, trans. Shelley L. Frisch. Princeton, NJ: Markus Wiener Publishers. Parsons, Talcott. 1968 [1937]. The Structure of Social Action. New York: Free Press. Parsons, Talcott. 1982. On Institutions and Social Evolution: Selected Writings. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Radcliffe-Brown, Alfred Reginald. 1952. Structure and Function in Primitive Society, Essays and Addresses. Glencoe, IL: Free Press. Radcliffe-Brown, Alfred Reginald. 1958. Method in Social Anthropology, ed. N. Srinivas. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Rawls, John. 1972. A Theory of Justice. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Rawls, John. 1999. The Law of Peoples. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Roscoe, Paul. 2020. The Dynamics of Social Inequality among New Guinea’s Forager Communities. In Social Inequality in Hunter-Gatherer Societies, ed. L. Moreau. Cambridge: Macdonald Institute for Archaeological Research. (in press). Roscoe, Paul, Daniel H. Sandweis, and Erick Robinson. 2020. Population Density and Size Facilitate Interactive Capacity and the Rise of the State. Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society—B (in press). Sahlins, Marshall D. 1960. Evolution: Specific and General. In Evolution and Culture, ed. M.D. Sahlins and E.R. Service, 12–44. Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press. Schotter, Andrew. 1981. The Economic Theory of Social Institutions. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Scott, Richard. 2001. Institutions and Organisations. London: Sage. Searle, John. 1995. The Construction of Social Reality. London: Penguin. Searle, John. 2010. Making the Social World: The Structure of Human Civilization. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Service, Elman R. 1971 [1962]. Primitive Social Organization: An Evolutionary Perspective. New York: Random House. Service, Elman R. 1975. Origins of the State and Civilization: The Process of Cultural Evolution. New York: Norton. Sintonen, Matti, Petri Ylikoski, and Kaarlo Miller (eds.). 2003. Realism in Action: Essays in the Philosophy of the Social Sciences. Dordrecht: Kluwer Academic Publishers. Spencer, Charles S. 2019. Cultural Macroevolution and Social Change. In Handbook of Evolutionary Research in Archaeology, ed. Anna M. Prentiss, 183–213. Cham: Springer. Spencer, Herbert. 1890–1899. The Principles of Sociology, Vol. 1–3. New York: D. Appleton and Company. Spencer, Herbert. 1971. Structure, Function and Evolution, ed. S. Andreski. London: Michael Joseph. Taylor, Charles. 1985. Philosophical Papers, vol. 2. Philosophy and the Human Sciences. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Taylor, Charles. 1993. Institutions in National Life. In C. Taylor. Reconciling the Solitudes: Essays in Canadian Federalism and Nationalism, ed. G. Laforest, 120–134. Montreal; Kingston: McGill-Queens University Press. Thelen, Kathleen. 2004. How Institutions Evolve: The Political Economy of Skills in Germany, Britain, the United States, and Japan. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Tuomela, Raimo. 2002. The Philosophy of Social Practices: A Collective Acceptance View. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Tuomela, Raimo. 2007. The Philosophy of Sociality: The Shared Point of View. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Tuomela, Raimo. 2013. Social Ontology: Collective Intentionality and Group Agents. New York: Oxford University Press.

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Veblen, Thorstein. 1994 [1899]. The Theory of the Leisure Class: An Economic Study of Institutions. New York: Penguin Books. Vico, Giambattista. 2002 [1725]. The First New Science (Scienza Nuova), trans. and ed. L. Pompa. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Weber, Max. 2011. The Methodology of the Social Sciences, trans. and ed. E.A. Shils and H.A. Finch. New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Publishers. Young, Crawford. 2012. The Postcolonial State in Africa: Fifty Years of Independence, 1960– 2010. Madison, WI: The University of Wisconsin Press. Ziv, Anita Konzelmann, and Hans Bernhard Schmid (eds.). 2014. Institutions, Emotions, and Group Agents: Contributions to Social Ontology. Dordrecht: Springer.

Theoretical Approaches

How Do People Get Big Things Done? Stephen A. Kowalewski

and Jennifer Birch

Don’t waste any time mourning. Organize! International Workers of the World activist Joe Hill, 1915. Carlson (1983: 235). If Foucault is right, we may not be able to conceive an institution that keeps our hands clean. Caputo and Yount (1993: 22).

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Introduction

Christopher Knittel is an applied economist at MIT who works on energy use in transportation. He has written a very succinct opinion piece on why global warming is the most daunting environmental problem humanity has ever faced (Knittel 2019). He identifies five reasons why the current crisis is such a challenge: The pollutants causing warming are global, not local; the damage is perceived not to be immediate but future; people have trouble separating variable weather from secular climate; developing countries contribute a large share of the pollutants, but they did not initiate climate change nor did they reap the “free” advantages of being early; and the pollutants are directly tied to things people do every day, for which substitutes may be very costly.

S. A. Kowalewski (&) Laboratory of Archaeology, Department of Anthropology, University of Georgia, 1125 Whitehall Road, Athens, GA 30606, USA e-mail: [email protected] J. Birch Department of Anthropology, University of Georgia, 355 South Jackson Street, Baldwin Hall Room 250, Athens, GA 30602, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2020 D. M. Bondarenko et al. (eds.), The Evolution of Social Institutions, World-Systems Evolution and Global Futures, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-51437-2_2

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To Knittel’s list we must add two more reasons why the problem is so challenging. These two factors are directly related to the subject of this book. First is the large scale. Not only is the contemporary problem truly global, but also, humanity has never faced a challenge when its population was anywhere near today’s seven or eight billion. That is, eight billion individuals acting as the cause of the problem and potentially, we all hope, the remedy. In the accumulated evolutionary experience of some three million years of the genus Homo, does this number of people have the evolved capacity to solve a collective problem? Our second and most important amendment to Knittel’s well-articulated statement is that solutions to the problem of global pollution are not a matter of swaying individual or public opinion, not just a matter of correct perceptions and individual preferences, as if free individuals operated in a vacuum. For our species, getting things done is always social. Humanity has never had to work at a common purpose of this magnitude or build institutions for dealing with a problem of this scale. This is the sociological, structural reason why the world pollution challenge is so daunting. What institutions have ever been created to handle a problem such as global pollution? The answer, obviously, is none. It is appropriate to inquire how humanity’s deep history may be relevant for this sociological challenge. Drawing on the whole history of human experience, that from archaeology and from written history, what can be said about the human capacity for organizing to get things done? What does archaeology say about the success or failure of institutions? We argue in this chapter that to be pertinent, archaeology’s language (its units of analysis and how its data are packaged) has to recognize the sociological, organizational nature of the problem. Archaeology’s language has to be mutually intelligible with that of its sister disciplines, the ecological and social sciences, that is, it should bridge between the population-based concepts of biology and ecology, and the sociological concepts of people doing things in groups. The themes of this volume are that multiple, diverse institutions create and are a sign of social complexity. What is called society is the field of interactions between institutions. The interplay of evolving institutions explains the non-linear, alternative-pathways character of social evolution. Some basic premises of classical game theory offer an analogy for these themes. One premise is that as the number of players in a game increases, so does complexity. If separate institutions are like players, then more institutions signifies more complexity. Another basic principle is that competing players cannot maximize at the same time, therefore there are no global maximal solutions, only optimal ones. These optimizations are not singular but multiple. What are called societies are the temporary states of the push and pull between institutions, each having their own objectives. The state of the game at any one time depends on the internal trends and what has gone on before, plus external inputs, as in evolutionary descent with modification, or path dependence. For social evolution then, there would be multiple alternative trajectories (game histories), and to complicate things further, the trajectories are mergeable and separable.

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Such premises are abstract and basically true by definition. After all, to say that society was complex is a simple conclusion at best and a back-handed value judgment (other human cultures were uncomplicated?) at its too often-heard worst. If the premises of this volume are held as true, then it is the number and nature of institutions that scale with complexity (as opposed to hierarchy, population, or cultural achievement). For today’s social science, the significant and interesting tasks are the how and why of institutional variation, that is, understanding the interplay among players (social actors, institutions) and the resulting alternative solutions. These dynamics are also historical. As such, documenting the emergence, articulation, and rearrangements of institutions and their properties is key to an institutional approach. As archaeologists, we argue that this is possible through close attention to the material correlates of institutions. This includes evidence both direct (religious sacra, temples, government buildings, mass-produced goods) and indirect (organization of the built environment, evidence for long-distance trade) for how institutions structured the workings of human societies. In this chapter, we outline an anthropological archaeology of institutions, including the contributions of a long-term perspective, and what we understand as being the most important research questions to which an institutional approach can contribute, including major problems facing our contemporary world.

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Archaeology and Institutions

What do we mean by institution? Our approach is explained in the paper “An Institutional Approach for Archaeology” by Jacob Holland-Lulewicz, Megan Conger, Travis Jones, and ourselves (2020), where institutions are “organizations of people that carry out objectives using regularized practices and norms, labor, and resources.” Institutions have attributes including scale, durability, membership, objectives and outcomes, internal organization, resources, labor, and stocks of knowledge. Critical to this institutional approach is how each articulates with other institutions. Since we seek to track through history the material and the behavioral, we see the institution as both organization and norm or rule-making. Therefore, for us marriage and bankruptcy are legal conditions not institutions, but households and banks, as organizations, are. Events such as a feast or a ballgame are not institutions, but the Kwakiutl numaym and Major League Baseball are. We do not assume that institutions exist to serve society, nor is it necessary to say they exist to satisfy the needs of individuals. Rather, they serve to link individuals to other persons with similar goals and objectives (from surviving the winter to conquering a continent). The links between institutions with complementary, competing, or parallel objectives is also important to determine what, in reality, gives social networks their form.

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We do not assume that one kind of institution or mode of production, for example the state or capitalism, has a determining primacy that structures everything else in society. Instead we treat the degree of embeddedness and the relationships between institutions as something to be assessed empirically.

2.1 Method An institutional approach is hardly a new way of thinking for social science (it has a long history—see Bondarenko, this volume; also Hodgson 2006). Yet over the years the field of archaeology has had relatively little methodological or theoretical interest in institutions. It might be said that archaeology does not focus on institutions because it has difficulty identifying and observing them. As archaeologists we are not “in the room” when the temple priests gather to discuss policy and planning or in the longhouse when the clan mothers are arranging marriages to prospects in allied nations. In archaeology we identify institutions as those recurring patterns of behavior that can be claimed by strong inference to be the result of groups of people who worked together to carry out objectives by means of tasks executed according to norms or rules. The method is analytical. Like so much in archaeology, it is a matter of pattern and process, that is, the identification and description of repeated material patterns, and the testing of alternative hypotheses that might account for the patterns. The researcher looks for repeated, enduring behavior marked by material patterning—temples built and used in the same way over and over again, the chiefly house and regalia appearing at head towns again and again, the arrays of consumer goods indicating the mode of exchange, etc. The case has to be made that the activity was social, that it was carried out by an organized group according to certain norms or rules, and that this organized group and its activities were to some degree separate from other groups and activities. Cross-cultural, ethnohistorical, and textual support is often helpful, but we think the method performs at its best and is most useful for social science when it is derived from the archaeological record itself, when we can trace institutions, their development and transformations, and their relations with other institutions over long time periods by identifying persistent material patterning. Institutional analysis involves description of the properties of organizational form and operation. Our research group came up with a rather inclusive list of 13 properties to serve as a methodological guide. These are resources and funding, durability, scale, activities, labor, formality, participation, overlap, organizational structure, naming, knowledge, and objectives and outcomes (Holland-Lulewicz et al. 2020). In many archaeological research contexts quite a few of these properties are difficult or impossible to see, and we stress that many are not directly observable and are accessible only by inference. Not all institutions may be observable in archaeological data. For example, although objects of ritual or ideological significance might be observable in the archaeological record we might have a difficult time associating them with, for

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example, a secret society or specific order or priest(ess)hood per se. The same is true for certain kinds of political institutions. Council meetings cannot be excavated, although specialized structures for hosting them (i.e., Siouan medicine lodges or Cherokee townhouses) may be. Even in the absence of direct historical connections, archaeologists may identify the “hidden hand” of institutions without actually being able to name them. For example, institutions of property are argued to have been quite ancient—perhaps dating back 5000 years—on the South Atlantic coast of the United States. The reason for this claim is that detailed zooarchaeological studies of vertebrate fish (Reitz 2014) and oysters (Thompson et al. 2020) have shown that these resources were never over-fished or exhausted by human exploitation, but instead were drawn on in a long-term sustainable manner, indicating enforced rules of property or common-pool management. Such institutions are common cross-culturally among ethnographically known hunter-gatherers (Binford 2001: 320–333, 426) and larger-scale societies (Acheson 2015). An outcome demonstrated archaeologically is inferred to have come about due to consistent, organized human action, even though the specifics are not yet understood. Traditionally, such intentional human action may be explained with recourse to “socio-political organization.” An institutional approach goes a step further and demands some consideration of what the institutional structure of that organization would have been—i.e., descent groups, co-residential communities, or a cadre of specialized anglers. A common problem in institutional analysis, certainly not one exclusive to archaeology, is their degree of autonomy or separateness. Whether an institution is autonomous or simply a part of another is not just an identification issue for the analyst. Autonomy can be central to social dynamics and important in the course of social evolution. Was the Aztec calpulli a division of the state or an organic expression of local community? Under the English King Henry VIII was or was not the Church autonomous? In today’s world, is a university part of the State when its ruling board is appointed by a state Governor but only 6% of its funding comes from the public treasury? This thread of autonomous organization resurfaces again and again in the discussion of archaeological contributions and new research questions that follow.

2.2 Appropriate and Inappropriate Units of Analysis Since archaeologists have generally not focused on social institutions, but on other aspects of culture such as monuments, technologies, and past environments, appropriate descriptive data about institutions per se are usually not readily accessible. Thus an institutional approach requires some extra analytical effort (Max Weber would agree). Especially in archaeology the effort requires “recoding” and specifically designed new research. Archaeological information on institutions is rarely available in already-packaged form. Instead it is grouped in other packages—commonly, those of culture history like Bell Beaker, or those of social evolution like tribal society or

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Asiatic Mode of Production. The inherently spatial nature of the archaeological record itself adds another set of packaging—the feature, the site, the culture area composed of “bundles” of similar archaeological materials or modes. By “packaged and labeled” we are referring to how bits of information are gathered together or summarized in ways that are convenient and make sense. No one says, “I am going out to a pine tree, another one, a bigger pine tree, a little one…” and so on for a thousand times—they say they are going to the “forest.” If I say instead that I am going to the land that is my property, this tract may or may not be covered in pines but the term used is a different package altogether. “Forest” and “my land” are names for distinct packages of information, the one an environmental concept and the other social. In archaeology an institutional method avoids the abstraction and misplaced concreteness of conceptual units such as Olmec culture, or “society responded to sea-level change.” Olmec culture was a term of convenience to draw attention to an early period of Mesoamerican civilization, at a time in the 1950s when little was known. But what it refers to is impossible to define or delimit in a behaviorally meaningful way, especially now that we have so much more archaeological information. Knowing only four species of fruit, one might classify them into two types, red and orange, but knowing thousands one sees that the reproductive parts of plants, not fruit colors, are the key to their biological systematics and evolution. Similarly, societies do not respond to environmental change—people do. Extremely rare it is that societies collapse, not to say that the Roman Empire did not fall apart or that people of the southern Maya lowlands did not face a prolonged crisis at the end of the Classic period. The fallacy is that “society” is not the pertinent unit, at best it is short hand, a quick referent, but it has no analytical use since historians and archaeologists now have so much more differentiated knowledge than was available when scholars first wrote about these phenomena. It is often the case that currently existing packages (concepts) are based on familiar, often Western, referents—i.e., the town, a ruler, a nation. However, by shifting our analytical gaze to groups of people engaged in activities that fulfill particular objectives, it allows us to bypass such Western or Eurocentric constructs. Instead, we may find ourselves encountering Aztec calpulli or the Mongol Yam, organizational variants with no familiar Western analogues. Likewise, an institutional approach does not restrict meaningful social action to any one class or group of individuals (e.g., the chief or ruling class). Such individuals and classes, especially those at the top of a hierarchical system, in fact may have had far less power to direct the shape and form of society than our upward gaze would presume. As Bondarenko writes in this volume, we are not asking whether society was homoarchical or heterarchical, instead we would like to know how its institutions were organized, and their articulations to one another. Older, descriptive concepts were serviceable means of packaging limited information when not so much was known about the world. But in the last fifty years, the available information has increased with explosive force, and archaeologists have found greater variation, more modes, and more forms than our social

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science ancestors had contemplated. Consequently, archaeological information is being restructured on many fronts, including management and research databases, chronology, ecological information, etc. In keeping with this recent movement in archaeology, we recognize that identifying institutions requires unpacking old packages and resorting, quite likely discovering that key pieces are missing and must be searched for and found. We may also find that two institutions with similar packaging (for example the confederacies in Birch’s chapter) may have had very different working parts once we open them up. Anthropological archaeologists have gradually been moving away from broad cultural-historical and social evolutionary types for some time. Generally, although not in all quarters, population thinking is replacing typological thinking, wherein individuals act or behave, and not abstract types (we anthropomorphize our taxa at our peril). However, because it does not directly see behavior, but its material result, archaeology has a special difficulty. In some circumstances archaeologists do see individual action (someone knapped that flint; that burial was an individual person; analysis of dental calculus allowing the reconstruction of an individual’s microbiome) but it is much rarer that we can identify a specific person’s behavior. Usually we see the repeated outcomes of the actions of multiple, unidentified individuals or groups—the contents of a midden; settlements form patterns; houses or temples are built, used, and abandoned. These are the kinds of patterns that analysts can examine. The knowledge that archaeology has produced so far is informative, it is essential for the general understanding of humanity. But what we know is still but a small and not always representative sample of what happened in human history. In addition to this quantitative problem of small and often unrepresentative samples, how our data are packaged and labeled can make it difficult to use. Identifying organizations as they existed in past social contexts requires eschewing prior types derived from culture history or comparative ethnology. Thus we stress that the study of past institutions has to begin analytically. It has to be based on the primary data of material culture patterning and the chain of behavioral and institutional inferences from material culture patterns.

2.3 Advantages Using social institutions as units of analysis has the advantage of close linkages to several bodies of contemporary social science that have useful theory, including institutional economics and social network theory. The approach can facilitate cross-cultural comparison and provide appropriate observables for testing expectations and constructing theory. An institutional approach provides a disciplined framework missing from contemporary “writing about” narratives. A potential criticism of a focus on institutions might be that it would be inherently conservative. Could the approach be stodgy, unrepresentative of people or conflicts that do not solidify as institutions, or social problems that are difficult to

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see in archaeological remains? Yes, exclusively attending to existing institutions would have that inherent vulnerability. We are reminded of the history of PRI, the Partido Revolucionario Institucional, which was founded in 1929, almost a decade after the Mexican revolution, as the Partido Nacional Revolucionario, became the oxymoronic PRI in 1946, and evolved, after losing all its revolutionary organs, into dinosaurs, as they were widely known by the 1980s. A social history of the rebellious movements of 1848 in Europe that only treated the institutionalized outcomes would miss the fire and fury of the masses at the barricades, why the protests took place in that year in so many places across Europe, and why they succeeded and failed. Yet how do rebels achieve objectives? How are street protests turned into lasting works? As Bolsheviks knew, organization is essential. Institutions are organizational ways to get things done, their rules and norms are supposed to be ways of lowering the transaction costs of getting social things done. In fact, recent research by sociologists has tried to address what organizational rules and practices are used by lasting, successful activist organizations, as opposed to those groups that rather quickly disappear without having accomplished their goals (Han 2014). About 550 AD, people deliberately set huge fires and destroyed the main temples in the center of Mesoamerica’s great city of Teotihuacan (Beramendi-Orosco et al. 2009). We still do not know why, though the event does coincide with the beginning of the city’s decline. This case spectacularly reminds us that events of great importance are not covered by a catalogue of institutions. As archaeologists, we are intrinsically interested in the long-term and are best positioned to study how institutions emerge and are transformed over time. The temporal dimension is important for understanding how these properties have emerged and changed, and the dynamics of relationships between institutions. We argue that by defining and analyzing the historical dimensions of changes in institutional form and points of articulation can effectively replace outmoded perspectives on social evolution by identifying the mechanisms through which transformations come about. We can bypass the barriers of evolutionary stages or scales of complexity by documenting the histories of institutions and assemblages of institutions. One of the great benefits of an institutional approach to social evolution is that it allows for broad patterns of societal change to be understood in terms of the transformation of existing institutional structures. This can involve increasing, decreasing or otherwise creatively transforming the importance of existing institutions as well as development of completely new organizational schemas, though in our understanding the former is more common than the latter—for example, the metaphorical extension of the household to the state in ancient Mesopotamia (Ur 2014) or the claiming of exclusive trade rights with European newcomers by Iroquoian lineages (Ramsden 2009; Trigger 1976). In this way, a focus on social institutions foregrounds historical trajectories to understand development on its own terms as opposed to via schema tied to neoevolutionary constructs. In the next section we show what this means.

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Instructive Examples from Archaeology

3.1 Some Extremes? Societies can vary in number of institutions, from few to many, in the degree of centralized control of institutions, and whether different institutions tend to be isomorphic or polymorphic (that is, similar or cross-cutting in membership and boundaries). To illustrate we draw a few extreme examples from the archaeological record. The pre-European Southwest (U.S. SW and Mexico’s NW) provides a case of multiple, often cross-cutting institutions. Here there were actually two somewhat different models that lasted, each with adaptations and changes, for nearly a millennium. The southern, Sonoran desert Hohokam tradition had local communities, canal irrigation institutions, a form of marketplace exchange, courtyard and compound groups, ritual institutions, and small, non-autocratic polities, each of these institutions having different membership, resources, and spatial reach. The northern, Colorado Plateau desert model also had sedentary village communities, but it featured more mobility at household, community, and regional scales. Here people developed, at one time and place or another, local communities, lineage segments, clans, moieties, sodalities, ritual societies, councils, regional alliances, marketplaces, trade fairs, etc. Both models featured collective, egalitarian ideologies that proscribed individualism and personal aggrandizement while masking real social power. Durkheimian sanctification underwrote critical social activities and norms. There was no history of named, elevated, or glorified rulers, and no palaces or central temples. The American Southwest certainly is a case of thick, horizontal layers of institutions serving specific, differentiated purposes, where individuals (both men and women) participated as members in multiple separate institutions, and where grander projects and ambitions were prohibited. As societies in the Southwest were institution rich, many of its neighbors to the West maintained almost no institutions beyond the household—on the face of it, a libertarian’s dream. In parts of California and the Great Basin, hunter-gatherers in the last centuries prior to contact had relatively high populations. In his treatise Orderly Anarchy (2015), Robert Bettinger describes their societies as consisting of small, bilateral families with no higher-level authority organizations or institutions. Unlike the Southwest or the Northwest coast, there were no kin or other corporate groups. California ethnologists refer to tribelets, dialect groups usually of a few hundred persons. In Bettinger’s view, the tribelets were weakly defined, lacking in authority, and ephemeral. At the same time, the universal use of shell money and other norms facilitated impressive amounts of production, exchange, and consumption. While men and women in the Southwest devoted much of their time to ritual and other institutional work, indigenous Californians apparently gave almost none of their time to organizations beyond their families.

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The quantity of institutions in a given society does not scale with “complexity.” Central control over all institutions and abolition of all independent institutions defines totalitarianism. Luigi Sturzo (1935) specified four features of the totalitarian regimes he understood: administrative centralization, militarization of the official party, ideological centralization and the cult of the hero, and little economic freedom, including no trade unions and no employer’s associations (also Arendt 1976; Friedrich 1964). Ancient Peru has been held up as one of the world’s extreme cases of the all-powerful state totally structuring society. While Inka and earlier states do have features of centralized, hierarchical control such as monumental palaces, imperial roads and storehouses, heavy tribute requirements, divine kingship, etc., recent archaeological research rejects extreme Andean despotism. States were more varied in their centralization, power, and reach than earlier scholars had assumed, as noted by Covey (2018), Pozorski and Pozorski (2018), and Vogel (2018), and the contributors to a volume on the Incas (Alconini and Covey 2018), the quintessential model of the total pre-industrial state (Shimada 2015). Even in Inka times competing local and outside political and economic interests were not isomorphic and were key actors in peoples’ lives, as shown by Szremski (2017) for the Huanangue Valley during AD 1100–1470 (see also Blanton and Fargher 2008). Moore (2018: 47) concludes his review of recent research on the archaeology of pre-Inka states by saying, “Andean states generally seem less monolithic and centralized than they initially appeared to earlier scholars.” As Moore and others such as Covey (2018) observe, “Andean despotism” was readily accepted because that was indeed the Inka ideology and propaganda that was promoted to and accepted by the Spanish in the sixteenth century and by later historical scholars. That narrative was undercut by archaeological research in the provinces and in the Inka heartland as well. We note too that “Andean despotism” fit conveniently with the mid-twentieth-century dominant academic paradigm of substantivism and primitivism. Thus, while some Andean states at different places and times may have been strongly centralized, archaeologists can document persistent local political, ritual, and economic interests, we assume institutionalized, that provided some counter-weight to dominant authority. It seems that Peru as a whole should not be taken as an example of totalitarianism, but it could still provide specific and instructive instances of strong centralization. The world is not such a simple place as it was when we had less information. In New Kingdom Egypt, the pharaoh Akhenaten imposed a monotheistic religion throughout the realm and attempted the elimination of temples and cults associated with all other gods. He also shuttered diplomatic institutions, leading to the breakdown of international relations, adverse military actions, and loss of territory (Ladynin and Nemirovsky 2010). Twentieth-century attempts to totalize—to abolish existing institutions or to tightly control them usually by replacing their experienced personnel with young cadres, as in Nazi Germany and Soviet Russia, could mount up enormous power, but they did not endure. Typically, society has multiple institutions that deal with somewhat distinct, critical problems, and abolishing them or over-centralizing their functions likely means that the critical problems will be botched.

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3.2 Long-Lived Institutions Why are some institutions more long-lasting than others? Are some assemblages of institutions more stable than others? Benedictine abbeys have some of the longest lifespans of historically known institutions—the general form 1500 years and still counting. Particular abbeys have a median lifespan of almost 700 years (Feldbauer 2019). Of course durability does not mean structural power. The longevity of the modern business corporation is less than thirty years and it has been declining (Napolitano 2015). What explains whether corporations fail quickly or last a long time? Business studies such as these just mentioned discuss internal factors such as good governance (the Benedictine Rule) and strategic foresight, and externalities such as technological innovation and rapidly changing business environments. There are also special cases where long age is a value built into the brand itself, as in Japanese sake or European wine firms. Duration should be an archaeological strong suit. We distinguish between particular institutions, which may vary quite a bit from one to another, and the general form defined for the broad culture area, as with particular corporations or monasteries versus the corporate model and the Benedictine Order. Coosa and Pacaha were specific historical polities, examples of the Mississippian-period Southeastern chiefdom form as widely agreed upon by scholars (see Dye’s chapter, this volume). The general Southeastern chiefdom form was manifest at one time and place or another for 500 years, but the lifetime of individual chiefdoms was only about a hundred years (Hally and Chamblee 2019). On the other hand, particular totemic clans, in North America and elsewhere, could have existed for a thousand years or more. Mesoamerican temples have a history of at least 2500 years, but lifespan of individual temple institutions was much shorter and probably quite variable (Kowalewski and Heredia, this volume). Some of the longest-lived social institutions known to humankind can be found on the northwest coast of North America. Corporate households emerged on the pacific coast around 4000 B.C. (Ames 2003) and persisted into the late 1800s/early 1900s when Canadian government policies of enforced Westernization and assimilation destroyed many Indigenous institutions. Although the corporate household as a keystone institution existed for many thousands of years, archaeological evidence indicates that certain very large households—both as institutions and physical structures—persisted for more than 500 and as long as 1000 years. Other, smaller households emerged and declined over much shorter intervals (Ames 2006). There is also evidence that innovations (boats, wooden boxes, fishing tackle) transformed subsistence production and led to the intensification of production and storage of surplus before A.D. 1000. This has been argued to have given rise to the development of hierarchy in and among corporate households, although it also appears that social differentiation and ranking were in place as much in northwest coast communities as much 1500 years prior to such intensification (Ames 2003). The transegalitarian nature of northwest coast corporate households meant that they were able to successfully combine elements of hierarchy and communalism

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(Ames 2006). For example, Coupland and colleagues (2009) use archaeological evidence to demonstrate a positive correlation between well-developed hierarchy and communalism, whereby goods and services, and especially surplus, were mobilized up to the chief who redistributed wealth to the household. On other parts of the coast, there were communal households with less developed hierarchy, and production and consumption were more evenly distributed among ranked families in a household, despite the presence of a chief. In this way, households that might otherwise look morphologically similar (large plank houses, material culture evidencing social stratification) have very different institutional organization manifested in hearth placement, storage, and compartmentalization of sub-household units and functions. In this volume, Kowalewski and Heredia identify institutions that were quite long-lasting. These were states, markets, temples, the small nuclear family household, local communities, et cetera. The specific institutions, for example any one state or temple organization, might not last very long, but the general form did, for millennia in some cases. The proposed reason for this persistence is that each was directed to managing a very basic, long-term problem, such as articulating sedentary, specialist producers and consumers, or defending essential local resources against internal and external predation. Further, it may be significant that these institutions persisted for a long time as a set, so that at any one place all were represented. As each institution addressed a basic, long-term problem, then the mix as a whole addressed the “ecosystem,” the set of constantly present management problems. The others were part of the context or environment of each, something they adjusted to, dynamically, as in the optimization game theory analogy that introduces this chapter. These examples suggest that the most durable institutions are those that are also the most flexible and able to adapt to the changing needs of a society. The clan system in eastern North America likely had its roots in the Late Archaic on and persisted through the rise and decline of mound centers, Woodland period exchange networks, chiefdoms, and ultimately formed the basis of Muscogee-Creek towns and confederacies in the historic period. We can think of some institutions as durable social containers that allow people to flex and adapt them to a variety of purposes. It may also be that the most durable institutions are multiplex (consisting of multiple elements in complex relations with one another); households, communities, clans, tribes, religious societies, mound-building and burial institutions cross-cutting and nesting within each, etc. as opposed to totalizing institutions that are fragile exactly because of their monolithic, inflexible nature. A good analogy would be the strength of a braided cable as opposed to a single, thick filament. The cabled institutions are mutually supportive and intertwined as opposed to subject to breakage and separation of the constituent parts. That said, when large-scale institutions break down, the result tends to be atomization into smaller institutions that eventually come together into new institutions like so many drops of mercury. As we suggested at the conclusion of the section on extreme situations above, totalitarian systems do not endure, and that is because people have to confront

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multiple critical problems. The solutions are not perfect ones, but are optimizations among competing ends. The noisy jostling of interests, the braided cable rather than the monofilament, seems the more durable, less catastrophic optimization.

3.3 Responding to Major Crises—The Case of the Coalescent Societies Institutions are not structural concrete. Humans are capable of creating new institutional forms and procedures. People do not require generations to change or build new institutions—in some circumstances determined people might need the time it takes to have a few meetings. We illustrate this point with an example that is actually not one instance but pattern of similar institution-building from different times and places. The pattern of coalescent societies offers historical evidence for how humans are capable of responding to major, unforeseen crises. Their response was to create, rather quickly, new organizations directed toward the challenges, with new kinds of membership, resources, rules, and practices. In the sixteenth century, the indigenous peoples of eastern North and South America confronted horrible new epidemic diseases and lawless violence and enslavement by Europeans. What to do? Surviving people tried several responses, including fleeing away to places thought to be safer, assimilation, armed resistance, and playing one group of outsiders off against another. Another response, the one that interests us here, was to come together and re-organize into larger, more internally cohesive, and potentially more powerful social groups—a process that has been called coalescence (Kowalewski 2006). In fact, coalescence is not limited to the Colonial period of eastern North America and Amazonia. It is also a well-documented phenomenon in prehistoric times on the North American Plains, where dispersed, small settlements were replaced by large palisaded villages. Early in the twelfth century AD in the Southwest, as the famous Chaco Phenomenon was collapsing, an unprecedented wave of violence swept the Colorado Plateau. The response was the rather rapid creation of larger villages and new social and cultural forms of integration. Coalescence occurred in ancient Mesoamerica, in one instance as a series of new, fortified hilltop villages and towns in the Late Formative period about 300 BC. Very similar coalescent processes have been described in oral history detail in highland New Guinea in the twentieth century. Coalescence in all these cases was a time of rapid creation of multiple, important, new institutions. In all cases it was broad, regional in scale. Coalescence may spread as a wave over a few generations but at any one place it happened in just a few years. The new organizations and practices commonly involved all or most of the following: forming much larger, aggregated settlements; attracting people of previously separate groups, sometimes ethnically or linguistically different, expressed in myths of migration and incorporation; movement to new places; investment in collective defense; intensification of production, especially for food,

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usually requiring more labor and often greater gender differentiation in labor activities; a greater volume of internal and external trade, and more dependence on trade, requiring new rules and practices; institutions of community social integration, including corporate descent groups (often matrilineal), sodalities, moieties, rites of intensification, and organized sports; public and domestic architecture that reflected and promoted community integration (formal plazas, for example); cults and ideologies emphasizing collectivity and egalitarianism; and institutions of more collective as opposed to more hierarchical community leadership, such as councils and inter-community confederacies (Birch 2013; Kowalewski 2006). Coalescence ignited bursts of cultural innovation. In these cases the cause was a major, unaccustomed challenge, sometimes a situation of life and death. The process was set in motion by conscious, collective decision-making. The resulting process, not all of which would have been foreseen, was transformative and totalizing, that is, great and irreversible change affecting virtually all aspects of culture. In some circumstances then, creating and maintaining organizations designed to mobilize people to carry out objectives in more or less efficient ways can be revolutionary work. Birch’s chapter in this volume discusses how the development of the Wendat and Haudenosaunee confederacies structured the ways that each institution functioned. The Wendat confederacy formed through agglomeration, costly reciprocity, and mortuary ceremonialism, and it included regular face-to-face interaction between members due to geographic proximity. The Haudenosaunee confederacy formed more rapidly and was governed by the formal diplomatic protocols enshrined in the Great Law, creating weak ties between nations occupying settlement clusters dispersed across the Finger Lakes and Hudson Valley regions. There are differences in how each group chose to interact with Europeans and variability in the hows, whens, and whys of European colonization of the coasts of Canada and the United States. However, it can be argued that the tightly bonded social networks of the Wendat were more vulnerable to the centrifugal disruptions of colonialism and Haudenosaunee aggression, which resulted in the fracture and dispersal of the Wendat confederacy (not to be confused with the modern Huron-Wendat Nation, who arose from one fragment of the confederacy). Conversely, the weak ties of the Haudenosaunee allowed the confederacy to “cover the council fire” of their institution, allowing each member nation to meet the changes wrought by the revolutionary war as smaller, less complex institutions that persist in many ways to the present day. The point of this example is that although coalescence involves a suite of commonly co-occurring responses or processes, the outcomes can be very different. One of the great challenges of the early twenty-first century is what has been dubbed the “migrant crisis.” At no point in human history have there been more migrants than there are now (Nail 2015). A similar “crisis” faced the North American Southwest in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries A.D., when tens of thousands of people left Mesa Verde and adjacent regions and headed south and southeast, ultimately coalescing with local populations and resulting in the creation of new cultural and societal forms (Clark et al. 2019). In what is now New Mexico,

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migrants vastly outnumbered locals as they streamed into the Northern Rio Grande (NRG) between A.D. 1250 and 1300. The lack of material culture markers associated with the migrants’ Mesa Verde homeland suggests a deliberate break with the past (Lipe 2010). While existing NRG traditions persisted for a time, new forms of material and cultural practices emerged that were distinctive of this coalescent society. The construction of large, plaza-oriented pueblos with central, communal kivas describes a deliberate attempt to create a more integrated society, one that included both locals and the more-numerous newcomers. Corporate kin-groups were de-emphasized and membership in ritual sodalities supplanted lineages as the source of institutional power (Ware 2014). Community leaders were elected by these priesthoods and labor was organized in such a way as to cross-cut kin-based social divisions, uniting migrants and locals in a new institutional structure that turned out to be remarkably durable, persisting into the contact-era (Ortiz 1969; Ortman 2012). To the west, a different strategy was employed by Kayenta migrants in Arizona. Here, a smaller number of migrants dispersed to many areas across the western Southwest, including the southern Colorado Plateau and the mountainous Mogollon Rim region, with some Kayenta groups reaching the Hohokam World in southern Arizona. Kayenta migrants were not seamlessly integrated into Hohokam society, in many cases occupying distinct communities on the margins of long-inhabited region where lineages and groups had deep, historical ties to the land due in part to their extensive irrigation works that supported agriculture in the arid environment. Over time, Kayenta migrants came to control the distribution of obsidian and the production of polychrome vessels that came to be important in new regional ritual practices and a new ideology labeled “Salado” by researchers working in the region. This Salado ideology was associated with a pan-regional institution that created an overarching meta-identity that linked migrants and newcomers and subsumed, but did not replace, lineages, ethnicities, and other identities with deep historic roots. Ultimately, this meta-institution was less successful over the long-term than the complete social and institutional re-engineering of NRG society. Over the next 200 years, the region was depopulated, with causes postulated to be related to ethnic strife, deterioration in living conditions, and environmental degradation (Clark et al. 2019). While both societies developed institutional strategies to overcome what may have been perceived as a migration crisis, the SW Arizona strategy of a single, overarching institution as a gloss over longer-lived pre-existing institutions was ultimately less successful than the NRG strategy of dramatic institutional reform that served to cross-cut existing kinship structures and reorganize both ritual and economic behavior in a collective fashion. In the case of these coalescent societies, the monofilament strategy is again shown to be less durable than multiple, overlapping institutions.

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Some Outstanding Research Questions

4.1 Q. Delving Into the Variation What explains variation among institutions of a general type from place to place and from time to time? The question might be productively asked of many kinds of institutions—marketplaces, temple organizations, communities, etc. For example, the institution of the chiefdom prevailed over most of southeastern North America in the last five hundred years before Spanish contact. But individual chiefdoms varied in scale, internal organization, architectural expressions, etc. The variation among them would seem to be related to time (the earliest are quite different from those of the sixteenth century), place in the macroregional system (core, frontier), environment (estuaries, mountain valleys, alluvial plains), and other considerations including the relationship of political organizations with other institutions. Being able to explain the differences would be a major advance in understanding process of societal change. But at present such theorizing has not been attempted for this area. A method that takes some steps toward a model for explaining variation in Mesoamerican city-states is described by one of us (Kowalewski 2020).

4.2 Q. The Sudden and the Accretional Well known to archaeologists are places that have very long histories of accumulation by accretion or by episodic bursts. Near Eastern tells lasted for millennia, the capitals of major Mesoamerican states (Teotihuacan, Monte Albán, Tikal) lasted through many changes over a long time, non-state centers like Stonehenge, Snaketown (Arizona), and Crystal River (Florida) were occupied and underwent significant change over many hundreds or a thousand years or more. Contrasting with the persistent places are other important sites that were occupied only for a fairly short time. Quickly built, spectacular, and fairly soon abandoned sites are well known in the archaeological record, for example Cliff Palace and other villages at Mesa Verde, Colorado, some of the Maya cities like Mayapán, the Inka town Machu Pichu. Some sites that have major architectural constructions did not start that way at all, such as shell ring villages on the coast of the southeastern U.S., in which household midden accumulated over generations and eventually became treated as monumental architecture (Thompson 2007). Other major centers were begun in new places with a plan in mind (Monte Albán) or they were re-made according to a bold, new plan later in their history (Teotihuacan). Documenting the sudden and the accretional is something archaeologists have been doing forever. The question we raise now concerns the institutional histories of slow and fast developments. What were the institutions involved in the founding of new places? Do these places accumulate a variety of institutions, perhaps because of their centrality? How do their institutions change subsequently? Do long-persistent places become obstacles to further change or, because they are

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central in so many functions, do they lead change and transformation for a long time? What about the institutions that founded new important places that were rather soon abandoned, do they represent failed experiments?

4.3 Q. For Given Regions, What Explains Change in Relative Importance of Institutions? It is clear that some institutions are remarkably long-lived. However, their relative importance may change in terms of relative importance, scale, or function. For example, in the American Southeast, councils and council houses are a prominent feature of the late prehistoric archaeological record. During the ascendance of chiefs, chiefly houses may have replaced council houses, with the former re-emerging as a central institution with the decline of chiefly power. How can an institutional approach be used to map the relative importance of institutions in terms of scale, durability, membership, objectives and outcomes, internal organization, resources, labor, and stocks of knowledge? Because institutions are both durable and malleable, they are important cultural materials that can be manipulated in order to accomplish and negotiate objectives during processes of coalescence or societal transformation. How might we track the relative importance of different institutions as a means of understanding both the development of social complexity?

4.4 Q. Does the Western Idea of “Civil Society” Correspond to Other Cultural Contexts? Is There a Broader Theory About Institutions Serving to Limit or Impede Authority? In Western culture the idea of civil society has some history. In Classical and Medieval times its core premise was that civilization was founded in the commonwealth. But with modernity and capitalism, the civil society idea shifted to an economic basis, whether expressed as anti-state individualism, or its opposite, a critique of capitalism’s inequality as with Marx, in which the State would assert its power over economic injustice (Ehrenberg 1999). The common current understanding of civil society lies in the associations (formal organizations or informal networks) that limit the power of state or oligarchs (Ehrenberg 1999: xi; Henry and Sundstrom 2016), or contribute to liberal democracy (Putnam 2000). The contemporary notion of civil society has rightly been critiqued as not much of a specifiable concept let alone a social science theory that could account for variation in the power of state or non-state institutions (Jensen 2006). The mere existence of civil society organizations does not mean they check central authority (shown in Medieval Europe by De Munck 2017 and contemporary Africa by Lorch and Bunk 2017). Modern historical and anthropological understandings are that the commonwealth was certainly not universal as an organizing principle and hardly descriptive of social reality on its home ground. A very similar critique applies to anti-state

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individualism (Blanton et al. 2020)—it is culture-bound and has little fit with actual social systems. Likewise the other branching of political philosophy, exemplified by a Marxism in which only the proletarian state could tame savage capitalism to make a civilized society, withers away when the anthropological mirror is placed to reflect a fuller portion of the total variation in the forms of states, economic institutions, and social well-being (Blanton and Fargher 2008, 2016; Claessen and Skalnik 1978). Saying that healthy (liberal democratic?) societies are those in which strong civil institutions prevent despotism is rather circular and in some contexts self-congratulatory. Perhaps civil society actively curtails aggrandizers and despots, perhaps it diffuses their efforts, or perhaps it typically will fail due to external causes. In our view researchers have not yet explained clearly why and how “civil society” comes about, or under what circumstances state power becomes totalitarian. To build better theory about civil society, we suggest recasting, simplifying, and generalizing the question. Thus, in the full anthropological, historical record, how do we explain the trajectories of highly centralized, despotic rule in which there are few or no institutions that are not directly controlled and isomorphic with the autocratic state or chiefdom? And perhaps the more difficult and interesting question is, How do we explain the origins and continued reproduction of non-despotic societies with multiple, dense, overlapping, non-isomorphic institutions?

4.5 Q. What Is the History of Large-Scale, Trans-societal Institutions? Archaeology has paid attention to continental-scale or macroregional-scale phenomena. Caldwell’s (1958) term “interaction sphere” refers the movement of highly valued objects through networks of people and places over geographically very large areas. He used the term initially to describe eastern North America in the first millennium AD, but he pointed out that it had applicability in other world areas. Caldwell’s intent was to get at the behavior behind the artifact distributions, but only more recently have researchers had sufficient quantities of systematic data to test for different institutional possibilities in the very area in which for which he called an “interaction sphere” (Carr and Case 2006). Wallerstein (1974) argued that world-systems were formed through the inter-dependence of multiple kinds of actors—states, cities, Church, trading companies, landed estates, etc. Archaeologists expanded Wallerstein’s world-system concept to cover the development of multi-society, multi-regional social systems generally, not just the one that began to dominate the world in the sixteenth century (reviewed in Chase-Dunn and Hall 1991). More recent research on ancient “globalizations” is described by Hodor (2017), Jennings (2011), and Knappett (2018). In our view, archaeological research in this area needs to be sharpened in focus with the goal of describing the institutions (persistent organizations with particular norms and practices) that reproduce significant, system-shaping interaction-at-a-distance among diverse actors.

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Given the global challenge of pollution and environmental change, and especially the necessity of response by people working in organizations as discussed in the introduction to this chapter, it would be beneficial to understand what kinds of inter-societal institutions have been durable and effective (or ineffective) in the great range of past human experience. How does value become universally shared among widely diverse people of different class, language, polities, and religions? Is institutional centralization viable, or are decentralized networks more effective? If the local is held to be crucial, as it often is, then what degree and type of integration among them is needed? Given that global pollution is the Mother of all collective-action problems, how have humans solved the associated problems of fairness, free-ridership, motivations, costs and benefits, that is, built good institutions, in their previous largest endeavors?

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Concluding Thoughts

What relevance does this review have for the greatest challenges facing the world today? If Knittel is correct (and we think he is), the world has never faced a problem as difficult to resolve as climate change. What lessons can we then arm ourselves with based on a consideration of how human societies have employed social institutions to achieve their objectives? If we are going to form institutions to ameliorate the climate crisis facing our world today, we might consider these points: (1) That totalizing, meta-institutions are less effective than multiple, cross-cutting institutions in accomplishing societal goals; (2) That institutions can be created anew or pre-existing institutions can be creatively transformed in the service of new societal goals; (3) That the rapid development of new institutions and the gradual transformation of those institutions that are especially durable and flexible can potentially be balanced to achieve these goals; (4) That cultural variability and fundamental human universals should both be considered in developing such strategies (e.g., Jackson et al. 2019). It may be that there is no one-size fits all solution to global crises. Local interests need to be balanced against those of humanity as a whole. Our analysis suggests that totalizing strategies and policies are not capable of sustaining action at a global scale, but that the coordinated behavior of multiple (hundreds? thousands? of smaller-scale institutions), articulated in ways that maximize optimal solutions at the local levels while not losing sight of maximal, global objectives might be one way to move ahead. An institutional approach informed by the deep history of peoples on this planet may not solve our collective problems, but it can help to illuminate the challenge and may suggest organizational strategies as we move forward, not together, but as multiple, overlapping, often conflicting, togethers.

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Social Institutions and Basic Principles of Societal Organization Dmitri M. Bondarenko

1

Introduction

Society is a complex dynamic system of intersecting, multi-directional elements— social institutions. Every such a system of institutions (as well as every separate institution) forms in concrete, to this or that degree-specific and even unique socio-cultural and historical conditions. This determines every society’s originality of structure and mechanisms of functioning (interaction of institutions). The way social institutions are interrelated to each other denotes the basic principle of a society’s organization. All the variability of forms of societal organization, in my view, embodies two basic principles of societal organization that run in parallel throughout the whole of human history. This means that what I discuss below are neither evolutionary stages nor socio-political forms but just two different (though intersecting and even complimentary in socio-historical reality) fundamental principles, on which societies of any complexity level and organizational type as systems of institutions are based. Contrary to complexity science, in which the systems that step aside further from the point of fission or chaos to the state of stability are seen as less complex (Kauffman 1995: 87), in social sciences including anthropology, complexity is routinely understood as structural, that is as sophistication of a society’s system of social institutions. “Definitions of complexity begin with a connotation that is as applicable to mechanical or biological systems as it is to societies: complexity is a relative measure of the number of parts in a system and number of interrelationships D. M. Bondarenko (&) International Center of Anthropology, National Research University Higher School of Economics, 21/4 Staraya Basmannaya St., 105066 Moscow, Russia e-mail: [email protected] Institute for African Studies, Russian Academy of Sciences, 30/1 Spiridonovka St., 123001 Moscow, Russia © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2020 D. M. Bondarenko et al. (eds.), The Evolution of Social Institutions, World-Systems Evolution and Global Futures, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-51437-2_3

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among those parts” (Sassaman 2004: 231, original emphasis). In social sciences, at least since the time of Émile Durkheim (1997 [1893]), a higher degree of stability is considered a feature of more complex systems of social institutions. For most social scientists bothered with the problem of societal complexity at all, socio-cultural history, in its worldwide dimension, is the history of constant unidirectional growth of complexity from simple to middle-range to complex and eventually to contemporary supercomplex societies and their aggregates, accompanied by the respective growth of stability, which is understood as the societies’ ability to cope with the prospect of their fission: “Change in the direction of increasing complexity goes on because more complex organization permits greater internal stability in the system” (Scott 1989: 6). The growth of complexity is associated in anthropology with the increase in the number of levels of socio-political integration: the more levels of socio-political integration built over one another that a culture embraces, the more complex the culture is, disregarding the way these levels (the structural components of the whole) are interrelated. This approach is recognized as valid not only with respect to separate societies but to their agglomerations as well. For example, a world-system is regarded as a complex entity, above all, because it comprises a considerable number of constituent societies interrelated hierarchically, i.e. divided into core and peripheral. Once again, this approach differs from that employed in complexity studies, which see complexity as sustained non-equilibrium (see Bondarenko 2007a: 55–56). In this chapter, remaining within the social science tradition of understanding complexity, I will argue that besides complexity measured in levels of political integration, societies as systems of social institutions have one more fundamental characteristic that I call “basic principles of societal organization.” I will also try to show how socio-cultural complexity and basic principles of societal organization are related to each other.

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The Basic Principles of Societal Organization

Even the simplest societies consist of multiple social institutions. The principle of organization a society embodies depends on the way the institutions are arranged in it with respect to one another. Carole Crumley has introduced into social sciences the notion of heterarchy. In strict accordance with biophysics from which she has imported it, Crumley defines the heterarchy as “… the relation of elements to one another when they are unranked or when they possess the potential for being ranked in a number of different ways” (e.g., Crumley 2005: 39). (It is clear that the second version of heterarchy is more relevant for the study of complex societies). It is really impossible to speak about the absence of hierarchy—in this case, we rather deal with a system of heterarchically arranged hierarchies. That is why the opposite situation may be called not hierarchy but homoarchy, defined as “the relation of elements (social institutions) to one another when they are rigidly ranked one way only, and thus possess no (or very limited) potential for being unranked or ranked in

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another or a number of different ways at least without cardinal reshaping of the whole socio-political order” (e.g., Bondarenko 2007b: 187). It is quite common up to now to read in the academic literature about “hierarchical” and “non-hierarchical” societies. However, even among the so-called egalitarian hunter-gatherers who may have no clans or descent groups, no concepts of social hierarchy and leadership, and who, inspired by their cosmology, “worked hard to treat everyone as equals” (Flannery and Marcus 2012: 549) while “the accumulation of wealth was considered antisocial” (Barnard 2017: 331), e.g., the Hadza, San (Fig. 1), Pygmies, Birhor, Paliayans, Udihe, Shoshone, etc., contemporary scholars find minimal social differentiation, and hence hierarchies and inequality, combined with informal leadership—followership (e.g., Artemova 2009; Johnson and Earle 2000). From the historical perspective, “the common academic view, where primeval social equality was the natural state of humanity and the starting point of human history, might turn out to be scholarly construction, inconsistent with ancient realities” (Finlayson and Artemova 2020: 9). Also importantly, pre-human “… multi-male/multi-female primate species … demonstrate a variety of dominance steepness” rather than egalitarianism (Butovskaya 2020: 20). Heterarchy must not be confused with egalitarianism in the strict meaning of the word, and homoarchy must not be identified with hierarchy. There have never existed non-hierarchical societies in the proper sense of this expression. Hierarchy is an attribute of any social system while at the same time in any society

Fig. 1 The Ju/’Hoansi San, Namibia. Photograph by author

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both “vertical” (dominance—subordination) and “horizontal” (apprehended as ties among equals) social links may be observed (e.g., Blanton 1998; Crumley 2005; Ehrenreich et al. 1995: 1–5, 87–100, 116–120, 125–131). However, vertical and horizontal links play different parts in different societies at every concrete moment. So the question of differences between societies from the point of view of their organization as systems of institutions is not whether institutions form hierarchies or not, but how these hierarchies of institutions are interrelated in different societies. At the same time, it is necessary to stress that it appears impossible to find not only any cultures totally lacking any hierarchies (including informal ones), but also any totally homoarchical cultures. On the one hand, Peter Schweitzer (2000: 129) legitimately insists on the necessity “to break up the general label ‘egalitarian’ into a continuum of actual constellations of inequality,” adding that today “… even ardent supporters of ‘primitive communism’ agree that ‘perfect equality’ does not exist…” On the other hand, on the opposite end of the complexity levels scale even such societies as “archaic states”, usually thought of as socially immobile and heavily bureaucratized (Egypt, the Ur III state, the Inca kingdom, etc.), in reality “were both heterarchical and hierarchical [homoarchical]” (Marcus and Feinman 1998: 11, original emphasis). Hence, though in order to simplify the analysis in this chapter I speak about heterarchical and homoarchical societies, in fact, one is dealing here with a heterarchy-homoarchy axis along which all the cultures can be ranged. Herbert Barry III has even suggested a “formula” of “optimal” interrelation between the homoarchical and heterarchical features: “… a combination of homoarchical stability with heterarchical freedom of choice” (2005: 3) or, another way around, “… the individual freedom and adaptability of heterarchical choices combined with the predictability and continuity of homoarchical structures” (2004: 9). In particular, in complex societies, Barry argues (2004: 9, 2005: 16), the optimum may be achieved by means of combining homoarchical subordination of local units to a higher government with the heterarchical selected leadership at the local, or better both the local and national, levels. More so, at the level not of theory but historical realities, sometimes it may be too difficult to designate a society as “homoarchical” or “heterarchical” even in the most general terms. Among such cases, the late-ancient Germans and early-medieval “Barbarian kingdoms” can be mentioned. Monarchy and quite rigid social hierarchy were combined in these societies with (at least at the beginning) democratic institutions and procedures (for example, selection of the king), no less significant for the whole socio-political system’s operation. What Gary Feinman wrote many years ago remains valid: “Anthropologists have long discussed a range of social mechanisms that integrate people both through horizontal (more egalitarian) and vertical (more hierarchical) links”, only “ongoing comparative investigations should help place these diverse social arrangements in a broader diachronic context” (Feinman 1996: 189). Anyway, it is impossible to measure degrees of homoarchy and heterarchy in a society with mathematical exactness, for example, in percentages. A purely quantitative approach is also inapplicable here: the presence of, say five hierarchies in society as an entity does not make it more heterarchical and less homoarchical in comparison with a society with four hierarchies if in the former there is present and in the latter

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there is absent one dominant encompassing hierarchy. The pathway to an evaluation of society as heterarchical or homoarchical goes through an analysis of it as a whole—as a dynamic system of social hierarchies, and the aim of this analysis should be not to count the hierarchies within and between social institutions but to understand the way they are related to each other. Hence, the question that arises on studying a particular society is as follows: are the hierarchies that form the given system of social institutions ranked (more or less) rigidly or not: do, say, two individuals find themselves ranked toward each other the same way in any social context or not? For instance, in the exemplary heterarchical society of the Pathans of the Swat valley, as it was described by Fredrik Barth (1959), a man could occupy non-identical positions in the hierarchies of three intersecting main frameworks of social organization: territorial divisions, casts, and patrilineal descent groups, supplemented by a significant number of free-choice associations based on neighborhood, marriage and affinity, political and economic clientship and so forth. Thus, the Swat Pathan X could be superior to his compatriot Y in one social context and inferior or equal in another (Bondarenko 2006: 10). Another archetypal example of a complex heterarchical system is the civil community (polis) of Athens (the fifth to fourth centuries BCE) where the citizens ranked lower within one hierarchy (e.g., the military one) could well be ranked higher in many other possible respects (e.g., economically, or within the subsystem of civil/religious magistrates). Consequently, it was impossible to say that one citizen was higher than another in any absolute sense. All citizens were explicitly equated vis-à-vis each other by the law (and towered over non-citizens by the same law, too). On the other hand, history gives many examples of situations in which the ruled had no chance to be ranked above the rulers. For instance, before the abolishing of serfdom in Russia in 1861, a serf by no means could be regarded as equal (and furthermore superior) to a nobleman, as in the army a soldier cannot but be inferior to an officer. Indeed, a regular army may serve as an ideal image of a generally homoarchical society and a real model of such a community. The rigid vertical division of service people by military ranks is its all-embracing organizational pivot and a pledge of effective functioning; the scale of ranks determines completely the spheres and limits of individuals’ obligations, responsibilities, and rights. At the same moment, informal horizontal ties relate service people of the same or similar ranks, establishing informal secondary hierarchies, for example, by vesting more respect in brave than faint-hearted soldiers, in talented rather than ungifted generals. Hierarchies of social institutions in a society reflect the hierarchy of values accepted in it. To put it the other way around, every hierarchy in society is underpinned by a specific set of values, rooted in its turn in the society members’ cosmology (Hickel and Haynes 2018). On the one hand, the domination of collective ideologies promotes socio-cultural heterarchy and limits or even prevents individual power (Arnason et al. 2013; Flannery and Marcus 2012; Wright 2016). On the other hand, a society may be considered as homoarchical when there is one value, which is central to all the hierarchies and not only integrates but also arranges in a definite pyramidal order all other hierarchies, making them secondary to the hierarchy which this central value underpins. Under such circumstances, this value

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“encompasses” all the rest and makes the society “holistic” in the Dumontian sense (Dumont 1980 [1966], 1986 [1983]), that is homoarchical, when the whole unequivocally dominates parts as the supreme expression of that all-embracing and all-penetrable value. Dumont’s vision of ritual purity as the value (or idea) encompassing the holistic society in India, as well as in the wider Hindu world, is heavily criticized (e.g., Guha 2013; Subedi 2013), and his theoretical legacy is under fire, too (e.g., Hickel and Haynes 2018). However, other students of Indian, as well as non-Indian, cultures still recognize the validity of Dumont’s theory, albeit often with reservations (e.g., Veer and Wu 2017). Nevertheless, in my view, the validity of Dumont’s theoretical contribution is testified, for example, by twentieth-century totalitarian societies in which the ideas of fascism, communism, Maoism, and so forth clearly did play precisely the role Dumont attributed to that of purity in the case of India (Fig. 2). Examples from so-called traditional societies may be provided as well: For example, Jan Vansina (1992: 21, 24) generalized that “Tropical African kingdoms… were products of an ideology more than of any other force… Tropical African kingdoms were truly built in the mind first, and were grounded in faith” (see basically the same conclusion related to concrete African kingdoms, e.g.:

Fig. 2 Mosaic on the façade of the Palace of Culture built in the main square of Tirana, the capital of Albania, in 1959–1963, is a vivid expression of communist ideology and esthetics. Photograph by author

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Fairley 1987; Farelius 2012; Fuglestad 2018: 57–68; Kodesh 2010; Niang 2018; Robertshaw 2019: 146–148; Fig. 3). Even in simple cultures, socio-political homoarchization could be achieved by means of foregrounding ideologies based on the encompassing idea of all the society members’ fundamental division into those having and not having access to esoteric knowledge and the right to perform activities related to it (Artemova 2003; Bern 1979; Peterson 2020). However, encompassment is not always immediately rooted in the realm of ideas as such. It may well arise from a religiously-ideologically biased conceptualization of preexisting social and political realities. This is what happened to the idea of “conical clan”, or ramage (that distance from the senior line of descent from the common ancestor is the criterion of stratification) in Polynesia (e.g., Claessen 2018; Goldman 1970; Sahlins 1958: XI–XII, 139–180). In any case, contrary to “holistic” (homoarchical) cultures, when “there is a multiplicity of ‘hierarchical’ or asymmetrical oppositions, none of which are reducible to any of the others or to a single master opposition or value”, “the… case immediately departs from the Dumontian formulation” (Mosko 1994: 214)—the society does not fit the homoarchical model. In a (generally) heterarchical society one can expect to find a positive evaluation of individualism in intellectual as well as social life (“ego-focused social systems” [White 1995]) related to the emphasis

Fig. 3 Procession at Akwasidae—the festival of honoring ancestors, especially of Asantehene— the King of the Ashanti people, in Kumasi, Ghana. Photograph by author

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on personal honor and dignity, the importance of public opinion, high degree of social mobility, the greater importance of interpersonal face-to-face relations compared to depersonalized and formalized ones, and at least numerical prevalence of achieved statuses over ascribed. This is typical not only for such paradigmatic examples of heterarchical cultures as the ancient Greek polis and Roman civitas, some late-ancient and early-medieval European societies, or Western countries from the time of Renaissance on, but also for many other cultures, probably less prominent though not less significant for anthropological theorizing: “egalitarian hunter-gatherers”, “acephalous complex societies” of mountainous areas like the Himalayas or the Caucasus, tribal societies of North America, Eurasia, and Africa, or the socio-political organization of Iceland in the “Age of Democracy” (930– 1267), to mention just a few (see Bondarenko 2006: 12, 93–96). At the same time, it is important to note that the emphasis on individualism does not make heterarchical societies citadels of social equality. On the contrary, positioned and perceived as egalitarian, the ideology of individualism is likely to promote social inequality by making interpersonal competition in which there always are winners and losers a fundamental feature of a heterarchical society (Rio and Smedal 2011: 27–34). “In practice the force of egalitarian ideology is present in the concern of persons to demonstrate their social distinction as natural” (Kapferer 2012: 174). This gives another reason for stressing that heterarchy does not mean non-hierarchy or egalitarianism.

3

Basic Organizational Principles and Ways of Social Institution Ranking

Crumley clearly destines the notion of heterarchy exclusively to the study of the political sphere insisting on “the addition of the term heterarchy to the vocabulary of power relations…” (Crumley 1995: 3, emphasis added; see also, e.g., Crumley 2005: 36, 40–41). She sees the prerequisite for heterarchical socio-political organization in the diversity of sources of power, as far as her conception is concentrated precisely on the society’s political subsystem. Discussing, in particular, the “heterarchical state,” Crumley, in this respect, does not differ from the majority of more “traditionally” thinking theorists for whom “the whole progression (of societal forms.—D. B.) … is defined in terms of political organization” (Vansina 1999: 166) and who “argue that the evolution of social complexity needs to be understood first and foremost as a political process” (Earle 1994: 940). Crumley also tends to look at the state as no more than a specific form of political organization. Contrary to this view, I consider as legitimate and even necessary to apply both notions—of heterarchy and homoarchy—within a broad framework of social relations and societal structure in general rather than to power relations only. Political institutions form just one part of societal structure, interpenetrable with all others (especially in pre-industrial cultures). An excessive emphasis on the administrative system may result, for example, in confusing the absence of the

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“king” with the absence of any “hierarchical features” (McIntosh 1999: 77), or in a simplistic identification of heterarchy with the democratic political regime (Crumley 1995: 3, 2005: 46–47) (while, in particular, the heterarchical social framework of the ancient Greek polis admitted not only democratic but also viable aristocratic and oligarchic political forms). If we attempt to characterize a society as a whole, we should label a society by its more general feature—the societal type. More so, in this, I see a possible key to understand (at least an immediate) condition for this or that complex society’s homoarchical or heterarchical nature. As sociologists point out, “[e]ach subsystem of a society is characterized by its own form of stratification: earnings and wealth in the economic sphere; privilege and power in the political system; moral worth and personal trust in religious and family life; and prestige and esteem in the occupational world” (Laumann et al. 1970: 589). Hence, the more the subsystems (sets of institutions that serve the same sphere of social life) are interpenetrable, the fewer the criteria for general social ranking applicable to only particular spheres of social life. In other words, the more the subsystems (sets of related institutions) are interpenetrable, the more probable that in any social context individuals and their groups will be ranked the same way, on the assumption of the value equally encompassing all the intertwined spheres of society. In this case, the establishment of the homoarchical social order can be detected and fixed. It then looks logical that there were more homoarchical than heterarchical archaic complex societies, for among them, under the conditions of Durkheimian “mechanic solidarity” (Durkheim 1997 [1893]), a sufficiently clear separation between social spheres is seldom observed. So, my approach stems from the presumption that while willing to characterize a society as heterarchical or homoarchical, we should look far beyond the type of its political institutions. We should look at it as integrity, a system of institutions of all kinds that embodies one of the basic principles of societal organization, to which that set of political institutions is adequate. In particular, the state “… is a specific kind of social organization, expressing a specific type of social order in a society” (Claessen 2003: 161) rather than merely “a political or governmental unit” (Marcus and Feinman 1998: 4), “something political” (Testart 2012: 105). A society supplements political characteristics by and combines them with, social (and through them economic) characteristics. (However, social and political subsystems often develop asynchronously, with the political system most frequently (but not always) evolving at a more rapid pace [Bondarenko 2006: 68–69, 120]). At the same time, we should not see in societies isolated entities but rather approach them as elements of wider socio-cultural networks, within which dynamic transformation processes are taking place (Bondarenko et al. 2011: 220–223). In this respect, the examples of the Maya and Yoruba “peer polities” (Renfrew and Cherry 1986) are especially instructive: They consisted of societies in most cases organized along predominantly homoarchical lines, but they did not transform into integrated empires and remained generally heterarchical socio-cultural networks, notwithstanding political domination of these or those polities (cities) within them in definite historical periods (see Bondarenko 2010: 7–8).

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The basic principle creating the hierarchy of social institutions in this or that society crucially affects the nature of relations in it, and also direction and rates of its transformation. These processes may have any direction and can result in societies’ increase or decrease in overall cultural complexity, keeping the same basic principle of societal organization, or changing it from heterarchical to homoarchical or vice versa. (For some examples, including perhaps the most well-known—of Rome where the Republic was established and further democratized with the Plebian political victories, see Beliaev et al. 2001: 380–381; Berezkin 2000; Bondarenko et al. 2011: 215; Cornell 1995: 242–271; Dozhdev 2004; Kusimba et al. 2017; Raaflaub 2005). However, a change of the organizational principle without a change in complexity level is a no less possible outcome. Evolution as the advancement from the lower to the higher, the simple to the complex does not take place in such cases. Nevertheless, one can trace a radical internal transformation and reorganization of social institutions, while the former level of the social system’s complexity is maintained overall. (For just several of many instances of this that took place in the Americas, Asia, ancient and medieval Europe, see Ferguson 1991; Joyce and Barber 2016; Korotayev 1996; Kowalewski 2000; Kradin 2011a; Leach 1954; Lynsha 1998). The dichotomy of homoarchical and heterarchical societies is observable on all levels of social complexity in all historical periods and culture areas. So contrary to Elman Service’s “from band to state” (Service 1971[1962]), Morton Fried’s “from egalitarian organization to state society” (Fried 1967) and other unilineal schemes that imply that the growth of complexity (at least up to the stage of the agrarian state) is inevitably accompanied by socio-political homoarchization—the growth of inequality and social stratification, decrease of the political participation of the populace, etc.,—the degree of homoarchization is an improper criterion for defining an overall developmental level. In particular, contrary to most older and recent theories, political centralization cannot be regarded as a feature specific to the state, as it is equally applicable to many non-state forms of societies (Bondarenko 2006: 25–26, 2014: 221–222), including even some forms of simple societies (e.g., Godelier and Strathern 1991; Redmond 1998). It is important to stress that one can find evident alternatives to the evolutionary line drawn by Service, Fried, and others on each and every level of complexity, including the level of the state (for a nuanced discussion with multiple examples see Bondarenko et al. 2011: 215–223; see also, e.g., Grinin et al. 2004). Among middle-range societies—those with one level of socio-political integration above the local community, particularly, chiefdoms and tribes embody homoarchical and heterarchical principles of societal organization. As Elman Service pointed out in his classical Primitive Social Organization (1971 [1962]: 142), “A chiefdom is in a sense pyramidal or cone-shaped in structure… A chiefdom differs radically from a tribe or band not only in economic and political organization but in the matter of social rank… tribes are egalitarian, chiefdoms are profoundly inegalitarian.” The unilinear view of social evolution in which political centralization was the most important criterion for putting society on a stair of the evolutionary staircase made Service try his best to situate the tribe as an intermediate form between the band and

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the chiefdom. These attempts were so awkward that soon the tribe concept found itself on the brink of eviction from evolutionary models as a form of socio-political organization that allegedly could appear only under the influence of external factors (Carneiro 1987: 760; Fried 1975; Townsend 1985: 146). For example, Allen Johnson and Timothy Earle (2000) did not find a place for the tribe in their progression of socio-political forms from “the family-level group” to “the local group” to “the regional polity”. However, the socio-political forms identical to what was described by Service as the tribe and exemplified by him (Service 1978 [1958]: 111–217) can be found in many historical and geographical settings, which include, for instance, ancient, medieval and modern Eurasia, Africa and the Americas (e.g., Barth 1959; Boehm 1983; Chatty 2010; Chatty et al. 2013; Elsie 2015; Evans-Pritchard 1940; Hart 2000; Hickerson 1962; Hoebel 1960; Irons 1975; Oberg 1953; Tait 1961; Tapper 1983; etc.). These societies cannot be identified with bands or village communities (because they comprise more than one community), chiefdoms (as they have an entirely different type of political leadership), or, naturally, with states. They could not be inserted in the scheme somewhere between the village and the chiefdom. Hence, typologically, the tribal system appears to be alternative to, rather than predecessor of the chiefdom. The division into homoarchical and heterarchical societies, although by no means rigid and absolute (as it has been stressed above), is nevertheless a permanent fact of human social history and even precedes it: scientists divide into homoarchical and heterarchical (called “despotic” and “egalitarian”, respectively) associations of non-human primates with the same level of morphological and cognitive development, including primate populations belonging to the same species (e.g., Matsumura 1999; Vehrencamp 1983). At the same time, as noted above, contrary to earlier views, recent research has shown convincingly that true egalitarianism is unnatural for communities of non-human primates to an even higher degree than for human communities, in which people sometimes make attempts, more or less successful, to impose egalitarian behavior on society members and establish true equality (see Artemova 2020; Butovskaya 2020; Finlayson 2020). So the heterarchy—homoarchy division may well be rooted in deep prehistory of humankind. Among the simplest cultures known to anthropology—those of non-specialized hunter-gatherers, the homoarchy—heterarchy division is reflected in the notions of “non-egalitarian” (for example, the Australian aborigines, Tasmanians, the Ona of Terra del Fuego, the Athapaskans and Eyak of the North Pacific Rim, or the Lower Amur Nanais) and “egalitarian” (e.g., the Hadza, San, Pygmies, Shoshone, Paliyans, Yukaghir) societies, respectively (Artemova 2020; Bondarenko 2006: 16; Woodburn 1982). At the level of simple agricultural village communities, one of the guiding examples is provided by Burton Pasternak’s (1972) study of two Chinese villages in Taiwan. Those villages had a common origin but in one of them (Chungshe) there eventually formed a homoarchical system of corporate patrilineages with one lineage permanently dominating politically, while in the other (Tatieh) the development of lineages was compromised early on by corporate cross-kin associations, which resulted in a heterarchical system of non-localized agnatic descent groups, any of which could produce the

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village head. Autonomous villages within some tribal societies, like the Naga and Kachin of India and Myanmar, having the same type of economy and degree of cultural sophistication, can also differ in their systems of government that oscillate between those based on the rule by hereditary chiefs and by headmen appointed by selection (Das 2017; Leach 1954). Cultures that share the same overall level of complexity and principle of socio-political organization may vary in their concrete forms—alternativeness exists not only between but also within heterarchical and homoarchical macrogroups of societies (Bondarenko 2006: 101–107; Bondarenko et al. 2011: 223– 225). For example, the tribe is by no means the only possible form of the middle-range hetrarchical society. Among various others, one can distinguish, for instance, the system of complex acephalous communities with a pronounced autonomy of single-family households, as in the case of the Apa Tanis of the Himalayas (Fürer-Haimendorf 2004 [1962]). Likewise, there are no grounds to argue that the “early state”, homoarchical by the very definition (Claessen et al. 2008: 260), was the only possible and known form of pre-industrial homoarchical supercomplex society (Bondarenko 2006). Not only supercomplex heterarchical societies (of the Indus civilization [Possehl 1998, 2002; Vahia and Yadav 2011; Vidale 2018; Wright 2016], the ancient Greek polis [Berent 2000, 2004; Small 2019], “republics” or “free associations” of the seventeenth—nineteenth centuries Mountainous Daghestan [e.g., Aglarov 2014; Aliev 2006; Rabadanova 2014], etc.), but also supercomplex non-state homoarchical societies represent alternatives to it (e.g., systems based on deeply elaborated, rigid cast division in India and elsewhere [Gellner and Quigley 1995; Kobishchanov 2000: 64; Quigley 1999: 114–169]). Numerous “megacommunities” of pre-colonial Africa or South-East Asia—the societies based on the extension of the kin-based extended-family communal “template” up to multiple supracommunal levels, in which the whole society’s encompassment was directed from the local level upwards, give another example of the homoarchical alternative to the homoarchical state (see the chapter on the Benin Kingdom by Bondarenko in this volume). In addition, complex chiefdoms could develop not into states but “supercomplex chiefdoms”, what was typical for ancient and medieval nomads of Eurasia (Kradin 2011b, 2014: 29–45). What was written earlier in this chapter means that transformations in the ways social institutions and their sets, societal subsystems, are ranked (homoarchically or heterarchically) on the one hand and changes in the overall cultural complexity on the other are two different, largely unrelated processes. Homoarchy and heterarchy are not evolutionary lines: a society can pass from a predominantly heterarchical way of ranking institutions to predominantly homoarchical or vice versa, and can do it both with and without a change in the level of complexity. At any level of overall cultural complexity, one can observe both heterarchical and homoarchical societies because an equal level of complexity (which makes it possible to solve equally difficult problems societies face) can be achieved in various forms on essentially different (though intersecting in the history of many societies and regions) principles of societal organization.

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In complexity science, the heterarchical societal model would be considered as more complex than homoarchical: It is not less sustained but has a higher degree of non-equilibrium (Bondarenko 2007a: 62). Contrary to homoarchical societies, in heterarchical ones there is no “clear decision making chain,” “political interactions few and formalized,” and “political maintenance of the system is low” (Crumley 2005: 43–44, 2007: 6–7). However, in anthropology, despite a remarkable attempt by Timothy Pauketat and Thomas Emerson (2007) to postulate that heterarchical societies are more complex because “hierarchization” leads to simplification of many complexities of social life, societies with the same number of levels of socio-political integration are still usually considered as equal in complexity (see Bondarenko et al. 2011). Thus, within the anthropological tradition, societies based on different principles of societal organization (heterarchical or homoarchical) may well be of the same overall complexity level.

4

Basic Organizational Principles: Some Possible Preconditions for Following by Societies

Among numerous factors capable of influencing the principle upon which this or that society will be based, the dominant family type seems to deserve notice. The distinction in the correlation and importance of kin and neighborhood (territorial) lines is in its turn connected with the dominant type of community as an almost universal, substratum social institution (Bondarenko 2006: 84, 91–92, 111–112, 123). Community-based societies can extend the community template to, and develop it at supracommunal levels of organizational complexity in different directions, depending on the nature of the respective community types. The reverse process of community leaders’ specialization in administration “from spare time to part time to full time” may be launched only from outside the community—by supracommunity political institutions (Befu 1966). (Ancient China provides a good example of both situations described in the previous two sentences, as well as of transition from the former to the latter of them [Baum 2004; Shen 2019]). Institutions of a complex society, including the state, ripen and exist for a long time not within the community but with conjoined communities—in intercommunity relations (as a rule, mediated by the relations between associations of communities— chiefdoms, tribes and so forth) and eventually, having formed, may tower above them. Community naturally resists supracommunity political institutions’ attempts to reshape it for the sake of those institutions’ purposes (Yoffee 2019: 1–3; Yoffee and Seri 2019). It does it in chiefdoms (Beck 2013: 31–32; see, e.g., Cruz Berrocal et al. 2013: 74–98, 249–266; Dillon 1990; Petersen 1982, 2009), it does it in emerging states. For example, Roderick McIntosh (2005) documented how it was happening in the Inland Niger Delta in pre-colonial time. There, society consisted of communities each of which was vested with roughly commensurate, overlapping, competing and often cooperating “horizontal” authority. This system of authority

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actively worked to resist centralization; it was authority based on differential access to knowledge translated into authority in the community. Even if supracommunity political institutions begin to dominate but fail to adapt the community to its needs firmly and permanently, stagnation and decline of the political system follow (as, for example, in the cases of the African Mali, Songhay, and Marawi states in the seventeenth century or Samori’s state and Kenedugu in the nineteenth century [Tymowski 1987: 65–66, 2009: 131, 140]). Generally speaking, in a successful state the supreme power does not develop the community template further—it does not perform what Charles Spencer called “extrapolation” and defined as “an extension or projection of the internal model of authority from one social unit to others on the same level of the scalar hierarchy” (Spencer 1997: 239). Rather, the supreme power “on the contrary begins to restructure society” in its own image (Beliaev 2000: 194; see also Kurtz 2001: 183–184). Indeed, as Donald Kurtz (1991: 162) rightly points out, “… the reduction of the influence of local-level organization upon the citizens” is “a major goal” of a state’s legitimation strategies. If it is a success, we see “the encompassment of the local sphere by the state” (Tanabe 1996: 154). The third—second millennia BCE Near East gives especially vivid examples of the aforesaid (besides many publications on particular societies, see in general and comparative works, e.g., Baines and Yoffee 1998: 225–227; Childe 1942: 122–123; Maisels 1987: 345–346). In the New World, for instance, the rise of the Monte Albán state in the second half of the first millennium BCE “… brought in its wake a substantial transformation of society, culture, and technology that affected every household…” (Blanton et al. 1999: 107). Successful pre-industrial states do not inevitably press communities—they often have “to forge constructive relationships between local kin groups and communities and centralized state governments, and between customary and introduced political and social institutions” for their mutual benefit (Dillehay and Wernke 2019: 20; see also, e.g., Morris 2019; Stark 2019). Therefore, the community’s adaptation to the needs of the state does not obligatorily mean the end of its development: communities usually decay only in the process of the wider society’s transition to capitalism (e.g., Kamen 2000). Examples of the community’s disappearance in agricultural societies are rare (see Bondarenko 2006: 91–92). Although in my opinion the presence or absence of bureaucracy (professionalized administrators) is a proper indicator of the state or non-state nature of a society, the very prospects for its political organization’s becoming bureaucratic may arise not from the presence or absence of the community but from the society’s essentially communal or non-communal foundations. The situation when the form of family and community influences directly the form and nature of supralocal institutions was reversed with the rise of the state, which tends to encompass all the spheres of social life including such an important one as family relations (Trigger 2003: 194, 271, 274). “Separation of persons and positions”, a vitally necessary precondition for professionalization of administrators, is impossible in community-based societal formations including complex, such as chiefdom (Willer et al. 2017: 442). The ancient Greek polis illustrates that no state can be based on a community template of any kind, simply because no community permits the existence of bureaucracy, which

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can only be imposed on it from supracommunal levels of political complexity (Fig. 4). The polis lacked that bureaucracy, and hence was not a state. (Joyce Marcus and Gary Feinman [1998: 8] remark correctly that “… many Aegean specialists do not believe the polis was a state at all…”; a recent publication expressing this view is the monograph by David Small in which he agrees with Moshe Berent [2000; see also Berent 2004] that “the ancient polis does not fit state types well” and adds that “the economics of the polis were such that it falls outside our common state definitions” [Small 2019: 171]). A cross-cultural study (Barry 2003, 2004; Bondarenko and Korotayev 2000b, 2004) has generally corroborated the initial hypothesis (Bondarenko 1997: 13–14) that the extended-family community in which vertical social ties and a non-democratic value system are usually vividly expressed in the shape of kinship relations (elder—younger), is more characteristic of homoarchical societies. As Maurice Godelier has stressed, “Kinship can be at any time transformed into an ideological construction…” (1989: 6; for the description of various social contexts in which it happens in different cultures see Strathern and Stewart 2011). The very social nature of kinship that allows declaring relatives and regarding them accordingly not only those related in the purely biological sense (Sahlins 2014; Strathern and Stewart 2011: 5–7) provides opportunities for manipulating kinship

Fig. 4 Ruins of Corinth, one of the most important and largest ancient Greek poleis. Photograph by author

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as an ideology for various ends in societies of any complexity level, including states, even modern (Bondarenko 2008: 26–30; Thelen and Alber 2018). At the same time, heterarchical societies, including complex ones, appear to be more frequently associated with territorial communities consisting of nuclear families in which social ties are horizontal and apprehended as neighborhood ties among those equal in rights (Bondarenko and Korotayev 2000b; see also Blanton 1995). The types of family and community are in their turn related to and may be dependent on, the type of subsistence, extensive agriculture and horticulture being generally more compatible with the homoarchical extended family (e.g., Balkwell and Balswick 1981; Lee 1984; Nimkoff and Middleton 1960). It also appears that the probability of heterarchical societal organization is higher in cultures where monogamous rather than polygynous families dominate (Korotayev and Bondarenko 2000). So there are grounds to maintain that family size (extended or nuclear) and type (polygynous or monogamous) are related to overall community homoarchy or heterarchy, and this relation is largely independent from the factor of cultural complexity (Bondarenko and Korotayev 2000b; Korotayev and Bondarenko 2000). Social institutions are outcomes of conscious and purposive activities (social creativity) of people to no small degree, though most often people do not realize, at least completely, the wider socio-political consequences of their deeds aimed at the realization of personal goals. People create new institutions in different spheres in correspondence with the value systems and behavioral models generated in their societies and adopted by them in the process of socialization as cultural transmission (Ellen and Fischer 2013: 10–17). They apprehend these norms as the most natural, proper, sometimes even the only true ones. Hence, it is evident that the basic principle of societal organization that determines its general type is intrinsically connected with its respective modal personality type. In general, family structure (determined in its turn by a large number of independent factors from economic to ideological) affects significantly the principle of the community’s organization through its associated socialization practices (Korotayev and Bondarenko 2000: 197–201). In its turn, community type is able to influence the mode by which supracommunity levels are shaped. Remarkably, according to John Whiting and Irvin Childe (1953) dependence training is associated precisely with extended families. The respective socialization pattern tends to ensure compliance in the performance of assigned tasks and dependence on the family, rather than reliance on oneself. This would tend to produce a personality type compatible with homoarchical rather than heterarchical socio-political systems (see also Bondarenko and Korotayev 2000a). From the dynamic historical perspective, homoarchical and heterarchical complex societies may also differ in the manner of their formation, i.e., how their socio-political components were integrated. This seems to be especially prominent for homoarchical societies when a hierarchy of components within a rising complex society is formed as a result of weaker simple societies’ submission to a stronger one. In contrast, heterarchical socio-political complexity arises more likely as an outcome of volunteer and (more or less) equitable joining up of local components, i.e., by way of synoecism (Bondarenko 2000: 215–216), what, however, by no

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means makes them more “peaceful” than homoarchical in intersocietal relations, including relations with other heterarchical societies. It is very important to take into account that all institutions and their systems— societies, or cultures—are outcomes of humans’ activities for pursuing their personal and collective goals as manifestations of human agency (Figs. 5 and 6). Social practices that make societies evolve appear at the intersection of structures and agents (Giddens 1984). The ways they act and forms in which they cooperate while building up or seeking to change already existing institutions and while establishing principles of their ranking differ. These ways and forms may be heterarchical or homoarchical themselves and promote the formation of societies on the respective basic principles. For their capturing and explaining, the theories of collective action (e.g., Blanton and Fargher 2008, 2009; Blanton with Fargher 2016; Carballo 2013; Chacon and Mendoza 2017), also in combination with game theory (Lewellen 2003: 96–110; Lozny 2010), and corporate versus network strategies concept (e.g., Blanton et al. 1996; Butler and Welch 2006: 19–32, 73– 114; Feinman 2001; Mills 2000; chapters by Kradin on heterarchy and hierarchy, and Beekman in this volume) can be instrumental. Thus, there are huge possibilities for a productive interaction between these important theories and that of the basic principles of societal organization (Bondarenko 2006: 14–19). To note just one

Fig. 5 Collective action in support of an existing institution: greeting a chief, the Fon people, Republic of Benin. Photograph by author

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Fig. 6 Collective action aimed at altering existing institutions: manifestation in Madrid, Spain. Photograph by author

point (as I have no space to elaborate on this further here): as Blanton et al. (1996) argue, in archaic cultures, the essentially exclusionary network strategy distinguishes kin—family—line by focusing on descent group rituals, especially of ancestor cult (see also Beekman, this volume). This is exactly what was mentioned above as a typical pathway to society with homoarchy as its basic organizational principle.

5

Conclusion

So the heterarchy—homoarchy dichotomy, tightly connected with the diversity of family and community types, finds further development in societies that enjoy supracommunity levels of socio-political integration, predetermining to a considerable degree the non-unilinear and alternative nature of socio-cultural process in the worldwide scale. The heterarchical principle of the societal organization did not become insignificant from the historical and anthropological point of view in the course of time, with the rise of the socio-cultural and political complexity. At the levels of

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complexity higher than tribal, very important examples of cases when the components of a complex society are united on a volunteer basis, assuming a background of more or less equal rights, are provided, among others, by the socio-political history of the genesis of the Greek poleis in Antiquity, the Swiss Confederation in the Middle Ages, or the United States of America in modern times. It is important to mention that only on this evolutionary pathway does the building of civil society become possible. The rise of the early (or archaic) state and the homoarchical alternatives to it in most parts of the world made homoarchy the wider-spread principle of societal organization in premodern times. However, when Western societies gradually became largely heterarchical systems of social, economic, political, cultural and other institutions, and for the first time in history one civilization—Western— eventually began to dominate in the whole world, heterarchy became at least no less important than homoarcy from the perspective of global history. This is so even despite the fact that since the West has established its domination, the global modern world has been generally homoarchical. It was completely evident in the time of colonialism and it remains so now, as far as global inequality persists. Homoarchy in the global world order is based on the dominance of Western nations which themselves are socio-culturally heterarchic and politically democratic. Yet, the economic and political rise of several clearly homoarchical nations in recent decades coupled with problems of many kinds the West is facing now can make one suppose that the end of Modernity may be connected with the return of the homoarchical principle of societal organizaton as typical for the politically mightiest “global powers” that will try to spread this principle to the whole world dominated by them and make it even more homoarchical than it is now. However, this homoarchical trend may be counterbalanced by another, heterarchical one. In our time, to consider societies and states as isolated, self-sufficient systems of institutions is even more erroneous than with regard to any other epoch, for serious problems, from climate change to terrorism, demand a new level of cooperation. Such problems cannot be solved at the national level. They cannot be solved either (as the course of events in the world shows) at the international level at which sovereign nation-states remain the basic units of world politics. They might be solved only at the transnational level that demands the appearance of global political institutions which decisions would be superior to those made by institutions of separate states or their unions—international organizations. This would presuppose the lack of one or just a few constant dominant powers, because in various situations different states, international organizations, etc. would play a leading role, keeping a balance of interests of all the involved parties—the global community. Even if the “world government” becomes a reality as some thinkers predict (e.g., Carneiro 2004; Nili 2015; Tamir 2000; Wendt 2003), this will not mean the complete abolishment of nation-states’ sovereignty. It will be a “supranational”, “transnational” but not a “non-national” government. National sovereignty as political independence of separate states will not disappear, but the concept of sovereignty in which the nation-state finds its legitimacy will probably be revised and thus differ from the present one (on the present crisis of the state see

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Kapferer and Bertelsen 2012: 29–94, 163–304; Turner 2004: 94–97). A new concept will be based on the idea of the supreme sovereignty of transnational political institutions. In other words, this would be a manifestation of the principle of heterarchy at the global level. At the same time, at the lower levels, especially at the national one, the interplay of heterarchical and homoarchical principles will go on, even in the case of a “homoarchical” global scenario—in various societies and culture areas the interrelation of heterarchical and homoarchical features will continue to differ. Furthermore, at the global level too, there will always be elements of heterarchy in the case of “global homoarchy”, as hardly any one power will be able to dominate absolutely. On the other hand, there will be elements of homoarchy in the world of “global heterarchy” because complete equality of all the world players will remain an unattainable ideal as much as it is so for individuals in the hunter-gatherer bands. In any case, an adequate understanding of human socio-cultural history does not appear to be possible unless one takes into consideration the alternativeness of the basic principles of societal organization, their complementary and competitive co-existence, and their mutual dynamics throughout the whole history of humankind. Acknowledgements Support from the Basic Research Program of the National Research University Higher School of Economics is gratefully acknowledged.

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The Evolution of Sociopolitical Organizations Henri J. M. Claessen

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The Emergence of Political Structures

1.1 Some Preliminary Remarks The evolution of sociopolitical organizations is a complicated subject, and scholars with different opinions have discussed it. To mention a few: Carneiro (1981), Hallpike (1986), Kurtz (2004), Yoffee (2005). To make my position clear, it seems thus sensible to first present my definition and approach to evolution. Now, a definition is never objective; its selection is always a strategic matter. Sometimes, one needs a wide definition in order to bring as many cases as possible under its terms; and at another time, one may need a narrow one in order to exclude a number of cases. The selection of a definition, thus, is a matter of the scholarly preference (or prejudice) of the author. His or her scholarly background plays a decisive role in the choice of the definition—and thus should be known. In my case, at least two theoretical approaches play a role. In the first place, I am a comparativist. This means that my research is based upon the comparison of a number of cases, found in societies with a different geographical or historical background. My research aims at finding (and explaining) similarities or differences. Therefore, I employ wide definitions in order to make them applicable to as many cases as possible.1

1

On comparativism: Köbben (1970), Claessen (1978: 533–537), Nadel (1969: 113 ff, 248 ff.).

H. J. M. Claessen (&) Wassenaar, The Netherlands © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2020 D. M. Bondarenko et al. (eds.), The Evolution of Social Institutions, World-Systems Evolution and Global Futures, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-51437-2_4

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My second interest concerns evolutionism (Claessen 2014: 3–4). In my opinion, evolution in sociopolitical systems is a matter of structural change.2 This means that once the consequences of a certain event manifest themselves in several or all aspects of an institution or an organization, an evolutionary change has taken place. The direction of evolution is open. The developments can proceed in the direction of growing complexity (the traditional view) but also in the direction of stabilization, stagnation, decline, or collapse.3 Moreover, evolution is a matter of stages and processes; both aspects being necessary to obtain a correct idea of the phenomenon and its eventual changes (Carneiro 2000). In my analysis of sociopolitical evolution, I will use the Complex Interaction Model (CIM), a general model for the explanation of developments in sociopolitical organizations. The model comprises three components: (1) The Societal Format (the number of people in relation to the means of production and the area of land available); (2) Control and Domination of the Economy (including aspects such as technology, irrigation, transport, trade, and shipping); (3) Ideology (including aspects such as religion, philosophy, justice, kinship). Changes in one of the components will cause changes—adaptations—in the other components, until after some time, all aspects of the society have been affected and changed. Then evolution has taken place. The components of the CIM model are on a high level of abstraction, thus when it is applied in specific cases, the “context” of the society should be added, namely its geographical and historical situation.4

1.2 Long Ago More than 100,000 years ago, humans were already occupying what we now know as Europe. They lived in a harsh climate, in periods known as Ice Ages (Behringer 2007). These people became known as the Neanderthals.5 They were strong, hardy people, who lived of hunting and gathering. There was a probable division of labor, with men hunting megafauna and women engaged in gathering. They led a nomadic life, following the herds of animals. As a consequence, they had no camps or huts. Sometimes, they occupied caves or abris (overhanging rocks). Traces of their existence—mostly stone utensils—have been found over large parts of Europe, many of which in the Dordogne-Vézère valleys in France. Their groups were small, which argues against the presence of any real leaders. When a group—band— increased in size, it usually splits up for there was not enough food in the neighborhood. Intra group conflicts were probably solved by fissioning. A complicating problem of the small bands was that they were not able to provide in their biological reproduction, for, within the band, there were usually no marriageable partners. To solve this problem, the band had to contact neighboring bands to exchange brides, 2

This view is based on Voget (1975: 862). See: Claessen (2010), Tainter (1988), Yoffee and Cowgill (1988), Claessen (2000a). 4 The model was developed in Claessen and Van de Velde (1987), see also Claessen (2000b, 2006). 5 On the Neandertals: Jaubert (1999), Auffermann and Orschiedt (2003), Roebroeks (2000). 3

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and as the other bands faced the same problem, over time networks of exchange developed. The life of the Neanderthals changed considerably when, about 50,000 years ago, a different type of humans entered Europe, Anatomically Modern Humans, the Cro Magnons. These were also hunters and gatherers, coming from Africa. Because their culture was more developed, they soon succeeded in driving away the Neanderthals to less favorable regions. The Cro Magnons had better weapons, better clothes, better tools and applied a better technique in making tools out of stone. They also worked wood and bone. They lived mainly in caves or under abris, and in some places, they even built a kind of house with the help of mammoth bones. As they hunted the same animals as the Neanderthals, they occupied the best places to hunt—which prevented Neanderthals from using them any longer. As a consequence, the small Neanderthal bands lost contacts with their allies. Marriage alliances were discontinued and reproduction faltered, and thus gradually, the Neanderthals became extinct.6 While the Neanderthal bands had hardly a developed form of leadership, the competing Cro Magnon most probably had more formal leaders, but this we do not know, for apart from the famous wall paintings of Lascaux and Chauvet, there is not much known about their social organization or ideology.

1.3 The Great Leap Forward About some 10,000 years ago, life on earth changed considerably. The Ice Age came to an end and a period with a better climate began: the Holocene. Temperature rose, rain fall increased, vegetation increased, in short, the conditions for life improved. In several places, human groups developed a new type of living. And, since the climatological situation had improved seriously, they could collect all kinds of seeds, fruit, nuts, and grasses. One of the best studied peoples of this period is the Natufians, who lived in the Israel–Jordan–Lebanon–Syria region. They succeeded in harvesting grain from wild grasses that they harvested with wooden sickles sharpened with blades. They wove baskets and ground the grain in stone mortars. They lived in more or less permanent settlements and buried their dead. There was great variation in the huts they built. Some huts probably housed nuclear families, some were smaller, and a few huts were rather large and could have functioned as dormitories for all youths, or as ritual buildings. In some of the graves, objects have been found that may have been gifts to the deceased, hinting at differences in wealth within the community. Based on the permanent availability of food, there was no longer a need to be nomadic, and (semi-)permanent villages came into existence. These developments were found among several peoples in the region.7

6

On Cro Magnons: Stringer (2012). On the Natufians: Flannery and Marcus (2012: 122 ff.).

7

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Since the beginning of the Holocene, communities began to rely more and more on agriculture for survival. It seems reasonable to assume that the producers took all kinds of precaution to guarantee a good, or sufficient, yield. Yet occasionally instances of bad harvests occurred, their good efforts notwithstanding. A bad harvest might have been blamed on unseen forces affecting the productivity of the crop. Building upon existing ideas about spirits and ancestors, they were ready to accept their supernatural influence over the harvests and set out to appease or to praise them—a beginning of religion. It soon became apparent that some people had more success in agriculture than others and people were inclined to ascribe their results to better relations with the spirits or forefathers. This gave the “blessed” ones a certain status: priests, shamans, or headmen developed. It is assumed that early political leaders based their position on this type of beliefs. They thus became the leaders of “achievement-based societies”—a term created by Flannery and Marcus (2012: 128 ff.). A good contemporary example of such a society is that of the Kachin, living in Highland Burma, just after the Second World War (Leach 1954; Flannery and Marcus 2012: 191 ff.). The Kachin were village agriculturalists, related to each other by a segmentary lineage system. The marriage relations were arranged by a circulating connubium, which means that lineage A provided brides for lineage B, lineage B provided brides for lineage C, and so on until in the end, the last lineage in the circle provided brides for lineage A. The bride prices circulated in the opposite direction. Under the prevailing ideology, the giver had a higher status than the receiver. As, however, all lineages were bride-giving as well as bride receiving, this system did not lead to changes in the distribution of power and prestige. The only possible source of disruption to the balance in the village was the agricultural system. Sometimes, one of the farmers had an abundant crop, and as the crop could not be stored, it was a custom for this farmer to distribute the surplus by means of a community feast. The host derived great prestige from this action. The prestige, however, was only temporal, since, in most cases, an agricultural surplus would appear randomly among the villagers. But sometimes, it was not so random. It might happen that one lineage was able to give several such feasts, one after the other. This would affect the egalitarian structure of the village. The feast giver received much prestige, and as a consequence, his daughters became more expensive—which contributed to the wealth of the family. If the prosperity of the lineage continued, the less fortunate lineages would look for an explanation for these uncommon developments. They found this in religion: the fortunate farmer apparently had better relations with the ancestors and the spirits. Until that moment, the position of the notable lineage had been based on distribution: the giving of feasts and gifts. But now that the villagers understood how matters really stood, the stream of gifts changed direction. The villagers began to offer the head of the well-to-do lineage small gifts with the request to put in a good word for them with the ancestors—which he promised to do. In this way, the gifts of material goods were rewarded with immaterial matters. A society strongly resembling Marx’ Asiatic Mode of Production had developed. The developments among the Kachin show a perfect complex interaction of economy, ideology, and societal format

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(CIM). There is reason to believe that similar processes took place in early Burma and Thailand (before or at the beginning of the Christian Era) (Hagesteijn 1989). There are, or were, numerous achievement-based societies. The Marind-Anim of Papua New Guinea is another example. In former years, they were redoubtable head-hunters, but under pressure from the Dutch colonial government, they had to stop this ritual activity. They used to undertake their head-hunting expeditions with a substantial force and attacked remote villages, where they killed as many people as possible and took home the heads of their victims in triumph. Such expeditions gave the leaders great prestige; they became so-called big men. After these raids were forbidden, ambitious men sought other ways to get prestige. They found this in gift-giving. Through elaborate feasting, they made people so dependent on them that they were not able to repay the gifts in kind. In this way, they built a group of followers. Usually, these big men handed out young pigs to their followers, who had to care for the animals until they matured. Then, the big man collected his beasts and organized a great feast during which a great number of pigs were slaughtered and eaten. With such a feast, he hoped to outdo the other big men. They, however, increased the stakes, by organizing feasts in return. Such a competition could continue for years, until finally one of the contenders had to give in. Then, the field lay open for new ambitious men. Such candidates had to marry more wives who produced more food and could care for more pigs. Such men were not only ambitious but had also to be smart manipulators and crafty orators. At their death, the game was over. The position of a big man was not hereditary (on the Marind-Anim: van Baal 1966; Flannery and Marcus 2012: 98 ff.; Oliver 1955). And, while somewhere big men competed, and elsewhere people followed a ritually blessed person, band societies continued their age-old life of hunting and gathering, such as the African !Kung, and Hadza, the Indonesian Kubu, the Amazonian Nambikwara, and many others.8

1.4 Heredity Emerges Growing populations and increasing complexity in day-to-day life made better leadership necessary. Johnson (1978, 1982) related this to the need to process more information and the necessity to make decisions. The number of people capable of absorbing substantial amounts of information and using this information to make decisions was limited. Hereditary leaders, such as chiefs, rose out of this need to process large amounts of information and make critical decisions. Once they came to the fore, they soon became the type of leader that a society in a relatively more complex setting, needed. Along this line, hereditary leadership developed, and so the chief as a new type of leader emerged. A chief is an ascribed leader; his position is hereditary. Moreover, it is a political office, which means that his position is a prerogative of a certain family. Most chiefs are perceived as sacred persons; it is 8

On the !Kung: Lee (1969); Hadza: Woodburn (1968); Kubu: Persoon (1994); Nambikwara: Lévi-Strauss (1971), but see critically Aspelin (1975).

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believed that they somehow descended from gods, spirits, or mythical forefathers. Because of their sacredness, they are supposed to have a positive influence on the fertility of women, cattle, and land. These characteristics give his position a strong legitimacy.9 Hereditary leadership is already old. Archeologist Pieter van de Velde succeeded in establishing that it occurred in the Bandkeramik villages of Elsloo (South of the Netherlands), some 5000 years ago (van de Velde 1986, 1990, 1993). He based his view on differences in the size of the houses, differences in the waste pits, and differences in the adze distribution, all pointing in the direction of differences in status and wealth. These differences continued over a long span of time—pointing to hereditary status. Evidence for developing hereditary systems has also been uncovered in Mesoamerica 5000 years ago. According to Grove and Gillespie (1992: 25), the most valuable lands were found on the river levees, for they produced extremely high yields. Control over such fields provided the owners with the means to acquire economic, political, and social control over other groups. It was also held that success was connected to the interference of gods or spirits, and so the fortunate family acquired or received religious legitimation. The succession of a deceased chief was not always a simple matter as is shown by the Djuka, in Surinam (Köbben 1979). Succession here was strictly matrilineal, and there were usually several candidates. The problem thus became which one of them would be the successor? He should be of a younger generation and a member of another segment of the lineage. Though the old chief had already selected the individual who was in his eyes, the most competent candidate (in secret) and had him informed about the secret beliefs of the group, because the successor would be the person who could best answer questions from an “oracle” about these beliefs. The “oracle,” two men with a paddle on their heads, walked through the village, posed questions and finished by indicating the candidate who had been already secretly selected by the deceased chief. Many chiefdoms showed, and still show, great differences. Some chiefs and their chiefdoms fought never ending battles—as did the American Iroquois and Hurons (Morgan 1851; Trigger 1969). Others were peaceful agriculturalists, as those in Sri Lanka, where Buddhist beliefs played a dominant role (Gunawardana 1981, 1985). And elsewhere, in Polynesia, some of the islands had chiefdom organizations, which on a few islands could develop into a state (Claessen and van Bakel 2006).

1.5 The Emergence of the State Finally, some 5000 years ago, the period of the state, or rather, of the early state, had “arrived.” This is a complex subject, as appears from the voluminous The Early State (Claessen and Skalník eds. 1978) in which 21 cases of early states were compared. Morton Fried (1967: 231) introduced the term “pristine state” pointing out that in fact all states were secondary, and that the real first, primary or pristine 9

On chiefs: Claessen (2011), Earle (1991), Kurtz (2004). On legitimacy: Beetham (1991).

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states, had already disappeared for a long time. This poses two questions: (a) what were these pristine states? and (b) how did they emerge? It can be assumed that also the appearance of pristine states was predicated on a number of conditions. These conditions are the following: (1) A sufficient number of people to form a complex stratified society. (2) A territory over which control is exercised. (3) An economic system yielding a surplus sufficient to maintain the rulers, the specialists, and the privileged categories. (4) An ideology that explains and justifies the existence of a hierarchical administrative organization and its correlated sociopolitical inequality (summary based on Claessen 2000b: 188; Claessen and Oosten 1995: 5 ff.). The presence of these conditions does not result automatically in the emergence of a state. A triggering incident is often necessary, e.g., a threat by a neighboring polity, peer polity interaction (Renfrew and Cherry 1986), a shortage of food or famine, the necessity of protecting trade routes, etc. (Claessen 2002; Earle 1997; Shifferd 1987; Tymowski 1985). In short, when situations occurred that were important—or threatening—enough to induce some political leaders, usually chiefs of complex chiefdoms, to create a stronger type of government, in which more power became centralized: the early state emerged. So, the feelings of fear, greed, ambition, or the force of population pressure were probably underpinning state formation (cf. Netting 1990). The following cases are considered as pristine states: Ancient Egypt, Mesopotamia (the Sumerian city states), India (Ganges Valley), China (Erlitou), Mesoamerica (Monte Albán), Africa (Ancient Ghana), Polynesia (Tonga Islands). I will not go here into the varying histories of these cases. This is recently done in a detailed analysis (Claessen 2016). Here, I will limit myself to the main results of this investigation, which are as follows: a. There is no reason to think that the often-advocated circumscription theory or population pressure always played a role in state formation. In these cases, the only circumscribed culture was that of the Tonga Islands. b. Relative prosperity or even affluence was important conditions for the emergence of pristine states. c. There are no indications that war or conquest was bases for the evolution of pristine states. Rather as far as war or conquest played a role, it was after the emergence of the state; thus a consequence, not a cause. d. Economic systems in pristine states were principally agricultural. The only exception is being Ghana with its dependency on trade. Pristine states are at the same time also early states; in fact, several of them were included in The Early State volume (Egypt, India, China) (Claessen and Skalník 1978). Formulated in its simplest form, a state is a centralized sociopolitical organization for the regulation of social relations in a complex, stratified society.10 10

This is the shortened form of the definition in Claessen and Skalník (1987: 640). See also Bondarenko (2014).

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Turchin et al. defined the state recently as “A politically centralized territorial polity with internally specialized governance structures” (2018: 1). Donald Kurtz (2006) correctly discarded the view of the “anthropomorphized state,” and stressed that it is people who do and think and have interests. Therefore, one cannot say that something is in the interest of the state, and it is always in the interest of some people. For the first stage of statehood, the term “early” state is in use. The time of this stage varies strongly per region. In the nineteenth century, some early states were found to exist still in Africa, while elsewhere, in, e.g., Europe and South America, the end of the early states was about 1500 CE. The sociopolitical organization of a state, which includes the early state, comprises three components: a number of people, a certain territory, and a specific type of government. To indicate the minimum number of people is difficult; to make a state function, there it needs functionaries, specialists, servants, food producers, and taxpayers. Some 5000 seems a minimum.11 The concept of territory is equally vague; it is not so much the number of square kilometers, but rather the rule over people living there that counts (cf. Tymowski 2009). It is the form of government that is the key feature of a state. It comprises two aspects: power and administration. Power is in principle the capacity to influence decisively the alternatives of someone else (cf. Kurtz 2006; Weber 1964 [1922]). Administration is the management of state affairs, a task entrusted to the executive apparatus of the state (Bondarenko 2006, 2014; Weber 1964 [1922]). The head of an early state is usually called “king.” The characteristics of a king resemble in many respects those of a chief: this is a hereditary position; it is a political office, belonging to a certain family (lineage, ramage, etc.), he is considered to be sacred, being somehow descended from gods, spirits, or mythical forefathers; because of this, he is believed to have a positive influence on the fertility of women, cattle, and land. This all gives him a strong legitimacy.12 The government of an early state amasses great quantities of food and goods. These are not redistributed, but mainly used to reward its followers, to pay its servants and its soldiers. The structure of the early state changed in the course of time. In some cases, a state came to an end. It collapsed, was conquered or colonized, and though the people continued to live there, their political conditions had changed considerably. Other states continued to develop, and gradually, they could no longer be considered as early states but had become developed or mature states (cf. Grinin 2008). In the race to the top numerous states got lost underway: the Roman Empire collapsed, the Incas, and Aztecs were colonized, Ancient Greece became conquered, the realm of Charlemagne collapsed. Some states can no longer deliver their core functions and are called “failed states,” which will gradually come to an end 11

This number is criticized by Bondarenko and Korotayev (2003) and also by Grinin (2009), who state that such a number is too small for a state. 12 This legitimacy is based upon a kind of reciprocity: their expectation that a king will fulfill his obligations and the people pay taxes. If, however, fertility does not appear, the rain does not fall, or the war has poor results, the people may claim in reciprocity his life, as occurred with farao Pepi II (Morris 2006: 60, Cf. Claessen and van de Velde 1991).

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(Hagesteijn 2008). More recently, the formation of political unions has begun, such as the European Union. Has the state lost its functions and come to its end? (also, Kloos 1995).

2

Evolutionary Streams

2.1 Background In Europe and the People without History, Eric Wolf (1982: 24–72) presents a description of the world about 1400 CE, which contained a colorful diversity of chiefdoms, trading cities, nomadic societies, princedoms, temple communities, and hunters and gatherers. This picture shows that many societies had developed independently of each other. For a short time, the Mongols had brought together in the fourteenth century an enormous empire (Kradin 2014), and in the same time, principalities had emerged in Java, Sumatra, and Bali (Hagesteijn 1995; Hall 1985; Wisseman Christie 1995). Most of these formations were still going strong about 1400. There had not been, however, significant contacts between the Mongols and the Javanese—indeed, if there ever were. And while the Mongol empire emerged at one end of the earth, elsewhere, in the Americas, mighty states developed: those of the Incas and Aztecs—but without ever having had any contact with the Mongols or the Javanese and not even with each other. Events in Europe had taken a different course. After a period of cultural efflorescence in ancient Greece (van der Vliet 1987), came the Roman Empire, which trampled upon chiefdoms, early states, and big man societies (Nash 1978; Roymans 1990). After the fall of the Romans in 476 CE, Merovingians, Carolingians, and Capetians succeeded each other in West Europe (Claessen 1985), the Umayyads and the Abbasids did the same in the Islamized region (Lapidus 1988). Only through war did these countries learn of each others’ existence. Some cultures foreign to Europe and the Near East were already known—at least by name—in fifteenth century Europe by the reports of travelers such as Marco Polo, William of Rubroek, and De Plano Carpini (Dawson 1955). In later times, greater parts of the world became superficially known to the Europeans: America by the travels of Columbus (1492), Polynesia by those of James Cook (1768–1780), and parts of Africa by the works of Stanley and Livingston in the nineteenth century. And in this way, the existence of numerous till then unknown peoples and cultures also became known, for instance: the Mayas (Schele and Freidel 1990), the Hawaiians (Cook 1967), the kingdoms of Dahomey and Buganda in Africa (Claessen 1970). It became clear that although unknown to each other, a large variety of cultures had come into being, but still the !Kung, the Hadza, and the Kubu hunted and gathered and would continue for centuries to do so. At first sight, the bewildering variety of countries and cultures seemed wholly unconnected, but after some time and much study, it became clear that there existed forms of connection between some tribes and states. A phenomenon will be

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analyzed here under the name of evolutionary streams (cf. Claessen 2006: 16 ff.). This idea is not wholly new. Morgan already hinted at a separate development for the American cultures and those of the Old World in his Ancient Society (1877: 40) and characterized the American achievements as “unaided self-development.” In later years, the Italian Marxist, Melotti (1977), proposed that various modes of production had developed from the Primitive Community, which meant that the Asiatic mode of production had played a role in one region, but not in another.13 More or less at the same period, the French anthropologist Coquery-Vidrovitch (1969) introduced the idea of a specific African mode of production. And, in his Principles of Social Evolution the British anthropologist, Hallpike (1986: 289–291) stated that a number of core principles formed the basis for the development of various evolutionary streams and described in detail the differences between the Chinese and the Indo-European stream. It is logical that the beginning of a multidirectional model of social evolution should be coterminous with the early presence of Homo sapiens. As a whole, Homo sapiens was undifferentiated but made up of different groups with considerable differences in way of life and social organization. They were influenced by the nature of the game they hunted, the availability of inhabitable caves, the proximity of water, the quantities and sorts of vegetable food, and the necessity to build up stocks. In the course of time, such differences gradually widened and gave rise to a great variety between their cultural regions. This not only holds for Europe, as is described by Champion et al. (1984) but is also valid for East Asia (Testart 1982), Indonesia (Hagesteijn 1995; Slamet-Velsink 1996), and the New World (Steward 1955). A similar degree of variation can be found among the Australian Aborigines (Lourandos 1997) and the hunting and gathering groups of Africa (e.g., Lee 1969; Woodburn 1968). From such beginnings, a number of evolutionary streams developed. Such a stream can best be seen as a number of more or less mutually related societies within a certain region, the cultures of which display communal features which are based on the transformation of a limited number of “core principles” (Claessen 2000b: 171).14 Regarding these core principles, the emphasis should not be on differences in technology because these are in the first instance determined by the physical environment, but rather on differences in ideology, as Steward described in relation to the “secondary aspects” that give a culture its specific “color” (Steward 1955). Reference could also be made to The Early State (Claessen and Skalník 1978), in which several contributions discussed regional differences in ideological and political structures between early polities. These ideological aspects permeated all aspects of the organization of the state and made it possible to distinguish for example between early African states, and those of Polynesia.

13

According to Dmitri Bondarenko (personal communication), the ideas akin to those of Melotti (1977) were rather popular among Soviet historians who developed them independently of Melotti. 14 These views have been influenced by the Leiden concept of the Field of Anthropological Study, developed by J.P.B. de Josselin de Jong and P.E. de Josselin de Jong (de Josselin de Jong 1980). This is a conceptual tool to consider different cultures as structural transformations of each other.

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2.2 Polynesia The cultures of Polynesia can be traced back to the Ancestral Polynesian Culture that evolved in a fairly isolated situation in the Tonga–Fiji–Samoa region some 2000 years ago, when a number of Lapita, coming from Melanesia, settled there (Kirch 1997: 250; Kirch and Green 2001). Here, in isolation, the Lapita gradually evolved into the Ancient Polynesian which spread in the next thousand years over most of the islands and archipelagos of the Pacific. The work of Kirch and Green (2001), based on archeological, linguistic and ethnographic data, demonstrates clearly that Polynesian sociopolitical organization from its very beginning was hierarchically structured. The hierarchy was rooted in the kinship system, in which a number of families (lineages) formed a closely connected whole, usually called a ramage.15 The concept of the ramage structured Polynesian societies along hierarchical lines, legitimated by the sacredness of the chiefs. So, from their inception on, they demonstrated a kind of ranking in and among the families. The family with the most ancestral genealogy was considered to have the highest status. The leader of this family, the oldest male, was the ariki (also ari’i or ali’i). He fulfilled the ritual and political tasks of the community. His position was hereditary, with the eldest son (normally) succeeding to his father’s position. This sometimes was no easy procedure, for when a chief had married several wives, he might have several sons, who would be competing to succeed him. Who should succeed his father? He should be the one with the highest rank, born from the highest ranking wife. The decision as to which of the wives had the highest rank depended upon the rank of her father and even that could create difficulties, for if the rank of some of the wives’ fathers was more or less equal, then the ranks of the respective grandfathers came into play. Goldman (1970) called these quarrels “status rivalry”; a phenomenon that played a role in various situations. It was believed that the eldest line (the first-born line) traced its descent back to the world of the gods (Flannery and Marcus 2012: 208–215, 316–337, 341–348; Thomas 1990: 28–33). Within the family, brothers and sisters were ranked according to their birth order, and this rank was again inherited by their descendants. As the family heir in the most senior line was supposed to be directly allied with the gods, access to the gods for the other ramage members had to pass through him. This high status was coupled with his influence on fertility. This implied that without his ritual intervention, the work of ordinary people would have no effect (cf. Firth 1963 [1936]; Thomas 1990: 29 ff.). Also in Polynesia, the complex interaction between societal format, economy, and ideology decided the type of sociopolitical organization. So, for instance in the Samoa Islands, the relatively low population density at the end of the eighteenth century prevented the development of a hierarchical organization. This was present in concept but was never realized. People easily could escape demanding chiefs and flee to other villages where they would be welcome because of the shortage of 15

There have been written numerous books and articles on the phenomenon of the ramage. Among these: Firth (1963 [1936]), Goldman (1970), Sahlins (1972 [1958]).

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people there (van Bakel 1989, 1991; Tcherkézoff 1997). The Hawai’i Islands, in contrast, had a sizeable population. The presence of large structures such as irrigation canals and fishponds suggests that there was some degree of population pressure (Kirch and Sahlins 1992, Vol. 2: 118–157; Tuggle 1979: 172, 175). On the other hand, the presence of kings and the many nobles and priests demonstrate that enough of a surplus was produced—or extorted from the peasants—to allow for such luxuries (van Bakel 1991; Kolb 1994). When there was a balance between the size of the population and the resources, sociopolitical structures in the Polynesian islands could evolve into complexities. In the Tonga Islands (Douaire-Marsaudon 1998; Flannery and Marcus 2012: 315–328), in Hawai’i, as well as in Tahiti (Claessen 2018), early state structures emerged. Where the size of the population remained below maximum—as was the case in Samoa—the sociopolitical structure remained embryonic. In the smaller Marquesas and Cook Islands, only chiefly structures were found, while the situation in Easter Island was not very clear, as the island was only discovered after the collapse of its sociopolitical structure.16 On the tiny atolls, such as Raroia or Tokelau, a ramage structure was also operational, although in embryonic form, as it appears from the works of Danielsson (1956: 40– 52), and Huntsman and Hooper (1996: 154–163). When the pressure on the resources seriously increased, a collapse of the administration was inevitable, as happened in the Marquesas Islands (van Bakel 1989; Kirch 1991) and on Easter Island (van Tilburg 1994). It seems that there are sufficient reasons to consider Polynesia as a region with its own evolutionary stream. The island cultures were all based on just a few core elements, which do not occur elsewhere—or at least not in this specific form or combination. It could be asked, of course, if the Polynesian developments should not be placed within a wider context, a context that also included Melanesia and Micronesia—and perhaps also Indonesia. Such an approach could be defended, but it would be very difficult to formulate core principles that held equally for all these so variant regions. It is true that Polynesian culture was derived from a Melanesian form, but there are few reasons to think that there were still any important ties between Melanesia and Polynesia after the development in isolation of the Ancestral Polynesian Culture. The connection with Indonesia is even still more remote. According to Irwin (1992), the prehistory of Micronesia is still relatively unknown, and eventual cultural ties with Polynesia are not yet very clear. In their study, Kirch and Green (2001) strongly defend the view that the Polynesian culture is a unique configuration, which should not be considered as just a subtype of a larger Oceanic culture (see Claessen 2006: 21).

16

On the Marquesas Islands: Thomas (1990); on Easter Island: McCall (1994), van Tilburg (1994); on the Cook Islands: Goldman (1970).

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2.3 Africa South of the Sahara In this region, a second case of a separate evolutionary stream can be found. As in the Polynesian case, the accent will be laid on ideological matters, as these can be isolated easily and have no connection with those of Polynesia. Any investigation of Africa has to begin with the fact that this continent was for a long time extremely thinly populated. Small clumps of people lived scattered here and there, surrounded by huge empty spaces. Some regions may have had a slightly denser population, as, e.g., West Africa, and the Interlacustrine region (Newman 1995). Here and there, more complex societies emerged from this regional context. Various factors played a role in this development: Some regions were more attractive than others, climatic changes led to migrations, such as, e.g., the desertification of the Sahara, which led to migrations to the savannah and the forest regions in the south. Then, there was the so-called Bantu migration (van Bakel 1981; Lwango-Lunyiigo and Vansina 1992), in which groups of migrating Bantu-speaking peoples influenced cultures and societies in a wide arc around the Congo region. There was also the migration of the Nilotic peoples in the east of Africa (Newman 1995: 160–177). A role in the development of African cultures was also played by the emergence of long-distance trade (Connah 1987). The migrations and the long-distance trade were not always or everywhere present, nor were they contemporaneous with each other, but together they engendered the specific features of African societies (cf. Claessen 1981). These features cannot be found in the political structures, nor in the agriculture, or trade. In these respects, the African early states did not differ greatly from early states elsewhere (as appears in Claessen and Skalník 1978). The specific features of African societies have to be found in those aspects of the culture where ideology is dominant: in religion, kinship systems, juridical beliefs, etc. Relations between people on any level of hierarchy were perceived in terms of kinship and/or communal ties. In some cases, such ties were real; in others, it was only a way of expressing feelings of dependency (Tymowski 2009; Vansina 1991). The ruler, whether a chief or king, was considered sacred, being the intermediary between the people and the gods, spirits, or ancestors. The titles chief and king will be used in this analysis interchangeably, for they both were expressions of the same ideological model (Muller 1981). The ruler was not a “divine king” as was posited by Frazer (1957 [1911]) and adopted by several Africanists [for a critical overview of this concept: Muller (1981)]. The relation between the king and the fertility of women, cattle, and land—so it was believed—ran via the forefather who had first opened up the land for sowing. In doing this, he had met the spirit of the earth, and after some negotiations, the spirit gave him, in exchange for specific rituals, the power to procure fertility (for details: Claessen and Oosten 1995, chapters on Africa). In West Africa, this story got a supplement. Here, it was believed that at a certain moment, a stranger (the “hunter”) appeared from the forest, who distributed meat which gave him a great status. He married the daughter of the earth priest and was made chief. In this way, the new line of rulers got the gift of procuring fertility. Interestingly, traces of these beliefs are still found to play a role as it appears from anthropological fieldwork (Jansen 1995; Muller 1999; Zuiderwijk 1998: 92).

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Small groups of cultivators who want to settle in the area and desire to lay a claim on the fertility magic of the ritual leader have to ask his permission—which is always given—and have to display a certain degree of obedience in return. In this way, the original population does increase considerably, and the chiefdom grows in importance (Kopytoff 1999: 88; Vansina 1991). In the daily life, the sacred status of the rulers was expressed in a number of rules and prescriptions. For instance, they were not permitted to touch the earth with their bare feet. To avoid this, they wore slippers, were carried on litters, stood on lion skins or cow hides, or else their movements were limited to their own enclosure. There was a multitude of rules to do with food and drink. People were supposed to believe that the ruler never ate, drank, or slept—and thus were prevented from seeing him do so. Interestingly, this prescription apparently did not apply to white visitors, as experienced by Speke during his stay in Buganda (Speke 1863). When the ruler died, it was in many societies customary to conceal his death for a while so that they could find a successor. When the death was finally announced, it set off great mourning rituals, which usually included human sacrifices and a ritual anarchy, which occurred in Dahomey on a large scale (Claessen 1970: 71 ff.; Skertchly 1874: 239 ff.). A successor for the ruler usually was “chosen” from among the ruler’s sons and sometimes from his brothers or nephews. In some early states, as for example, Dahomey principles were developed to limit the number of candidates considerably. Here, the crown-prince—or vidaho—was appointed during his father’s lifetime. In other early states, a fierce battle between the candidates could ensue, which ended when all but one had died, as was the case among the Shilluk (Evans-Pritchard 1948). As the heir was not sacred (in contrast to Polynesia), he had to be made so, and extensive, often protracted rituals were needed to change the human prince into a sacred ruler (for a survey of these rituals: Claessen 2015). Human sacrifices were usually part of the rituals, and the candidate had to transgress various rules of his society in a ritual manner. He committed incest—whether or not symbolically (as was the case in Buganda), he ate human flesh (usually of the deceased ruler), and several men were killed in the process. Once the ruler was made sacred, a direct link was laid between his health and the fertility of women, cattle, and land. As it was believed that only strong, healthy men would be able to conduct the necessary rituals, the survival of society was at risk once the physical powers of the ruler began to wane. Numerous rituals were applied to prevent this happening—but in the end, the “threat” could no longer be avoided, and the death of the ruler was inevitable. He then was politely invited to commit suicide—or he was killed by his entourage or his wives. Several scholars have linked this regicide with the blatant transgressions committed by the ruler during his inauguration. These violations would present society with an argument to get rid of him when he was no longer able to comply with his ritual obligations (Abélès 1981; Muller 1980: 161, 1981: 239–250). Attractive though this theory may seem, the ethnographical data (collected in Claessen 2015) do not fit this view. In none of the analyzed cases was there a connection to the

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transgressions, nor was there any mentioning of a scapegoat. The fact that there was no killing of the king in Dahomey and Buganda was not due to their greater political power, but the simple fact that neither the akhosu—the king of Dahomey —nor the kabaka—the king of Buganda—was directly connected with fertility; moreover, the climate in their regions was fertile, there was thus no reason to kill the ruler. An explanation for the regicide might be found in two factors: one is fear for an unsure future, and the other might be connected with feelings of reciprocity: we, the people, have served the ruler, have worked for him, and have given him food and daughters. We fulfilled our obligation; now, it is time for him to do his duty. In most of the African early states, there was found a close connection between the ruler and his mother. The queen mother was not just his mother, she was a political institution because she embodied the bond between her family and the ruler. This family was, because of her, the most prominent in the society, and this led to the custom that once the mother of the ruler predeceased her son, the family appointed another woman as “mother of the king.” Many of the women around the ruler had a ritual function and fulfilled some of his ritual obligations as, e.g., in Kuba. They were the “sisters” he married to create political alliances, the women who brewed his beer or cared for his hair and nail clippings. Rain making was mentioned only in regions where climatic conditions made it necessary, such as in Kuba, Jukun, and Shilluk. In Bunyoro, rain making was delegated by the king to ritual specialists. One can see in the developments in Africa the effect of a few core principles: the existence of strong family bonds; chiefs starting as leaders of families with which other groups are associated; the belief in earth spirits with whom some chiefs had a contract centering on fertility; the strong ritual obligations of the bearer of fertility— and his untimely death in case of crop failure. On the other hand, his ritual status gave him a strong legitimacy. Though in most places, the sacred kingship in Africa has disappeared under the influence of Christianity, Islam, capitalism, colonialism, civil wars, and education, the detailed studies by Simonse show that even today in some regions, rainmakers still play a role and still run the risk of being killed ritually when the rain does not come (Simonse 1992, 1995). It can be stated that also in Africa south of the Sahara, the factors of the Complex Interaction Model did play their role: population growth, the need for more production, the development of trade, growing sociopolitical organizations, all contributing to growing complexity. However, in some cases, the interplay did not produce growth and as a consequence led to decline and fall. There are also cases in Africa of societies that never made it to early states and remained chiefdoms or just village societies, as argued by Shifferd (1987; cf. Claessen 2002). Action as well as reaction played a role, and quite, a few decisions were made on the basis of local optimization (van Parijs 1981). In these respects, the developments in Africa conform to evolutionary patterns in other parts of the world. The specific African character, however, was determined by the African core principles.

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Unity in Diversity

In the first part of this chapter, the emergence of sociopolitical forms, as chiefdoms, and states was investigated. In the second part, it was established that in several cases, some connection between sociopolitical structures existed, as, e.g., in Polynesia and in Africa south of the Sahara. This third part will investigate in what way the structures of widely varying sociopolitical organizations showed conformity, as was demonstrated in, e.g., The Early State (Claessen and Skalník 1978).17 Conformity, however, does not mean that these polities were identical (cf. Wason 1995). Such types of generalized statements are based on intercultural comparisons. To make such comparisons possible, the data must be formulated in such a way that facilitates comparison. This means usually that specific functions or activities should be brought under more general headings. To give an example: in Van Vorsten en Volken (Claessen 1970: 178–179), it appeared that in one case, the ruler was associated with the lion, in another with the condor, elsewhere with the eagle, and in again another case with the shark. These attributes were listed under a “general heading” that the ruler was associated with the most dangerous animal in the region. This heading refers to a functional equivalent. This method was applied earlier by Steward (1955). In Van Vorsten en Volken, as well as in The Early State, the detailed descriptions of early states were split up in hundreds of comparisons, which enabled us to establish that there were on the one hand important differences between various regions, but on the other hand that in terms of structure and function, the sociopolitical organizations of the early states showed a high degree of correspondence. On the basis of these findings, we therefore decided to consider the early state as a separate category (Claessen and Oosten 1995; Claessen and Skalník 1978, 1981; Claessen and van de Velde 1987). Interestingly, corresponding sociopolitical structures emerged in various evolutionary streams and at different moments in time. There is no reason to suppose some form of contact between say, the Carolingian empire and the early states of the Maya in Mesoamerica, though they emerged at more or less the same time. Neither is there any reason to suppose influences from Polynesia on the development of early states in Africa south of the Sahara. Yet, it should not be doubted that there have been at times influences from one state upon the emergence of another one. There were often intensive contacts through which developments which appeared in the one society were soon known and adopted by all neighbors; a phenomenon called “peer polity interaction” (Renfrew and Cherry 1986). This, however, does not explain the occurrence of similar structures in widely varying regions, where a direct form of contact could not have happened. A first attempt to deal with this type of problem was undertaken by Julian H. Steward (1955 [1936]) in his study of the origins of the patrilineal band. He made it plain that under specific circumstances, a patrilineal band would evolve. This finding demonstrated that under specific circumstances, cultural phenomena would 17

See also: Adams (1966), Carneiro (1981), Claessen (1970), Earle (1991).

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be repeated. We thus should look for specific circumstances under which sociopolitical forms would be repeated. Jonathan Haas (1995: 18) pointed out that early states share basic characteristics of institutional bureaucracies, ruling elites, state religions, standing armies, and centralized economies. These common characteristics, according to Haas, represent a universal response to similar forces of population pressure, resource shortage, and increasing social complexity. One might consider these conditions the basic circumstances under which similar solutions develop. This view might be supported by the consideration that hard necessity induces governments to replace impractical, or non-functional solutions by better, more effective ones. This is a pragmatic point of view. There are seemingly only a few practical possibilities to govern a large-scale society and to keep it afloat (Claessen 1970: 318–319; Haas 1995: 17; Hallpike 1986: 243, 277). A pragmatic view, indeed, but also a real Darwinian too, for less effectual institutions will not stand the test of hard reality and will disappear. It is the survival of the fittest in optima forma! Acknowledgements The author wishes to thank Dr. Renée Hagesteijn, who was so kind as to read and critically comment upon an earlier version of this chapter. The comments have greatly improved it. I also wish to thank Dr. Jose Spruijt for her technical assistance.

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Origins of the State and Urbanization: Regional Perspectives Nikolay N. Kradin

1

Introduction

A problem of statehood formation ranks among the so-called endless questions of the humanities. The representatives of different divisions of knowledge—philosophers, sociologists, prehistorians, and political scientist—have taken on this problem. A great many various and sundry views in this respect were proposed, and hundreds of books and many thousands of articles on that subject were written. It is evident that by far the biggest contribution to development of this subject were taken by historians, archeologists and anthropologists. Only in this millennium, a large quantity of important works in this direction was published (Earle 2002; Flannery and Marcus 2012; Maisels 2010; Trigger 2003; Yoffee 2005; etc.). Now, it must be acknowledged that the future trends of the state origins study are related, in the first place, to archeology. The sources of historical research (narrative data) are practically exhausted. One should not expect an appearance of some new texts which might force us to have overhauled our concepts of the state origin in some or other region. The other important aspect resides that political anthropology was deprived of the subject of its traditional research. After formation of the capitalist world-system, there are no traditional chiefdoms and early states. For this reason, political anthropologists have now concentrated on the study of the post-traditional and post-colonial societies as well as on the anthropological aspects of political culture of the contemporary societies (Abélès 2000). And only archeology feels more or less confident. Every year, many excavations are carried out that expand and deepen our concepts of the genesis of the earliest states and

N. N. Kradin (&) Institute of History, Archaeology and Ethnology, Far East Branch of the Russian Academy of Sciences, 89 Pushkinskaya St., Vladivostok, Russia e-mail: [email protected] © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2020 D. M. Bondarenko et al. (eds.), The Evolution of Social Institutions, World-Systems Evolution and Global Futures, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-51437-2_5

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pre-state formations. The introduction of scientific methods into the current archeology provides fundamentally new information. Genetics, stable isotopes, and studies of climate changes provide different data that could not be obtained by the traditional research methods. It is in this area where we see the largest number of discoveries that will probably have an impact on changing the historical paradigm (Kristiansen 2012: 78). All of this gives new boosts to archeological studies. In the present article, the current status of the discussion about state origins will be briefly generalized and the prospects of using the archeological data will be shown. The prospects of studying regional urbanization in the formation of the complex societies are illustrated by the example of Manchuria and Russian Far East.

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State Origins Theory Today

This section summarizes the main conclusions about the origin of the state over the past half-century. The state, its creation, peculiarities, and structure are, perhaps, the most debatable questions of the science of society. At the present time, the theoretical understanding of statehood origin processes has approached a certain borderline. The long debates during several last decades led the researchers to conclude that it is reasonable to understand the state formation as the complex multifactorial phenomenon motivated by both internal (ecology, economy system, growth in human population, technological innovations, war, ideology, etc.) and external (war, external pressure, trade, diffusion, etc.) factors (Carneiro 1970, 2012; Claessen 2000; Claessen and Skalnik 1978; 1981; Earle 1997; Feinman and Marcus 1998; Haas 1982; Korotayev 1991; Pavlenko 1989; Renfrew 1972; Service 1975; Turchin 2003, 2016; etc.). As Jonathan Haas has rightly said in that regard, many of theories explain surely state origins only in cases when they serve to illustrate the confirmation of certain points of view (Haas 1982: 130). None of the factors identified by the researchers in the course of discussion is universal. At the present time, most historians, anthropologists, and archeologists recognize that statehood origin is a complex multivariant process depending on a large number of diverse variables (Peregrine et al. 2007). In such case, an essence of statehood formation is reflected in two approaches that complement each other. According to the integrative (functional) version, the state emerges owing to organizational needs with which the tribal and chiefdom organization of power (rule) cannot cope. At that, the early state power is of the consensual rather than forcible character. In the opinion of the followers of the conflictive version, statehood is a means of stabilization of stratified society and prevention of conflicts in the struggle between different groups for key life-sustaining resources. This version explains the origin of the state on the basis of the relationships of exploitation, class struggle, war, and interethnic dominance. There are valid arguments in both approaches. The state is simultaneously formed as a bearer of universally beneficial functions and as an expression of social

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conflict. Moreover, this ambivalence is also true for the modern state and there is perhaps no predicting whether these contradictions in development of the state have a tendency to intensify in certain circumstances (Bondarenko 2014; Claessen and Skalnik 1978, 1981; Feinman and Marcus 1998; Fried 1967; Haas 1982; Kradin 2001, 2009; Price and Feinman 2010; Service 1975; etc.). One can speak of three key ways of seizing power—economy, war, and ideology (Mann 1986). Economic power is based on the control over key economy sectors as well as on access to resources. The military factor manifests itself, first of all, with the leadership of armed and trained supporters. The ideological suggests a provision of dominance through the culture-significant symbols for society and is essential to group integration. Apparently, the general line of state origin was realized through the monopolization by the ruling groups of key administrative positions. Because statehood (in the form of special administrative machinery), class structure, and private ownership are developed in the process of long-term transformation, many researchers came to conclusion that it is appropriate to identify some intermediate phases between the pre-hierarchical, non-state societies, and established pre-industrial states (civilizations). In anthropology and archeology, an opinion exists that it is necessary to identify three stages of the politogenesis in the pre-industrial societies: 1. Pre-state society in which the popular majority was already excluded from public management (“pre-feudal society”, “pre-class society”, “proto-statechiefdom”, “chiefdom”, “analogues of state”, etc.); 2. Early state with inchoate administrative institutions but little private ownership (“early-class society”, “early-feudal”, “archaic”, “barbarian” or “estates” state, etc.); 3. Established pre-industrial state with bureaucracy and private ownership (“traditional state”, “mature state”, “agrarian state”, “estates-class society”, “developed state”, “pre-industrial state”, etc.) (Claessen and Skalnik 1978, 1981; Gellner 1988; Grinin 2008, 2009, 2011; Ilyushechkin 1990; Johnson and Earle 1987; Kradin 2001; Pavlenko 1989; Service 1975; Skalnik 2009, 2012; Vasilyev 1983, 2000). As factual information is accumulated, the interpretations demonstrate a vast variety of political systems that could arise under monotypic environmental conditions (Berezkin 2013). At one extreme, there are complex societies without strongly pronounced hierarchical structure, while at the other are classic chiefdoms in various states of complexity, and early states. Between them, there are a great many intermediate forms with different economic bases, political organizations, and ideological institutions. Therefore, researchers at the present moment are inclined to use more neutral terms: middle-scale society, complex society, etc. (Chapman 2003, 2008, etc.). In the early 1990s and especially in the new millennium, the unilinear theories of the state origin became subject to criticism (Pauketat 2007; Yoffee 2005). In a gradual manner, the bilinear and multilinear theories have received wide

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acceptance. An identification of two poles (strategies) of variability which can be recorded in different societies has acquired a vogue. The first of them (hierarchical or networked) is based on the vertical power structure and centralization. Of it, the concentration of wealth among the elite, control of elite over the prestige trade and handicraft, existence of cults of chiefs and their ancestors, reflection of statuses and hierarchy in the funeral ritualism, ideological system and architecture are characteristic. The second (heterarchical or corporative) model characteristically has greater distribution of wealth and power, segmental social organization and universalizing cosmology, and architecture emphasizing a standardized lifestyle. The heterarchical strategy should not be considered as more egalitarian in comparison with hierarchy, or preceding to it. Heterarchy is not less sophisticated than hierarchy. As examples, consider the Greek poleis and subsequent trading city-states, which possessed great internal cultural and organizational complexity (Berent 2000; Berezkin 1995, 2000; Blanton et al. 1996; Bondarenko 2006, 2007; Bondarenko and Korotayev 2000; Chacon and Mendoza 2017; Chapman 2008; Crumley 1995, 2001; Feinman 2001; Grinin et al. 2004; Haas 2001; Korotayev 1995; Kradin et al. 2000; Price and Feinman 2010; etc.). Cross-cultural studies of state formation and alternative not less complex in structure forms of political organizations have come to the fore (Smith 2012; Trigger 2003). As the concrete variability of political systems has been shown to be diverse, in increasing frequency, researchers dismiss the rigid typological schemes that gained acceptance in the XX century.

3

Archeology of Complexity and Urbanization

The nature of the relation between urbanization and dynamics of the complex societies was the subject matter of many researchers (Adams 1966; Blanton 1982; Childe 1950; Marcus and Sabloff 2008). By now, a rather innumerable number of books and articles discussing the problematic of origin and early stages of urbanism have been written (see review by Blanton 1976; Cowgill 2004; Fox 1977; Smith 2014; Stoddart 1999; etc.), although the above-mentioned article by Childe, “The Urban Revolution” (1950) must be admitted as the immediate trigger of discussion. He identified a list of 10 indicators of civilization: emergence of urban centers; origin of classes due to food production and specialists living in towns (craftsmen, tradesmen, priests, bureaucracy, etc.); sizeable surplus product extractable by the elite; monumental religious, palatial and public architecture; isolating of ruling strata, with pronounced social stratification fixed in the material record; the appearance of a written language and the beginnings of mathematics; development of delicate artistic style; long-distance trading; formation of state; and collection of taxes or tribute. It will be understood that the article by Childe is devoted not so much to urbanization as it is to the description of how the process of forming classes and the state can be materialized in the archeological record (Smith 2003a, b: 187).

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A concept of urban revolution has given us insights into how the process of formation the early civilizations can be shown. One has to assent to an opinion than the model of urban “revolution” and evidences of civilization had a major impact on all subsequent discussions about the state origin (Smith 2009: 22). The paper marked the beginning of the infinite discussion about the criteria of the state. In various works, it was emphasized that quite a number of early states in Africa were not familiar with written language; however, non-state societies having the ability to write are known. Social stratification fixed in funerary ceremony and monumental structures is characteristic of both states and chiefdoms. It is hardly possible to determine whether this or that society is a chiefdom or state based on the level of handcraft development, trade, or number of levels of social hierarchy. Childe’s was time and again improved and revised, and there are many critical works in which a wide range of civilization evidences is enumerated (Adams 1966; Feinman and Marcus 1998; Flannery 1998; Flannery and Marcus 2012; Haas 1982; Maisels 1999; Renfrew 1972; Smith 2003a, b). At that, it must be acknowledged that such criteria as town, monumental architecture, developed handicrafts, and social differentiation in burials occur more often than others, which of course does not mean to say that the others are erroneous. On the one hand, researchers, when compiling a list of criteria, are governed by a certain tradition established by Childe. On the other hand, each scientist rests, to one degree or another, on his specific material and experience of the region which he knows best of all. One way or another, universal criteria of complex societies of the state level are not likely. The archeologists specializing in complex societies should speak of the large-scale and diverse processes of state formation, which varied greatly from one region to the other. This is analogous in modern archeology to the dynamics of neolitisation, the period in different areas that was the beginning of varied features of the Neolithic sedenterization, pottery technology, domestication of plant or animals, etc. Similarly, in state origins, in some regions, some attributes of complex societies could emerge, while in other regions a distinct set of other criteria. Also, not many researchers share a narrative of synchronicity of urbanization with politogenesis processes. In particular, Wengrow (2015) has published a study in which he affirms, referring to Possehl, the non-state character of the urban centers in archaic India of the III millennium BCE (Possehl 1998). Monica Smith agrees also with Possehl’s conclusions that there is no direct logical relationship between population density and the appearance of centralized management structures (Smith 2003a, b: 12). Wengrow provides another example of the “towns without state”— settlements of the Trypillian culture in the Danube–Dnieper interfluve. Recently, Jennings and Earle (2016) expressed doubts that state origins and urbanization proceeded as a synchronous processes. They provided two examples that do not fit in this scheme. The first example adduced was the Tiwanaku town in the Andes in the territory of modern-day Bolivia. The authors come to the conclusion that the state in the region of Lake Titicaca was founded 300 years after the beginning of the construction of the major monumental structures. The second example includes Hawaii, well-known to Earle, where in his opinion, the state

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emerged under conditions of a total absence of something similar to towns (see also Hommon 2013: 129). On this point, the classic nomadic empires are also among the exceptions. Their political system (super-complex chiefdoms) fails to meet the requirements of the state, while the existence of towns is confirmed by large-scale archeological excavations (Kradin 2014). How do the above-mentioned hypotheses correspond to the statistical correlations between the political complexity and urbanization? For these purposes, we will use The Atlas of Cultural Evolution by Peter Peregrine for 289 primitive societies and archaic states (ACE; Peregrine 2003). In this Atlas, the data from the nine-volume Encyclopedia of Prehistory was summarized (Peregrine and Ember 2001, 2002), which involved more than 200 researchers from 20 countries and covers all of the most important and known archeological cultures of the prehistoric epoch. The chronological scope of the work is 500,000–500 years BCE. Such sample should be fully representative for pursuing both synchronous and diachronous cross-cultural research on prehistoric societies and politogenesis (Peregrine 2003, 2004). Note the respective criteria in ACE: Scale 4. Urbanization (Largest Settlement) 1 = Fewer than 100 persons 2 = 100–399 persons 3 = 400 + persons Scale 9. Political Integration 1 = Autonomous local communities 2 = 1 or 2 level above community 3 = 3 or more levels above community Political integration and urbanization Urbanization Largest settlement < 100 persons Political Integration

Autonomous local communities 1 or 2 level above community 3 or more levels above community Total

Total Largest settlement 100-399 persons

Largest settlement 400 + persons

112

4

0

116

37

64

15

116

0

6

51

57

149

74

66

289

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The Pearson linear correlation (R = 0.833) and Spearman rank correlation (R = 0.822) show very high values, which suggests a strong relation between the urbanization processes and formation of the political hierarchy. However, the qualitative analysis is more important for us in this case. The third column in the second row demonstrates that, in the societies with one or two levels of hierarchy (i.e., in chiefdoms), large settlements with population of more than 400 people have existed in 15 cases. The other conclusion: The second column in the third row points to the fact that, in six cases, the complex societies with hierarchy numbering three and more levels (super-complex chiefdoms and early states) had no towns. In such a way, the above-mentioned hypotheses for possibility of the existence of towns “without state” and early states without towns are confirmed by the statistical data. Such examples may be few—only six and 15 cases, respectively, from a sample of 289 societies. However, the probability that such situations exist should not be ignored. One way or another, the urbanization is closely related to state origins. As was shown in the first section, the study of state origins at this time has approached a certain limit. The researchers predominantly share a number of key positions but, thereafter, the progress is absent. It may be that further study is needed in comparative investigations (Smith 2012) and regional perspectives. If we look at the literature on urbanization, the majority of books and articles attend to exclusively classic cases—antiquity, European Middle Ages, Ancient Middle East (Egypt, Mesopotamia, India, China), Maya, and Aztecs in the New World. All other historical examples are covered more poorly in the scientific literature. Meantime, the study of new regions opens up new horizons and new questions. This paper deals with the specificity of politogenesis on the Russian Far East territory as well as in the contiguous zones of the Northeast China (Manchuria) and Korean Peninsula. These territories, just as Korean and Japanese polities, are not among the primary centers of the state origins literature. All of polities emerging within this area belong to so-called secondary early states, i.e., those formed in close vicinity to and under certain influence of the already existing civilizational centers (China, in that case).

4

Early State: Bohai Kingdom (698–926)

In the middle of the first millennium AD, Mohe (靺鞨), a Tungusic people, lived within the territory of Manchuria and the Russian Far East. Seven large Mohe communities (chiefdoms, in all appearances) are known. Sumo Mohe (粟末部) living in the extreme southwest of the Mohe lands. The Heishui Mohe (黑水靺鞨) in the northeast, in valleys of lower courses of the Sungari, Ussuri, and Amur rivers, were the best known. According to data in chronicles, Mohe sowed wheat and panic grass and turned up the soil by horses. They engaged in breeding of hogs and horses. Mohe were socially stratified. The narrative sources inform us that the wealthy people could have possessed several hundreds of hogs. Categories of

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inferior social groups were also known. It is reported in Chinese chronicles that each fortress and village has its elder independent of the others. According to archeological data, the Mohe settlements in Primorye region were divided into several ranks (Kradin 2010). Seven large Mohe polities (chiefdoms of tribes) differing in the number of fighters they could provide are known. Each of them was headed by chief, and they occupied a sufficiently large territory. Apart these seven, other Mohe polities (in Chinese bu (部)—by tradition, this term is translated as “tribe”) are known. Their number was much more. The power of a chief was hereditary. Most likely, bu could correspond to chiefdoms while buluo (部落) to complex chiefdoms. The Heishui polity was the largest and powerful. In the both versions of the Tang history, it is reported that they were divided into 16 “generations” over the course of time (Reckel 1995: 22, 23). It stands to reason that Heishui Mohe were already a complex chiefdom or confederation of chiefdoms. Early in the VII century, Sumo Mohe were subjected to heavy pressure on the part of the Tang dynasty. This promoted the processes of internal unity, and in the middle of the VII century, Sumo Mohe created a large alliance with centralized power called in the Turkic epitaphs “Bokli khaganate” (Kradin 2005). In 698, the Sumo Mohe chief Da Zuorong declared the creation of a state (initially, it was called Zhen while, since 713, Bohai [渤海]). The territory of Bohai included Eastern Manchuria, part of North Korea, and Southwestern territories of Primorye. The Bohai rulers aspired to expand the country territory by means of inclusion, mainly eastern and northern territories in the VIII–IX centuries. Bohai reached its full flowering during the rule of van Da Qinmao (737-793) who assumed the postmortem name “Enlightened” for his contribution to advancement of education and culture in the country. During its rule, the system of five capital cities arose and the system of state institutions was formed. During the kingship of Da Rexiu (818-830), the territory of the state had reached the maximum size and the Heishui Mohe were partly conquered. About the Bohai state, there is considerable literature in Eastern countries— China, Korea, and Japan—but rather little in European languages (Ivliev 2007; Suk 2012; Reckel 1995; Shavkunov 1968, 1994; Song Kiho 2010; Yung 2007). In the Bohai state, there were five capitals. The country was divided into 15 provinces and 62 districts (Tong-Woo 2012). The idea of five capital cities was adopted, in all appearances, from the Tang Empire. However, in Bohai, the five capital cities were also related to real requirements of country management. Most early states had no tightly integrated economical and political infrastructure. Because the administrative control of the central authorities was minimal, the ruler of many early states was forced to perambulate continuously through his possessions to control all regions and to confirm the legitimacy of his kingship. This system is comparable to the well-known gafol institution—a phenomenon widely occurring in world history (Kobishchanov 1987). In whole, the Bohai Kingdom was a classic early state in which the absence of both private ownership of the means of production and a well-formed bureaucratic apparatus is characteristic. Because the monopoly of the early state over application

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of legal violence was insufficient to offset separatism, a personage of sacralized ruler was a figure consolidating and unifying the society. The monarch was the “intermediary” between the godhood and subjects, and provided, thanks to his sacral capabilities, stability, and prosperity of the society. By means of gifts, this personage consolidated social communications into the single network. With increase in complexity, the early Bohai state could have been transformed to the “mature” traditional states of which a certain development of private ownership and formation of the state machinery are characteristic. With the advent of an effective political power system, the requirement for sacral functions of the “sanctified king” became unnecessary. This is reflected in the changes in social structure of the Bohai state (Kradin 1989). Initially, the social structure was as follows: wang (king) and his relatives, six noble clans, chiefs and elders, common peoples. In the period of the maximum prosperity, the social structure of Bohai consisted of two basic classes: (1) bureaucratic–administrative elite divided into eight ranks, which included the royal family, great aristocracy, and noblemen and (2) immediate producers—peasants combined into communities and various inferior categories. The administrative machinery of Bohai had copied the bureaucratic model of the Tang Empire and included three administrations, six ministries as well as other departments. The ministries were divided into left and right. Functionaries were divided into eight ranks. They wore the clothes of different colors with credential badges (Reckel 1995: 63–65; XTS 219). For records management, the Bohai bureaucrats adopted the Chinese writing system. Schools for teaching the elite children reading and writing were established. Among the elite, the Buddhism obtained a certain circulation. Bohai had diplomatic relations with neighboring countries: the Tang Empire, Silla, and Inner Asian nomadic empires. Every exchange embassy was accompanied by exchange of the prestige goods. Of special interests are Bohai’s contacts with Japan. During the existence of Bohai, 35 embassies were sent to the Land of the Rising Sun. During this period, 13 diplomatic had arrived from Japan (Hee 2007, 2012). Formerly, it was thought that the entire territory of present-day Primorye and a considerable part of the Khabarovsk region were a part of the Bohai state. At the present time, one can state with a greater or lesser certainty that only southern and partially western part of Primorye region belonged to Bohai (Gelman 2005). Here, two administrative units of the Bohai state were situated. The southern Primorye formed a part of the Yanzhou District, Lunyuanfu province. The Kraskino town was its center. The Razdolnaya (Suifen) River valley was a part of the Shuaibin Province. Many researchers believe that the fortress site of Dachengzi in China, within easy reach of the crossing of the Russian–Chinese boundary by the Suifen River, was a center of this province. The territory north of Khanka Lake, the Partizanskaya (Suchan) River valley and Eastern Primorye were not included in the Bohai state. Internal trade was also developed. In the final part of chapter 219 of the “New history of the Tang dynasty” (Xin Tang shu), it is narrated that there was economic specialization among the regions in Bohai: “Hares of Taibaishan mountains, red ware from Nanhai region, soya sauce from Zhacheng, deer from Buyeo area, hogs from Mojie region, horses from Shuaibin region, fabric from Xianzhou, silk wool

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from Wozhou, silk fabrics from Longzhou, iron from Weicheng, rice from Lucheng, crucian carp from Meituo Lake are popular” (Reckel 1995: 65–66; XTS 219). The relations of Primorye with the central areas of Bohai and China are also confirmed by findings of Chinese mirrors and ornaments, porcelain, and glazed ware. According to archaological data, an exchange of the foodstuffs between the continental and coastal areas of Primorye is discernible (Gelman 2006).

5

Bohai Towns

In Primorye, many archeological sites of Bohai state are known—towns, fortresses, settlements, temples, and burial grounds. The Kraskino town is the best investigated among them. The site is located in the southernmost Primorye region of the Russian Far East, on the right bank of the Tsukanovka (Yanchihe) river mouth, at about 400 m from the Posyet Bay shore. The site form resembles a horseshoe oriented with its convex side northward. There are three gates. From the south gate to the north, a street dividing the city into two parts was laid. Magnetometer measurements show traces of quarters and side streets between them as well as individual farm yards (Bessonova 2008) (Fig. 1). The city of Yan was the center of the similarly named district the and port from which the route to Japan began. Over many years, intensive investigations (Gelman et al. 2011a, b; Ivliev and Boldin 2006) have revealed various buildings and structures: stone walls enclosing a Buddhist temple complex, a rectangular temple platform consisting of 30 stone bases, tileries, the stone foundation of the tower, a water well composed of stone, etc. The city was a great center of concentrating arts (pottery, metallurgy, tile production) as well as civil engineering. Many prestige consumer items and evidences of developed external and internal trade (porcelain, glazed ceramics, and ornaments) were found. Dwellings with kangs— stove-couches heated with hot air—were also excavated. The thickness of the cultural layer at the site exceeds two meters. Five construction horizons related to different stages of activities were identified. The city existed during several centuries (from the VIII century to the first half of the X century). The upper chronological boundary can be dated by the Khitan vessel found in the well. Most likely, this vessel ended up at the bottom of the well in the period of conquest of Bohai by the Khitans (919-926) or directly after this. On the Bohai territory, the marionette state Dongdan (东丹 Eastern Khitan) was established. The elder son of Laio Emperor Abaoji was placed as the head of state, because, among the Mongol-speaking nomads, the custom had existed according to which the eldest sons received their portions and were detached from the parents while the household was inherited by the youngest of the sons. The residents of Bohai were laid under tribute but rose in revolt practically immediately. The revolt was put down but, after a time, new commotions started. In order to liquidate the focus of discontent, the Khitans used a strategy often seen in pre-industrial states: During 930-940, they resettled by force about half a million Bohai men, including

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Fig. 1 Kraskino Bohai town (excavation areas are in black)

those from Shuaibin, to their lands in the valleys of the Shara-Muren and Liao Rivers. A part of Bohai peoples was later deported to central Mongolia for construction of Zhengzhou city (present site Chintolgoi Balgas) (Kradin et al. 2011). Considering the fact that only a limited part of Primorye was a part of Bohai (southern Primorye, Suifen valley, and Khanka Lake lowland), it is thought that the Khitan deportation did not affect other territories of the region. One can concede that any part of Primorye could later form the part of one of the semi-dependent on the Khitan’s vassal possessions rendering tribute to the Khitan Emperor. With the course of time, the available space always fills, and these territories were occupied by the Jurchen people.

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In the mid-eighth century, the strict planning corresponding to the Chinese architectural style appeared in Bohai. The capitals and district centers of Bohai were constructed in compliance with the Chinese construction cannons of that time when the capital of Tang (Chang’an town) was taken as the architectural standard. So, the Supreme, Eastern, and Middle capitals of Bohai as well as the fortress Dachengzi, etc., have the rectangular plan or something close to it in form. In a number of Bohai towns, an internal town located, as a rule, in the northern part of the site town can be structurally identified. The internal (or “emperor”) towns were fixed in the territories of the Upper, Eastern, and Middle capitals of Bohai. The same principle was a basis of the planning of the Bohai towns and fortress situated in the Primorye territory. The rectangular planning and position of the government and palaces buildings in the northern part of the internal town reflect the Confucian conception, whereby the ruler of the Celestial Empire governs a state sitting atop a throne and with his face exposed to south. At the sites, where geophysical and archeological studies were systematically carried out (Kraskino and Koksharovka towns), the planning of residential areas was determined. At the Kraskino site, their orientation is essentially preserved over the whole period of the town’s existence. Most probably, the social ranks of the residents in different quarters differed. Distribution of bronze articles within the town suggests that representatives of the privileged part of population lived near central roads and the temple in the northern part of the town, from the beginning (Gelman et al. 2018). In Koksharovka, the streets were originally oriented in the cardinal directions; researchers identify here a “rectangular” housing system (Kluyev et al 2018). A high housing density is characteristic of the residential quarters of the Kraskino, Koksharovka, and Gorbatka sites. Streets and squares urban settlements have important practical and sociocultural functions. Streets connect different parts of the town and organized its internal arrangement, and major arterial roads divide the town into significant parts. Thus, a broad avenue up to 110 m in width found in Dongjingcheng stretched from the southern gate of the town to the southern gate of the imperial town. In the Kraskino town, a street with width of up to 30 m, stretching from the southern gate to the northern wall of the defensive earthworks, suggests two parts of the city: eastern and western. Other broad streets have divided the towns into the quarters and blocks within them. Numerous events of town life took place in streets and squares (Gelman and Astashenkova 2018). A significant role in the formation the Bohai state was played by urban centers of different levels taking the places corresponding to their ranks in the administrative and territorial structure. Apart from general functions providing the centralized administration of Bohai lands, many towns were essential to the state economy. The system of five capitals taken from China proved to be most reliable for the satisfactory control over the great territory of Bohai. Generally, the majority of chief towns of districts were, apparently, handcraftedagricultural centers with the appropriate subsistence system. They provided themselves with necessary products and collected tribute/taxes for further dispatch to the district, provincial, or metropolitan centers. Some towns became the most important

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centers providing for international relations and trade. Kraskino town, for example, was simultaneously district and provincial center, place for extraction of essential products (salt), and also port-town. The sea route to Japan started from here while coming into town was a land road leading from the Eastern Capital on which came caravans with goods and embassies. As the towns appeared, urban culture had an effect on expansion not only of technological innovations but also the formation of fashion in clothes, leisure activity, literature, music and dances, monumental and small-size sculpture, architecture, pictorial art, decorative and applied arts (Gelman and Astashenkova 2018; Gelman et al. 2018).

6

Tributary Empire: Jurchen Dynasty (1115–1234)

The term Jurchens (女眞) appears in the X century. This name was taken by the tribes and chiefdoms coming out of Heishui Mohe who had taken over the territories of North Manchuria, Primorye, and Priamurye as these emptied after the Khitan conquest. The Khitans divided the Jurchens into the “civilians” who settled on territories controlled by the Liao Empire and “wild people” who lived to the east and northeast of Sungari. The Jurchens depended on Khitans and paid a tribute to them in furs, jewels, medicinal herbs, horses, etc. Hunting falcons were especially valuable, and at the request of Khitans, the Jurchens organized regular trips to the Ugo people (Chinese “five nations”) to catch falcons. These birds lived presumably in the lower reaches of Sungari, Ussuri and contiguous to these the Amur River valley (on early stages of Jurchens’ history see Franke 1975, 1978; Kychanov 1966; Larichev 1998; Vorobyev 1975, 1982). In the latter half of the XI century, the consolidation of Jurchens commenced under the leadership of the Wanyan lineage. Gradually, all the larger Jurchens formations proved to be under their influence. In 1112, the chief of Jurchens Aguda refused to dance at the formal party of the Khitan Emperor. This became the cause of conflict and outbreak of war. In 1115, Aguda proclaimed the establishment of the Golden Empire of Jurchens (Jin in Chinese) and took the emperorship.1 Over a period of ten years, the Jurchens defeated the Khitans and captured their entire territory. The irony of it is that the rest of the Khitans were in the westernmost city Zhenzhou (the site Chintolgoi Balgas), where they formerly had been deported Bohai peoples (Kradin et al. 2011: 166–167). In 1130, Khitans left Zhenzhou and went into Central Asia where they established the Empire of Kara-Khitans (Xi Liao, in Chinese, Western Liao). Aguda had taken the investiture in accordance with the Chinese tradition. In order to legitimate his rule, at the instigation of his Bohaian consultant Yang Pue, he sent a letter to the Khitan Emperor. This message to the emperor proposed to 1

It is believed that the chronology of the Jurchen politogenesis was inaccurately reflected in the Jin and Liao annals and the Song sources are more reliable. The question concerning the initial name of the state is also debated (Garsia 2012: 171 note 260).

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legitimate the status of Aguda as emperor, to establish diplomatic relations, to pay a tribute to the Jurchens and to concede two frontier provinces (Franke 1975: 158– 165, 1987: 94). Eventually, the mission fell through due to the harsh tone of the answering letter. However, aiming for legitimation of his position through the mechanisms used in the Chinese political tradition attracts an interest. After the conquest of the Liao territory, the Jurchens decided to conquer China. Gradually, they succeeded in conquering practically the whole of North China, and the Southern Song Empire was obliged to pay a vast yearly tribute. In 1127 alone, the Jurchens got from the Song Empire 1 million liangs of gold, 10 million silver ingots, 10 million pieces of silk, and 10 million pieces of fabrics. However, the economic “center” of the Far Eastern world-system was situated in the south and the silver received in tribute flowed back after a short time since the Jurchens had to use it to pay for goods acquired in the Song Empire (Goncharov 1986: 25; Theile 1971: 113–115). The Jurchens had inherited many things from their predecessors. As a result of their annexation of the Bohai population and seizure of the Liao and Northern Song territories, they received vast material and human resources. This gave to them an opportunity to quickly establish a strong state with a developed economy. In as little as four years after declaration of statehood, the Jurchens created their own writing system (so-called large writing in 1119 and small writing in 1138). Under the Jurchin state, various sciences and medicine, literature and poetry, figurative art, decorative and applied arts, and architecture came into widespread acceptance (Shavkunov 1990; Vorobyev 1975, 1982; etc.). The Jurchen Jin (金朝) dynasty (1115–1234) as well as the Khitan Liao Empire consisted of two major cultural layers: Jurchens conquerors and exploited Chinese peasants and townspeople. In the period of prosperity, the Jurchen Empire occupied the whole Manchuria, the southern Far East of Russia, part of North Korea, and considerable part of North China. The population size in the Jin Empire early in the XIII century reached more than 53 million men of which about 10% were Jurchens and not less than 83% Chinese (Franke 1978: 12, 14). As with Bohai and Khitans, the Jurchens had five capital cities. The country was divided into 19 provinces heading by the governor-generals. The provinces, in turn, consisted of oblasts (territories), districts, and counties. In order to control the conquered territories, the Jurchens used the dual management system established by the Khitans. Over the course of time, a battle rose at court between the followers of “military” and “administrative” parties. Taizong (1123–1135) was concerned about the separatist sentiments of the “militarists” and subscribed to the second party (Tao Jing-shen 1976). Over a period of 1133–1134, the dual administration system was reorganized into a common countrywide bureaucratic apparatus. In the new state structure, many things were borrowed from the traditional Chinese bureaucratic system; however, quite a number of elements of Jurchen public management were included in it. The basis of the machine of

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government was composed of six ministries: public works, justice, finance, ceremonies, ranks, and military arts. All high posts in the government were occupied by Jurchens, but most functionaries in all ministries and departments were Chinese (Vorobyev 1975: 150–178). Fearing dilution, the Jurchens strived to restrict a percentage of state officials from the Chinese in the highest agencies of state power. The proportion of the Chinese increased continuously but never attained half (Vorobyev 1975: 171–173). The system of examinations taken from China was modified to make it harder for Chinese to pass. It was easily for the Jurchens to take the degree chin-shih than for the Chinese. In addition, the Jurchens could take up an appointment by inheritance or through good connections. As for the Chinese, more favorable terms were created for former subjects of Liao (“northerners”) than for subjects of Song (“southerners”) (Tao Jing-shen 1976: 55–57). Despite that, for most of the XII century, different written languages (Chinese, Khitan, and Jurchen) continued to coexist in different parts of the government. Only in 1191-1192 was an attempt made to eliminate Khitan writing (Wittfogel and Feng 1949: 252–253). The multinational social structure of the Jurchen Empire arose as a result of complex acculturation processes. The empire was headed by the emperor and his numerous relatives. They were major owners of property and held most of key posts in the political machinery. Below came the Jurchen aristocracy. Its representatives possessed appreciable wealth and served as the main towers of the state. The next lowest level was occupied by tribal chiefs and, finally, ordinary Jurchens who were the foundation of the army and were engaged in arable farming, cattle breeding, hunting, and handicraft. As for the non-Jurchens, Chinese officials and great landowners held key social positions in the empire although the supreme authority had limited their influence. The status of free Chinese craftsmen, tradesmen, and countrymen was much worse. The severities of governmental taxes and homage devolved upon their shoulders. But the situation of state-owned and private slaves forced to work for their owners was even more difficult. A system of military settlements—mengan and mouk’e—was organized to provide additional maintenance of order in the conquered territories (Vorobyev 1975: 130–142). On the extreme northeast of the Jin Empire were the provinces of Helan (adjoining Korea and extreme south of Primorye), Huligai (in Northeastern Manchuria), and Xupin (in southern and central Primorye and Eastern Manchuria). The South Ussuriisk medieval town, now destroyed, was the center for Xupin Province. In addition, Yelan Province, with its center at the Nikolayevka site, was located in the Primorye region (the Partizanskaya or Suchan River valley and the neighboring coastal area). The Chuguyevka medieval town was, by all appearances, a center of another administrative unit in the Ussuri River headwaters. It is possible that Novonezhino town was a local center of the coastal area of southeastern Primorye.

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Buffer State: Eastern Xia Polity (1215–1233)

On the left bank of the Razdolnaya (Suifen) River, in the boundaries of the present-day city of Ussuriisk, funeral complexes constructed in tribute to representatives of the Jurchen elite were found as early as the XIX century. Here were stone turtles with stele inscriptions. Vitaly E. Larichev succeeded in establishing that the Jurchen prince Yesykui (Digunai, Wanyan Zhong) was entombed here. His story reveals some unknown pages of Primorye history. Wanyan Zhong was one of the supporters of the first Jurchen Emperor (Aguda), and he took part in the first crusades against the Liao, and, on the death of his brother, leader of the Yelan Jurchens, took the reins of government of the southeastern Primorye into his own hands. In 1124, Wanyan Zhong re-located the headquarters from Yelan to Xupin. It was said that the lands of Yelan were not really fertile and were “alkalinized”. Most likely, the city which became the administrative center of the Jurchen Province of Xupin was constructed in a new place. Here, he lived to his death in 1137. Later on, in 1171, the Jurchen Emperor ordered the nominal unification of the Yelan and Xupin mengan, retaining a common name Yelan (Artemyeva and Ivliev 2000; Larichev 1974). In the early XIII century, an external threat hung over the Jurchen state. In 1206, the superpower of Genghis Khan was established in the Mongolian steppe. After four years, the Mongols launched a war against the Jin Empire. The war was of a protracted nature and lasted about a quarter of a century, until 1233–1234. The Mongols sacked many cities and slaughtered their populations, and many skilled craftsmen were taken prisoner. In 1215, the commander of the Jin troops in Liaodong, Puxian Wannu, declared the foundation of the Great Zhen state. After several military defeats by the Jurchen Empire and rebellious Khitans, he decided to resettle his army and people to the remote eastern provinces of the Jurchen Empire. Here, the state of Eastern Xia (in Chinese Dong Xia) was proclaimed. The newly formed state occupied the territories of three provinces of the Golden Empire: Helan, Xupin, and Huligai (eastern Manchuria, extreme north of Korean Peninsula, and a large part of Primorye) (Ivliev 1993, 1996). During this time period, a great number of people were resettled and many cities with strong fortifications were constructed. There is no doubt that the Jin model was taken as a basis of the governmentadministrative structure of the state of Eastern Xia. However, it is important to note that the new state had a number of distinctive features: (1) smaller, not imperial size; (2) collapse of economic infrastructure and a certain step backward to naturalizing the economy; (3) “stressful” character of power (over fears of Mongol invasion) which would take the form of (a) accretion of the personal power of the ruler (Puxian Wannu) and his local administrators; (b) minimization of the already not very large private sector;( c) militarization of economy (fortification construction, ferrous and nonferrous metallurgy, etc.) and society (military-hierarchical system of the military settlements mengan—mouk’e). Generally, the social and economic machinery of the state of Eastern Xia requires special consideration (Fig. 2).

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Fig. 2 Krasnoyarovka town —Kaiyuan, Capital of Eastern Xia

By this time, the city of Kaiyuan was constructed near two towns (South and West Ussuriisk fortress) on the right bank of the Suifen River, three kilometers south of today’s Ussuriisk. This was the unassailable fortress and capital city of the state of Eastern Xia. The site is located upon a high Krasnoyarovka bald peak and is enclosed by strong defense constructions and has an additional system of internal fortifications. Here, the remains of numerous palace and temple buildings and populous residential quarters of ordinary people were investigated. Excavations found wealthy housekeeping equipment, ornaments, armament supplies, etc. (Artemyeva 2011; Artemyeva and Ivliev 2000). The strategic plans of Puxian Wannu were not to be. The state existed only 18 years. In 1233, Mongolian troops invaded the territory of Primorye and reached Xupin and Kaiyuan. Puxian Wannu himself was taken captive. Two years later, the military division (tymen) Kaiyuan was established on this territory by order of chagan Ögödei. From that time, the independent history of the Jurchen states of Jin was terminated.

8

Jurchen Urbanization

The Jurchen preserved the system of five capitals. In the Jin Empire, one can observe a succession of the Liao architectural traditions, which are visible in the fortifications and city plan. However, the Jurchen cities and towns have more developed and

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powerful fortifications. In the Russian Primorye, some big towns (archeological sites) complied with the Chinese architectural cannons (Chuguevka, Western Ussuriisk fortress), while in others, the conformity was only partial (Nikolayevka in Partizansky district). Some plain (Sùpín city–South Ussuriisk fortress) and mountain (Kaiyan–Krasnoyarsk fortress) towns were constructed in accordance with other principles that are not yet understood (Baksheeva and Prokopets 2018). A distinctive contribution to town architecture and fortification was the Jurchen mountain fortress (Shaiga, Ekaterinovka, Lazo, Ananyevka, etc.). It is recognized that some aspects of the mountain fortress had existed in the time of the Jin Dynasty, but the rise of their construction is in the period of the buffer Jurchen state Eastern Xia (1115– 1233). Narrow valleys, generally with a flowing brook, were selected. The rampart was constructed in such a way as to run along the ridges of hills surrounding the valley. Terraces were built in the valley, and on them, houses, storehouses, and workshops were constructed. As a rule, the passage of the narrow valley to the main valley was the most critical place. Here, the strongest fortifications, with frontal towers and defensive works near gates. Characteristic of mountain towns and fortresses is so-called forbidden towns and redoubts—small, square in plan, fortifications lying within the fortress at a high, strategically valuable place or near the gate. The discoveries of the Russian scholars allow us to reconstruct different ranks of mountain towns and fortresses in Primorye, depending on their state functions. For example, Krasnoyarovka site—Kaiyuan city or Supreme capital of the Eastern Xia state [Atremyeva 2011])—was the city exercising metropolitan functions. The South Ussuriisk site of Sùpín city was the center of the similarly named province in the Jurchen Empire. Shaiga was a provincial town (fu), while the small fortresses such as Ananyevka were military settlements (mouk’e). Although their sizes and planigraphy are different, along with some special features, the Jurchen cities, towns, and fortresses are characterized by common features and planning. The mountain fortresses and towns in the periods of the Jurchen states Jin and Eastern Xia differ markedly from lowland sites in their constructional features. As a rule, a large stream valley with a water source was chosen for construction of the lowland centers. Along a crest, an embankment was built, so that the valley could be secured from attacks. The famous Shaiga fortress in the Partizansky District in the Primorye region is the best-known mountain site of such type. It was discovered by the outstanding Far Eastern archeologist Ernst Shavkunov and examined over a long time under his supervision (1990) (Fig. 3). As a result of excavations over many years, it was found that Shaiga was large production center. Many workshops in which the skilled craftsmen were engaged in smelting and forging ferrous and nonferrous metals were excavated. The fortress was divided into quarters. It is believed that the metallurgists lived in one part while the craftsmen–armorers, jewelers, and leather–dressers resided in other places. An inner earthwork separated off the “Forbidden City” for the governor and his administration. The discovery of the silver paiza (the accrediting mark or stamp of the functionary, zhizhong—a high-level Jurchen official) points to the high status of the Shaiga site in the political hierarchy of the Eastern Xia (Ivliev 2000, 2006) (Fig. 4).

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Fig. 3 Shaiga mountain town

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Fig. 4 Ananyevka mountain fortress

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The Ananyevka site situated at a distance of about 10 km from the Suifen River in Nadezhdinsky District can be considered an example of a small military settlement. The area of the site is more than 10.5 ha. Here, more than 100 dwellings with kangs, different economic and other facilities, were excavated. The size of the site, absence of administrative and palace buildings, as well as the important strategic position allow us to infer that a Jurchen military settlement (mouk’e) could have been placed here (Khoreev 2012).

9

Discussion and Conclusions

The contemporary conceptions of state formation differ in multiple ways from the classical theories. First, there are many factors that had influence on political centralization. Secondly, present-day historians, archeologists, and anthropologists are inclined to agree that state genesis was caused by two interrelated processes: the necessity of public consolidation as society becomes complex (integrative theory) and the necessity of regulating conflict situations in society (conflict approach, class theory). Thirdly, in recent years, a number of authors believe that societal complexity is not always or only related to statehood. They adhere to a multilinear theory of social transformation and identify several forms of political systems alternative to the state. The Bohai Kingdom was a typical early state. The Jurchen dynasty was a mature pre-industrial state and simultaneously a tributary empire. With the establishment of the Jurchen dynasty, a dual system of management formed in which the North Administration occupied a higher position and controlled northern people, its metropolitan country. The South Administration copied the bureaucratic system of China and controlled the settled agricultural territories. As the steppe and forest hinterland transformed into urban civilization, the representatives of the conqueror elite dressed min the attire of the defeated party, adopted its etiquette and written language or created its own. The Jurchens built large cities in which pompous palaces and temples were constructed to lodge the imperial court and its officials. With the expansion and inclusion of new agricultural areas of China, the process of sinicizing the conquerors developed. More and more they lost contact with Manchurian traditions. Especially the Jurchin tributary empire gradually transformed into the typical Chinese settled agricultural dynasty. In conclusion, it should be noted that all Far Eastern states under consideration show not only adoption of some elements of medieval Chinese political culture, but also influence of the states and empires of the Manchurian semi-periphery on the complex polities of the periphery. The influence was stimulatory, accelerating processes of economic and cultural expansion, and political and ethnic consolidation of pre-state societies. In the formation of the Bohai state, the Koguryo heritage as well as the influence of the Tang Empire played a certain role. Many principles

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of organization of the Khitan political system had a profound impact on the processes of politogenesis among the Jurchens, as did the Jurchens on the processes of politogenesis later among the Mongols and Manchurians, as expressed in international recognition, adoption by the pre-state societies of the titular system, the conception of supreme power, elements of administrative arrangement, models of political behavior, etc. The cities and towns in the Far Eastern states were centers of power, handicraft, trade, and ideology. Peasants constituted a considerable part of the urban population. Small fortresses (similar to the Jurchen’s military settlements—mouk’e) provided themselves with food stuffs. In the vicinity of the medium-size towns/fortresses, fields under cultivation were always available. In course of excavations, agricultural implements have been discovered at many of these archeological sites. An analysis of planigraphy of even such handicraft centers as Shaiga shows that a considerable portion of its inhabitants engaged in crop and livestock farming. In many cases, agricultural suburban areas are found in the immediate vicinity of the towns. The interior space of towns presents a complex network of routes, intersecting nodes, key points, orienting points, and other components. All together, they create the images of towns (Lynch 1960). Archeology allows us to reconstruct these networks. The streets of towns provide an example of the communication junctions of the medieval people. Astashenkova and Gelman present data according to which the number of the game chips in the area of the main street of Kraskino was larger than that in the residential quarters, showing that these were places community commitment. Trade shops and handicraft workshops were located on the streets. People intercommunicated, exchanged news, purchased goods, taken meals and gambled on the streets, and the squares too performed important social functions (Gelman and Astashenkova 2018). Many ancient and medieval towns can be considered as the tangible embodiment of the magical practices of their founders. Frequently, the city serves as the specific cosmogram. The classic embodiment is Chinese architecture where the capital city served as the special microcosm of the Universe. Because the Celestial Emperor was the Son of Heaven and embodiment of the sacral power on the Earth, the location of his capital should be best. The canonical components included the rectangular plan of the town with the axial structure of streets and gates. The most important axis is the yang-yin line oriented in the north–south direction and dividing the town into western and eastern halves. The emperor sat at the throne with facing south. The southern gate served as the symbolic point of maximal remoteness from the sacral center. For this reason, the northern part of the town was considered to be more prestige. Here, the palatial and administrative buildings (imperial town in the capitals), temples, places of elite living were located (Fu Xinian 2017; Skinner 1977; Steinhardt 1990, 2019; Wheatley 1971). One more essential component of the urban landscape of power is spatial segregation. The town is a place where various occupational and ethnic groups appear. Because people prefer to take up their residence by the side of their own kind, the boundaries between places of residence and intense activity of elite and other social

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groups begin to fix step by step, as did the formation of the quarters of different social groups (merchants, craftsmen, etc.). The classic example of this spatial segregation is provided by the allocation of the imperial towns in the capitals of Chinese dynasties and other states of the Far East (Bohai, Liao, Jin). To a lesser extent, the segregation is present in the so-called Forbidden towns in the towns/fortresses of Jurchens in Primorye (Krasnoyarovka, Shaiga, etc.). The pre-industrial town is of great importance from viewpoints of demonstrating the symbolic domination of power over the space. As metaphorically noticed Trigger, the size of architectural structure is a classic tool used by archeologists for measuring scales of economic and political power (Trigger 1990). The town walls or bulwarks always have an effect, especially on those who live in small huts or tents. The town walls thus reflect the pretensions of the wall owners. At the same time, the walls separate the town from the vicinity, being simultaneously both symbol and tool of segregation. From this perspective, the urban landscape is the invented and restructured artificial medium in accordance with the senses and intentions of the power possessors. The major task of such reformations is to mark the statuses and legitimacy of elite, structure space, and impose will on general public (Smith 2003a, b).

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The Old World

Fast Way Upstairs: Transformation of Assyrian Hereditary Rulership in the Late Bronze Age Alexander A. Nemirovsky

Abbreviations

СAD KEL RIMA 1

Chicago Assyrian Dictionary Veenhof 2003b Grayson 1987

This chapter deals with evolution of Assyrian hereditary rulers’ power from their status of iššiakku “city governor” to the status of šarru “king”1 and the accompanying institutional changes in Assyrian political order. However, this evolution took place so quickly by historical standards (mid-fourteenth–early thirteenth centuries BCE) and was so deep and widescale that using the well-known terminology within which scholars from R. Syme to R. Alston call Roman transition from the Republic to Empire a “Roman revolution,” the changes in discussion should be defined as “Assyrian revolution.” The main facts of this process were revealed in a number of Assyriological works, including recent ones, and our task is to present this material, with some additional observations in aspects of interest for the aims of this monograph.

1

We spell ancient terms in simplified transcription without diacritics; variations are due to ancient changes in language.

A. A. Nemirovsky (&) International Center of Anthropology, National Research University Higher School of Economics, 21/4 bldg 3 Staraya Basmannaya St, Moscow 105066, Russia e-mail: [email protected] © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2020 D. M. Bondarenko et al. (eds.), The Evolution of Social Institutions, World-Systems Evolution and Global Futures, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-51437-2_6

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Geopolitical Background

The Assyrian polity, where the process in discussion took place, had emerged many centuries earlier on the northeastern periphery of the ethno-cultural area of “Ancient Mesopotamian” (or “Sumero-Akkadian”) civilization. Its carriers identified themselves as a separate ethno-cultural community distinguishing itself from the surrounding world; the polities belonging to this areal supported the cult of the Sumero-Akkadian deities as their main protectors, used Akkadian and Sumerian languages as their native ones and shared many common concepts and traditions (the Sumerian language was eventually replaced by Akkadian as the spoken one, and after the turn of third and second mill. BCE it persisted as the dead language of scholarship, ritual and some official texts2). For us, the area can be described as one that included territories inhabited by populations who used Sumerian and Akkadian languages as their own. The greater part of this space, occupying almost whole of it —Lower Mesopotamia—was conceptualized as a special territorial unity since the end of third millennium BCE named “the Land of Sumer and Akkad”. According to the concept established at that time, this “Land” was predestined by the gods to exist under one rule as a separate realm (the times of fragmentation and change of centers of this area are now usually understood retrospectively as periods of transition of the united statehood in this “Land” from one dynasty to another). Since then, various dynasties used this concept when they exercised control over all of Lower Mesopotamia—or tried to obtain it. During the mid-eighteenth century BCE and, afterward, since the mid-fifteenth century BCE, the whole “Land of Sumer and Akkad” was controlled by the kings of Babylon (so the term “Babylonia” became synonymous with it). Those Assyrian kings who later controlled Babylonia often used the title “King of Sumer and Akkad”. There were some peripheral Akkadian centers laying outside of the “Land of Sumer and Akkad” as the latter was usually understood. They were located in territories surrounded and partly inhabited by foreign ethnic populations and, apparently, could be perceived as peripheral enclaves, something like “appendages” to the Land of Sumer and Akkad.3 One such center was Ashur, a city inhabited by 2

As it can be seen from the list of peoples in the Erra Epic (iv 131–136; Cagni 1969: 118), since mid-second millennium BC, the (sub) communities of the Assyrians, Akkadians (Babylonians) and “Sealanders” (population of extreme South of Mesopotamia, descended in the long run mainly from aboriginal Sumerians, but also from Akkadians mixed with them) were distinguised, while in first millennium, the latter were already perceived as part of “Akkadians”. 3 Cf.: in Hammurabi Laws, the list of cities subjected to him and benefacted by him does not include all the centers of Upper Mesopotamia really controlled by him, but only a few of them. Ashur and Nineveh are in the last place in the list, and before them, the city of Akkad is mentioned, associated with them in the text by the fact that in all three centers, Hammurabi claims to do something good for their goddess Ishtar. Thus, Ashur appears to be perceived here as part of the northeastern periphery of Akkad area. Hammurabi’s Laws proclaim him the lord of “Sumer and Akkad,” and perhaps he associated Ashur and Nineveh with Akkad as part of that dual unity, but according to most Mesopotamian ideas, Ashur was not a part of “Akkad” (and “Assyrians” and “Assyria” are opposed to “Akkad” = Babylonia from the second half of the second mill both by the Babylonians and the Assyrians).

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an Akkadian-speaking group with its own dialect of the Akkadian language (although at the beginning of the second millennium, Hurrians were also living there, Yamada 2017: 112). The circumstances of the emergence of Ashur as an independent city-state are unclear, but in any case, from the very beginning of the second millennium, it existed as such for several centuries (under self-designation al Aššur, “city/community of Ashur”); its population formed the city-state as its civic community, where the supreme “office” belonged to hereditary rulers bearing the title iššiakkum “city governor,” the Assyrian form of the Sumerian title ensi which carried in those times the meaning of “governor; city-governor under the authority of a certain (king’s) higher power”; in Ashur, this higher power was meant to be one of the god Ashur, the supreme deity and patron of the city. Through the twentiethth–mid-fourteenth centuries, Ashur remained almost constantly an independent or vassal but autonomous city-state; only once did it fall, c.1800 BCE, to the direct rule of a foreign king, the famous Šamši-Adad I, who conquered Ashur and set his son Išme-Dagan to rule it and nearby areas. Later, after the disintegration of the Šamši-Adad empire, Išme-Dagan and some of his descendants for a while retained power in Ashur (for some time, they were subordinated to Babylonia, due to the activities of Hammurabi who counted Ashur as part of his dominions in his Laws). However, by the end of the eighteenth century, there were neither Babylonian suzerainty nor the foreign Šamši-Adad dynasty in Ashur (this dynasty was overthrown by a ruler from the native Ashur people who boasted that he ousted the “foreign plague, not from the flesh of the city of Ashur”); Ashur again became a separate city-state under the rule of native iššiakkum. The wars conducted in those centuries were local and did not lead to noticeable changes. C. 1500 BCE Ashur defended its independence from some impingement of Kassite Babylonia; c. 1450 BCE it was however turned into a vassal of Mitanni, but in first half of the fourteenth century, taking advantage of dynastic unrest there, Ashur seceded from Mitanni, temporarily recognizing the suzerainty of Babylonia, but then rejected it too (at the end of the reign of Eriba-Adad I [1380–1354] or in the beginning of the reign of his son Aššur-uballit I [1353–1318]), thus regaining full sovereignty and entering into independent diplomatic contacts with Egypt (Babylonian king Burnaburiaš II protested against it in his letter to Egypt [EA 9], pretending to being suzerain of Ashur). Under Aššur-uballit, key changes began in the state of the Assyrian hereditary ruler and Ashur in general. He corresponded with Akhenaten and titled himself in these letters “king (šar) of the Land (mat) Aššur” and even the “great king,” declaring that he is “equal to the king of Hanigalbat [Mitanni],” EA 16—although in his own official inscriptions in Ashur, he still did not use royal titles and declared himself only iššiakku (see below). This distribution of titles (after centuries of categorical avoidance by Assyrian rulers of the title šarru) shows simultaneously unprecedented pretensions and a new strategy for Aššur-uballit, some changes that made it possible and some limitations and opposition to this course of action, enough so that Aššur-uballit did not dare to title himself king in his official home inscriptions, limiting usage of this title to other spheres.

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In foreign, military and territorial affairs, a real revolution took place under Aššur-uballit: he took advantage of the general geopolitical tumult in the Near East when two great powers of the region, Egypt and Mitanni, suddenly lost the main part of their might due to internal conflicts and the blows of Hittite Suppilliuma.4 Aššur-uballit managed to intervene in Hittite-Mitannisn confrontation on the side of one of the Mitannian parties. As the result of wars conducted by him on the territory of Mitanni against Hittites and various Mitannian forces (these wars ended after Suppilliiuma’s death), Mitanni (henceforth appearing under its other name, Hanigalbat) survived as a state independent for a while, but greatly decreased in size, while Aššur-uballit retained in his hands and took into the Ashur dominions a number of neighboring territories (partly owned and controlled by Mitanni and partly independent up to this moment). Thus, the city-state “al (the city of) Aššur” for the first time in its history turned into a rather vast territorial state (for the period of fourteenth– eleventh centuries, it is now called the Middle Assyrian empire)—“mat (the Land of) Aššur” (it is this expression we translate as “Assyria”, and Aššur-uballit used it in correspondence with Akhenaten). Aššur-uballit also attacked Arrapha (though main part of the latter was conquered not by him then, but by Babylonia, Jakob 2017a: 118; Wilhelm 1982: 50). The Babylonian king Burnaburiaš, who previously insisted to the Pharaoh that the Assyrians were only his disobedient vassals (EA 9), now married Aššur-uballit’s daughter, thus confirming his recognition of the significance and independence of Assyria; later, Aššur-uballit intervened in Babylonia and put on its throne his favorite candidate of Burnaburiaš’ sons. The territories forced by Aššur-uballit under the direct rule of the Ashur ruler (Nineveh5 and Arbela, and apparently, eastern Upper Mesopotamia) together with Ashur formed henceforth the heart of the “Land of Ashur”, a permanent, stable core of the Assyrian empire in the fourteenth–tenth centuries (while the much more famous conquests of subsequent Ashur kings in the west-central Upper Mesopotamia and other distant areas were unstable: almost all of them repeatedly fell away from Assyria in thirteenth–eleventh/tenth centuries; eventually, Assyria lost them for a century, being reduced to the aforementioned core, but based on that core Assyria was able to develop its unprecedented Neo-Assyrian expansion).

4 For various attempts to precisely date Aššur-uballit’s accession in relation to these events, see Maidman (2011), Nemirovsky (2009). 5 Cf. Llop 2012: 89; Tenu 2004: 28. Previously, Nineveh did not belong to Ashur (Reade 1998– 2001: 396. EA 23 tells that Tushratta of Mitanni sent a statue of Ishtar of Nineveh to Egypt for Pharaoh Amenhotep III (this occurred near the accession of Aššur-uballit); scholars argue if this fact shows Mitannian control of Nineveh, or not, as cult and statues of Ninevian Ishtar also existed in a number of centers besides Nineveh. We support the first opinion, since in EA 23, the sending of the statue is treated as an act of unique importance and friendship on the part of Tushratta and is furnished with certain reservations and conditions. This, apparently, presumes that it was the most venerated and powerful statue of Ninevian Ishtar, i.e., her statue from Nineveh itself; otherwise, the Pharaoh could presumably get a statue of Ishtar of Nineveh from elsewhere more easily. On the dynamics of Assyrian–Mitannain relations, see specially Kolinski (2015), Lion (2011), Maidman (2011), Tenu (2004).

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We dealt in such detail with Aššur-uballit’s reign because it formed a sudden and sharp turn in the history of the Ashur polity both in internal and outer affairs. Not only did he lay the foundation for the Assyrian “Empire,” but he also created the strong Middle Tigris core of the “Land of Ashur” (Jakobs 2017a: 139) that then remained the Assyrian base for several centuries (while many regions outside it were repeatedly acquired and lost).6 Geopolitically, the “Sumerian-Akkadian” space changed dramatically. To the north of the vast Babylonian kingdom (the “Land of Sumer and Akkad”), a second entity of the same type explosively grew up within two decades—the “Land of Ashur”, which just a century later under Tukulti-Ninurta I, began its numerous attempts to annex Babylonia itself. From now on, the “Ancient Mesopotamian” space included the “Land of Ashur” and its people “Assyrians” (aššurayu; earlier, this term denoted only the communal collective of the city-state of Ashur) and “the Land of Sumer and Akkad”/“Akkad”/ Babylonia and its people “Akkadians”. Then, as it can be seen from Aššur-uballit’s usage of royal titles in international correspondence but not in his home inscriptions, it was under him that the process of transforming the power of the Assyrian hereditary ruler into the royal one began (but only began), which process was the main component of the fundamental institutional transformation of the whole Assyrian political system. Aššur-uballit’s successors quickly completed this process. The result of this process, i.e., the political order of the Middle Assyrian realm, is well known from sources from the late fourteenth–eleventh centuries BCE. Its institutional and basic conceptual differences from the city-state of Ashur and what can be said about the timing of the corresponding changes will be described below. However, to understand their essence, we must keep in mind that they were started and carried out in the context of a certain Mesopotamian concept of power, which was known in Ashur, and after centuries of firm following a certain opposite choice made within the framework of this concept. This choice was just against the kingship; it was reproduced in Ashur for centuries, so undoubtedly reflexively and principally, not just according to inertial tradition.

2

The Statuses of Ensi/Iššiakku and šarru in Mesopotamia and the Traditions of the City-State of Ashur

According to Mesopotamian concepts formed by mid-third millennium, there were two statuses and titles for the hereditary ruler of a city-state—“city governor” (sumer. ensi) and “king” (sumer. lugal, akkad. šarru). The first of them implied, apparently (see Diakonoff 1983: 171, 192; Westenholz 2002: 20–37), a certain degree of integration with the structures of communal self-government, the second, in any case, bore the importance of autocratic command authority (especially over On the phenomenon of the Middle Assyrian “imperial” dimension, see Tenu (2009), Düring (2015, 2020).

6

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the armed forces and in the sphere of foreign policy, but also, to an increasing extent, in the domestic sphere); the power of the “king” was not delegated to him by any human institutions and had no formalized and institutional restrictions at all (which did not prevent Mesopotamians from recognizing a kind of “right to rebellion,” the admissibility of forcible eliminating a king particularly harmful to his subjects and violating the sociopolitical norm. State and official ideology of the second–first millennium admitted such eliminations, and mutineers or a king who overthrew his predecessor could openly declare their act as legitimate and righteous in terms of that ideology (however, such eliminations had no institutionalized, formalized protocol and were extraordinary acts). In the middle and second half of the third millennium, dynasties of city-states adopted the title of “king,” the rulers of great Mesopotamian powers bore it of course, and to the end of the third millennium, the title ensi was used to mean “city governor (steward, vice-regent, dependent ruler) subordinated to some higher ruler, i.e., some king.” For us, the difference between “king” and ensi refers primarily to the volume and limitations of power. However, for Mesopotamians, there was also a fundamental difference regarding the place of the ruler in the core area of the whole life support system of society, i.e., its interactions with the gods, on whose wrath and favor everything depended. The status of “king” was considered to be a special, key tool in the system of relations between people and gods, invented and established by the gods, with the role and function of the most effective intermediary between gods and people; the “king” could function not just due to some amount of power, but due to “kingship” (sum. nam-lugal, akk. šarrutu)—for Mesopotamians, it was not a “notion,” but an objective phenomenon constructed by the gods and assigned or attached by them to a man when they authorized him to be a “king”, i.e., to function as a responsible intermediary. The “kingship” existed independently of the king as a separate object, was used by him for communicating with them and obtaining their favor and help, thus providing him with great opportunities in all spheres, and it could at any time be taken from him by the gods by their will, and then, he would lose his royal throne. In most Mesopotamian societies, it was believed that the gods prefer to concentrate their “work” with the human communities around such an intermediary, the “king,” who was the main object of their direct manipulations during this “work” (and main subject of his community’s activities addressed to them), and that people could live successfully if only there is such an intermediary between their community and the gods. Each of the sides—human community and the gods—exercised its intentions toward the other primarily involving the king as the main instrument of the process. He was the chosen addressee of appeals to the gods for help, the chosen conductor of their power for the benefit of the land; the most effective and significant appeals to the gods and ceremonies that attracted their favor should have been carried out by him or on his behalf; as a reward for his behavior and their benevolence for him, the gods bestow abundance and prosperity to his entire realm (and well could realize their wrath on the king personally in the form of disasters sent to him and all his country). It was primarily up to the king to conduct penitential and expiatory rites, diverting the wrath of the gods from his country. Judging by the Mesopotamian proverb “When you see the benefits from

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venerating (your personal) god (-protector), praise (this) god and bless the king” (Lambert 1960: 229, iv 24–26, 233), it was believed that one’s private ties with his personal god-protector work more successfully in keeping with a whole system of interaction between community and the great gods, with the king as the central element of this interaction. This role is clearly expressed in other Mesopotamian aphorisms: “In the shadow (=under protection) of God is a man, and people is in the shadow of this man; (this) man is a king (who for people) is like a god” (quoted in a Neo-Assyrian letter, Frankfort 1978: 406 f. Not. 35) and “Men without a king are sheep without a shepherd” (Lambert 1960: 229, iv 14–15, 232). Note that according to Mesopotamian ideas, kingship, although an important instrument for interacting with the gods, was not something inborn in human society: in the distant past, relations of the gods and human communities were maintained without it, and only later did the gods invent the king’s office and create “kingship” (nam-lugal/šarrutu) and made it “come down from heaven”; thus, the gods simplified and centralized the mechanism of their interaction with humans, concentrating it from then on around the figure of the king (cf.: “When An and Enlil pronounced the name of mankind and established nam-ensi [ensi-ship, institute of ensi rule], they yet did not make nam-lugal [kingship] to descend from heaven” (Lagash list of rulers, Sollberher 1967: 282–283); “kingship descended from heaven, (city) Eredu (was chosen) for (executing) kingship. After the Flood, kingship (again) descended from heaven (the list of dynasties follows)” (Sumerian King List, Jacobsen 1939: 70 f., 76 f.); “The gods had not yet set up a king for the people (who was) with a blurred gaze… (Then) the kingship descended from heaven “(Old Babylonian epic about Etana, Frankfort 1978: 237). An describes the duties of the king: “Let … the king … perform correctly for me, An, the rites instituted for kingship, let him direct the schedules of the gods for me, let him give me offerings for (these and those days), let him present to me salutations, petitions, and plaints” (royal ritual of the twenty-first century BCE, Jacobsen 1976: 96 f.). Various texts emphasize the task assigned by the gods to the king to ensure social order in the human world. According to the concept presented above, the ability to be endowed with the described forces in such a volume is attached to the status of “king,” not to the status of rulers or high magistrates of other ranks. In the Assyrian dialect of Akkadian, the word ensi gave the form iššiakku(m) (it is written in the Assyrian texts phonetically or with the sumerogram ensi), and during many centuries of the existence of Ashur as a city-state (twentieth– mid-fourteenth centuries BCE with a short break for inclusion into Šamsi-Adad’s empire and its fraction), its hereditary rulers were not titled šarru(m), but only “iššiakku(m) of (god) Ashur” and “iššiakku(m) of (city) Ashur”. These expressions differed only in spelling, with the corresponding determinatives, “god” (DINGIR) and “area, city” (KI) attached to word “Ashur”, but were pronounced the same way, and were, as can be seen from their parallel use, practically synonymous, which reflected the closest connection and unity of the city of Ashur and its supreme deity of the same name (the emphatic spelling of the expression “the city of Ashur” as

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“the city of the divine Ashur” [a-limKI dA-šur]7 along with usual “city/polity of Ashur” [A(š)šurKI] reflects the same). Over time, the first spelling, with the determinative “god,” became predominant (Veenhof 2017: 71) and supplanted the second so that the title in this final form is often translated as “vice-regent of the god Ashur”. This title meant that the status of “king” in Ashur belongs only to its god Ashur (or to the god and his Ashur polity as one unity), and the Assyrian hereditary ruler is only his governor in Ashur (therefore, modern scholars translate iššiakku(m) as “vice-regent”, “vice-roy” or “steward”). This concept is clearly expressed in inscription on the seal of Silulu, one of the earliest rulers of Ashur who belonged to its native dynasty, if not the first of them (early twentieth century, Russell 2017: 458): A-šùrKI LUGAL, Si-lu-lu ÉNSI A-šùrKI (RIMA 1 A.0.27.1), literally: “Ashur city/polity (! = KI) is a king-šarrum, Silulu is iššiakkum (written by sumerogram as ensi) of the Ashur city/polity (! = KI)”. If attaching importance to the determinatives, then it is the Ashur polity, and not even its god Ashur (at least taken separately), that is declared here the “king” (whose vice-regent is Silulu), but rather concepts of god and his namesake polity were inseparable for the inscription compiler in this aspect.8 The additional titles of Ashur ruler were waklum (“overseer”) and ruba’um (“ruler, prince”). The fact that Ashur hereditary rulers were not titled “kings,” but only “city governors/vice-regents” of divine Ashur, who alone was declared to be a “king”, are crucial and cannot be just fruit of inertia, especially taking into account that many Mesopotamian rulers of city-states and small polities had already been using the title “king” for centuries. Just in the first centuries of the second millennium, at the same time, as the Ashur city-state flourished, the number of such rulers quickly increased, as many rulers, including tribal leaders, adopted the title šarru and passed it as inheritance, and one letter from Mari states: “Not a single king (šarru) is strong in himself; 10 or 15 kings follow Hammurabi the Babylonian, as many follow Rimsin the Larsian, as many follow Ibalpiel the Eshnunnite, as many follow Amutpiel the Katnian, (and) 20 kings follow Yarlimim the Yamhadian “(A .482, Dossin 1938: 117–118). The fact that even against this background the rulers of Ashur for centuries continued to strictly abstain from this title, being thus opposed to the outside world, and, by the standards of this world, even belittled before other rulers in rank, remains to be regarded as an expression of a reflexive and principled Thus constantly, in the treaty of Ashur with the North Mesopotamian kingdom centered in Šehna, second half of the eighteenth century (Eidem 1991; Thompson 2013: 94–96; Veenhof and Eidem 2008: 329). Сf. alternation of spellings URU dAššur, lit. “the city (URU) of the divine (d) Ashur” and simple URU Aššur (RIMA 1 A.0.40 .1001, etc.), and the later similar alternation in spelling of “Land of Ashur”. 8 An additional illustration of their inseparability is that during the period of the city-state, the Assyrians used formulas “oath of the City (alum)” and “oath of the City (alum) and the prince (ruba'um)” where “the City” appears in a place that was reserved to the “god” in usual Mesopotamian oath formulas (Yaron 1988: 116). One might think that in some cases, while seeing “Ashur” with determinative “god,” one should understand this determinative as the epithet “divine” relating to the unity of the god Ashur and his city/polity of Ashur (which, certainly, would not mean deification of the city itself). 7

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concept, according to which there should be no human “kings” in the Assyrian polity at all, since the corresponding supreme power and full dominion over Assyrians should belong only to the entire (self-governing) Ashur polity in its integral unity with its patron deity Ashur (who represented this unity within the title “iššiakkum of god Ashur”), while hereditary rulers of Ashur are only the highest functionaries of this “king”. Ashur thereby consciously rejected to some degree the views generally accepted by other Mesopotamians, according to which their society, in order to maintain optimal relations with the gods, would need a human šarru as its ruler endowed with šarrutu by these gods. Both the status of šarru and, accordingly, šarrutu were recognized in Ashur (in this respect, it shared the common Mesopotamian concept) but were thought to be the possession not of any human representative of the community but only of its eternal supreme deity (in unity with Ashur as a polity continuing over time). This was not totally unique but a very rare interpretation of the concept of royalty for Mesopotamia, and it was in full accord with an Ashur political order clearly designed to prevent the concentration of too much power in the hands of the hereditary ruler. The main bearers of this whole concept (some analogies for which can be found in the republican polis ideology and practice of classic antiquity) were presumably not the rulers themselves (as it contradicted their ambitions and did not allow them to equalize their titles with those of heads of most neighboring polities) but the institutions of communal self-government that shared power with him (see below), the top of Ashur civic collective and, likely, the autonomous institution closely associated with the latter—the temple of the god Ashur.

3

The Content of Institutional Changes Forming the Transition from the City-State of Ashur to the Kingdom of Assyria

Two complexes of available sources are dated back to the nineteenth–eighteenth centuries and to the end of fourteenth–eleventh centuries. The first one reflects a self-governing communal policy in which the ruler is only the hereditary chief magistrate and shares power (even formally) with other institutions. The second complex reflects the regime of royal autocracy, when there is no longer a single “political body” except the king and no institution restricting his power or sharing authority with him. For the entire interval between these stages, we have almost no data, except for the titles of rulers; although judging by them and for some other reasons (see below), nothing or almost nothing changed in the Assyrian state system until Aššur-uballit. Comparison is to be made between these stages. The political order of the city-state epoch, as known from data of early second millennium, was as follows (Dercksen 2004; Faist 2010: 16; Veenhof 2003c; 2017: 70–74; Veenhof and Eidem 2008: 20–23). There were several political institutions:

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(1) The City Assembly somehow representing the entire civic community of the Ashur polity; it was called simply alum (“city, community”). It possessed supreme power in all spheres, issued edicts, introduced laws, carried out the courts and passed verdicts, made decisions on foreign policy issues, etc. (there was a substructure of “Elders” within it, Veenhof 2003b: 439, 2017: 72). (2) The City Hall (lit. “house of the city”, bit alim) closely corresponded to royal palace in neighboring kingdoms in its role but had no connection with the ruler. It was, by definition in (Faist 2010: 16), “the main economic and administrative institution”; it regulated and directed foreign trade, collected taxes and duties, managed public stocks, granary, treasury, state archives and measures and weights; from funds that it accumulated and controlled, it issued loans and sold some goods (on behalf of the city community, it assured the latter’s monopoly on certain expensive goods). (3) The hereditary ruler with non-royal titles “iššiakku(m) (vice-regent) of Ashur”, waqlum (overseer) and ruba’um (ruler, leader). He acted as the chairman and chief executive officer of City Assembly and that was his place in the institutional structure. In particular, he led public construction, including, most importantly, temple building works. The City Hall (bit alim) was headed by a special elected magistrate—limu (and therefore was also called “House of limu —bit limim); every year a new limu was elected, and his name was eponymous for naming that year in official date reckoning and lists of years (which fact was a honorary perquisite of the role of his office; dating by years of reign of iššiakku(m) was not used). The hereditary ruler and his family members were not allowed to hold limu office (Faist 2010: 16). The magistracy of limu was a counterbalance of the ruler’s power, and its existence and closure from the ruler and his family clearly show the conscious will of Ashur polity to maintain such a counterbalance and limit the ruler by dividing the powers between him and the limu in such a way that the latter was not much inferior to the ruler in influence. The mutual “ratio” of these institutions is indicated by official formulas. The ruler was respectfully named in documents “mine/our, etc., lord (belum)” (Veenhof 2017: 71), his post was called respectfully “throne (kussum)”9—the same expressions were used by the neighbors to the kings (although “my lord “was far from being used only for a king). He left inscriptions on his behalf on buildings undertaken under his supervision with the binary formula “for the sake of himself (lit. his life) and for life/well-being of his City” (RIMA 1 A.0.31.1, A.0.33.2, A. 0.59.2, etc.), with his person in the first place, but official government decisions were transmitted to citizens in binary formula with the opposite order of subjects: “Thus says waklum (to such and such adressees): the City (alum) issued a decree that…” (Veenhof 2017: 70); this form expressed his subordinate position in relation to the alum community. Legal documents confirming the authority of a city official In one Old Assyrian Eponym list, accession of new iššiakkum is named “the beginning of the kussum (throne) of PN, waklum, our lord” (KEL A, 7–9).

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were called “strong tablets of the City (alum)” and, less commonly, “tablets of the alum and ruba’um” or “tablets of ruba’um” (Veenhof 2017: 70–71; TC II 41; cf. Veenhof 2003a: 439). The city judicial functionary-rabisum (appointed by the Assembly-alum; the ruler as waklum issued the document formalizing this appointment) could call himself both “the judicial functionary of my lord” and “the judicial functionary of the City-alum” (Veenhof 2017: 70). There were seals with the formula “of God Ashur (and) the City Hall” (Veenhof 2017: 73). The ruler’s palace is not mentioned in known Old Assyrian sources of the nineteenth–eighteenth centuries; there was no special bureaucratic apparatus at his own disposal. Foreign policy acts were made not on his behalf but on behalf of the entire Ashur polity-alum. The political order of the Middle Assyrian kingdom (Cancik-Kirschbaum 2014; Faist 2010: 17–22; Jakob 2003, 2017b: 143–155; Postgate 2013: 6–46, 327–342) makes a complete contrast to all of the above. The ruler concentrates all power in his hands; there are no more institutions that share power with him or serve as a counterbalance to him, there are no formal restrictions on his power. The structures of the Ashur city community (as well as in other settlements) exist of course (it is called alu, as usual), but it ceased to be a “political body”; there is no trace of its Assembly (also called earlier alum). The heads of the cities “mayors”-hazi’anu are now appointed by the king (though usually belong to local elites). The “City Hall” is preserved by name but has turned into a bureau just keeping weight standards. The limu office was deprived of any functions of power (including directing in the “City Hall”) and reduced to its honorary eponymous component; moreover, now the king is one of the bearers of this office and provides it for his dignitaries, given its symbolic importance. The royal palace is an administrative and economic center of the whole realm10; taxes and services are imposed by the king through his officials. The king employed a ramified and hierarchized bureaucratic apparatus11 (former iššiakkum of the city-state had nothing like that at his disposal); the officials were completely subordinate to him and were defined as “servants of the king” (Faist 2010: 17). Symbolically, this complete subordination was expressed, in particular, in Middle Assyrian coronation ritual (Kryszat 2008) when dignitaries demonstratively resigned their powers, and the king “reappointed” them (Müller 1937: 14, iii 114). There was no such body as a royal council or “cabinet,” which further increased the king’s power. Some echo and influence of the past can be seen in that important officials were often appointed from among the representatives of some powerful Ashur families (whose wealth was associated with trade too), but the circle of these families was quite limited, and in addition, the kings entrusted high office posts to members of their own royal house. In both cases, the sons were often appointed to the high Seals with the legend “the palace of PN, iššiakku of the god Ashur” have been preserved from the native Ashur pre-kingdom rulers since the middle of the sixteenth century, but the role of this palace is unknown. 11 On the functioning of this bureaucracy, see Postgate (2013). 10

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offices of their fathers, etc., so that only a narrow strata of nobility (including branches of royal house) occupied many high offices (Faist 2010: 17, not. 7, 21, not. 32; Jakob 2003: 175–176, 2017b: 147, 155); to counterbalance this to some extent, the kings began to appoint officials, including high ones, from among their personal eunuchs dependent only on them and unable to generate hereditary lines (Faist 2010: 21). The occupation of high posts by royal relatives and members of chosen main families, extended by frequently granting descendants the high position of their ancestors, could hardly strengthen the personal security of the ruling king (it could rather work otherwise), but it strengthened the position of the royal house and the political order as a whole, as it created a high interest of holders of higher posts in the preservation of both the royal house and the existing order. Perhaps the Middle Assyrian monarchy, emerged from a nearly republican system, sought to create a core of de facto hereditary nobility, already closely tied to the new system by the fact that they were chosen by it and thus ready to defend it against inevitable opposition of many elements of society that had for centuries exercised collegial self-government (existence of such opposition is indicated by incompleteness in the assignment of royal titles by Aššur-uballit and temporarily retreat in this question after his death (Enlil-nerari did not title himself “king” at all). The constant involvement of some of the influential Ashur families into the royal government could have begun as a compromise with the top strata of the Ashur city-state, at the cost of which the rulers could facilitate the establishment of the new regime. A characteristic feature of the organization of the state apparatus was that the highest posts in central government were often linked in one complex with the title and office of governor of some conquered territory. E.g., sukkallu rabu ‘great vizier’ had the title “king of Hanigalbat” (administrative entity created by Assyrians of some territories taken from Hanigalbat-Mitanni). The office of sukkallu ‘vizier’ was soon divided into two, one was related to the supervision of the territories of the Ashur—Nineveh—Arbela triangle, the other to supervision of West Upper Mesopotamia, conquered later. At the same time, sukkallu had responsibilities related to central administration (including diplomatic, Jakob 2017b: 147, and important functions in Ashur itself, MAL B 6). High offices of turtanu (chief military commander), rab-šaqe (“chief cupbearer”) and the “nagir (herald) of the palace” were connected, as seen from these expressions, with the central government, but (at least in Neo-Assyrian times) the governorship in certain provinces was associated to these posts. The governors called bel pahete, “district lord” are for the first time attested in the palace decree of Aššur-uballit I (Roth 1997: 197). Change in official concepts and formulas. This sharp transformation was vividly reflected in the ruler’s titles and epithets.12 The Middle Assyrian kings retained the titles “iššiakku of the god Ashur” and waklu, but their main title was šarru “king”, more and more magnificently developed. Aššur-uballit I titled himself in correspondence with Akhenaten “the king of the Land of Ashur” (EA 15, EA 16) and

12

See Cifola (1995), Sazonov (2011, 2014; 2016), Seux (1967) (note Hess 2019; Karlsson 2017).

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even the “great king,” equal in status to other “great kings” of the Near East, including the Pharaoh himself (EA 16); he even began to use a seal where he named not only himself, but also, retroactively, his father Eriba-Adad “king of the Land of Ashur”13; however, in his official inscriptions, he still defined himself not as king, but only as “iššiakku of the god Ashur” (adding sometimes, however, the genealogy of six of his ancestor predecessors with the same title, RIMA 1 A.0.73.1). In addition, he adopted the epithet “appointee of the god Enlil”, and while in some inscriptions, Aššur-uballit first describes himself as iššiakku of the god Ashur, and only then, in the middle passages, as “appointee of the god Enlil”, and, immediately after that, again “iššiakku of the god Ashur” (RIMA 1 A.0.73.1), in other inscriptions, he from the very beginning gives this latter pair of epithets, with the epithet naming Enlil standing before one naming Ashur (RIMA 1 A.0.73.5; this pair of epithets in the same order was used as a separate, independent titling under the following rulers s, e.g., Adad-nerari I, RIMA A.0.76.15 1). Enlil systematically appeared in the Mesopotamian tradition as a god who appoints kings, in particular, of Sumer and Akkad/Babylonia; although, of course, this did not prevent him from being thought to appoint rulers of any other status. It is hard not to see here some desire to go beyond the framework of ties with the Ashur community and its patron god. Moreover, while in one of his inscriptions, Aššur-uballit refers to future rulers of Ashur with standard designation “princes-ruba’u” (RIMA 1 A.0.73.1), in other inscriptions, he already calls them “šarru” (RIMA 1. A.0.73.3), although there he does not title himself šarru. One of his scribes, Marduk-nadin-ahhe (a native Babylonian who relocated to Assyria) even calls him “king of universe (šar kiššati), my lord” in his own private text (Cifola 1995: 21; Radner 2015: 84–96; for Babylon, this title was quite accustomed). In general, all this gives the impression of diverse (but still not daring for full completeness) attempts to master the title of the “king,” which fact speaks both of the desire and ability of the ruler to do this, and of the opposition that he encountered along this way. His successor Enlil-nerari (1317–1308) does not use royal title in known sources at all (but he is the first of Assyrian rulers who is attested as entering the range of the limu eponyms, see below). Arik-den-ili (1307–1296) was already beginning to title himself officially in his inscriptions “a strong king (šarru dannu), king of the Land of Ashur,” adding a lineage that includes Enlil-nerari and Aššur-uballit, also retroactively calling each of them “king of the Land of Ashur”, as well as even earlier Eriba-Adad, and without calling them or himself iššiakku (RIMA 1 A.0.75.1; similarly, he refers to himself and his predecessors with the title “king of the Land of Ashur” on building bricks, RIMA 1 A.0.75.7), although more often in his inscriptions, both he himself and his predecessors are named, on the contrary, iššiakku only (RIMA 1 A.0.75.3) —thus, it was he who made the turning point in adopting the title of “king” at some moment of his reign (and, apparently, retrospectively assigned the same title to all former rulers of Assyria—the Neo-Assyrian King lists used the same approach). The legend: “The stone seal of Aššur-uballit, king of the land of Ashur, son of Eriba-Adad, king of the land of Ashur`` (RIMA 1 A 073 6).

13

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Starting with Arik-den-ili, Assyrian rulers use the term “king” as their standard and basic title. Moreover, he stopped to use the centuries-old traditional formula for the action of the ruler (primarily temple-building) “for the sake of himself and for the well-being of his city (alu)” which conveyed the significance of Ashur city community. In one of the Arik-den-ili inscriptions, this formula is still present (RIMA 1 A.0.75.3), but in his other inscriptions, including the latest one, it is omitted (RIMA 1 A.0.75.1), and it does not occur under his successors. Adad-nerari I speaks already of the “well-being of the kingship” of former Aššur-uballit I, RIMA 1 A.0.76.1: 29-30, and under Shalmaneser I, a new formula is used “for the sake of himself, the safety of his seed and the well-being of his land/land of Ashur” (RIMA 1 A.0.77.20, A.077.22). Adad-nerari I (1295–1264) enlarges in his inscriptions the title of “king” with many epithets (including “holy prince”, rub(a’)u ellu undoubtedly reflecting desire to use the former rubau’m title in a reinforced form) also adding his lineage with three of his ancestors provided with epithets too (RIMA 1 A.0.76.1). Then, he developed his title even more, to “king of the universe (šar kiššati), strong king, king of the Land of Ashur” (and also calling his predecessors “king of the Land of Ashur”, RIMA 1 A.0.76.3), so he added the universalist title “king of the universe,” supplementing it with another universalist epithet “conqueror of all people,” and similar all-encompassing epithets relating to communication with gods: “the subject of pride of (all) gods,” “appointee of (all) gods “(Sazonov 2011: 248). Thus, he was the first to introduce and expand the motive of the universal rule in official inscriptions (Sazonov 2011: 246–248); this motive was maintained onwards. Finally, after annexing Hanigalbat-Mitanni, Adad-nerari also adopted the title “great king” (apparently, since it was believed that he “absorbed” the traditional “great kingship” of Mitanni with this annexation, Alexandrov 2007: 23–24), used it in correspondence with other “great kings,” claiming equality with them in rank, and obtained such recognition from them (KUB 23.102 = CTH 171); this rank was inherited by his successors. Shalmaneser I (1264–1234) at first called himself simply “the appointee of Enlil, iššiakku of Ashur”, but soon added the title “strong king, king of the universe, king of all people, shepherd of mankind” (RIMA 1 A.0.77.4; A.0.77. 18). Tukulti-Ninurta I (1233–1197), having conquered Babylonia for a time, greatly expanded the royal titles and epithets, adding to the “strong king,” “king of the universe” and “king of all people” the titles “king of the four quarters (of the world)”, “king of kings, lord of lords, sovereign of sovereigns (šar šarrani, bel beli, malik maliki), “the king of Sumer and Akkad” and others (see especially RIMA 1 A.0.78.23, A.078.24, A.0.78.3, 5, 6, 13, 15, 16, A.078.39). The motive of royal shepherdship over the masses of people developed beginning with Adad-nerari (Jakob 2017b: 145; Seux 1967: 247), and Shalmaneser and Tukulti-Ninurta name themselves “shepherds” (re’u, utullu), in particular, of all people/whole world and speak of their “shepherdship” (re’utu) in inscriptions. Adad-nerari was also the first to leave lengthy inscriptions about great royal victories and accomplishments; his successors continued to do it.

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Considering what the concept of the king-šarru meant for the Mesopotamians, all this shows that in the second half of fourteenth century, the Ashur rulers just as fundamentally and resolutely adopted the view accepted elsewhere in Mesopotamia that the human community needs an autocratic “king” to maintain proper ties with deities, as this view had been resolutely rejected in Ashur during previous centuries (on the concept of king’s power in the Assyrian realm see Karlsson 2016; Parker 2011; Pongratz-Leisten 2015: 198–289). Neighboring Babylonia was an obvious model for applying this concept to Ashur (and indeed, Assyrian kings borrowed some of their titles and epithets from there). The Ashur rulers succeeded in introducing it only in several steps: Aššur-uballit began to actively promote concept, but it was only his second successor who began to titled himself “king” in his official inscriptions. It should be emphasized that Ashur rulers thus came to share the title, which earlier in Ashur was credited only to its god Ashur (Faist 2010: 17; of course, this god remained the supreme of the two “kings”—the human “king” acted in accordance with the will of the “king”-deity, remained his vice-regent-iššiakku, and Middle Assyrian, as well as Neo-Assyrian coronation ritual proclaimed: “Ashur is king! Ashur is king!”). Other formal changes. The office of the annual eponym-limu was formerly second after the position of ruler in importance and closed to him and his family; under Middle Assyrian kings, it remained only an honorable eponymous status, but this aspect had been previously an expression of the supreme authority of Ashur community as political body, and the inadmissibility of rulers to this office reminded them of this and turned out to be unacceptable to them in their new role. Therefore, the Middle Assyrian kings made it so that they themselves shared the limu office and gave it to various royal dignitaries. The first ruler attested as limu in known sources was Enlil-nerari,14 and from Adad-nerari15 onwards, one king after another is attested as limu. Shalmaneser I seems first to be named as limu under his šarru title.16 The demonstration of the dynastic principle literally bursts out. The iššiakku(m) rulers of the Ashur city-state normally named in their inscriptions only their father. Eriba-Adad I, Aššur-uballit’s father, introduces in his inscriptions an enlarged lineage of at least three his ancestors (RIMA 1 A.0.72.1), Aššur-uballit names six (RIMA 1 A.0.73.1); under his successors, the standard designation of two (father and grandfather) was set, but sometimes three were named (by Adad-nerari, RIMA 1 A.0.76.1). Under Shalmaneser I, the preservation of his offspring (“seed”, see above) was introduced in the official motivation of the ruler’s actions. 14 KAJ 156 35–36 (Fine 1952–1953: 214, 227; Grayson 1972: 51, not. 104); MARV IX 83, rev. 10’–11’ (Freydank 1991: 132; Freydank and Feller 2010: 10, 15); Assur 13955iq = Donbaz 2016 2 rev. 17'-20' (Bloch 2017: 184). Note (Saporetti 1979: 30 f., 44, cf. Fine 1952–1953: 190, 203) that the sons of Ashur-nerari II (end of the fifteenth century) and Eriba-Adad held limu office; they appear as limu in documents without titles but indicating their kinship with their fathers the rulers (KAJ 174, KAJ 8). This involving of the sons of the rulers in limu office can begin the process, which ultimately led to its sharing by rulers themselves. 15 KAJ 233 + KAV 207, 7–8 (Freydank 1991: 109; Hess 2019; Jakob 2003: 64). 16 Billa 25 (Fine 1952: 229; Saporetti 1979: 85).

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The executive orders of the authorities were no longer transmitted with reference to the “city/Assembly”, as once, but simply with reference to the “command of the king” and “the edict (riksu) of the king”.

4

Ruler and the Legal Sphere

Middle Assyrian king was personally less involved in judging than iššiakku of the city-state (Faist 2010: 18; Jakob 2017b: 146). But the place and power of the king and the royal court in this sphere, on the contrary, had drastically increased. In the city-state of Ashur, the judicial power belonged to the City Assembly, and the ruler was involved in it insofar as he was its chairman and chief functionary; in the judicial sphere, he was considered together with the Assembly, and the formulas of oaths and complaints referred to them together, with the Assembly (lit. alum, “City”) stood in the first place, or mentioned only the latter: oaths were made and lawsuits presented “before the City and the ruler (rubau’m)/my lord” (Veenhof 2003a: 439; 2017: 70), the terms “oath of the City” and “oath of the City and the ruba’um” were used (Yaron 1988: 116); documents of legal force were called tablets of “the city,” “of the city and ruba’um”, rarely simply “of ruba’um”. In the Middle Assyrian kingdom, on the contrary, the king and royal court occupied a special and main place in the judicial sphere. First of all, the king owned the supreme judicial power at his own discretion. Further, the Middle Assyrian Laws (MAL below) repeatedly mention the “judges” (dayyanu) as functionaries who judge the cases of most types, and the “king” as a different and sometimes alternative judicial institution, which should deal with other types of cases that are more important.17 It is difficult to say with certainty whether these “judges” were officials subordinate to the king as the head of the same judicial stricture, or whether they formed some structure separated from the “king’s” court of MAL. The relevant data (see note 17), perhaps implies that the “judges,” at least in part, constituted a special structure separated from this “king’s” court.18 At the same time, “judges” According to MAL, a husband has the right to lead his wife’s lover “either to the king or to the judges” so that they legally establish guilt (MAL A 15); MAL C 8 mentions apparently some “judges of the land.” The trial for manufacturing witchcraft potions should be run not by the “judges,” but by the “king,” and the “king” should carefully examine witnesses if there is no guilty plea (MAL A 47). Cases of concealment of women who “aborted her fetus” should be reported to the “king” (MAL A 53). Certain types of thefts (of booty? See Faist 2010: 18, not. 11; Freydank 1994: 206) are to be judged by the “king” while ordinary thefts—by the “judges of the land)—the penalty for the first is harsher, and personal punishment for them is granted to the arbitrariness of the “king” (MAL C 8); the “king” arbitrarily states penalties for falsifying a debt receipt (MAL C 10). In addition to these types of cases established in general terms by laws, we know from documents some cases where the king personally conducted certain court cases, including not only ones involving himself or his dignitaries, but also some private lawsuits. (Lafont 2003: 526). 18 In this case, it would be unknown, if these “judges” were a special branch of the kings bureaucracy, or a corporation with some degree of autonomy (they apparently were not local communal functionaries, see below). 17

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are clearly different from local authorities and elders of communal self-government —hazi’anu (mayor) and elders of “cities/local communities”-alu: the “judges” must deal with cases of some types in the presence of these functionaries and in interaction with them (MAL A 45, MAL B 18). Thus, no matter if the “judges” constituted a category of officials subordinate to the “king” as the head of special “king’s” court of MAL within the same hierarchical judicial structure (or whether they formed a certain institution separate from the “king’s” court of MAL), the judicial power, in any case, had gone from the hands of local communal self-government. And there was clearly a separate judicial institution labeled literally the “king’s court” in MAL, that is, especially closely connected with the king (whether this court was always presided over by him personally or not) and it occupied a special and important place. Characteristically, the oath formulas “in the name of the king” (MAL B 19) and “in the name of the king and his son” (MAL A 47) are found in MAL instead of the former oaths before “the city” or “the city and the ruler.” The royal officials, including provincial ones, also were bestowed with certain judicial power; they conducted inquiries and made decisions in some cases (Jakob 2017b: 146; Lafont 2003: 527). Land buying and selling by member of the Ashur city community had to proceed before a commission composed of the king’s officials (including sukkallu) as well as city community functionaries—the “city scribe” and “herald”; in other settlement, such a land transaction would have be made through a commission including its mayor (hazi’anu) and the three elders of the settlement, and, finally, be recorded by “the judges” (MAL B 6, Fox 2000: 170). In Nineveh, one such transaction was legally affirmed by a commission composed of a local governor together with hazi’anu, two city scribes, and a city herald (Jakob 2000: 151). Unlike the Middle Assyrian Laws which rarely mention the king and often mention the dayyanu-judges, surviving Middle Assyrian documentation reflects the judicial activities of the king and officials much more often (Jakob 2017b: 146; cf. Lafont 2003: 527), and “judges” appear in it rarely. Middle Assyrian kings interfered in some specific communal spheres. In communities, there were now special commoners carrying ilku (duty service) but occupying the land plots that belong to them as commoners; if such a commoner was to disappear, his plot passed from community control and becomes the king’s full property, part of the royal fund (MAL A 45). Similarly, the land of a commoner who “pronounced inappropriate” or fled and withdrew from the community was taken from the communal land fund and turned over to the arbitrary disposal of the king (see MAL B 3). One of the common punishments for various crimes in the Middle Assyrian Laws was to be sentenced to “performing king’s work.” The old legal references to “strong tablet of the city” or “of the city and the ruler” are replaced by “strong tablet before the king.” (Postgate 2013: 376).

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The Ruler and the Cult

The Ashur rulers of the city-state period had a certain specific role in the cult (as can be seen, in particular, in the formulas used in the letters of these rulers “I will pray for you before the god Ashur,” Veenhof 2017: 71), but their functions in this area and contacts with the gods (besides leading the respective building works) are not reflected in known sources, which indicates that they were not so significant. This impression is well conveyed by the general evaluation of B. Faist: “Presumably he was closely associated with the temple of the god Ashur and had cultic tasks” (Faist 2010: 18). The main subject of the interaction between the polity and the gods was apparently the polity itself, and the central place in it was occupied by the institute seeming to be rather independent of the ruler, the temple of Ashur. The ruler did not bear titles associated with priestly functions. The Middle Assyrian kings significantly expanded their influence in this sphere. In the system of their titles and epithets, the reflection of their connection with the gods expands step by step, as does the proclaimed proximity and scale of this connection. This process was brought to its apogee by Tukulti-Ninurta I, who named himself the “shepherd of the four quarters after the god Shamash” and then simply “the god Shamash (for) all people” (Cifola 2004: 8; Jakob 2017b: 145); nevertheless neither he nor other Assyrian kings had ever been deified (although some Kassite kings of neighboring Babylonia, such as Kurigalzu I in the fourteenth century, received a kind of honorable deification, expressed in the irregular spelling of their names with the determinative of divinity, Brinkman 1976: 404–405), so these epithets were a metaphor that conveyed the greatest degree of proximity of king to god, aside from outright deification. Adad-nerari I is the first known Assyrian king to call himself sangu (priest) and speak of king’s office as “priesthood-sangutu”, RIMA 1 A.0.76, 1:18, 29–30. Middle Assyrian coronation ritual (dated to the time of Tukulti-Ninurta) speaks of sangutu of the king and his descendants before the god Ashur (Jakob 2017b: 145). Shalmaneser I (1263–1234), Aššur-reš-iši (1132–1115), Tiglath-pileser I (1114-1076) sometimes call their rule simply sangutu (CAD Š 383: šangûtu b 1’); as in the coronation ritual, what is meant is the position of the highest priest of the god Ashur. Thus, Middle Assyrian kings vastly expanded into the sphere of relations of their polity with the gods and positioned themselves as supreme figures in the whole implementation of the cult. Beginning with Adad-nerari I, the native Assyrian rulers conducted (in collaboration with the Ashur temple) the annual rite of the festive banquet for the gods— takultu (RIMA 1 A.0.76.26–27; A.0.77.25–27; for this rite, see Pongratz-Leisten 2015: 392–407), which was also an important step in expanding the place of the ruler in communication with gods and the strengthening of his connection with them. The inscriptions of Shalmaneser and Tukulti-Ninurta proclaim the role of the king as the chief practitioner of rites and main feeder of sacrifices to the gods.

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Tribute paid for making the regular offerings to the gods—gina’u—was collected from the population as a special tax by royal administration by order of the king (Jakob 2017b: 155).

6

The Ruler and Foreign Policy

In the period of the city-state, foreign policy was conducted on behalf of the Ashur communal polity, alum (represented by the Assembly, alum), and not of its ruler. Representatives of Ashur in Anatolia of nineteenth–eighteenth centuries were named “messengers of the City (alum)” (Veenhof 2017: 73). The residence of Ashur representatives in the Upper Mesopotamian center Šehna in late eighteenth century was apparently called “the house of the servant of Ashur” (Veenhof 2017: 69; Veenhof and Eidem 2008: 329–331). The treaty of the same period between Ashur and the kingdom of Apum, whose center was Šehna (see note 7), does not mention the Ashur ruler at all: the counterparts of this treaty are “Till-Abnu, King of Apum”, on the one hand, and “the city (alum) of the divine Ashur” as a collective of its citizens, identified here as “the sons of the divine Ashur”. On the contrary, the Middle Assyrian kings are the only actors in the foreign policy of their state. Aššur-uballit I writes to Akhenaten exclusively on his own behalf as “the king of the Land of Ashur”, the sole subject of its interaction with Egypt. A corresponding shift occurred in foreign diplomatic perception. The Babylonian king Burnaburiaš II had still written indignantly to Akhenaten or Tutankhamun about Assyrian–Egyptian contacts of this period (those ones of Aššur-uballit or, possibly, some earlier possible contacts of Eriba-Adad) about the action of a collective subject, “the Ashurites/Assyrians”: “Now Ashurites (aššurayu), my vassals, I did not send (them) to you; why did they come to your country at their own discretion? If you love me, let them not achieve anything, send them away empty-handed!” (EA 9: 31–35).19 But in a slightly later treaty of the Mitannian Sattiwasa, the enemy of Aššur-uballit and the latter’s allies in Mitanni, with the Hittite Suppiluliuma (CTH 52), Sattiwassa, although avoiding to call Aššur-uballit a “king,” and naming him “a man of Ashur/Ashurite”, depicts the situation so that it is this “Ashurite” with “his” warriors and chariots that conducts war against him and his Hittite allies, and not some collective subject. In subsequent times, the Middle Assyrian kings write about their foreign policy actions as taken by themselves only at their own will and the will of God Ashur, and the diplomatic agreements are concluded with them personally as counterparts.

19

The compiler gives for the subject of these phrases in the beginning a literally singular form with the sense of plurality and then uses a fully expressed plural number of the same subject. The translation, therefore, should in any case be “Ashurites/Assyrians, my vassals,” as given in CAD D: 24 and Amarna Letters editions by J.A. Knudtzon and by W.L. Moran.

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Presumed Stages, Factors and Limits of the Aforementioned Institutional Changes

When precisely it took place that the Ashur rulers made the main formal steps toward becoming sovereign kings, when they abolished the City Assembly and the City Hall as institutions of power, we do not know for sure. However, this could hardly have substantially preceded their full official adoption of the royal title. This and other indirect considerations indicate that the main stages of the coup fell in the reigns of Aššur-uballit and his closest successors. During this period, some decisive shifts took place, namely under Aššur-uballit, which then remained to be completed. Aššur-uballit’s reign turns out to be transitional in many aspects: The embassies to Egypt that took place on the eve of or shortly after his accession are still described by Burnaburiaš II in EA 9 as a rally of plural subject “the Ashurites” who are his “vassals” (does this not mean that at that moment the Ashur polity was still considered collective, that is, the City Assembly still functioned and perhaps, at least nominally. as the supreme political body?). Later, Aššur-uballit conducted foreign policy as sole principal and calls himself in foreign correspondence “the king of the Land of Ashur”. Without claiming to be titled as such in his inscriptions, he nevertheless “in circumvention” of this calls himself so on his seal (A.0.73.7). And, again in circumvention of his own internal official practice, his royal titles are even strengthened by naming him “the great king” in his own letter to Akhenaten (EA 16) and “the king of the universe” in a text of his scribe from among the Babylonians. After him, there seems to be some retreat in this sphere under Enlil-nerari (as the title “king” is not attested for him at all). From a palace decree of Aššur-uballit, it is known that he had local governors bel pahete subordinated to him and somehow interacted with his “palace” (Roth 1997: 197)—thus the system “the royal palace and the provincial governors controlled from it” should have existed already under Aššur-uballit, covering at least all conquered territories. It is hard to imagine that such titular and foreign policy activity of Aššur-uballit would be compatible with an influential City Assembly. On the other hand, the very incompleteness of his “titular revolution,” as well as some retreat in this question after his death, shows that some sociopolitical obstacles to the transition to a full-fledged “kingship” still existed under him, and he had to reckon with them so much that he did not fully realize his undoubted aspirations. It would not be surprising if in some form, albeit weakened in the real influence and scope of authority, the institution of the Assembly still existed under him. In this regard, the next indisputable milestone in the evolution of the Assyrian political system, i.e., that associated with Arik-den-ili, is noteworthy: Arik-den-ili accepts the full royal title in his inscriptions and abandons the traditional formula “for the sake of himself and for the well-being of his city-alu” (see above). It has been suggested that the second change just corresponds to the final cessation of the activities and existence of the City Assembly (alu) (Diakonoff and Jankowska 1988: 100), which is in good agreement with the fact that the same Arik-den-ili is first to be titled a “king” in his inscriptions while Aššur-uballit not to mention

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Enlil-nerari, apparently had not yet dared to do it. But even if this assumption is incorrect, it seems that under Aššur-uballit and Enlil-nerari, the ambitions of the ruler still faced rather serious, although already greatly weakened barriers, it being Arik-den-ili who abolished these barriers (and it is rather likely that those barriers and their elimination had some kind of institutional dimension). The next big focal point in the transformation is Adad-nerari’s rule. He turns out to be the first of the Middle Assyrian kings in many relevant aspects (cf, Diakonoff and Jankowska 1988: 100): the first to accept the title “king of the universe” and to introduce the motive of universalistic power of the Assyrian king; the first one (after a botched attempt by Aššur-uballit and a long break afterward) who achieved the rank of “great king” and obtained its recognition from other powers; the first to leave lengthy inscriptions about royal victories; the first to call himself sangu “(the supreme) priest”; the first to introduce the annual royal ritual of main festive banquet for the gods (takultu); the first to annex all of Upper Mesopotamia to the Euphrates, swallowing the Mitannian/Hanigalbatean “great kingdom.” We have some opportunity to know how the Assyrians of different eras looked at this question. Under Adad-nerari, Aššur-uballit I was considered the creator of the Assyrian great power. This is evident from the fact that Adad-nerari, while naming three his forefathers in his inscriptions (RIMA 1 A.0.76.1), titles Arik-den-ili and Enlil-nerari only iššiakku (though Arikdenili titled himself “strong king”!) while calling Aššur-uballit “strong king, whose sangutu-priesthood was unsurpassed before the formidable Ekur” (though Aššur-uballit himself did not title himself “strong king”, nor “sangu-priest”). In subsequent centuries, apparently, Adad-nerari himself was perceived as founder of Assyrian greatness in the Assyrian historical memory. This can be derived from the well-known legend of Ninos and Semiramis retold by Greek and Roman authors. According to Herodotus’s brief indications, the founder of Assyrian empire was named Ninos (this eponymous name was constructed on the basis of GN Nineveh) and ruled c. XIII century BCE, while Semiramis ruled much later, c. 800/750 BCE.20 Later, authors draw Semiramis chronologically closer to Ninos, as his wife (presumably, due to Ktesias’ fantasies) but insist that she had a son with the similar name Ninias (or just Ninos), and ruled during his long life.21 Aside from the eponymous name “Ninos”, on the whole, this story occurs to have a core as follows: there was a king-founder of the Assyrian empire (c. XIII century BCE according to Herodotus) who had much later, c. 800 BCE, a namesake king under whom his mother, the widow queen Semiramis, ruled affairs. This scheme well corresponds to reality (where Adad-nerari I ruled in XIII century BCE and indeed created in many aspects the Assyrian great power, while c. 800 BCE there was another Assyrian king, his namesake Adad-nerari III, under whom great 20

According to Herodotus (I 95 f.), Ninos lived 520 years before Deyoces the Median (in real history the latter protagonist lived in the end VIII century BC], and Semiramis disposed of Babylon five generations before the mother of Labinet-Nabonidus defeated by Cyrus (Hdt. I., 184 f. + 188), i.e., lived much later than Ninos. 21 See Diod. II. 3-19; Strabo. II. 1. 31; Xvi. 12; Ael. 7.1; Agathias 2.24.3; Conon 9; Iust. 1.2.10; Orosius 1.4.7-8.

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influence belonged to his mother, widow queen Sammuramat); thus, we think that this core came ultimately from Assyrian tradition (and so its Assyrian carriers thought Adad-nerari I to be the real creator of Assyrian great power), while others, including Greeks, have additionally embellished it and substituted for the forgotten name Adad-nerari an eponymous construction “Ninos” derived from the name of the last Assyrian capital.22 What were the reasons for the institutional upheaval in Assyrian polity? Sometimes, it is generally proposed that it was caused by socioeconomic changes (Faist 2010: 17). However, it seems hardly probable that specifically in the fourteenth century, any social and economic shifts in the city-state of Ashur could take place which would be able to cause something so fundamentally new in comparison with the previous centuries (when the ruler’s power did not pass into the kingship). Several considerations allow explaining this “Assyrian revolution” by the successful military expansion and conquests of Aššur-uballit and his closest successors. First, these conquests were a completely new phenomenon in Assyrian history, and at the same time, they put vast territories under the control of the Ashur ruler where he was not limited by any local communal institutions, unlike his position in Ashur itself. The leadership of large-scale military actions, conquests and the organization of management of the conquered territories automatically expanded his real power, together with constantly delivering armed forces into his disposal. A shining and well-known example of the impact of such phenomena on the transition to sole rule is given by Roman history of the first century BCE. Second, the chronological correlations of the nodal moments in the process of this transition in Assyria with the outbursts of its successful military expansion are noteworthy. The two main focal points, as it turns out, belong to the reigns of Aššur-uballit and Adad-nerari, and it was just then that two main stages of conquest that created the Middle Assyrian Empire took place: Aššur-uballit turned the Ashur polity from the city-state into a vast territorial state, and Adad-nerari first annexed Upper Mesopotamia. Obviously, this correlation of spurts in the growth of the ruler’s power with episodes of military–territorial expansion must be not an accidental coincidence, but a reflection of causal relations, especially taking into account the fact that in previous centuries, the Ashur rulers did not ascend to the status of a “king.” From Aššur-uballit to some point of the reign of Arik-den-ili, this transition took place step by step, in stages over decades, with interruptions and even some temporary retreat in the accumulation of titles, as would-be kings had to face and overcome significant obstacles. Only under Arik-den-ili do we see the full adoption of the royal title. This sequence started around the accession of Aššur-uballit, that is, near the beginning of the Assyrian conquests. If the process had begun noticeably earlier, it would be unclear why the chain of changes in titling was initiated only with Aššur-uballit. Some of the earliest shifts can be correlated with the significantly expanded genealogy of the ruler in the inscriptions of Eriba-Adad

22

For earlier proposals for a correspondence to Ninos, see Cancik-Kirschbaum (2006: 262), Anm. 11; Millard (1998–2001: 479 f).

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and with mention of the sons of the ruler in the first half- mid fourteenth century in office of limu (see above and note 14). Third, the combination of several high offices of the central royal administration with titles and powers of governing a particular entity of conquered territories (see above) in Middle Assyrian realm may also indicate a connection between the conquests and formation of royal administration itself. All this gives some analogies with Rome: In both cases, we see the stubborn, centuries-old avoidance of sole rule by a self-governing city-state polity and yet the final emergence of such a rule primarily due to conquests and related phenomena. Both cases show appropriation by the emerging sole rulers of higher status in the cultic sphere (adoption of the title of sangu “the priest” by Assyrian kings and the joining of the post of Great Pontiff to the status of emperor in Rome). Both in Assyria and Rome, the first attempts to assert monarchical titles were connected primarily with activities in the outside world, and not within one’s own community: Aššur-uballit titles himself a “king” in international correspondence, but not in his official inscriptions inside the country; Caesar, according to some accusations of his contemporaries, wanted to proclaim himself king under the pretext that only the king can defeat the Parthians (Suet. Jul. 79.3) or planned to proclaim himself king of the extra-Italian provinces of Rome, but not of Rome itself (Plut. Caes. 64.2). The institutional upheaval in Assyria, however, had its own limitations, which it did not try to overcome. In particular, the Assyrian kings never tried to deify themselves (although they well knew precedents for the self-deification of Mesopotamian kings, including their contemporaries). The standard Mesopotamian concept of the “right to rebellion” against bad king23 also remained in force. It was believed that a ruler who violated norms in especially malicious way could and should be eliminated by force—it was simply a matter of determining whether this moment had come (but this option was outside of any formalized and institutionalized procedure). The “right to rebellion” in these conditions was expressed in the fact that the ruler, who overthrew his predecessor by force, often did not concealed it but officially boasted of it as of a justified, righteous and praiseworthy act. In this regard, the Assyrians had not changed anything. In the pre-royal period, Puzur-Sin, who overthrew the rulers from the Šhamši-Adad dynasty in Ashur (late eighteenth century), declares is his inscription, “by the order of the god Ashur,” he established the proper rule in the city, “destroying the evil of Asinum, a descendant of Šhamši-Adad (I),” “who was a foreign plague, not from the flesh of the city of Ashur” (RIMA 1 A.0.40.1001). Assyrian kings such as Ninurta-apil-Ekur (beginning of the twelfth century), who rebelled and waged war against the previous king and, despite the first setbacks, succeeded finally in seizing the throne, could not hide it but obviously declared this way of coming to power as justified. The Assyrian King List (see on it Valk 2019) includes a number of kings who seized the throne by military intervention from the outside or through an internal coup and specifically reports this in special comments while listing the king’s names. Clearly, usurpation did not preclude the King List from including the winners (together with 23

See Frahm (2016), Radner (2016: 52–54; cf.), Nemirovsky (2005: 114–117).

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their predecessors ousted by them) as legitimate “kings” of Assyria, that is, those whom the gods entrusted with the kingship-šarrutu for a while. The rulers of the city-state of Ashur of pre-kingdom times are also called “kings” in this list, and there they are said, the same as subsequent real kings of Assyria, to have been “doing šarrutu” for so and so many years. Yet some real rulers of Ashur were excluded from the Assyrian King List—they were considered post factum to be false kings who never had in reality a mandate from the gods for šarrutu and royal reign. Acknowledgements Support from the Basic Research Program of the National Research University Higher School of Economics is gratefully acknowledged.

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Evolution of Sociopolitical Institutions in North-East Yemen (The 1st Millennium BCE–The 2nd Millennium CE) Andrey V. Korotayev

1

Rise of the Early State in North-East Yemen

Due to certain factors, the first early states in South Arabia states arose in the early 1st millennium BCE in the area of the Internal Yemeni Lowland (al-Mashriq), at the edge of the Sayhad Desert (=Ramlat al-Sab’atayn) (see Avanzini 2010; Charbonnier 2015; Harrower 2016; Korotayev 1995a, 2019). To start with, the main mass of accessible water resources comes to the area of the Internal Lowlands in the form of suyul, floods. These floods reach this area through the wadis during the rainy monsoon seasons when it rains in the Highlands.1 For their effective utilization (and thus for the creation of effective agricultural production), it is necessary to erect at the wadi outlets large-scale irrigation

1

The amount of direct natural precipitation in the Lowlands is very low: for example, in the areas of Marib and Timnac at present, it constitutes in average approximately less than 100 mm a year (Colburn 2002: 11; Dresch 1989: 10, Fig. 1.5 etc.; Grolier et al. 1984: 15, Fig. 5), though in ancient times it might have been slightly higher (see, e.g., Wade 1979: 115). Parts of this chapter have been published previously in the English summary of Social History of Yemen (Korotayev 2019, in Russian).

A. V. Korotayev (&) Laboratory for Monitoring the Risks of Socio-political Destabilization, National Research University Higher School of Economics, 3 Krivokolenny Pereulok, Room 3-21, Moscow, Russia e-mail: [email protected] Institute of Oriental Studies, Russian Academy of Sciences, Moscow, Russia © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2020 D. M. Bondarenko et al. (eds.), The Evolution of Social Institutions, World-Systems Evolution and Global Futures, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-51437-2_7

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installations (Bowen 1958b: 45–55, 63–64, 70–82; Breton 1999: 11–18; Brunner 1997, 2000; Dayton 1979, 1981; Francaviglia 2002; Hehmeyer 1989: 33; Mouton 2004; Sauer et al. 1988: 101–102; Schmidt 1988: 55; Vogt 2004; Wade 1979; Wilkinson 2006).2 As is well known, such a necessity is one of the strongest factors in early state formation. And this factor was present in Mashriq.3 But there was one more factor in early state formation in this region. The famous Incense Route passed just along the edge of the Sayhad desert (Bafaqih 1973: 181– 188; Bowen 1958a: 39, 42; Breton 1999: 53–71; Groom 1981: 165–188; Gunter 2005; McLaughlin 2010: 77–78; Peacock and Williams 2007; Robin 2007, 2009, 2010a; Schippmann 2001: 79–81) and, as is well-known, long-distance trade could be quite an important factor in this process. In general, the development of long-distance trade through the edge of the Sayhad desert and the formation of statehood and civilization in this region must be considered as two interrelated processes.4 From the “technical” point of view, the way through the edge of the Sayhad desert was evidently more convenient than any other ways (including those 2

It is remarkable that due to the extremely low level of the ground water (“In the highlands and Mashriq, the underground reserves of water are much poorer [than in Tihamah—A.K.] and they are situated at a depth of about 100 m” (Kotlov 1971: 13) the use of the wells for the irrigation would have been really effective together with the large-scale sayl irrigation raising the level of these waters (Bowen 1958b: 63–64; Sauer et al. 1988: 102). 3 With respect to the irrigation system of the Marib oasis, there are some grounds to maintain that in the first half of the 1st millennium BCE the creation and the maintenance of this system was one of the main functions of Sabaean state organization and a personal concern of its leadership, mukarribs (C 622; 623; R 3943, 5; 3945, 2–3; 3946, 5–6; Fa 70 etc.; Bauer 1964: 11–12; Glanzman 2003; Lundin 1971: 154–155, 160; Robin 2006; Schippmann 2001: 55–56). It is not surprising as the erection of large-scale irrigation installations was most necessary just in the region of Marib which is situated at the outlet of wadi Adanat with the largest catchment area in Mashriq (Grolier et al. 1984: 38; Schmidt 1988: 58). 4 The majority of scholars date the beginning of the Transarabian incense trade to the end of the second millennium BCE (Bafaqih 1985: 14; Bowen 1958a: 35; Bulliet 1975: 65–67; Gunter 2005; Peacock and Williams 2007; Sauer et al. 1988: 100–101, 106; Schippmann 2001: 35–47, 79–81; von Wissmann 1975: 53–54, 1982: 16, 21–26, 43) or by the beginning of the first millennium BCE (Robin 1984: 211, 2007, 2009, 2010a). This concurs with the beginning of the formation of South Arabian statehood and civilization (Avanzini 2010; Lundin 1971: 98–103; de Maigret 2002: 163– 172; de Maigret and Robin 1989: 278–291; Mouton 2004; von Wissmann 1982: 16–60). The only important exception seems to be Groom, who denies the existence of the Transarabian incense trade in the beginning of the first millennium BCE. However, his research is based on the ``short'' chronology of the South Arabian history (Pirenne 1955, 1956). According to Groom the beginning of the Transarabian incense trade also concurs with the beginning of South Arabian civilization, according to this chronology in the sixth century BCE (Groom 1981: 38–54). At present, “the short chronology” is outdated due to the radiocarbon datings obtained by Italian, Russian, French, and American archaeologists (Avanzini 2010; Breton 1991; de Maigret 2002: 163–172; de Maigret and Robin 1989: 278–291; Mouton 2004; Robin 1991 51, 128; Sauer et al. 1988, 91, 100; Schippmann 2001: 35–48; Sedov 1992, 2003). These dates together with the data of Suhu texts (Cavigneaux and Ismail 1990: 351f.; Liverani 1991), the Assyrian royal inscriptions (Liverani 1991: 1, 4–5 etc.; Lundin 1971: 99; Pritchard 1950: 284–286), the Old Testament (I Kings 10, 1–13; II Chronicles 9, 1–12; Jeremiah 6, 20; Ezekiel 27, 22–24; 38, 13; Isaiah 45, 14; 60, 2, 6), etc., lend plausibility to the hypothesis that both tearly South Arabian civilization (dominated by the Sabaeans) and early Transarabian trade (dominated at that time by the same community?) already existed in the beginning of the first millennium BCE.

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through the Highlands).5 This must have been a factor leading to the Incense Route beginning to pass through the edge of the Sayhad. Such a situation must have been a factor in the early state formation in this region.6 The main mass of the water resources comes to the Highlands in the form of natural precipitation which is brought by monsoons (Breton 1999: 11; Colburn 2002: 11; Dresch 1989: 8–9; Grolier et al. 1984: 14; Kotlov 1971: 11–12; Krahmalov 1977: 4–5; etc.).7 Effective agricultural production could be established here without erecting large-scale irrigation installations (Piotrovskiy 1985: 37; Varisco 1983: 27–31, 33–34). The terracing of the fields and the construction of small-scale irrigation works (which first of all provide the optimal utilization of rain water) could be done by extended families, clan groups, and local communities (for details see Korotayev 2019), and there was (and there is) no need for state organization in this respect.8 It is also quite an important factor that the Highlands were situated quite far from both the main centers of incense production and the main incense trade routes.

5

A much more realistic alternative is either the way North from the Sayhad, through the wide passage between this desert and the sands of the Rubc al-Khali (Wadi Haramawt—Hun al-cAbr— Mushayniqah well—Najran), or the route through the narrow gravel corridor in the Sayhad sand-desert surveyed by Philby (Beeston 1979: 7, 1991; Bowen 1958a: 39; Philby 1939: 358– 409). This alternative has one evident advantage over the Southern way. Both of these routes offer a much shorter path than the Southern route. Yet the Southern way has its own very important advantage: it goes through populated areas with good water, food, and forage supplies, whereas the Northern ones pass through waterless desert regions. Hamilton, who studied the routes of the South Arabian caravan trade in the forties of the last century, noticed that the traders going through the Northern (but not Southern) way used only lightly loaded small caravans (Hamilton 1942: 110). Hamilton directly states that the Southern way is preferable to the Northern ones: “Camel caravans bearing merchandise are cumbrous things. They prefer the long, easy way around to the difficult short cut, and a comfortable place to rest where you pay your road dues and sleep without anxiety” (Hamilton 1942: 111; see also Stark 1936: 201–202). It seems that only in the second half of the 1st millennium BCE, after the final disintegration of the early Commonwealth of the Sabaean mukarribs, with the rising tension between different South Arabian kingdoms and growing political instability along the edge of the Sayhad desert, did the Hadrami and Minaean traders begin widely using the Northern routes to avoid the passage through the territories of hostile kingdoms, or to avoid the control of the Qatabanian hegemons (Beeston 1991). 6 It has been repeatedly stated that the long-distance trade in certain circumstances could be a powerful factor in early state formation (Büttner 1981: 42; Gluckman 1965: 143; Kozlova et al. 1968: 520–523; Kubbel 1974: 9–10, 96–103; etc.). 7 The amount of precipitation in the Yemeni Highlands varies from an average 1000 mm a year in the area of Ibb to less than 500 mm a year in the area of cAmran (Colburn 2002: 11; Dresch 1989: 10, Fig. 1.5; Kotlov 1971: 11–12; Krahmalov 1977: 4–5; etc.). In antiquity the climate of Southern Arabia might have been even more humid (Dayton 1975; Piotrovskiy and Piotrovskaya 1984: 106; Sirocko et al. 1993; Wade 1979: 115; etc.). 8 The example of the Ifugao (the Luson Island, Philippines) shows most distinctly that communities based on terraced agriculture in the mountains could develop for millennia very successfully, reaching high levels of agricultural skill, social differentiation, etc., without any distinct forms of statehood (e.g., Meshkov 1982: 183–197). It is remarkable that Varisco having conducted his field research in modern Yemen came to the conclusion that tribal organization is very effective in the conditions of the Yemeni Highlands (Varisco 1983: 33–34). For detail see Korotayev (2019).

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As a result, at the beginning, in the early 1st millennium BC, the main area of South Arabian civilization looked like a bow-like strip along the edge of the Sayhad desert (with the main centers in the areas of Marib, Timna`, Shabwah and the wadis al-Jawf and Markhah—Avanzini 2010; Bafaqih 1985: 20–21; Beeston 1975a: 5, 1975b: 28; Gunter 2005; de Maigret 2002: 198–226; Mouton 2004; Robin 1984: 198, 1991: 52, 63; Schippmann 2001: 48–57; etc.). Civilization penetrated into the Yemeni Highlands sometime later, and this process seems to have been often connected to the subjugation of the considerable territories of the Highlands by the Lowland states, first of all by the Sabaean and Qatabanian “commonwealths.” It was also connected to the cultural influence of Lowland communities, colonization, etc.9 In the Middle Period (the 1st–4th centuries CE), we see the Highlands politically dominating Yemen (Beeston 1975a: 5, 1975b: 29; Korotayev 1995a: 83–84, 2019; de Maigret 2002: 227–246; Rhodokanakis 1927: 113; Robin 1982b: 17, 1984: 212, 1991: 52, 63, 67, 1996, etc.; Schippmann 2001: 57–61; Yule 2007: 45–47, 2008). Some role in the rise of the Highlands to a dominant position was certainly played by the transfer of the main incense trade routes from land to sea. This must have caused a considerable decline in the economic importance of the edge of the Sayhad desert (Avanzini and Sedov 2005; Audouin et al. 1988: 74; Bowen 1958a: 35; Bukharin 2012; Crone 1987: 23–36; Irvine 1973: 301; Robin 1982a, I: 98, 1982b: 17, 1984: 212, 2010b; Ryckmans 1951: 331; Schippmann 2001: 81–83; Sidebotham 2011; Tomber 2004; 2014; etc.). Quite a significant role may have also been played by the processes of the Arabian aridization (see, e.g., Fedele 1988: 36; Robin 1991: 63, 88; Sirocko et al. 1993). But the most important factor seems to have been the silting of the irrigation systems.10 As a result, the situation in the Lowlands became similar to an ecological catastrophe (Piotrovskiy and Piotrovskaya 1984: 107; Robin 1984: 220–221, 1991: 88; Sauer et al. 1988: 102; Serjeant 1960: 583).11

9

The main role here seems to have belonged to the Sabaean center; however, the role of the Qatabanian center also seems to have been rather important (especially in the second half of the 1st millennium BCE—see, e.g., Avanzini 2004, 2010; von Wissmann 1968). The Minaean-Madhabian center also appears to have exerted considerable cultural influence on certain areas of the Highlands (see, e.g., C 609; Bafaqih 1988; Robin 1982a, I: 48–49; von Wissmann 1964: 319, 343–344, 355; etc.). 10 It seems to be partly caused by the degradation of the natural plant cover on the western slopes of the Yemeni Mountains, due both to anthropogenic factors and probable climatic change (e.g., Robin 1991: 88). 11 In addition, it might be reasonable to mention that one of its likely causes was “an increase in the saline content of the soils and clays due to centuries of intensive irrigation.” This is comparable to the well-known Mesopotamian case (Sauer et al. 1988: 107).

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Transformation of Political Institutions in the Late 1st Millennium BCE—The Early 1st Millennium CE: From State to Chiefdoms?

With respect to Sabaean cultural-political dynamics, the situation can be also described in the following words: several factors mentioned above produced a significant decline of the Sabaean state and civilization by the end of the 1st millennium BCE.12 The weakening state organization seems to have become incapable of providing guarantees of life and property to individuals, and it was the clan organization that took on these functions to a considerable extent.13 The Sabaean state, which seems to have found itself on the brink of a complete collapse at the end of the Ancient Period, in the late 1st millennium BCE, considerably reconsolidated during the Middle Period (in the 2nd and 3rd centuries CE). Yet it remained rather weak, especially in comparison with the Ancient Sabaean state. Indeed, inscriptions describe the existence of quite a strong state organization in the center of the early Sabaean Commonwealth. For example, this relatively developed state apparatus let the Sabaean mukarribs erect dozens of various buildings (irrigation structures, temples, city walls, etc.) in many parts of the Commonwealth.14 We know relatively much about the Ancient Sabaean civil officials who could be appointed (s2ym) to organize certain constructions or to be in charge of a certain city, etc.15 In a sharp contrast with the relatively scanty Ancient epigraphy, the numerous Middle Sabaean inscriptions of the 2nd and 3rd centuries CE give us almost no information of this kind.16 In general, the Middle Sabaean inscriptions detail no specific features of the regular state in the Middle Sabaean cultural-political area, neither a regular civil administration nor a regular system of taxation17 nor artificial 12

For example, direct evidence for the dramatic decline of the Sabaean state at the end of the 1st millennium BCE was found by Robin in the materials of the German Archaeological Expedition in Marib (Robin 1989: 222); see also, e.g., Pirenne (1956: 174–178), von Wissmann (1968: 10), etc. 13 It is almost a rule that in agrarian societies the weakening of the state organization causes the consolidation of clan structures (for more detail see Korotayev and Obolonkov 1989, 1990). 14 C 366 a; b; 367 + Lu 16; 490; 622; 623; 627; 629; 631; 632 a; b; 634; 636; 957; Ga 46 [Ga MM]; Gl 1122 + 1116 + 1120; 1558 [= MAFRAY-al-Asahil 6]; 1560 [= MAFRAY-al-Asahil 5]; 1561; 1567 [= MAFRAY-ad-Durayb 3]; A 710; 775 [MAFRAY-Hirbat Sa`ud 4]; 776 [= MAFRAY-Hirbat Sa`ud 2]; 777 [= MAFRAY-Hirbat Sa`ud 8]; MAFRAY-al-Asahil 2; 3; 7; -Hirbat Sa`ud 6; 10; Ph 133 [= MAFRAY-al-Asahil 1]; R 3943; 3945; 3946; 3948 [= Gl 1550 = MAFRAY-ad-Durayb 4]; 3949; 3950; 4399; 4401; 4429; 4494; 4844 [= MAFRAYHirbat Sa`ud 1]; 4850 [= MAFRAY-Hirbat Sa`ud 3]; 4904 [= Gl 1559 = MAFRAY-al-Asahil 4]; 4906; 5096, etc. 15 C 375 [= Ja 550]; 439; 494; 496 [= MAFRAY-Hirbat Sa`ud 13]; 566; Ja 552; 555; 557; MAFRAY-al-Balaq-al-Janubi 1 [= Gl 1719 + 1717 + 1718]; R 4428; 4635; 4845 bis; Ry 584; Sh 20, etc.; see also Ryckmans 1951, 62–64, 83, 85, 88–90, 92; Audouin et al. 1988: 74–76, etc. 16 This fact has been already noticed by J. Ryckmans (1951: 62–64, 175–176). 17 However, if Kitchen’s interpretation of line 16 of Shib`anu 1 (Kitchen 1995) is correct, this inscription may be considered as evidence for the existence of some kind of regular taxation in some parts of the Sabaean cultural area after its final subjugation by the Himyarite kings in the late third century CE. Some form of regular taxation appears likely, taking into consideration the much

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administrative territories. The silence of the sources does not seem to be coincidental, as the Middle Sabaean political system did not really need these institutions. This system appears to have consisted of a weak state in its center and strong autonomous chiefdoms (sha`bs of the second order) on its periphery. The only really well-attested obligation of these sha`bs was to provide military service (s2w`) to their kings. This apparently very loose system turned out to work very effectively. In any case, there are serious grounds to suppose that by the end of the 1st millennium BCE the Sabaean state had significantly weakened, and notwithstanding its partial reconsolidation during the Middle Period, it never regained the strength it had in the Earliest Subperiod (in the 1st half of the 1st millennium BCE). As a result, we can see by the Middle Period the consolidation of clan organization (see in addition to Korotayev 2019: Ch. VIII, e.g., Korotayev 1995a) which acted as a partial substitute for the weak state and remained really strong during the whole of the Middle Period (Korotayev 1993a, b, c, 1994a, b, c, 1995a, b, 1996, 2000, 2019: Pt. 1). As mentioned above, the Middle Sabaean political system may be characterized as consisting of a weak state in its center and strong chiefdoms on its periphery. However, there is no doubt that this was a real system, i.e., it had properties which could not be reduced to the characteristics of its elements.18 It should be also taken into consideration that the state and chiefdoms were not the only elements of this political system. It included as well, for example, a sub-system of temple centers,19 the civil community of Marib,20 as well as some true tribes (not chiefdoms) in the area of the Sabaean Lowlands (primarily the tribes of the Amirite confederation— see, e.g., Robin 1982b, 1991: 127–137; von Wissmann 1964; etc.). With the transition from the Ancient to the Middle Period, the Sabaean political system was essentially transformed, becoming as a whole very different from the “state,” but remaining, however, on basically the same level of political complexity. Without losing any political complexity and sophistication, the Middle “Sabaeans” managed to solve in quite different ways the problems which in complex societies are normally solved by states, such as the mobilization of resources for the functioning of higher degree of political centralization of the Himyarite kingdom (see, e.g., Korotayev 1995a, 1996, 2019) and the fact that the Himyarite kings tried to establish some kind of a similar centralized regular state administration in the Sabaean cultural-political area. 18 It does not seem appropriate either to consider the Middle Sabaean cultural-political area as an agglomerate of political units, like an alliance of states, or tribes, since the level of the political integration of this entity was rather high, quite comparable to that of an average early state. Hence, this entity must be considered as belonging to the same level of political integration as, e.g., an early state rather than an alliance of early states. 19 There is no doubt that Middle “Sabaean” temples had important political functions; however, the level of their autonomy appears to have been normally very high, and by no means could they be described as integral parts of the administrative sub-systems of the Middle “Sabaean” state and chiefdoms (see Korotayev 2019: Ch. V, or, e.g., Korotayev 1995d). 20 It does not appear reasonable to characterize this civil community either as a “chiefdom,” or as a true “tribe.” There are also some grounds to suppose the existence of autonomous civil communities in Nashq and Nashshan. The sha`b of Sirwah also seems to have had some evident features of a civil community (see especially Ja 2856).

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the governing sub-system, territorial organization of a vast space, and the provision of guarantees of life and property. The Middle “Sabaean” experience seems to demonstrate that an integrated territorial entity (even when it is considerably large, complex and highly developed in comparison with, e.g., an average chiefdom) need not necessarily be organized politically as a state. This appears to show that for the “early state” (in Claessen’s sense of this term [see Claessen and Skalnik 1978]) transitions to the “mature state” or complete “degeneration” into “tribes” and “chiefdoms” were not the only possible ways of evolution. One of the possible alternatives was its transformation into a “political system of the Middle Sabaean type.” The real processes of political evolution seem to have been actually much less “unilinear” than is sometimes supposed (see, e.g., Bondarenko 1994, 1995, 2000a, b, 2005, 2006, 2007a, b; Bondarenko et al. 2002, 2004, 2011; Bondarenko and Korotayev 2000a, b, c, 2003; Bondarenko and Nemirovskiy 2007; Grinin 2003, 2008; Grinin and Korotayev 2009a, b, 2011, 2017; Grinin et al. 2004; Korotayev 1995c, 2004; Korotayev et al. 2000; Kradin 2000; Kradin et al. 2000, 2003; Kradin and Lynsha 1995 for more detail).

3

Formation of Tribal Institutions in the Early Islamic Period

This evolutionary model is supported by the fact that a significant transformation seems to have occurred in this region in the Early Islamic Period (see, e.g., Dresch 1989: 191; Piotrovskiy 1985; Robin 1982a, b),21 and by the late Middle Ages the political system of the former “Sabaean” region seems to have consisted mainly of a somewhat stronger state in its center and true tribes (not chiefdoms) on its periphery.22 Within this system the tribes and state constituted one well integrated whole (Abū Ghānim 1985: 98–138; 1990; Brandt 2013, 2017; vom Bruck 1993; Dresch 1984b; 1989, 2016; Egel 2013; Fattah 2011; Gerasimov 1987: 45–55; Lichtenthäler 2017; Obermeyer 1982; Piotrovskiy 1985: 70, 97–100; Stookey 1978: 79–95, 171–173; etc.). There does not seem to be any adequate term to denote systems of this kind.

Thus, according to Dresch in al-Hamdānī's time (the tenth century CE), “Upper Yemen may well have been in a state of transition from a quasi-feudal system to the tribal one” (Dresch 1989: 191); similar conclusions have been produced by Gochenour (1984a: 36ff.). 22 In the meantime, in the Southern Highlands (in the former Himyarite area) there persisted more regular state structures (see, e.g., Burrowes 1987: 9; Dresch 1989: 8–15, 192; Obermeyer 1982: 31–32; Stookey 1978: 50, 124; Weir 1991: 87–88; Wenner 1967: 38; etc.). I would emphasize that state organization in the Southern Highlands was already significantly stronger and more regular than in the North in the 2nd and 3rd centuries CE (see, e.g., C 448 + Ga 16 [Hakir 1]; R 4230; Bāfaqīh 1994; Bāfaqīh and Robin 1980: 15; Korotayev 1995a; Robin 1981: 338). In that period in the North we find a much stronger clan organization (see, e.g., Korotayev 1993c: 51–53, 56; 1995 a: Ch. I, III). 21

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It might be reasonable to apply here some term like a “multipolity,” defining it as a highly integrated system consisting of heterogeneous polities (e.g., of state and chiefdoms, or state and tribes).23 Yet there is a caveat to using such terminology. The medieval political system of North-East Yemen (as well as the Middle Sabaean political system [the 2nd and 3rd centuries CE]) included not only a state and tribes (of course, not chiefdoms as it was in the Middle Sabaean case) but other important elements as well. There was, for example, a “religious aristocracy” (sayyid/sādah), who traced their descent to Muhammad, and performed functions in the tribal areas such tasks as political mediation, without adopting any formal political functions and remaining mainly outside the tribal (and in many cases state) hierarchy (Abū Ghānim 1985: 212–227, 1990; Chelhod 1970: 80–81, 1975: 70–71, 1979: 58f.; Dresch 1984b: 159f., 1989: 140–145; Gerholm 1977: 123; Obermeyer 1982: 36– 37; Serjeant 1977; Stookey 1978: 95). Within the medieval North-East Yemen political system, the sayyids appear to have taken some functions of the pre-Islamic (or, to be more correct, pre-monotheistic) system of temple centers, on the one hand, and ones of the qayls, on the other (though, unlike the qayls, the political leaders of the pre-Islamic sha b, the sayyids in most cases did not act as formal political leaders of the North Yemen qabīlah). “The true source of political power lies with the tribal leaders who will accept no control from their peers. The solution to this impasse was worked out even prior to Islam by the evolution of the organization centered upon the sacred enclave, managed by an hereditary religious aristocracy respected and protected by the tribes” (Serjeant 1977: 244). Robin has already isolated the qualitative difference between the position of the shaykhs of the modern Yemeni tribes and the one of the qayls of the Middle Sabaean sha bs (Robin 1982a, I: 83–85). Indeed, the North Yemeni shaykh is primus inter pares (Abū Ghānim 1985: 115–133, 209–212, 259–266; vom Bruck 1993: 94–95; Dresch 1984a, b: 156–157, 1989: 38–116; Obermeyer 1982: 36; etc.), whereas the Middle Sabaean qayls were separated from the ordinary members of the sha bs by an enormous social distance. For example, the relations between the qayls and their sha b are normally expressed in the ‘dm – ‘mr’, “the subjects—the lords,” categories; these very categories were also applied to the relations between clients and patrons, subjects and the King, people and deities (in R 3910 the 23

The multipolity was probably not a local South Arabian phenomenon. Extra-South-Arabian examples of multipolities of the North Yemeni Zaydī type (“state + tribes”) could be easily found, e.g., in the Middle East in the last two centuries (see, e.g., Al-Rasheed 1994; Eickelman 1981: 85– 104; Evans-Pritchard 1949; Tapper 1983; etc.); the extra-Yemen examples of the multipolities of the Middle Sabaean type (“state + chiefdoms [+ ‘independent’ communities]”) could be easily found again in the Middle East (where a considerable number of the so-called tribes are rather chiefdoms in Service’s terminology [Johnson and Earle 1987: 238–243; Service 1971 [1962]: 144; etc.]). Outside the Middle East, this type of multipolities can be found, e.g., in Western Africa (the Benin Kingdom in some periods of its history—Bondarenko 1994, 1995, 2015; and perhaps in some other West African “kingdoms” [Service 1971 [1962]: 144]). Of course, the two above-mentioned types of multipolities do not exhaust all their possible types. For example, none of them seems to be appropriate with respect to the “State of the Saints” of the Central Atlas, whose periphery consisted of tribes, but whose center can be characterized neither as a state, nor as a chiefdom, nor as a tribe (Gellner 1969).

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singular absolute form for ‘dm [ bdm] is even used to denote the slaves sold in the Mārib market—for details see, e.g., Korotayev 1995b). In most Middle Sabaean inscriptions authored by the ordinary members of the Middle Sabaean sha bs, they beg the deities to grant them the benevolence (hzy w–rdw) of their lords, the qayls (and sometimes even ask them to protect the dedicants against their lords’ wrath [ġlyt—e.g., C 352, 16]). Of course, such a style of relations between leaders and commoners appears to be almost inconceivable for modern (and medieval) North Yemeni tribes. It seems rather remarkable that the term sayyid, “lord,” which even in the Early Islamic period was used to denote a heads of a tribe (Dresch 1989: 169, 191–192; Piotrovskiy 1985: 77), later was completely replaced in North Yemen with a much more neutral term shaykh, “old man.” Whereas the use of the term sayyid was restricted to denote only the members of the “religious aristocracy” placed in the tribal zone of the North Yemeni multipolity mainly outside the tribal organization, under the tribal protection, but not above the tribes. I would like to stress that there does not seem to be any grounds to consider the transformation of North-East Yemeni chiefdoms into tribes “degeneration,” “regress,” or “decline,” as there was no significant loss of the general system complexity and elaboration, one complex political system was transformed into another one, structurally different, but not less complex, highly organized and sophisticated (similarly to the transformation of the Ancient Sabaean political system into the Middle Sabaean one that we described in the previous section of this chapter). It seems necessary, however, to mention also at least the most important of the reservations concerning the identification of the Yemeni qabīlah as the tribe (as defined by Service 1971 [1962]). The political organization of the Yemeni qabā’il is relatively24 egalitarian. However, the North-East Yemen tribal system as a whole can, in no way, be considered as egalitarian. The point is that in addition to the members of the tribes (who constituted in the tribal areas the majority of the population and the main mass of the plow agriculturalists) the tribal communities included numerous “quasi-casts”25 of unarmed26 “weak” members, placed outside

24

First of all, with respect to the Middle Sabaean sha b. A certain similarity between the South Arabian and Indian traditional systems of the socio-cultural stratification has already attracted the scholars’ attention (e.g., Chelhod 1970: 83, 1979: 59). However, they also stress some essential differences between these two systems (Chelhod 1970: 83, 1979: 59, 1985: 33; Dresch 1989: 153; Rodionov 1994: 42). 26 Excluding the traditional Yemeni dagger (janbiyyah): practically all the Northern Yemenis (including the du afā’) have it, but the weak must place it firmly to the left, unlike the members of tribes (qabīliyyīn), wearing their daggers straight at the front of their belts (vom Bruck 1993: 92– 93; Chelhod 1970: 75; 1979: 55; Dresch 1989: 38, 120; Stevenson 1985: 44). The only exception here is a rather special “weak” quasi-cast, dawāshīn (the tribal “heralds”), who wear their janbiyyahs like the tribesmen (Dresch 1989: 120; and in addition to that dawāshīn traditionally carried lances—ibid.: 406). The sayyids and qādīs wear their janbiyyahs on the right—(which seems to signify quite correctly their special position in the tribal world—vom Bruck 1993: 92; Chelhod 1970: 75, 1979: 55; Dresch 1989: 136; in addition to that, le poignard porté par le descendant du Prophète … est généralement plus decoratif [vom Bruck 1993: 92]). 25

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the tribal organization, but “under protection” of the tribes (du afā’, “the weak”).27 These were butchers and barbers (mazāyinah), the tribal “heralds” (dawāshīn), merchants (bayyā īn), horticulturalists (ghashshāmīn), craftsmen, especially weavers (sāni īn), servants (akhdām), placed at the very bottom of the hierarchy. Traditionally the Jewish population of the area also belonged to “the weak” (Abū Ghānim 1985: 234–249; Chelhod 1970: 63, 73–80, 83–84, 1975: 76–82, 1979: 48, 54–57, 1985: 15–37; Dresch 1984b: 159; 1989: 117–123; Obermeyer 1982: 36; Piotrovskiy 1985: 64, 87; Serjeant 1977; Stevenson 1985: 42–47, 63f.; etc.).28 The general picture of social stratification in the tribal areas is further complicated by the presence of the above-mentioned sayyids and (not yet mentioned) qādīs (religiously educated families who do not trace their descent to Muhammad), who were also under the protection of the tribes,29 playing quite important roles in the functioning of the tribal systems30 (Abū Ghānim 1985: 212–227, 1990; Chelhod 1970: 81f., 1975: 70–71, 1979: 58f.; Dresch 1984b: 159f.; 1989: 136–157; Obermeyer 1982: 36–37; Piotrovskiy 1985: 65, 87, 101; Serjeant 1977; etc.).31 It seems reasonable to stress that the “protection” provided to the “weak” population by the tribes is in no way just a promise. The failure of the tribe to defend a “weak” person under their protection (e.g., to secure the payment of a fine for an offense committed against him) constitutes a very strong attack on the reputation (sharaf, “honor”) of the tribe, whereas the amount of such a compensation often exceeds fourfold (and sometimes [though very rarely] 11-fold) the fine for a similar offense committed against a tribesman (Dresch 1989: 118, 407). In addition to that, “the call to right wrongs committed against them will generally be answered by large numbers of men from the tribe in question, whereas the call to support a fellow tribesman may be far less compelling” (Dresch 1984b: 159; see also, e.g., Obermeyer 1982: 36). Also, “it’s forbidden for a person of superior rank to tease the anādīl (a designation for the “weak”—A.K.) or to wrong them. If such a thing happened then the whole society would take their side to obtain justice from their oppressor” (Chelhod 1970: 75, 1979: 55; see also, e.g., Stevenson 1985: 44). 28 The formation of this system of “quasi-casts” might be dated to the 12th–14th centuries (Piotrovskiy 1985: 87). 29 There appears to be a certain similarity in the tribal zone in the position of the “weak quasi-casts,” on the one hand, and that of the sayyids and qādīs, on the other: both are under the protection of the tribes, which virtually have the monopoly of the legitimate use of violence. However, the Yemenis themselves make such a comparison extremely rarely: “Dawāshīn in both Dhū Muhammad and Dhū Husayn claim … to be hijrah [under the special protection by the tribes. —A.K.], ‘because we are all bi-l-muhaddash (protected by an 11-fold fine) like the qādīs and sayyids’… On the plateau I have not heard either tribesmen or dawāshīn suggest such equivalence between ‘heralds’ and men of religion…” (Dresch 1989: 407). 30 “Non-tribal quasi-casts” of the North Yemen tribal zone constituted the minority of its population (“Outside the few towns … the weak people are not numerous, two or three families in a village of thirty tribal families is not unusual” [Dresch 1989: 123]). However, it is necessary to take them into account, as they were one of the most important factors making the North Yemen tribal world what it was—a very complex and highly organized (and by no means “primitive”) system, quite comparable according to its complexity to most pre-industrial state systems with a similar sized population (e.g., with the non-tribal state systems of the Yemen South Highlands and Lowlands). 31 The sayyids and qādīs themselves considered their status to be higher than that of the tribesmen, though there do not seem to be sufficient grounds to regard them as the dominant strata of the North Yemeni tribes (e.g., Dresch 1984b: 159, 1989: 136–157). In the tribal zone the monopoly to apply violence actually belonged to the tribesmen and not sayyids. Notwithstanding the sayyids’ very high reputation, these were the shaykhs and not sayyids who acted as real political leaders of 27

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In many respects, a tribe of the North Yemeni type could be regarded as a rather developed form of political organization, whose complexity could be compared to that of the chiefdom (and it is by no means more primitive than the chiefdom), implying first of all a very high level of development in its political culture and the existence of an elaborated system of political institutions and the traditions of arbitration, mediation, search for consensus, and a wide developed network of intensive intercommunal links over enormous territories populated by tens and hundreds of thousands of people. Such a tribal system can to a certain extent organize (without the application of any centralized coercion) populations which often exceed the population of an average chiefdom by 1–2 orders of magnitude. For example, Earle defines the chiefdom as “a polity that organizes centrally a regional population in thousands” (Earle 1991: 1); whereas an average North Yemen tribe includes 20–30 thousand members (Dresch 1984a: 33), and such a relatively highly integrated North Yemen tribal confederation as Hāshid consists of seven tribes (Ibid.; Chelhod even lists 14 tribes belonging to this confederation— Chelhod 1970: 84–85, 1985: 57–58; see also Stevenson 1985: 48). To this population estimate we must also add dozens of thousands of the members of the “weak quasi-casts” (as well as quite considerable numbers of sayyids and qādīs) who are not formally members of the tribes, but who were also to a certain extent organized by the tribal structures (which, e.g., guaranteed the security of towns, markets, religious centers, etc., within the tribal area). As a result, the mass of the population organized by the tribal confederation Hāshid appears to exceed substantially (by 1– 2 orders of magnitude!) the respective figures for an average chiefdom. In addition to this, one should not forget the ability of tribal organization of this type to form in conjunction with other polities (not necessarily states—see, e.g., Gellner 1969) political systems, multipolities, that have an even higher order of complexity. The notion of “tribe,” as it is used by social anthropologists for the description of the sociopolitical organization of the Northern Yemenis (or, say, the population of many areas of Afghanistan, Cyrenaica, Atlas, etc.) in the 19th and 20th centuries appears rather useful, as it denotes quite a distinct form of supra-communal political organization, which does not seem to be adequately denoted by any other current terms, like “chiefdom” (let alone “state,” or “community”). We could observe in those tribal areas such a type of political organization, when stable forms of intercommunal integration operate without the monopolization by tribal leaders of legitimate applications of violence, without the acquisition of any formal power over communities and commoners, when, e.g., conflicts are solved (or collective the tribe (the latter became shaykhs rather rarely, whereas most sayyids do not seem to have really sought this; according to Dresch’s observations, “there is no reason why someone who happens to be a sayyid should not also be a shaykh, although this is unusual” [Dresch 1989: 156]). In this respect, the relations between the sayyids and the tribesmen resemble to a certain extent those between the brahmans and kshatriyas in ancient India (cp., e.g., Bongard-Levin and Ilyin 1985: 301–304). It is evident that the presence of sayyid families (having a high reputation among the tribes, but not dominant over them) in the tribal zone must have been a powerful integrating factor within the North Yemeni multipolity whose state center was governed for most of the 2nd millennium CE by the representatives of the “religious aristocracy” (sayyids), the Zaydī imams (e.g., Chelhod 1985: 26–29; Stookey 1978: 95, 149–155).

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“tribal” actions are undertaken) not through the decisions of authoritative officials, but through the search by the tribal leaders (lacking any formal, absolute, independent from their personal qualities, power) for consensus among all interested members of the tribe (or the tribes), etc. Thus, political structures of the Yemeni qabā’il type32 can be most appropriately denoted as “tribes,” whereas the Middle Sabaean (the 1st–4th centuries CE) supra-communal entities, the sha bs of the second order could be denoted as “chiefdoms.” If employing such an approach one would have to admit the absence of the proper tribal organization in the Sabaean Cultural Area of the pre-Islamic age.33 That is why it is justifiable to speak about the transformation of chiefdoms into tribes in the “Sabaean” Highlands in the Early Islamic Period. On the other hand, as a result of the considerable decline of state structures34 in the Northern Highlands after a relatively short period of their consolidation at the beginning of the Islamic age, the population of the area had to defend themselves by themselves. To a certain extent the genesis of tribal organization (for which there were already certain preconditions in the area) can be considered as the Highlanders’ response to this challenge. Tribal organization, having been formed, turned out to be so effective in many respects, that until recently it resisted quite successfully all attempts by state systems (which periodically strengthened in South Arabia) to eradicate (or significantly weaken) it. In the Islamic age, the main result of the interaction of tribal and state organization in the Northern Highlands turned out to be not the undermining or liquidation of tribal structures, but the emergence of the North Yemen multipolity. Within this multipolity, though the relations between its state center (headed most of this millennium by Zaydī imams)35 and its tribal periphery were far from being without conflicts, some equilibrium was achieved, the functions of the system’s elements were (quite informally) delimited, as reciprocally (to a certain extent) acceptable “rules of the game” were worked out. A significant role in the preservation of the North Yemeni tribal organization was, no doubt, played by the geographical environment of the Northern Highlands. On the one hand, the very rugged terrain of the area significantly helped the tribes to preserve their autonomy (cf. Korotayev 1995e). On the other hand, the limited

32

And not amorphous agglomerates of primitive communities, or such socio-political entities which can be adequately denoted as “communities” or “chiefdoms” (for a critical survey of cases of such a use of the term “tribe” see Fried 1975). 33 At least in its highland part, as the seminomadic population of al-Jawf (e.g., some part of the Amirites [s2 bn/’s2 bn’MRm]) might have already had tribal organization in the Middle Period (on the Amirites see, e.g., Bāfaqīh 1990: 282–283; Ghul 1959: 432; Korotayev 1995e; Robin 1991: 127–137; von Wissmann 1964: 81–159). 34 As well as the political systems of the chiefdoms. 35 It should be mentioned that this state center originated by the direct support of the Northern tribes (e.g., Abū Ghānim 1990; Dresch 1989: 167–173; Gochenour 1984b; Obermeyer 1982).

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economic potential of the meager and arid North-East Highlands36 did not stimulate the state centers to struggle with adequate vigor for the complete subjugation of the area to full state control. The same factors also hindered the processes of internal stratification of the Northern tribes (e.g., Dresch 1984b: 156, 1989: 8–15). The transformation of the warlike, armed and independent tribesmen into a mass of obedient peasants and submissive taxpayers demanded tremendous effort and expenses on the part of the states, and promised only very limited economic yields. The much more humid and fertile Southern Highlands (with a significantly less rugged terrain) were much more attractive in this respect.37 The genesis of tribal organization in the North-East Yemeni Highlands can be also considered as the “response” by the area’s sociopolitical system to the “challenge” of the second socio-ecological crisis of the North-East in the second half of the 1st millennium CE.38 With respect to the Highland area, this crisis seems to have been at least partly caused by the “prestige economy” of the Highland chiefdoms which led to the overstrain of the very fragile natural environment of the region (e.g., to the extreme degradation of the natural vegetal cover of the Eastern part of the Northern Mountains).39 The socio-ecological environment of the region does not appear to have been able to sustain the prestige consumption of the qayls and their entourage. The overcoming of the second socio-ecological crisis seems to have been achieved through the “seizure,” the “ousting” of the qaylite aristocracy by the region’s sociopolitical system through the genesis of tribal organizations which in this area secured the reproduction of a rather complex and developed agricultural society by the procurement of a very “economical” surplus production.

The main exception here, the San ā’ Plain, seems to belong firmly to exceptions which only confirm the rule, as this was precisely San ā’ which served as the main stronghold of state organization in the Northern Highlands for most of the last two millennia (e.g., Lundin 1988; Serjeant and Lewcock 1983). 37 For example, Stookey explains the absence of any serious attempts to subjugate the Northern tribes on the part of the Rasulid state (the 12th–15th centuries) in the following way: “The Rasulids were not militant proselytizers by temperament and chose to maximize their secular satisfactions within the productive areas they could handily govern, rather than to dissipate their energies in an apocalyptic struggle for control of territory which had little to offer in the way of potential revenue” (Stookey 1978: 124). 38 Dayton 1979: 127; Robin 1984: 220–221, 1991: 67; etc. This crisis seriously affected the North-East Lowlands which had experienced a dramatic decline already by the end of the sixth century CE, and after that they never managed to overcome this decline completely. But this crisis affected the North-East Highlands as well. However, the Highland population did manage to endure this crisis without any fall in the level of its self-organization (though also without the complete recovery of the natural environment of the area). 39 For example, Robin gives the following striking example: …Dans le mont Sawlān près de dhīBīn, totalement dénudé de nos jours, a-t-on tué au cours de trois chasses, vers le début de l'e´re chrétienne, 4000 bouquetins; un tel nombre d'animaux sauvages ne pouvait vivre que si la montagne était couverte de broussailles (Robin 1984: 220–221; the data mentioned by Robin are taken from the qaylite inscription Robin/Kuhl = Ja 2874; according to Robin this degradation of the natural vegetal cover appears to have taken place in the 1st millennium CE). 36

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On the one hand, the tribal organization of the area’s population made it possible for the tribesmen to struggle successfully (with the arms in their hands) for the preservation of a rather low level of taxation on the part of the state center of the North Yemen multipolity. On the other hand, it secured the effective control by the tribal agricultural population over resources used for the maintenance of the non-agricultural strata of the tribal zone (including its intellectual and political elites). As the area’s social system adapted to the worsening economic-ecological conditions and found its way out of the socio-ecological crisis, some role seems to have been played by the development of highly individualized private land property relations and the dissolution of the system of communal economic mutual assistance. Social anthropologists (basing themselves mainly on the oral information gathered from the informants of the senior generation) have described a rather severe (though rather effective at the same time) traditional (it seems to have existed up to the 1950s) model for the behavior of the population in the tribal zone in the years of famine (caused by the droughts, rather frequent in the area). According to this model, neighbors would not tend to help each other through the sharing of scarce resources, but rather the heads of the less economically effective households would sell their land to the more economically effective agriculturalists and move to San ā’ to serve in the Imam’s army (incidentally, this seems to demonstrate that the taxes which the tribesmen paid to the Imams could be to a certain extent regarded as a sort of “premium” payments to the “insurance fund” of the North Yemen multipolity). As a result, the more effective agriculturalists would increase their land possessions, and the less effective ones would save their lives (e.g., Dresch 1989: 300–301). In the process of this adaptation to the severe natural environment of the North-East Highlands (especially to the frequent droughts), a significant role appears to have been played by the development of market relations in the tribal zone of the North. The Yemeni tribal system appeared to have been able to operate at a level which seems to have been extremely high for a pre-industrial agrarian society. Here a considerable role appears to have been played by the development of such an important North Yemen tribal institution as hijrah (e.g., Abū Ghānim 1985: 214f.; vom Bruck 1993: 87–88; Chelhod 1970: 81–82, 1975: 79–80, 1979: 58–59, 1985: 28–29; Dresch 1989; Kropp 1994: 89; Nielsen 1994: 43; Puin 1984; Stevenson 1985: 63–65; etc.). The hijrah is an institution which puts under protection (often documentally formulated) of a tribe (or a group of tribes) of a certain object. The object of hijrah could be some people (e.g., a family of sayyids [“religious aristocrats” tracing their descent from Muhammad] living in the territory of the given tribe), the meeting places between the tribes, markets, towns (populated often mainly by the “weak” population, as well as by the sayyids and qadis rather than by the tribesmen), etc. In many respects, it was due to this institution that the tribal organization managed to sustain in its zone a rather high level of development of market relations—through the establishment of the hijrahs guaranteeing the protection by the tribes of hundreds of markets which covered the whole tribal zone of the North Highlands.

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The tribes which proclaim, say, the given market as their hijrah take as their obligation (often recorded in written documentation) the securing of its full safety— e.g., through the guaranteeing of the compensation for a crime committed at the market being paid, say, 11-fold (bi-l-muhaddash). In general, within the territory of the market (or any other place) proclaimed to be a hijrah it is forbidden to commit any violence, even if it is legitimate from the point of view of the tribal law ( adāt). “All spilling of human blood is forbidden and it is equally forbidden to start a fight or even come to blows there. Here the murderer can meet the son or brother of his victim without fearing for his life” (Chelhod 1970: 82, 1979: 58; see also, e.g., Dresch 1987: 432 1989; Stevenson 1985: 63–65; &cetc.); whereas the inability of the tribe to secure the fulfillment of such obligations constitutes a considerable stain on its reputation (sharaf, “honor”). Here a significant role appears to have been played by the creation of the already mentioned rather effective system of protection by the tribes of numerous “quasi-casts” of unarmed “weak” individuals who are not the members of the tribes but who are under tribal protection (du afā’, the “weak”). This list includes in addition to butchers and barbers (mazāyinah), tribal heralds (dawāshīn), horticulturalists (ghashshāmīn), craftsmen (sāni īn), etc., also traders (bayyā īn). A significant positive feature in the evolution of trade and market relations in the tribal zone was the development by the tribes of institutions that provided for the safe passage through the tribal territories of people not belonging to the respective tribes (Dostal 1990; Dresch 1987, 1989; etc.). As a result, in many tribal areas another important additional informal “insurance fund” emerged in the form of the grain stores of “low-cast” traders (bayyā īn), who bought the grain of the tribesmen (to whom almost all the plow agriculturalists of the North belonged) in the “fat” years and sold it back to the tribesmen in the “lean” ones (naturally, not without some profit for themselves). “When we needed money, we sold grain in the sūq [= market – A.K.]. If we needed grain later, the ‘merchants’ [awlād al-sūq {“sons of the market” – A.K.}] sold it back at a higher price. The ‘merchants’ were always hoarding grain. If there was a drought, we had to borrow grain to eat. Sometimes we would borrow, but once you had borrowed and couldn’t repay, the ‘merchants’ took your land… That’s how they came to be rich” (from the memories of a Yemeni tribesman recorded by Stevenson [1985: 53] in Amrān). It appears necessary to stress that the rather low social status of the “traders” (in comparison with that of ordinary tribesmen) effectively blocked their rise into the dominant elite of the tribes (within the terms of Yemeni tribal culture this appears entirely unthinkable). In other words it impeded the unproductive dissipation of the resources accumulated by “merchants” for their own prestige consumption, etc. In any case, the flexible individualized reaction of the tribal agricultural population to natural disasters (quite usual and regular in this ecological zone) appeared possible in many respects due to the clearly expressed highly individualized relations of the ownership of the arable lands, established individual owner rights to sell his land—this seems to have been absent in North-East Highlands in the “pre-tribal,” “chiefdom” age (this fact can be well documented for the 3rd century BCE—4th century CE) and developed together with the genesis of the tribal organization in this

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area. Thus, the development of private land property relations and the decline of economic communalism with the transition from the chiefdom system to the tribal one contributed to the adaptation of the agricultural population to the worsening ecological conditions and helped to overcome the second North-East Yemeni socio-ecological crisis (of the second half of the 1st millennium CE). There are certain grounds to suppose that the transformation of communal structures, the genesis of tribal organization and the development of the market system allowed the inhabitants to overcome the North-East Yemen Highland socio-ecological crisis of the second half of the 1st millennium CE. Thus, the tribal organization seems to have matched rather well the Northern Highland ecological milieu, as it objectively protected a very fragile and vulnerable economic-ecological environment of the area from overexploitation through the procurement of a very “economical” production of surplus by preventing excessive taxation (and exploitation in general) of the agriculturalists.40 It precluded any exorbitant growth of parasitic or prestige elite consumption, while permitting the existence of quite a developed and complex social and cultural structures (including a network of non-agricultural towns, markets, centers of traditional learning etc. protected by the tribes). It is even difficult to avoid an impression that tribal organization was almost the only political form that in the pre-industrial world could secure the sustainable reproduction of complex highly organized social systems in the extremely meager and vulnerable economic-ecological environment of the North-East Yemeni Highlands. As Dresch notices, “the land of Hāshid and Bakīl would provide a poor economic basis for any elaborate exploitative class” (Dresch 1984b: 156; see also 1989: 8–15). I would even say that in the pre-industrial age the socioeconomic system of the area had to be freed from “any elaborate exploitative class” (which would have made the North Highland agriculturalists produce excessive surplus destroying finally the vulnerable environment) in order to become sustainable. It seems reasonable to consider the tribe as the chiefdom alternative41 rather than a “pre-chiefdom”42 form of political organization (whereas in some respects the tribe of the North Yemeni type appears to be an even more developed form of political organization than the chiefdom). And, in any case, there does not seem to be any ground to consider as “primitive” the tribal sociopolitical institutions of the Islamic Middle East, which (like the Middle Eastern states) formed as a result of long “post-primitive” evolution as a specific (and quite effective) version of

40

According to the Zaydī doctrine, the harvest taxation must not have exceeded a rather modest 5– 10% (depending on the type of the land—e.g., Stookey 1978: 88), and the Northern tribes managed to secure a level of taxation not exceeding these figures for most of the 2nd millennium. The almost complete absence of any significant exploitation within the tribe (e.g., Dresch 1984b: 156; 1989: 276–319) was of no less importance. 41 Whereas in certain respects (as this has already been mentioned above), the tribe seems to be an even more developed political form than the chiefdom. 42 Or even “pre-state” one. Quite agreeing with Fried, I would rather consider it as a “para-state” form of political organization.

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sociopolitical adaptation of some quite highly developed regional populations to certain natural and sociohistorical environments (cp. Al-Dawsari 2012).

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Heterarchy and Hierarchy in Eurasian Steppes Nikolay N. Kradin

1

Introduction

In recent decades, unilinear theories of state origins have been criticized (Yoffee 2005; Routledge 2014). Today scholars have noted two different permanent directions (ideal types, strategies) in the process of cultural evolution. The first one, the hierarchy or network strategy is based on centralization and the hierarchy of power. It is characterized by the concentration of wealth among the elite, the presence of dependence and patronage networks, the reflection of social differentiation in funerary rituals, the elite’s control over trade in luxury goods, the development of crafts for the needs of the upper classes, the presence of cults of chieftains and their ancestors, and the reflection of status and hierarchy in the ideological system and architecture. The second one, or the heterarchy or corporate strategy, is characterized by a larger distribution of wealth and authority, more moderate accumulation, segmental social organization, economic efforts of the society aimed at the achievement of common goals (such as food production, building fortifications, temples, and so on), and a universalizing cosmology with its associated religious cults and rituals. The architecture reflects the standardized lifestyle (see Kradin 2019: 13). Approximately, at the same time, albeit on different historical materials and using different terminology, this same approach was developed for materials from different parts of the world—the Middle East, Central and Inner Asia, the Caucasus, Western Europe, and the Americas (Berezkin 1995, 2000; Blanton et al. 1996; Bondarenko 2006; Bondarenko and Korotayev 2000; Carneiro et al. 2017; Chacon and Mendoza 2017; Crumley 1995, 2001; Earle and Kristiansen 2010; Grinin et al. N. N. Kradin (&) Institute of History, Archaeology and Ethnology, Far East Branch Russian Academy of Sciences, 89 Pushkinskaya St, Vladivostok, Russia e-mail: [email protected] © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2020 D. M. Bondarenko et al. (eds.), The Evolution of Social Institutions, World-Systems Evolution and Global Futures, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-51437-2_8

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2004; Haas 2001; Korotayev 1995; Kradin et al. 2000; Kristiansen 1998; Price and Feinman 2010; etc.). Scholars say about the same thing but use different definitions. They talk about individualizing and group-oriented chiefdoms (Renfrew 1974), wealth and staple finance (D’Altroy and Earle 1985; Gilman 1987), hierarchy and heterarchy (Crumley 1995); network and corporate strategies (Blanton et al. 1996; Feinman 2001), centralized and decentralized chiefdoms and states (Earle and Kristiansen 2010; Kristiansen 1998), homoarchy and heterarchy (Bondarenko 2006, 2007), states and analogues of states (Grinin 2003). Today it is clear that heterarchy—hierarchy strategies are not different paths of social evolution. This is a dichotomy that can take place at different levels of complexity (Kowalewski 2000: 180). In local groups of hunters-gatherers of prehistoric times, there are more stratified societies such as in Australia, and almost egalitarian ones as in Africa (!Kung, Hadza, etc.) (Artemova 2000; Butovskaya 2000; Fitzhugh 2000; Schweizer 2000). However, pure egalitarianism in prehistoric times is more like the myth of the French thinker Jean-Jacques Rousseau. In real practice, inequality existed even in paleolithic groups (Flinn 2010; Smith et al. 2010). In pre-state societies, there is a dichotomy between complex communities and chiefdoms (Wason and Baldia 2000). After the origin of civilization, this is a dichotomy between stateless complex communities, ancient polises, on the one part, and territorial kingdoms of West and East Eurasia, on the other (Berezkin 1995, 2000; Korotayev 1995). Sometimes, it is a dichotomy between early states and their analogs (Grinin 2011). In some measure, this dichotomy can probably be used as a metaphor in relation to modern democratic and autocratic societies. I believe heterarchy and hierarchy are manifesting the extremes of political dominant institutions, with consensual power at one extreme and tendencies to autocratism at other. However, one should not abuse this dichotomy as a tool. One can, with a certain share of sarcasm, be in accord with the assertion that the binary mentality discovered by Levi-Strauss is characteristic of not only primitive people of the Amazon but also modern professors (Wason and Baldia 2000: 143). Here, we will consider how this concept is applicable to societies of pastoral nomads. First, the slab graves (or slab burials) culture of Mongolia and Transbaikalia in 1100–400/300 BC. will be discussed. Then, the nomadic empire of Xiongnu (209 BC–48 AD) will be considered. It was the first nomadic empire in Inner Asia. It is well known from Chinese annals and archaeological data (Brosseder and Miller 2011; Di Cosmo 2002; Kradin 2002).

2

Pastoral Eurasian Context

To what extent do the ideas discussed above have value for the study of pastoral nomads? Cattle breeders and pastoral nomads have created different forms of polities. The path from the appearance of pastoralism and nomadism to the final

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completion of the nomadic formations and the establishment of complex pastoral societies and nomadic empires has extended over more than a thousand years. In the opinion of Koryakova (1996, 2002), one can identify several waves of establishing complex societies in steppic Eurasia in the Bronze and Early Iron Ages. The first wave (before 1600 BC) includes the epoch of chariots and the time of theocratic chiefdoms and tribal confederations (Sintasha, Petrovka). The second wave (1600– 500 BC) is the epoch of pastoral societies and the time of simple chiefdoms (Andronovo, Fedorovo). Third-wave (from 500 BC) sees the formation of nomadism and is the time of complex chiefdoms and nomadic empires (Arzhan, Xiongnu). Nomadic societies differ in the level of their complexity. Barfield, for example, has identified four levels of nomadic pastoral societies consistent with the above periodization: (1) acephalous societies, for example, cattle breeders of Africa; (2) tribal societies with tens of thousands people headed by informal leaders; (3) supratribal confederations with 100.000 people and more; (4) centralized imperial confederacies with up to one million people (Barfield 1993, 2003). At that, he divides two different lines of nomadic societies. The first line is the nomads of Eurasia where the genealogy of kinship was of great importance when forming supratribal hierarchy. For this reason, the religious factor in this region has not played a crucial role. The second line includes the cattle breeders of North Africa and the Middle East, which have egalitarian social organization, and where Islam was of great importance in forming supratribal unity (Barfield 1995). The last thesis is a good argument in favor of the hierarchy—heterarchy theory. Cross-cultural investigations in anthropology confirm the narrative of the undeveloped social differentiation among the nomads. According to the statistical information of the Murdock data set of ethnohistorical societies, the social structure of nomads was egalitarian in 18.8% cases, there was a presence of inherited slavery in 50% of cases, two social groups, castes and/or slavery, in 25% of cases, and three social classes only in 6.2% of cases (Mulder et al. 2010: 37 Table 1). Even considering the fact that this is about only 16 pastoral societies from a total sample of 186 societies, it is clear that highly-developed stratification was not characteristic of nomadic societies. Additional data on 15 ancient and medieval pastoral and nomadic polities show the presence of three or four levels of cultural complexity among nomads. The simplest of them are acephalous or headless segmentary formations without controlling bodies. The next stage is so-called “secondary” tribes, confederacies of Table 1 Different vectors (types) of pre-industrial stages

Heterarchy

Stage

Hierarchy

City State Polis

Pre-industrial Archaic civilization Complex

Agrarian state Early state

Tribal confederation Tribe

Middle-range

Complex chiefdom Chiefdom

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tribes, and simple chiefdoms. Even more developed structure is characteristic of the complex and supercomplex chiefdoms. They are represented by the nomadic empires as well as “quasi-imperial” polities smaller in size (Tatar Khanates after the collapse of the Golden Horde), independent and semi-dependent khanates of pre-Modern time (Kazakhs, Kalmyks, etc.). The aggressive nomadic empires that were established by way of the subordination of settled-agricultural populations and the creation of control bodies were the most complex (Kradin 2006). In all the above theories, there is no direct association with the hierarchy— heterarchy dichotomy. However, in many publications about Bronze and Iron Ages pastoralists of the Eastern European steppe and Central and Inner Asia, the concept of heterarchy has already become a part of the archaeological discourse (Honeychurch et al. 2009; Epimakhov 2009; Fitzhugh 2009; Frachetti 2012; Honeychurch 2015; Houle 2009; Koryakova and Epimakhov 2007; Wright 2017a, b). I took part also in these debates (Kradin 2011). However, the hierarchy—heterarchy dichotomy can be only partly applicable to pastoral nomads. When considering a list of dichotomy indices (Feinman 2001: 160; Kowalewski 2000: 179–180; Wason and Baldia 2000: 143), it turns out that some indices cannot be applicable while others are applicable only partially. I have not found examples which would be applicable in full to pastoralists and nomads. A concentration of wealth was observed among nomads. However, a mobile mode of life prevents the accumulation of goods. The nomads have related to the accumulation of goods the same way as the hunters-gatherers identified by Marshall Sahlins (1972) in Stone Age Economics— chiefs often preferred to present gifts and spoils of war, thereby decreasing their baggage but increasing the networks of clients. Narrative sources contain much information about the prestige economy of Mongols (Kradin 2008). Symbols of power and status were present—the fur coat, brocaded caftan and bags, horse, saddle, irons, belt, arms, and bucket. However, their quantity was limited to what might be carried off or put in the trunk. Archaeologically, such differences can be not always fixed in pastoral societies. The question of princely burials and monumental ritual spaces has no easy solution. The khirigsuurs archaeological culture of the Bronze Age in Mongolia has large burial places with huge stone mounds (khirigsuurs) of the elite and small mounds of common pastoralists. However, there are practically no goods in the graves. How should we consider these—as places of sacral rituals or the result of many hundreds of days of work installing the grave of a prominent Big Man? The question of power is also debatable. Clearly, individual power in large nomadic polities was of a one-off nature. This is an obligatory feature in the trajectory toward the nomadic empire. All the founders of the steppe states from Maodun among Xiongnu to Chinggis Khan among Mongols were usurpers and autocrats. However, the power of the leader rested on his receiving gifts and spoils and distributing them among relatives and tribes of the confederacy. Many decisions of the pastoral elite were accepted at public meetings of pastoral elites, which Mongols called quriltai. Often, the leader had to delegate power to his relatives or share it with the chiefs of tribes.

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The nomadic empires depended on the redistribution of Chinese gifts and the spoils of war. For this reason, prestige goods tended to concentrate among the elite. The graves of the Xiongnu chiefs contained gold, silver and bronze ornamentals, carpets, silk goods, and chariots (Brosseder 2009). However, it should be kept in mind that ordinary nomads also took part in the military campaigns. They also received a part of the spoils of war. These artefacts could sometimes be detectable in graves. Handicrafts among the nomads were only used for domestic purposes, as confirmed by abundant evidence in written sources from Xiongnu and Wuhuan, to the modern times. Large numbers of palace craftsmen are found only in special settlements and towns of nomadic empires (Kradin 2018: 193), as regularly found in historical archaeology. But it is necessary to consider its applicability for prehistoric pastoralists. An even more difficult question concerns lineal kinship systems and segmentary organization. We have no data on the pastoral cultures of the Bronze Age. However, the developed kinship relationships premised on genealogy were characteristic of all the ethnohistorical pastoral nomads (Bacon 1958; Krader 1963). Developed kinship system is known among all ancient and medieval nomads in Mongolia from Xiongnu to Mongols and Oirats. This is a universal feature of pastoral nomads. Some scholars deny the presence of kin groups among nomads (Sneath 2007). However, most scholars have rejected this hypothesis (see Kradin 2019: 16, 17, 22). Social organization among pastoral nomads is a mobile segmentary organization from the smallest levels (family groups) to large confederacies. The ecology and subsistence of Bronze Age pastoralists and ethnohistorical nomads were similar. It is conceivable that the segmental organization could have existed in the Bronze Age. However, archaeology cannot confirm or deny this. In hierarchical societies, personal glorification is characteristic while in heterarchical cases, broad concerns with fertility and rain are the norm. It is not known if the pastoralists had the fertility cults or cults of personal leaders. We have no data on cults and religions in the Bronze Age in Inner Asia. In the Iron Age, Xiongnu, Turks, Mongols, and other nomads were shamanistic and idolized the cult of Eternal Heaven (Tengri). In the Middle Ages, the religions of agrarian civilizations penetrated the steppe. Toba and Khitans became Buddhists, Uighurs adopted Manichaeism. Mongols promoted religious diversity, but later inclined to Islam and Buddhism (Khazanov 1994; Roux 1984). Therefore, one can identify only two main features of the dichotomy that can be traced from archaeology and partially from narrative sources: hierarchy of elite and common burials, and concentration of prestige goods among the elite. We can attempt to trace further whether two different strategies can be identified among pastoral nomads: (1) societies where individual leaders aspire to monopolize the sources and channels of power, with the redistribution of prestige goods and status goods from specialized handicrafts; (2) societies where power and wealth were distributed and there are monumental collective construction and public rituals. We decided to be limited to two examples: the culture of slab graves and the Xiongnu imperial polity.

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Slab Graves Heterarchy

Slab graves are clearly visible to archaeologists on the surface of the steppe. This simplifies the survey and offers an opportunity for mapping. However, for the same reason, all of them have been looted. Some graves were looted several times. Therefore, only a small number of artefacts have been found in graves, which is a problem for interpretation. These burials are found distributed in Mongolia and Transbaikalia around 1100–400/300 BC. The earliest calibrated dates are before 1500 BC (Miyamoto and Obata 2016: 83). The latest dates are generally earlier by 100–200 years than the Xiongnu culture. Consequently, it is assumed that the culture of slab graves is prior to Xiongnu. Only in one instance is the date of a slab graves coincident in time with the Xiongnu Empire (Miyamoto and Obata 2016: 64) (Fig. 1). The major contribution to the examination of the slab graves culture was made by Russian archaeologists. In addition, papers by Mongolian and Western researchers were of great importance. The most complete information is available in the book by Aleksandr Tsybiktarov (1998), published 20 years ago but still the most complete work on the slab graves culture. Tsybiktarov, who excavated slab graves over many years, provides a comprehensive review, covering many questions—classification of graves and artefacts, chronology, origins, economy, and

Fig. 1 Slab grave. Transbaikalia

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associations with the other cultures. The book has many tables, pictures, and statistical data, including information on 542 burials, which provides a reliable sample for information on social structure. The research methodology was based on the assumption of a relation between the size of the burial structure, diversity, and number of the significant artefacts (weapons, harness, prestige goods, etc.), and status of the deceased (see in more detail Kradin 2018). Unfortunately, information on sex and age is not available, which complicates the interpretation. The raw data from excavation reports that was gathered by Tsybiktarov was inaccessible. At my disposal are only his summary tables (Nos. 26, 28, 30, 32, 34, 36, 38) containing the sizes of graves and different categories of artefacts (Tsybiktarov 1998: 74–78). I compiled these data, allowing me to offer new interpretations (Table 2). It is interesting that the proportion of ‘grave-stone’ (Serge) in the graves of different ranks varies. The greater the grave size, the higher is the frequency of Serge occurrence. The difference between the graves of different ranks and the presence of ‘Weapons’ is even greater. Here, one can draw a direct conclusion—the higher the status of an individual, the stronger is his association with weapons and war. I should make one caveat. We do not have data on sex and age. If such information existed, then perhaps, the conclusions about ranks might be somewhat different. However, the main conclusion remains true: status and military function correlate with each other. Finally, the last column of the Table (‘prestige goods’) shows that with the increase of in grave size, the quantity of prestige goods increased too. Twenty per cent of prestige goods were found in graves with sizes of 2  3 m, 33.5% of them in graves of 3  4 m and 46.6% in graves 4  5 m in size. As a result of the examination of correlation between the sizes of slab graves and different categories of artefacts, one can identify several social ranks: 1. Individuals of the lowest rank (for example, slaves). They were buried in small graves without goods (12.7%) 2. Commoner pastoralists who tended the cattle, were aware of horse riding, and participated in the military campaigns, were buried in the middle-sized slab graves. Some graves contained a grave-stone, prestige goods, and evidence of rituals using ochre. Thus probably there were several ranks among Table 2 Slab graves ranks Rank Size 1 2 3 4 4 4 4 4 (After:

%

Tools (%)

Weapons (%)

2  1 12.7 2  3 42.1 54.5 20.0 3  4 30.0 27.3 48.0 4  5 8.5 18.2 28.0 5  6 1.9 4.0 6  7 0.5 7  8 0.25 8  9 0.25 Tsybiktarov 1998: 74–78)

Harness (%)

Grave-stone (serge) (%)

Ochre (%)

Prestige goods (%)

50.0 50

30.4 43.5 26.1

20.0 40.0 40.0

20.0 33.5 46.6

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these people. Elevation of status was related to military functions (42.1%). 3. The ‘rich’ pastoral nomads. All of them were also fighting men. They were buried in graves larger than the middle group. In all of these graves, weapons, grave-stones, ochre, and various prestige goods (40.4%) were found. 4. The highest social groups had representatives buried in the graves with large sizes (5  6 m and more) (4.8%). Unfortunately, all of these burials were completely looted. It is curious that there were no grave-stones and ochre in them. The absence of artefacts makes it impossible to associate these burials with different functions of the elite (chieftains, priests, old oracles, and others). One could also concede that this group should be included in the preceding rank. Several important aspects should be noted. First, the borderlines between ranks are very arbitrary, quantitative rather than qualitative in nature, suggesting a lack of stark social differentiation. Perhaps only the lowest group stands out from all others. Second, the social structure is not pyramidal or rhomboidal. The number of individuals with high status is about the same as the number of persons of middle status. It is evident that the different groups in society had identical (or nearly identical) access to resources (pastures and animals), and strong social inequality was not formed. Third, it would be of interest to study the spatial distribution of graves with different ranks at large cemeteries. Fourth, this was a model of society different from a chiefdom. In chiefdoms, the social hierarchy is more rigid. The borderline between common people and the elite are clearly drawn. Most likely, the slab graves culture represents a so-called middle-range society, which one can call heterarchy. As was shown above, the ranking of burials demonstrates a moderate distribution of riches between different groups. We may assume that the ideology may have been of the universalist nature. The construction of slab graves required the integration and cooperation of numerous persons, building solidarity in the regional community.

4

Xiongnu Hierarchy: Archaeological Context

In contrast, Xiongnu society was hierarchical. The highest level of the social pyramid was occupied by the Shan-yü (chief of the imperial confederation) and his relatives (the Luan-ti clan). The representatives of other noble clans, tribal chiefs, and service nobility ranked next. Below were the most massive group—economically independent ordinary pastoral nomads. At the bottom of the social pyramid were several categories not possessing rights, including impoverished nomads, semi-vassal settled people, captives-tributaries engaged in agriculture and handicrafts, and possibly slaves (Kradin 2002). This social stratification is tracked in archaeological data. At the top are graves of the representatives of the ruling clique with a great quantity of adornments, chariots, rare jewelry, and plates with highly artistic images of animals of gold, silk, refined carpets, etc. In Noin Uul, Gol Mod, Duurlig Nars, Solbi uul, etc. (Mongolia) and Ilmovaya Pad (Fig. 2), Tsaram, Orgoiton (Southern Buryat) we find monumental

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burial mounds of the Xiongnu elite, the construction of which required considerable effort (Brosseder 2009). The burials of ordinary nomads were much simpler and poorer. These are generally round or quadrangular stone burial mounds of 5–10 m in diameter, with depth of 2–3 m. A wooden coffin or coffin within a framework was placed at the bottom of a pit. The burials were accompanied by the individual’s household goods, arms, harness, tools, adornments, and funeral food (Turbat 2004). Both nomadic and sedentary populations resided in Western Transbaikalia. The total number of nomads in Transbaikalia could have been from 12,000 to 26,000 (Kradin 2005). That is about 5.000 horsemen, probably one military division headed by a wang-chi (chief of ten thousand). Wang-chi among Xiongnu were divided into strong (10.000 soldiers) and weak (less than 10.000 soldiers). An analysis of the Xiongnu burials supports an interpretation of developed hierarchy (Kradin 2005; Kradin et al. 2004). Among men’s and women’s burials, the graves of nomads are richer than the graves of settled people. The richest burials are in Ilmovaya Pad. Here, there are three terraced or elite burial mounds (Nos. 10, 40, 54). But one can identify two different status groups. The graves from Cheremukhovaya Pad and Dyrestuisky Kultuk have lower status than those at Ilmovaya Pad. All of these nomads enjoyed full rights. In the Ivolga burial ground of the sedentary population, four public ranks were identified. The lowest rank includes burials without grave goods. Three other groups are accompanied by various sets of goods: belt, harness, and other goods; belt and other goods; or no goods (Table 3).

Fig. 2 Terrace burial No 45 of Xiongnu. Ilmovaya Pad, Transbaikalia

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Table 3 Male Xiongnu burials in Transbaikalia Burial ground

Cluster

Burial goods

Ilmovaya Pad

2 1A 1B 2 1 2 1A 1B 2B 2AB 2AA 1

Terrace burials of elite (No 10, 40, 54) Even more diverse + mirrors + golden ornament Diverse No rank revealed (civil?) No rank revealed (military?) Same + ornaments More diverse Diverse Same + horse harness Same + belt Standard None

Cheremukhovaya Pad Dyrestuisky Kultuk Ivolga

The female burials also show hierarchy. In Ilmovaya Pad, three female social ranks were identified. In the Cheremukhovaya pad, two ranks were identified while three social groups were found in Dyrestuisky Kultuk. A far more complex hierarchy is seen in the graves of Ivolga, with its sedentary population. There, five clusters were identified. The first group of burials includes those without grave goods, in the second one, only ceramics are present, in the third one other goods appear, and the fourth has many different artefacts including belt, coins, and various ornaments. All categories of artefacts are present en masse, mournful funeral feast is more diverse. It is interesting that in almost half of the identified ranks (clusters) of female burials there are armaments. That women actively participated in the military life of steppe societies is well known from both written and archaeological sources (Linduff and Robinson 2008). However, we do not know why armaments were found among women more often than among men in the Ivolga burials (Table 4). In child burials, there is a distinct difference between the richer burial mounds of nomads (Ilmovaya Pad, Dyrestuisky Kultuk) and poor burial mounds of the sedentary population. In Ivolga, child graves are divided into three groups: graves without grave goods, burials with ceramics, and graves with a diverse accompanying inventory. One cluster includes burials of infants in a vessel (Table 5). The amount of effort put into the burial mounds of Ilmovaya Pad, Cheremukhovaya pad, and Dyrestuisky Kultuk is larger than the expenditures for subsoil burial ground in Ivolga. Thus, we may assume that the status of pastoral nomads was higher than that of sedentary residents of agricultural settlements. Differentiation of individual subclusters within burial mounds reflects the differences between social ranks. The most aristocratic burials from Ilmovaya Pad are especially distinguished by the size of the terraced graves and their accompanying inventory (Konovalov 2008), Tsaram (Miniaev and Sakharovskaya 2006, 2007). They belonged to the Xiongnu elite. We do not know if they were representatives of the

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Table 4 Female Xiongnu burials in Transbaikalia Burial ground

Cluster

Burial goods

Ilmovaya Pad

1A 2 1B 2 1 1A

Even more diverse + mirrors + gilded ornaments Diverse Scarce More diverse Diverse Even more diverse ornaments remains of funerary repast— cow bones Same +cow bones, weapons Diverse, remains of the funerary repast Even more diverse remains of funerary repast More diverse (horse harness, coins, ornaments) Standard + Ceramics Ceramics None

Cheremukhovaya Pad Dyrestuisky Kultuk

Ivolga

2 1B 2B 2A 1AB 1AA 1B

Table 5 Immature Xiongnu burials in Transbaikalia

Burial ground

Cluster

Burial goods

Ilmovaya Pad Dyrestuisky Kultuk

– 1 2 2AB 2AAA 2AAB 1

No differentiation revealed Goods (girls?) Goods (boys?) Standard +ceramic Ceramics None Burials in a vessel (baby)

Ivolga

gold clan of Luan-ti or members of other noble clans. Perhaps some of these burials could pertain to elite of the period of the civil war of 60–36 BC, or rulers of Northern Xiongnu after the fall of the steppe empire. It is evident from these elaborate cemeteries that power was handed down among these elites for a period of more than 200 years. It is more difficult to understand to which public ranks (patriarchs, ordinary nomads, slaves, etc.) the graves of the other clusters and subclusters belonged, although probably we can associate the poorest burials without inventory in the Ivolga burial ground with slaves or semi-slaves.

5

Xiongnu Empire Toward Heterarchy

The two previous sections have provided examples of prehistoric heterarchical society and the developed hierarchy in the nomadic imperial confederacy. In this case, the difference between heterarchy and hierarchy among pastoral nomads

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coincides with the pre-imperial and imperial phases. One can also consider the ancient Mongolian nomads Wuhuan and Xianbei (Kradin 2011). Yet, it would only be partially correct to apply this distinction more broadly, for a certain dichotomy is present both in prehistoric times (tribal confederacies vs. common and complex societies) as well as within the steppe empires. The empires could be more autocratic or more consensual, as with the example of the Xiongnu Empire, in which in 209 BC, Shan-yü Mao-tun not only established the empire but created a harmonic system of administrative power (Fig. 3). The eminent Chinese historian Ssu-ma Ch’en gave a detailed description of the administrative system of the Xiongnu Empire (Watson 1961: 163–164). The empire under Mao-tun was divided into three parts: center, left and right wings. The wings, in turn, were divided into underwings. The whole supreme power was concentrated in the hands of Shan-yü. Twenty-four highest officials who were in charge of large tribal associations and had at the same time the military rank of chief of ten thousand were subordinate to Shan-yü. The nearest relatives of the imperial ruler were his co-ruler of the left-wing (elder brother and successor to the throne) and the leader and co-ruler of the right-wing. Only they had the highest titles of ‘kings’ (wang in Chinese). ‘Kings’ and another six most noble ‘chiefs of ten thousand’ were considered to be “strong” and were in command of not less than ten thousand riders. The rest of the “chiefs of ten thousand” actually commanded less than ten thousand cavalrymen.

Fig. 3 Xiongnu Mirror. Transbaikalia. Museum of Buryat Scientific Center, Ulan-Ude

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At the lowest level of the administrative hierarchy were local tribal chiefs and elders. Officially, they submitted to 24 deputies from the center. However, in fact, the influence of the imperial deputies on tribal leaders and the local authority was to a certain extent limited, because the capital was far away and local chiefs had the support of their related tribal groups as long as they took their interests into account (the total number of these tribal groups in the Xiongnu imperial confederation is unknown). The harmonious system of ranks developed under Mao-tun could not last. Owing to the nomadic aristocracy’s tradition of polygamy, the reproduction of elite proliferated almost geometrically. As a rule, the sons of the senior wife rather than all of the potential heirs had the right of succession to the highest status and major property. Others inherited a lesser high status (most likely, in accordance with the principle of the conical clan). However, this general rule did not exclude all other heirs in the genealogical hierarchy. Exceptions were always made with respect to favorites or children from young beloved wives. As for the other numerous near and distant relatives of Shan-yü, the blue king’s blood flowed in their veins too, and all of the members of the Luan-ti clan without exception had the right to pretend to a place under the sun in the Xiongnu social hierarchy. There were several periods of the very active introduction of new titles. The first of them was approximately 100–50 BC. Because all members of the noble clans could not be provided with a place in the hierarchy corresponding to their noble birth, intense competition for the possession of one or another status and respective material benefits inevitably evolved among them. In the end, this resulted in a temporary breakdown of Xiongnu power into several factions at enmity with one other, and civil war from 58 to 36 BC. The next period of the mass introduction of new titles and posts started in the last third of that century. A new combination of political forces formed after the civil war gradually hardened into a strong hierarchy. But new growth in elite numbers led to another intensive collision over limited resources and in AD 48 the split of the steppe empire into northern and southern confederations (Kradin 2002: 216–224). The Chinese historian Fan Yeh gave the same kind of detailed description of the Southern Xiongnu’s political system in AD 1as his eminent predecessor Ssu-ma Ch’ien, providing an opportunity to observe the dynamics of the political institutions of Xiongnu over 250 years. The major differences between the power of Mao-tun epoch and Xiongnu society before the collapses are as follows: (1) There was a transition from triadic military-administrative division to a dual tribal division into wings without a center; (2) Ssu-ma Ch’ien described a clear military-administrative structure with ‘chiefs of ten thousand;’ Fan Yeh does not mention a decimal system, and instead of military ranks of ‘chiefs of ten thousand’, he enumerates the civil titles of ‘kings’ (wang). (3) By Ssu-ma Ch’ien’s time among Xiongnu there were four ‘kings’ (wang). According to Fan Yeh, the first ten of the so-called “strong” ‘chiefs of a ten thousand’ had titles of ‘kings’. (4) The order of succession to the throne changed from father to son (except several extraordinary cases), to uncle to nephew. (5) A principle of joint government prevailed according to which the ruler of the empire

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had a junior co-ruler controlling a wing. The capacity of junior co-ruler was inherited within his lineage but his successors could not pretend to Shan-yü’s throne; (6) In the Mao-tun period the order of the top-king (wang) hierarchy was the Wise Kings of the Left and Right, then the Left and Right Luli kings. In the Southern Xiongnu confederation this order became Wise Kings of the Left, Left Luli king, Wise Kings of the Right, Right Luli king; (7) The number of elite meetings was increased from three to four, once in each season of the year (Kradin 2002: 224–229). These changes demonstrate a gradual weakening of autocratic relations and their substitution by federative relations. In part, this is seen in the transition from a triple administrative-territorial division to a dual one. Military-hierarchical relations were pressed into the background and the genealogical hierarchy between seniors and junior by ranked tribes was foregrounded. This is a classic transition from hierarchical to heterarchical institutions.

6

Discussion and Conclusion

The study of various slab graves shows three or four social ranks with no rigid borders between them. Different groups in society had identical (or nearly identical) access to resources (pastures and animals) and strong social inequality was not formed. The economic efforts of society were aimed at solving collective goals. Religious cults and rituals were common to all. Perhaps this culture also had a universal cosmology, mirroring its standardized lifestyle. In a way, the slab graves culture was a so-called middle-range society, which can also be described as a heterarchy (Kradin 2019). The analysis of the Xiongnu Empire shows a completely different situation. In Xiongnu, there existed many different variants of funerary rituals displaying a developed differentiation of ranks and social statuses. Local and imported prestige goods were concentrated among the elite (‘terrace’) kurgans. The elite controlled prestige goods production, import, and distribution. Status and hierarchy are reflected in the ideological system, as well as in the mortuary architecture. It was a typical variant of hierarchy. The Xiongnu polity also shows how a hierarchical nomadic empire can be transformed into a heterarchical confederacy of chiefdoms and/or tribes. One can provide other examples where pre-imperial societies switch between heterarchy and hierarchy. There is a great deal of information in the Chinese chronicles on the nomadic Khitans of Inner Mongolia of the third and fourth centuries AD (Wittfogel and Feng 1949). This was a confederacy of eight and later ten tribes. At the head was a chief (dazhen), always chosen from the Dahe clan. After the collapse of the First Turk khaganate, they became vassals of the T’ang Empire. In 696–697, the chief Li Jinzhong declared himself to be unequalled chagan. The Khitans began to conduct raids into Chinese towns and established a hierarchical structure—a complex chiefdom. Subsequent to Li Jinzhong’s death the chiefdom fell and the

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Khitans again became vassals of the T’ang Empire. Their supratribal chief from Dahe clan received the Chinese title wang. In 730, the war chief Ketuyu killed the chief of the confederacy and launched a war against China (Wittfogel and Feng 1949: 86). He could not rule the confederacy, as he was not of the ruling Dahe clan. But he was a leader in reality and changed the rulers as necessary. In that, he was like the famous Tamerlane. Scholars believe that the Khitans had established a complex chiefdom or an early state between 730 and 745. But Ketuyu was knocked off by a Chinese spy. Following that, the hierarchical polity was again transformed into a heterarchical confederacy. It consisted of eight tribes divided into northern and southern parts. The Dahe clan lost the leadership to the Yaonian clan. The leader of the confederacy had the title of khagan. According to one of the versions in the Chinese chronicles, he had to be periodically re-elected. This heterarchical confederacy existed for almost two hundred years. With the advent of Yehlu Apaochi at the turn of the tenth century, the Yaonian clan was gradually removed from power and the Khitans were brought into the empire (Meibiao 2012; Kradin and Ivliev 2014). In the case of pastoral nomads, heterarchy and hierarchy should not always be considered as two separate directions. They are two different levels of political centralization, and two directions of political institutions. At the level of weak authority, nomads can be structured into a heterarchical tribe or chieftainship. As personal authority grows, they are transformed into a hierarchical chiefdom. A multitude of combinations and dichotomies of heterarchical and hierarchical polities is possible among nomads. A group of heterarchical tribes can be united into an acephalous polity or a weak chiefdom. In turn, simple chiefdoms can be structured into a complex chiefdom or a heterarchical confederacy of chiefdoms. The Khitan “eight polities” confederation of the first millennium AD can be considered an example of the latter. All these structures were as unstable as steppe tumbleweed as both the number of segments and the character of the internal ties were constantly changeable. Often the heterarchy—hierarchy dichotomy depended on various factors, including the individual qualities of political leaders. For example, with the lucky charismatic leader in power, a complex chiefdom hierarchy could be built. After his death, it could transform into a heterarchical confederation of chiefdoms (Kradin 2019: 14). Comparative data help to better understand how heterarchy and hierarchy operate in prehistoric pastoral nomadic societies. Numerous ethnohistoric studies describe these two forms of communication networks and social organization among the pastoral nomads. African pastoralists had horizontal reciprocity networks, such as marriage compensations and sharing of animals for group communications and the support of survivors of crises and famine (Evans-Pritchard 1940; Goldschmidt 1974; Gulliver 1955; Spencer 1973). In the Middle East, as well as Central and Inner Asia, hierarchical patron-client relationships are more common. Rich nomads provide resources for the needy and poor pastoralists (Barth 1961; Beck 1980; Bradburd 1989; Black-Michaud 1972; Irons 1975, 1994).

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Of course, reciprocity exists not only in Africa (Cooper 1993; Irons 1975), and patron-client relations are known to African pastoralists, such as the Maasai (Ensminger 1992; Little 1985). It is important to note that the poor are more at risk of losing a herd. Rich households are more stable and they are a source of inequality networks (Bradburd 1982; Fratkin and Roth 1990; Roth 1996). The mobility of nomads prevents the establishment of a developed hierarchy among pastoralists. People can always migrate from a cruel chieftain to another territory. Access of every male nomad to weapons also contributes to independence. Mobility is more in line with decentralization and heterarchy than hierarchy. Settled neighbors provide a stimulus for the consolidation and formation of internal hierarchy. The struggle for access to non-pastoral resources forces nomads to unite. Anthropologists have long noted that egalitarian and decentralized societies are more likely in remote regions, whereas chiefdoms and confederations are more likely to form in areas where there are agricultural settlements and towns, markets, and power. That is why pastoralist confederations with internal hierarchy emerge where there is confrontation with sedentary people (Beck 1986; Fletcher 1986; Irons 1979; Salzman 2002, 2004). Hence as has been argued elsewhere (Kradin 2019: 15), heterarchy and hierarchy among nomads are not two different vectors of transitional processes, but more likely, two fields. The first field is characteristic of pastoral societies that have no developed contact with agricultural societies. The second variant is found among pastoral nomads who constantly communicate with settled people. Therefore, the more complex the settled-agricultural society is, the more complex the nomadic confederation should be. For communications with small oases, a tribal confederacy or a chiefdom is enough, but the interaction with an agricultural civilization requires a nomadic empire.

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Evolution of Confucianism: Construction of Confucian Pacifism and Confucian Autocracy in Chinese History Victoria Tin-bor Hui

This chapter examines and deconstructs a particular institution in China: Confucianism. China is often presumed to be different from Europe: While the Western world was simultaneously cursed by a Hobbesian state of war and blessed by a deeply ingrained tradition of constitutionalism, the East was supposed to be endowed with peace but burdened with autocracy. Confucianism, a political philosophy that emphasizes benevolence, is often taken to prescribe pacifism in China’s foreign relations and paternalism in China’s state-society relations. Yet, Confucianism is not unlike other world philosophical thoughts in that it contains both elements that support peace and those that justify war and components that champion freedom and those that defend autocracy (Sen 2006). This chapter traces Confucianism’s evolution from its birth in the Spring and Autumn and Warring States periods (or collectively the Classical era) (770–221 BCE) to its development in the Imperial era (221 BCE to 1911 CE).

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“China” as an Institutional Construct

In order to understand Confucianism as a sociopolitical institutional construct, the first order is to see “China” itself as one too. The presumed East-West dichotomy takes for granted Chinese oneness. Mainstream Chinese history books present Chinese history as clean dynastic cycles, which begin with Xia (a mythical period), Shang (1600–1046 BCE), and Zhou (1045–256 BCE), through Qin (221–206 BCE), Han (202 BCE–220 CE), Jin (265–420), Sui (581–618), Tang (618–907), Song (960–1279), Yuan (1279–1368), Ming (1368–1644), and Qing (1644–1911),

V. T. Hui (&) Department of Political Science, University of Notre Dame, 2168 Jenkins Nanovic Halls, Notre Dame, IN 46556, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2020 D. M. Bondarenko et al. (eds.), The Evolution of Social Institutions, World-Systems Evolution and Global Futures, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-51437-2_9

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and ends with the Republic of China (1912–1949) and the People’s Republic (1949–present). With few exceptions, a later dynasty immediately follows the previous dynasty. Such a presentation gives the impression of a seamless web of history in which Chinese unity is the norm and division is deviance that is destined to be corrected. Contrary to this received wisdom, a Chinese historical geographer Ge Jianxiong1 points out that the official founding of a new dynasty did not necessarily establish unification because transitional periods between two dynasties were uniformly marked by armed struggles. He suggests that there was no genuine unification whenever armed forces that fought for the previous dynasty or their own ambitions persisted, whenever regional power-holders pledged nominal allegiance to the reigning dynasty but asserted semi-autonomous status and maintained armed forces, and whenever scattered peasant rebellions became organized, armed rebellions (Ge 1994: 85–86). It is remarkable that Ge’s conceptualization is consistent with Weber’s idea of the effective state as one “that (successfully) claims the monopoly of the legitimate use of physical force within a given territory” (Weber 1991: 78). If we follow this Weberian-Ge conception, it is necessary to outline what “a given territory” means in the Chinese context. China’s establishment historians take “historical China” to refer to the maximum territorial reach achieved under the Qing dynasty—which includes both “China Proper” and “the Periphery”. China Proper is roughly bounded by the Yellow River in the northwest, the Yin Shan and the lower Liao River in the northeast, the Sichuan basin in the west, the eastern edge of the Yunnan-Guizhou Plateau in the southwest, the Guangdong and Guangxi regions in the south, and the coastline in the east. The Periphery refers to Manchuria, Mongolia, Xinjiang, Tibet (Tan 2000: 2–4). If unification is defined as the establishment of effective central control over the Qing’s maximum territorial reach covering both China Proper and the Periphery, then historical China was unified for only 81 years from 1759 to 1840 (Ge 1994: 79). Ge thus suggests a more limited definition: the establishment of effective central control over China Proper without the Periphery. Even this narrower definition yields only 991 years, less than half of the long span of Chinese history up to 2000. This suggests that Chinese history contains more duality and diversity than unity and uniformity. Indeed, it is often overlooked that the Chinese term for “China”, zhongguo, does not always mean the unified and powerful “central (or middle) kingdom”. It originally referred to “central states” in the plural form in the Spring and Autumn and Warring States periods. It acquired the meaning of “central kingdom” in the singular form only long after Qin’s successful unification. Because the Chinese language does not distinguish between the singular and plural forms, the initial meaning of zhongguo is easily lost in modern retrospective thinking. If “China” was as much a multitude of states as a universal empire, then war and peace should have equal chances in external relations. At the same time, the coercive power of the state against the society could be most effectively checked 1

Following the Chinese convention, Chinese names begin with surnames unless the scholars in question go by the English convention.

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when national survival was at stake against international competition. The rest of this chapter problematizes the construction of Confucianism first as pacifism in external relations and then as autocracy in state-society relations.

2

Confucian Pacifism?

Confucianism has long been (mis)taken to be the Chinese tradition. Weber (1951: 169) spoke of “the pacifist character of Confucianism”. Fairbank (1974: 7) developed “the pacifist bias of the Chinese tradition”. Recent works have largely followed the footsteps of the early giants. For instance, Kang (2010: 2) contends that the China-centered “tribute system emphasized formal inequality between states” and was “marked by centuries of stability,” in contrast to the Western system which “emphasized formal equality between states” and was “marked by incessant interstate conflicts”. Robert Kelly (2012: 408) agrees that the Chinese hierarchy produced a “Long Peace” “rooted in shared, war-reducing Confucian ideals”. Li and Worm (2011: 70) concur that “Chinese culture advocates moral strength instead of military power, worships kingly rule instead of hegemonic rule, and emphasizes persuasion by virtue”. Zheng (2010: 304) believes that the Chinese empire was unlike any Western empire in that it was “formed by the ‘natural’ expansion of the Middle Kingdom, not by conquest”.

2.1 Confucianism in the Classical Era The presumption of Confucian pacifism is based on the teachings of the two most renowned Confucian masters: Confucius (549–479 BCE) and Mencius (372–289 BCE). According to the Analects of Confucius (the sayings of Confucius), when the state of Wei’s ruler Linggong asked Confucius about military tactics, he replied, “If it is matters of sacrificial vessels, I have heard of them; if it is matters of armies and campaigns, I have never studied them” (Watson 2007: 105). Confucius is reported to be so offended that he left Wei the next day. In addition to this dramatic instance, the Analects (book 13, 16) generally develops the argument that the test of good governance is the happiness of the people—if the people are happy, then “the distant will come”. Any resort to violence by a ruler counts as “an admission that he had failed in his own conduct as a sage pursuing the art of government” (Fairbank 1974: 7). The Mencius, a collection of dialogues attributed to Mencius but compiled over time, pushes Confucian pacifism further. It accuses those who say “I am skilled in making formations” or “I am skilled in making war” as “criminals” (Bloom 2009: book 7B4). Echoing the Analects, the Mencius stresses the superiority of winning the support of the people by benevolent governance. If a ruler implements enlightened policies that benefit the people, “people of neighboring kingdoms would treat him as their parent. Should the rulers of neighboring kingdoms try to get their people to invade, it would be like asking children to attack their parents, and it would never

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succeed. In this way, he would be invincible in the world” (book 2A5). In addition, Mohism, though distinctive from Confucianism, may also be said to advocate pacifism. The Mozi, attributed to the founder Modi, argues in the chapter “Against Aggressive War” that aggressive war is “the most heinous of all crimes”. The Mozi (2003: book 4) also advocates “universal love”: “If everyone loves others as he loves himself—there will be… no conflicts, and no war”. It is important to be mindful that Confucianism was born in the Spring and Autumn and the Warring States periods (770–221 BCE). Fierce competition among “central states” gave rise to “hundred [meaning many] schools of thought”. While it is true that Confucian classics preached “benevolence” (ren), “virtue” (de), “great harmony under heaven” (tianxia datong), and “kingly authority” (wangdao), they contested with other schools that emphasized military power and victories. Legalist texts such as the Guanzi, Shang jun shu (The Book of Lord Shang), and the Hanfeizi prescribed military, economic, and administrative reforms to enhance capabilities. Military texts such as the Sunzi’s Art of War, Sun Bin’s Art of War, Wuzi’s Art of War offered strategies and stratagems to win victories on the battlefield. It is equally necessary to analyze which philosophical doctrines were put into practice. In an environment where “warfare is the greatest affair of the state, the basis of life and death, the Way to survival or extinction” (Sun-tzu [Sunzi] 1994: Ch. 13), Confucian masters had a hard time turning their ideals into policies. Confucius served Lu’s Dinggong (r. 509–495 BCE) and Aigong (r. 494–468 BCE) in very “modest” ways (Brooks and Brooks, 2015: 123). Ling (2007) of Peking University entitles his volume on Confucius “Stray Dog” to highlight that Confucius was a homeless wanderer who could not persuade any rulers to follow his policy recommendations. Mencius was the only Confucian to serve as minister to a major state—Qi in the northeast (Brooks and Brooks 2015: 135). But the sole opportunity for a Confucian master to direct foreign policy resulted in “an abrupt and ignominious end” (Brooks and Brooks 2015: 135) (More below). If Confucian masters were on the margins of the policy world, then what talent was promoted to high positions? Exactly those the Mencius (4A14, 6B9) denounces: “those skilled in war”, “those who secure alliances with other nobles”, and “those who open up wasteland and increase the yield of the soil”. That is, those who knew how to promote power and wealth: military strategists who scored victories on the battlefield; diplomatic strategists who deployed cunning stratagems to maximize advantages over adversaries; and Legalist administrators and economists who established hierarchical administration to enhance state capacity, registered populations to impose national taxation and conscription and promoted agricultural productivity to raise revenues (Hui 2005: Ch. 2). In a system of incessant warfare, military talent was of the utmost significance. Two millennia before Napoleonic warfare, “China had already perfected numerous formations and methods of deployment, as well as an underlying hierarchical organization based upon the squad of five that, when coupled with precise training methods, allowed articulation, segmentation, and the execution of both orthodox and unorthodox tactics” (Sawyer 1999). Scholars—who believe that the Sunzi’s dictum of winning without fighting signifies pacifism—fail to appreciate the extent

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to which Classical strategists and administrators understood the political economy of war. As the Sunzi (Sun-tzu 1994: Ch. 13) calculates, “when you send forth an army of a hundred thousand on a campaign, marching them out a thousand li,2 the expenditures… will be one thousand pieces of gold per day. Those inconvenienced and troubled both within and without the border, who are exhausted on the road or are unable to pursue their agricultural work, will be seven hundred thousand families” (Ch. 13). How could “central states” seek victory without war? The Sunzi (Sun-tzu, 1994: Ch. 1) argues that “warfare is the Way of deception”. Given the high costs of war, the superior strategy was to undermine the enemy’s ability to wage war by “unorthodox” tactics or techniques of surprise and deceit (Ch. 5). In diplomatic exchanges, the ideal diplomat should be an “archetypal figure of the realm of stratagem and cunning” (Lewis 1999: 632). Stratagems included “sowing doubts and rumors, bribing and corrupting officials, and executing estrangement techniques” (Sawyer 1998: 4). If fighting was unavoidable, the ideal commander should be “a master of maneuver, illusion, and deception” who was able “to disguise his intentions while penetrating the schemes of his adversary and to manipulate appearances so that the enemy would march to its doom” (Sawyer 1998: 632). It may be said that military and Legalist texts are “Confucian” as they promote good governance. However, effective governance was designed to enhance the foundation of national power and wealth for Classical thinkers of all persuasions. One passage in the Mencius (2009: book 1A5) argues that the people of a generic small state that enjoys benevolent government “can be made to inflict defeat on the strong armor and sharp weapons of Qin and Chu, armed with nothing but staves”. Another passage (book 1B13) advises the actual small state of Teng (which was wedged between the powerful states of Qi and Chu) to “dig deeper moats and build higher walls”, and expresses doubt that it could survive at all. The latter passage explicitly acknowledges that “small states, notwithstanding virtuous conduct, cannot hope to resist aggression” (Brooks, Warring States Work Group communication, 10 February 2004). Thus, even the Mencius understands that good governance involves more than Confucian pacifism. Although Mencius (2009: book 1A6) urged that the unifier should be “the one who has no proclivity toward killing”, the Qin state (as opposed to the Qin dynasty after unification) eventually vanquished all other Warring States through violence and cunning. It introduced the most comprehensive military, administrative, and economic “self-strengthening reforms” to facilitate total mobilization for war (Hui 2005: Ch. 2). The Qin also pursued relentless divide-and-conquer strategies to break up balancing alliances and employed ruthless stratagems of bribery and deception to enhance its chances for victory. Qin’s commanders not only seized territory by force but also brutally killed defeated enemy soldiers en masse to demoralize and incapacitate losing states (Hui 2005: Ch. 2). Shi (2011: 9–10, 14) of People’s University calls the Qin dynasty’s founder (r. 246–210 BCE) an imperialist who disregarded all moral considerations in swallowing up the other six states. 2

One li is about 0.415 km or 0.258 mile.

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Shi further argues that Qin’s general Bai Qi pioneered a tradition of total conquest that was “more Napoleonic than Napoleon and more Clausewitzian than Clausewitz” (2011: 6). Shi wonders (2011: 17) “What if the Qin empire had lasted for much longer than two generations? Then what kind of Chinese would we have become, and what kind of strategic tradition and culture would we have inherited?”

2.2 Confucian Just War? Some scholars acknowledge that Confucianism should not be equated with pacifism but they highlight the just use of force. As Yan Xuetong puts it, “Some claim that Confucius and Mencius advocate ‘no war’ and are opposed to all war. In fact, they… support just wars” (Yan 2011: 35). Yan adds that “Confucius… thinks that the way of war should be employed to punish the princes who go against benevolence and justice”, and that “Mencius thinks that using just war to uphold the norms of benevolence and justice between states is lawful” (Yan 2011: 41). In the chapter on the Stratagems, Su Qin (who is, it should be pointed out, a fictitious rather than historical figure) is quoted to suggest that “a hegemonic state worthy of the name will certainly want to use military force to destroy violent states, to restructure chaotic states, to obliterate evil states, and to attack states with violent rulers” (Yan and Huang 2011: 125). Citing the Xunzi (writings of Zun Kuang, a Confucian philosopher of the third century BCE), Yan (2011: 41) argues that “talking about morality does not exclude using military force to annex other states,” and that “[o]ne who uses virtue to annex others will attain humane authority”. It is true that Confucian philosophers were not naively pacifist or unambiguously anti-war. As Kim (2010: 33) argues, “Confucian Moralpolitik” allows for morally justifiable war. Brooks and Brooks (2015: 123) point out that Confucius himself was raised in the late feudal military ethos because his father was a lower aristocrat who “had earned a landholding by his valor in battle”. Mencius, although labeled “the most forthright pacifist” (Lewis 1990: 129), was not unequivocal in denouncing war. Not entirely inconsistent with the virtue ideal, the Mencius supports punitive campaigns against those who lack virtue. Presuming that the “Son of Heaven” (referring to the idealized Zhou king) possesses virtue while “feudal lords” (rulers of the warring states) do not, the Mencius (books 6B7, 7B2) makes this double-standard argument: “The son of heaven punishes—he does not attack; a feudal lord attacks—he does not punish”. Moreover, benevolent governance could be turned into “a form of weapon” (Lewis 1990: 130) to “enlist the sympathies of the people of the other states, making them willing to be conquered” (Brooks and Brooks 2002: 260). As mentioned earlier, Mencius (371–289 BCE) was appointed to a ministerial position in the powerful Qi state. In 315 BCE, the king of the neighboring Yan experimented with meritocratic succession and abdicated in favor of his minister. The heir’s supporters resisted, resulting in internal turmoil. When consulted if Qi should intervene, Mencius (book 1B10) suggested, in words that are remarkably similar to the US’s rhetoric on the eve of the Iraq war, that a righteous invading force that relieved the occupied people of “fire and water” would be

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welcomed with “baskets of food and jugs of gruel”. Qi’s annexation of Yan, however, was violent. Moreover, Qi’s aggression provoked a balancing coalition that expelled Qi from Yan. Mencius left Qi in disgrace in 313 BCE, thus ending the Confucians’ tenuous link to the policy world (Brooks and Brooks 2015: 135). The Mohists’ anti-war position was not any stricter. Brooks and Brooks (1997: 22) suggest that, while Mozi Chap. 17, written by Modi himself, characterizes aggressive wars as crimes against humanity, other chapters, and passages written by later followers show a softening attitude towards war. Thus, Mozi 3:19 suggests that punitive wars are often necessary. Mozi 49:12 and 50 discuss the training of young men for military service. And Mozi chapters 51–71 advocate the Mohists’ famous art of defensive warfare (Brooks and Brooks 1997: 22). Did Classical thinkers consider the wars of their time just? The Mencius (7B2) remarks that there are no righteous wars in the Spring and Autumn Annals which records the state of Lu’s (Confucius’ home state) major events from 722 to 481 BCE. Brooks (Warring States Work Group communication, 6 December 2007) adds that “there was never any appeal to harmony, nor any evidence that de facto interstate harmony actually obtained…. Nor was there any reference to peace as such, save as a state of non-war imposed on small states by larger states”. The Mencius, as quoted in Yan’s volume, also suggests that “using force and pretending to benevolence is the hegemon” (2011: 49). The Mozi is similarly scornful of the “gentlemen of the world” who claim righteous war: “If someone kills one man, he is condemned as unrighteous and must pay for his crime with his own life. According to this reasoning, if someone… kills a hundred men he is a hundred times as unrighteous and should pay for his crime with a hundred lives. Now all the gentlemen in the world know enough to condemn such crimes and brand them as unrighteous. And yet when it comes to the even greater unrighteousness of offensive warfare against other states, they do not know enough to condemn it. On the contrary, they praise it and call it righteous” (Chap. 5; 2003: 54). In Yan and Huang’s (2011: 131) account, the classical text Stratagems advocates not just annexing territory, but also “annihilating the inhabitants”; otherwise, “the survivors will seek to restore their state and annex you in turn”. It is difficult to square population annihilation—that is, “genocide”—with just war. Just war arguments must address the question—who has the authority to judge the justness or legitimacy of specific military actions? Scholars of Christian just war point out that “the vagueness and indeterminacy of the standards” largely render just war as “little more than a pretext and a cover for arbitrary violence” (Smock 2002: xxxii). The Confucian doctrine of punitive war in fact made it very easy to justify any attacks as a punishment rather than aggression. Glanville (2010: 343) points out that “[w]hile Mencius did frame his cautious justification for punitive war so as to limit the possibility for abuse by those who were not benevolent”, powerful states of the time abused his arguments to legitimize aggression against weaker states. Johnston (1995: 68) observes that the rhetoric of righteous war “shifts the responsibility for warlike behavior onto the enemy” so that “one’s use of force is… never illegitimate”. Indeed, Yan and Huang (2011: 140) note that the Stratagems argues that “[h]egemony can of itself generate legitimacy for the use of military force”.

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The sleight of hand from just war to justifications for war was further aided by the concept of the Mandate of Heaven. When the Zhou conquered Shang c. 1045 BCE, Zhou rulers claimed to take-over Heaven’s Mandate as the last Shang ruler had been brutal and licentious in conduct. Even though future Confucians would uphold the Zhou as the paragon of virtue, Zhou kings clearly did not seize the Mandate by virtue alone. The take-over was a joint civil-military venture, with King Wen (“wen” means the civil) embodying exemplary virtue and King Wu (“wu” means the military) representing sanctioned violence. Even though the Mandate of Heaven required a righteous cause, it unambiguously justified the use of force. In Zhou’s formulation and the Confucian tradition, moral virtue was upheld to be as important as military prowess. But the two aspects were merged into one by late Warring States thinkers so that the Mandate of Heaven could be gained by one whose “‘virtue’ consist[ed] only in the fact of military conquest” (Brooks and Brooks 2015: 69). When the Qin state was eliminating the other Warring States, Legalist texts associated with Qin would take-over the Confucian ideal of virtue. A passage from The Book of Lord Shang (Ch. 13) attributed to the architect of Qin’s self-strengthening reforms, Shang Yang, illustrates how an argument for virtue could be easily twisted to justify conquest: “The sage ruler, in ordering others, should first attain their hearts; hence, he is able to use force. Force gives birth to strength; strength gives birth to awesomeness; awesomeness gives birth to virtue; virtue is born offorce. The sage ruler alone possesses it; hence he is able to implement benevolence and righteousness in All-under-Heaven” (Pines 2017: 192). As Yuri Pines laments, “What most thinkers might not have anticipated is that their ideal of the sage monarch would be appropriated by one of the most powerful—but also one of the most ruthless—rulers of China: the First Emperor of the unifying Qin dynasty… His propaganda efforts focused on stressing his identity with the True Monarch, both in terms of his individual features, such as sagacity and morality, and in terms of his achievements—most prominently, peace, perfect sociopolitical order, universal prosperity, and the populace’s total compliance with the emperor’s will” (2012: 53–54).

2.3 Construction of Confucian Pacifism in the Imperial Era The conventional wisdom holds that, while Legalist and militarist ideas dominated the Classical era, Confucius’s ideas on war and violence became the mainstream in the millennia-long imperial period. In fact, Chinese rulers became conflicted. While kings in the Classical era had few qualms about brutal aggression and cunning stratagems, emperors in the imperial era sought Confucian justifications. Even Qin’s ruthless First Emperor, after he unified “All under Heaven”, adopted Confucian rituals and claimed the blessings of Heaven. Nevertheless, the Qin dynasty quickly collapsed in 206 BCE. The ensuing Han dynasty (202 BCE–220 CE) upgraded the statecraft of legitimation. In 136 BCE, Emperor Wu (r. 141–87 BCE) elevated Confucianism as the state’s official ideology, formally constructing Confucianism as an institution that justified aggression (and autocracy).

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Although Emperor Wu championed Confucianism, he in fact followed, and surpassed, Qin’s conquest in practice. One may characterize Emperor Wu’s foreign policy as “militarism with Confucian façade”. He not only expanded to what is today’s southern China as Qin’s First Emperor did but also launched unprecedented large-scale, long-distance expeditions to the Inner Asian steppes as well as northern Korea and northern Vietnam. After Han’s Emperor Wu, subsequent “glorious emperors” followed suit. This created what Shi (2011: 18, 22) calls the tradition of total conquest, which was passed down from the Qin through Han’s Emperor Wu, Tang’s Emperor Taizong (r. AD 626–649), Ming’s Emperors Hongwu (r. 1368– 1398) and Yongle (r. 1402–1424) to Mao Zedong. How, then, did Chinese emperors and scholar-officials reconcile expansionist campaigns with Confucian pacifist doctrines? As mentioned above, Classical Confucians had already worked out justifications for war. They explicitly sanctioned “punitive campaigns” by the Son of Heaven. The Son of Heaven was, by definition, the possessor and arbiter of Heavenly standards embodying benevolence, righteousness, fairness, and kindness. It followed that those who did not submit to the Son of Heaven along with the China-centered hierarchy and the superior Chinese civilization were “bandits” and “sub-humans” lacking virtue and deserving punishment (Wade 2010: 3). Campaigns against them would be justified, and even mandated, as acts of benevolence. Emperors and officials schooled in Confucian classics saw no contradiction in “advocat[ing] aggressive policies to ‘exterminate’ the barbarians who had violated the way of Heaven” (Wang 2011: 138). This is not unlike the modern practice of labeling rebellious individuals and groups as thugs and terrorists.

2.4 Barbarian Versus Confucianized Neighbors From the Han on, “warfare was considered to be a special application of justified punishment of… those who refused to acknowledge the authority of the legitimate emperor” (Yates 2009: 25). Han’s Emperor Wu depicted the Xiongnu as sub-humans to which Confucian benevolence did not apply: The Xiongnu, “with their human faces and animal hearts, are not of our kind. When strong, they are certain to rob and pillage; when weak, they come to submit. But their nature is such that they have no sense of gratitude or righteousness” (Jiu Tang shu [Old Tang History], 194A, 5162, reprinted in Liu 1975). As the Xiongnu were defined as “enem[ies] of virtue and humanity,” it was thus the duty of the virtuous emperor to teach them a lesson (Zhu and Wang 2008: 273). The Qing (the last dynasty) was the most successful at “exterminating” the Zunghar Mongols who “turned their back on civilization” (Perdue 2005: 431–432). Qing’s Kangxi Emperor (r. 1662–1722) announced that “to repress bandits is the way to give rest to the people. To sweep away barbarians is the way to bring stability to the interior” (Perdue 2005: 431– 432). When his successor Emperor Qianlong (r. 1735–1794) continued the conquest, it was because “the emperor, having compassion for the people’s suffering, sent the Great Army to relieve them” (Perdue 2005: 434). He declared that “I do not approve of war, or see it as a virtue, but it was unavoidable” (Perdue 2005: 434).

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It may be countered that even though China launched “punitive wars” against “barbarians”, it maintained peace with Confucianized states. Kang (2010: 9) offers a more sophisticated account of Confucian pacifism by distinguishing between a “Confucian society” between China and Sinicized states, and a “parabellum society” between China and “nomads”. Because “nomads had vastly different worldviews, political structures, and cultures than the Sinicized states”, they naturally “resisted Confucian cultural ideas” (Kang 2010: 10).3 In contrast, shared civilization created a peaceful “Confucian society” among China, Korea, Vietnam, and Japan in 1368–1841 (Kang 2010: 8–9). While China had no desire to use its military and economic capabilities to seek “expansion against its established neighboring states” (Kang 2010: 2), the neighbors admired and emulated China’s Confucian civilization and voluntarily submitted to its hegemonic status. That is, shared Confucian civilization produced peace; clash of Confucian-nomadic civilizations produced war. However, such a civilization-based argument is vulnerable to the same critique (Sen 2006) made of Samuel Huntington’s “clash of civilizations” (1993)—that civilizational fault lines are reasonably fluid on the ground. Imperial China had a long tradition of showering favors on anyone who submitted and threatening “punitive campaigns” against anyone who resisted. The Ming’s Emperor Yongle, for example, did not refrain from bestowing lavish gifts on friendly Mongol leaders or invading Confucianized Vietnam in 1406–1427. As he sent out armies to occupy Vietnam, he proclaimed that “I manifest the love of the ‘One on High’ for all living things” (Wade 2010: 3), and that the key “concern was only that rebellious bandits not go unpunished and that the suffering of the people not go unrelieved” (Ming Shilu, Taizong 80: 1070, quoted in Wang 2011: 154). It is particularly difficult to make sense of the Confucianization and peace argument when China was divided and when China was ruled by Inner Asian regimes. If a unified China could practice peace with Confucianized neighbors, then why did competing Chinese states—which were, by definition, culturally Chinese —repeatedly engage in wars of mutual conquest? And why did Inner Asian regimes that controlled part or all of China act like Chinese regimes? In addition to the Mongols who established the Yuan dynasty and the Manchus who established the Qing dynasty, other Inner Asian regimes controlled northern China at different periods. If the response is that Inner Asian regimes that succeeded at conquering China became Confucianized like Korea and Vietnam, one has to further ask why some originally “uncivilized nomads” adopted Chinese civilization while others rejected it, and why the same ethnic groups (especially the Mongols and the Jurchens/Manchus) would accept Chinese civilization when they controlled China and rejected it when they were driven out. In the end, we are left with the argument that there was peace only when other states publicly submitted to China’s superior status. Kang makes precisely this point when he quotes Truong Buu Lam in agreement: “The Vietnamese kings clearly realized that they had to acknowledge 3

Many steppe populations were in fact settled agriculturalists with advanced civilizations. The Mongol empire employed Central Asians rather than Chinese to fill its bureaucracy.

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China’s suzerainty and become tributaries in order to avoid active intervention by China in their internal affairs” (Lam 1968: 178; Kang 2010: 102). It is telling that, in diplomatic exchanges, the Chinese court would be worried enough from time to time to include Classical texts in their gifts to neighboring states. For instance, at a time when the Tibetan empire was the equal of the Tang dynasty (ca. 730), a court official memorialized against granting the Tibetan request for Confucian texts because, “When versed in the Odes they will know the use of armies; when versed in the Rites they will know the times of disbanding and enlisting troops; when versed in the Zuo’s tradition they will learn measures of deceit and treachery” (Jiu Tang shu [Old Tang History], 196A, quoted in Smith 1996: 69). The request was granted. However, the Song, which felt besieged by powerful neighbors, was far less generous. The Song banned the passing on of statecraft texts to foreigners, including “Confucianized” Koreans and Vietnamese as well as “barbarian” Khitans and Jurchens. These incidences demonstrate that Chinese officials understood that even non-military texts taught as much about war as peace. Johnston (1995: 45) is right that “there is… very little difference between the content of… military classics and other texts on statecraft.”

3

Confucian Autocracy?

Confucianism was constructed to associate with not just pacifism, but also autocracy. Although Karl Marx’s notion of “the Asiatic mode of production” and Karl Wittfogel’s notion of “hydraulic despotism” have been dismissed, most observers would agree with R. Bin Wong that citizenship was “a culturally foreign concept” in imperial China (Wong 1997: 93). However, as Chaibong Hahm points out, “Confucianism was actually exceptional in the degree to which… it took a stand against absolutism and autocracy. Yet Confucianism never had much more than gossamer-thin institutional means with which to buttress principled opposition to monarchs who had armies of soldiers and legions of officials at their back” (Hahm 2004: 105). More important than the philosophical ideal was the historical reality. China shares with Europe crucial contingent developments conducive to the emergence of citizenship (Hui 2015: 25). If Western dynamism is assumed to come from the political fragmentation of Europe, then it is significant that “China” experienced fluctuations between the singular and plural forms. What compelled European kings and princes to make concessions to their populations in the domestic realm was the fact that they had to fight other kings and princes in the international realm at the same time. Scholars of European state formation have highlighted the military basis of citizenship. Citizenship rights emerged in Europe not because European rulers were more benign or European subjects had higher “rights consciousness,” but because European rulers were forced by Darwinian international competition to bargain with domestic resource-holders. State-society bargaining for the wherewithal of war then created a variety of rights. When we examine historical

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trajectories, the focus should not be electoral democracy, a largely twentieth-century phenomenon even in the West, but citizenship rights, a more trans-historical development. According to Charles Tilly, citizenship rights should be defined as recognized enforceable claims on the state that are by-products of state-society bargaining over the means of war (1992: 101–102).

3.1 State-Society Bargains in the Classical Era The Spring and Autumn and Warring States periods epitomized the military basis of citizenship. Ambitious Chinese rulers faced a daunting challenge familiar to European rulers: how to motivate the people to fight and die in war. International competition compelled three major state-society bargains (Hui 2005: Ch. 4). The first bargain was peasant welfare. To mobilize resources for war, Chinese rulers introduced national conscription and national taxation. This development means that the security of the state rested with the well-being of peasant-soldiers who paid taxes and fought wars. As hungry peasants could not afford grain tax or military service, various states distributed land grants to ensure subsistence. To improve productivity, states introduced intensive farming methods. To stabilize the livelihood of peasants amidst annual fluctuations in yields, states established grain stores, provided disaster relief, and introduced a counter-cyclical policy. Confucian and Mencian thinkers of the time regarded the state’s provision of material welfare as representing a conditional state-society relationship: If the basic economic needs of the people were met, loyalty would ensue, and the state would be strong; if not, resentment would ensue, and the state would be weakened (Brooks and Brooks 2002: 250, 259). The second bargain was a justice-based definition of citizenship. As Xu Jinxiong observes, “rulers gradually promulgated laws which were meant to bind rulers and ruled alike… Laws were originally tools used by aristocrats to arbitrarily suppress the people. They gradually became the contractual basis on which the people would accept a given rulership” (Xu 1988: 543). E. Bruce Brooks calls this development “the new legal quid” in exchange for “the new military quo” (1998: 6). Transmitted texts and unearthed legal documents show that the right of access to justice and the right of redress before higher judges existed by the late fourth century BCE. International competition further nurtured the third bargain: freedom of expression akin to the Enlightenment. Ambitious rulers competed for not just the support of peasant-soldiers, but also the assistance of talented generals and strategists. In the interest of the state, senior court ministers were expected to freely criticize rulers’ mistaken policies. Free scholars of the time were even less hesitant to speak their minds. The Mandate of Heaven as originally articulated in the Classical era insisted on the ultimate sovereignty of the people. Most notably, the Mencius unequivocally places the Mandate in the hands of the people because “Heaven does not speak; it sees and hears as the people see and hear” (Mencius 5A5). In discussing the bad last Shang ruler, Mencius is quoted to say: “I have heard about the killing of the ordinary fellow Zhou, but I have not heard of the

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assassination of any ruler” (Mencius 1B8, trans. Brooks and Brooks 2002: 254). This passage is reminiscent of Thomas Hobbes’s complaint about resistance theorists: “they say not regicide, that is, killing of a king, but tyrannicide, that is, killing of a tyrant, is lawful” (Hobbes, Leviathan 1992 [1651]: 2.29). The Zuo chuan similarly remarks that if a ruler “exhausts the people’s livelihood… and betrays the hopes of the populace, then… what use is he? What can one do but expel him?” (Watson 1989: xv–xvi). Even the Xunzi, the classical text most supportive of strong central authority, states that “the ruler is like a boat and the people are like the water. While the water can float the boat, it can also capsize it” (Pines 2009: 206). Classical Chinese thinkers, thus preceded modern European resistance theorists in arguing that tyrants ceased to be rulers, properly speaking. Together, the three bargains of material welfare, legal protection, and freedom of expression marked the emergence of citizenship rights in classical China. Of course, the Warring States were not democracies, and many rulers remained abusive of the people (the same can be said of their European counterparts). Nevertheless, the very existence of a multistate system necessarily gave rise to the fourth citizenship right: the “right of exit”, which made rulers aware of limits to repression lest the people would move to competing states. Scholars, peasants, and traders similarly could “vote with their feet” to states with the most open policies. As population size was the basis of military power and economic wealth, the threat of talents and peasant-soldiers leaving for enemy states was not taken lightly. As another classic text, the Book of Odes, says to uncaring rulers, “Never have you cared for my welfare. I shall leave you and journey to that fortunate land” (quoted in Kuhn 2002: 118).

3.2 From Classical Bargains to Confucian Autocracy Unfortunately, Qin’s unification of the Warring States system in 221 BCE fundamentally reversed state-society relations. Under the Qin dynasty (221–206 BCE), all elements of classical citizenship rights disappeared. Peasant welfare was abandoned: the imperial court increased tax burdens and further drafted over 800,000 men to expand to the northern and southern frontiers. The principle of justice was eroded: punishments became so harsh that there were about 1.4 million convicts to provide forced labor to build the Emperor’s palaces and tomb. Freedom of expression was similarly stifled: all books except Qin’s court records and those on medicine and agriculture were seized and burnt, and 460 scholars who expressed doubts about the Emperor’s policies were persecuted. Beginning from 209 BCE, Qin’s subjects turned to the ultimate right under tyranny—the right to rebel. At the Qin’s collapse, the most promising rebel leader Xiang Yu sought to revive the pre-Qin states. A Chinese historian Shi Shi suggests that if Xiang had succeeded, China could have developed a loose federal system more conducive to regional autonomy and political freedom (Shi 2007). But Xiang Yu was overtaken by Liu Bang, who established the Han dynasty (202 BCE – 220 CE) on the model of the Qin dynasty. Chinese history books profusely praise the Han for correcting Qin’s excesses and promoting Confucianism. However, the imperial version of

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Confucianism advocated by Dong Zhongshu (179–104 BCE) for Emperor Wu (r. 141–87 BCE) involved important deviations from the classical version (see Emperor Wu above.) Most of all, the Mandate of Heaven was now reinterpreted to rest with the “Son of Heaven” instead of the people. Despite Confucianism’s prescription for benevolent rule, the Han criminal code largely followed the harsh Qin Code. As John K. Fairbank observed, although “the first Han emperors took great pains to claim that their rule was based on the Confucian teachings of social order”, “they used the methods of the Legalists as the basis for their institutions and policy decisions” (Fairbank 1974: 11). Shi even remarks that the key difference between the Qin and the Han was pure coercion versus coercion masked by deception (Shi 2007). Subsequent dynasties followed Han’s model of “Legalism with a Confucian façade” (Hsiao 1977: 137).

3.3 The Legacy of Classical Bargains The contrast between the Warring States period and the Qin-Han period leads Michael Loewe to ask “to what extent the unified empires of Qin and Han maintained easier conditions of living or imposed harsher burdens on the population than the localized kingdoms of China that preceded or followed them” (Loewe 1987: 18). Gu Jiegang, a critical Chinese historian of the early twentieth-century, once suggested that political unification by the centralized empire had led to constriction and, ultimately, decay, but the periods of flux, chaos, and competition were the most creative eras of Chinese history (see Duara 1995: 42). Indeed, in eras of the division after the Qin and Han, competing states would again be compelled by international competition to introduce more open policies to attract new talents and develop neglected regions to enlarge their tax bases. Of course, Chinese regimes remained autocratic—just as early modern European regimes were absolutist. But it is worth repeating that the very existence of a multistate system always gave rise to the “right of exit”, which presented a formidable check against arbitrary power. This “right of exit” has been overlooked in mainstream Sinology because analysts have uncritically accepted the presumption of Chinese oneness. While state-society bargains would always be revived to some extent in eras of division, they were not altogether lost in eras of unification. Most notably, the underlying principles were kept alive in Confucian rites and principles which even all-powerful emperors were compelled to at least pay lip service to. Though formally unchecked, emperors could be trapped by their own rhetoric. In seeking legitimacy in the Confucian tradition and the Mandate of Heaven, Chinese emperors also subjected themselves to the higher authority of Confucianism and Heaven. As Alan Wood observes, “Confucianism may have been used to expand the power of the state, but it also provided moral limits to that power” (Wood 1995: 11). Chu Ron Guey points out that, when Han’s First Emperor Gaozu (r. 202–195 BCE) offered sacrifice to Confucius, he not only legitimized his claim to rule but also “exposed himself to being regulated by” the Confucian tradition (Chu 1998: 170). A number of historians have highlighted that, because Confucian rites fostered a “constitutional

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culture limiting the exercise of dynastic rule” (Chu 1998: 174), even “set limits on the actions and decisions of both the emperor and the bureaucracy and ruled their relations with the population” (Will 2009: 262), they served a “potentially constitutional function” (Brooks and Brooks 1998: 117) which “occupie[d] much of the space that in the modern West would be identified with a constitutional order” (de Bary 1998b: 43). Moreover, in the Confucian cosmology, however elevated the Son of Heaven made himself, he was ultimately subordinate to Heaven. When Dong Zhongshu reinterpreted the Mandate of Heaven to rest with the Son of Heaven for Han’s Emperor Wu, he also “attempted to curb the arbitrary exercise of the ruler’s power by threatening the intervention of Heaven in the form of natural portents and disasters” and by retaining the people’s “right to rebel” (Wood 1995: 13, 154). Pierre-Étienne Will calls this the idea of “twin sovereignty”: “the ruler is the master of men, but the people are ‘the master of the master of men’”; that is, “the people’s sovereignty is a given, whereas the ruler’s sovereignty is conditional” (Will 2009: 273). In the more open environment of the Song dynasty (960–1279) (which did not achieve unification of China Proper and faced intense international competition), neo-Confucian scholars further worked out a “doctrine of political rights” (Wood 1995). Song neo-Confucian scholars such as Cheng Yi and Zhu Xi moved away from Han scholars’ emphasis on rites toward “heavenly principles” which “transcended the ruler and therefore obliged him to obey them” (Wood 1995: xi). Alan Wood insists that the theory of “heavenly principles” is strikingly similar to the European conception of natural law because both uphold the belief “that there exist certain laws or rules of action that are inherent in human nature and that reflect the rationally apprehensible order of the universe” (Wood 1995: 136). Such debates over Confucian rites and principles over the ages testify to the continued existence of the classical bargain of freedom of expression in imperial times, albeit in reduced form. Generations of Confucian scholars followed Xunzi’s dictum: “Follow the Way, do not follow the ruler” (Pines 2009: 179). Will defines freedom of expression as “the right to remonstrate and to denounce, in memorials sent to the throne, abuses of power” (2009: 270–271). Theodore de Bary also highlights “freedom of discussion”, both in terms of “the responsibility Confucian scholars felt to speak out against the abuse of power” and in terms of “the increasing recognition by Neo-Confucians… of duly constituted institutions to protect this public discussion” (de Bary 1998c: 109). This “literati power” to criticize emperors (Will 2009: 263), however, was not buttressed by the classical bargain of legal protection. As Will puts it, “one could be brutally beaten on the order of the emperor, thrown in one of the central governmental jails to die, or at a minimum lose all of one’s ranks and titles. But, nevertheless, one had such a right and one could always choose to exercise it” (Will 2009: 271). In such a harsh institutional environment, the “dissenting Confucian tradition” was “unable historically to prevail over the politically more dominant dynastic tradition” (de Bary 1998a: 22). Nevertheless, it does “constitute a significant line of Confucian thought from Confucius and Mencius down” through Song and Ming scholars to modern times (de Bary 1998c: 109).

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The classical bargain of peasant welfare likewise persisted in the imperial era, again in diminished form. Chinese emperors understood that political stability depended on whether or not the people could maintain a decent livelihood. From the Han on, emperors and officials would always profess to follow the Confucian policy of promoting peasant well-being and maintaining light taxation. And a key government function was to keep track of harvest conditions and grain prices so that famine relief could be efficiently delivered. Nevertheless, the prevalence of tax rebellions testifies to the fragility of this bargain in the imperial era. A related Confucian ideal—that of local autonomy—was more consistently realized in Chinese history. According to de Bary, “From the Confucian viewpoint, a large sphere of social activity was rightly governed by voluntary adherence to traditional rites without the intervention of the state and its laws” (de Bary 1998c: 31). As Ho-fung Hung explains, “mass Confucianism,” as opposed to “imperial Confucianism,” was “reflected in lineage organizations at the community level and also by pseudo-kinship or common-local-origin ties” (Hung 2009: 82). Western visitors such as Father Évariste Huc indeed observed how village mayors were elected by fellow citizens in the nineteenth century (Will 2005). Of course, such “village democracy” was more pro forma than substantive because the votes were always decided behind the scene by influential notables before the election dates—just as elections in the Western world were not exactly “free and fair” in the nineteenth century. Nevertheless, the very existence of the electoral institution did attest to the relative autonomy of local governance. This particular Confucian ideal was more extensively implemented in imperial China partly because the imperial state had no capacity for direct rule at the village level. Thus, the state-society bargains inherited from the classical era lingered on in the rest of Chinese history, though they were more theoretical than substantive in eras of unification. The bargain of peasant welfare was always upheld as a core ruling principle. But the prevalence of peasant rebellions suggests that this bargain could be readily discarded. The bargain of freedom of expression was sustained by generations of literati who gave primary loyalty to Confucian principles over the Son of Heaven. But because the right to criticize was not buttressed by another bargain of legal protection, Confucian scholars who exercised this right had to risk their lives. Sinologists often argue that Confucian moral restraints were so weak because they were not buttressed by any institutional support. However, as de Bary points out, Huang Zongxi (1610–1695) already understood that one could not count on the emperor’s capacity for self-restraint and thus sought to “limit the power of the ruler by defining legal constraints and incorporating them in the organizational structure of government” (de Bary 1998b: 49–50). Like previous reformist Confucian ideas, Huang’s “constitutional program” was not translated into policy. Why did indigenous ideas of both natural law and constitutional constraints fail to take root in China? The very emergence of checking institutions itself has to be explained—and that it was as much a function of the balance of power between the state and the society as the development of political ideas. This balance of forces could be altered only when an imperial court faced intense international competition with equally powerful regimes, as in the Song and other eras of division, or when a once-powerful dynasty was in decline, as in the late Ming and late Qing.

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3.4 The Chinese Enlightenment in the Civil War Era China would experience another Enlightenment in the late Qing and Republican periods, two thousand years after the Classical era. In the Chinese nationalist narrative, modern Chinese history was an episode of national humiliation, chaos, and suffering. Nevertheless, as Stephen MacKinnon argues, fierce international competition “also politicized the citizenry in a liberating sense” (MacKinnon 1996: 943). The decades from the 1890s to the 1930s represented a time when Chinese intellectuals openly debated the notions of constitutional monarchy, republicanism, and democracy. Philip Kuhn points out that the first petition by the educated elite to the Qing court for popular representation in 1895 was “only conceivable under the duress of imminent foreign conquest” (Kuhn 2002: 123). Orville Schell highlights that the May Fourth era (1919) was a great “Chinese Enlightenment” (Schell 2004: 117). Arthur Waldron observes that the Republican period under the Northern government of 1912–1928 was “a period of professedly parliamentary rule,” enjoying “substantial economic growth,… freedom of the press…, and a flowering of culture” (Waldron 2003: 264). Likewise, MacKinnon points out that the short-lived Nationalist-Communist unity government at Hankou in 1938 was marked by power-sharing among rival militarists and thus witnessed “the absence of the repressive power of the state” (MacKinnon 1996: 935). Against the backdrop of the Japanese invasion, “parliamentary-like debate,” ‘third-party movements” (independent of both the Nationalists and Communists), the free press, and the arts flourished and “reached a twentieth-century zenith” (MacKinnon 1996: 937). The conclusion of the civil war, unfortunately, again aborted China’s democratic experiments.

4

Conclusion

This chapter has unpacked the construction of Confucianism as pacifism and autocracy in Chinese history. Now as then, Confucianism has continued to be reconstructed by political leaders. Confucian pacifism and autocracy are still deployed to support the official line of “peaceful rise” in international relations and one-party dictatorship in state-society relations. The so-called Confucius Institutes have even turned “Confucius” into a brand name. Nevertheless, this deep historical examination suggests that both the past and the present have suppressed alternatives truer to the Confucian legacy.

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A Pathway to Emergent Social Complexity and State Power: A View from Southeast Asia Nam C. Kim

Archaeologists have long been interested in the rise and development of variegated forms of social complexity and their concomitant institutions. The material record, replete with artifacts, structural remains, landscapes, and other cultural residues from past societies, offers researchers the opportunity to discern changes over long stretches of time, allowing inferences to be made regarding the emergence and evolution of social institutions that characterize early forms of large-scale and highly complex societies. Whereas a century ago researchers posited a unilinear model of social evolution (see Morgan 1877; Tylor 1871), today archaeologists recognize the variable and non-linear character of social evolution marked by historical and cultural particularities. With growing material databases, researchers continue to highlight a combination of unique trajectories of change and variables that contributed to the emergence and development of social complexity. What kinds of variables contributed to these profound cultural changes? How did leaders and rulers emerge, consolidating political power over populations? How did these societies develop political institutions that resulted in novel forms of social organizations within respective areas? Despite variability in cases, what kinds of general patterns are discernible? As written by archaeologist Jonathan Haas (2001: 9), the material record not only reveals how cultures evolved, but also furnishes the contextual information necessary to evaluate why they did so. This chapter aims to add to the ongoing scholarship and debates with a case study from Southeast Asia, examining a pathway to “state” formation in the Red River Valley (hereafter RRV) of present-day northern Vietnam, also known as the Bac Bo region. Specifically, the ancient settlement known as Co Loa provides an interesting context of emergent complexity that was unprecedented in the RRV region, one that was shaped by both its geographic positioning as well as its interactions with N. C. Kim (&) Department of Anthropology, 5240 Sewell Social Sciences Building, 1180 Observatory Drive, Madison, WI 53706, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2020 D. M. Bondarenko et al. (eds.), The Evolution of Social Institutions, World-Systems Evolution and Global Futures, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-51437-2_10

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Fig. 1 The Red River Valley (Bac Bo) region of northern Vietnam. The Co Loa settlement is located along the Red River near modern-day Hanoi

societies of neighboring regions. In addition to local variables of social, economic, and political change, a prominent factor for the Co Loa phenomenon pertains to interactions with emergent Sinitic civilization to the north. To that end, this chapter will highlight both local and extra-regional factors for social change that stimulated the formation of the Co Loa Polity during the third century BCE (Figs. 1 and 2).

1

Background: Forms of Complexity and Archaic States

Before proceeding to the Co Loa case, I will offer a brief discussion of complexity and archaic states as they are relevant to a consideration of the evolution of social institutions. “Inequality, large-scale networks of cooperation, institutionalized leadership, and hierarchical forms of governance are all central elements of the human career, often lumped under the rubric of social complexity” (Feinman 2017: 459). When it comes to politically centralized societies commonly referred to as archaic states, researchers often cite higher degrees of social complexity. Forms of complexity can be

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Fig. 2 Satellite image of the Co Loa settlement and its earthen ramparts. Image provided by Digital Globe and ArchaeoTerra

seen as having many interrelated parts, implying social hierarchies or heterarchies and/or occupational specialization (after Ames 2008: 490). These societies, of course, can become more or less complex over time, experiencing changes in social organization, institutions, and political economies. They can expand or contract along various dimensions and scales, such as population size, territorial extent, production of crafts, and others. In these cases, it is instructive to consider the ways in which leaders, groups, and factions of societies, whether politically elite or nonelite, interact in highly complex fashion, both cooperatively and competitively (Blanton and Fargher 2009, 2016; Bondarenko et al. 2002; Brumfiel 1994; Burentogtokh et al. 2019; Carneiro 1970, 2018; Johansen and Bauer 2011; Stanish 2010). From this kind of perspective, members of societies pursue variable, culturally contingent, and historically specific political strategies that can result in various outcomes of social configurations.

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With expansion of scale and size, new levels of integration are needed to centralize, or at least syncretize, human political action (Earle 2001: 105). Societies marked by larger population sizes and greater scales of organizational complexity necessitate new ways to integrate political decision-making. Many of these societies have been typically referred to as stratified or middle-range societies, regional polities, supravillage polities, chiefdoms, or states (Carneiro 1998; Haas 1982; Service 1975). Generally speaking, middle-range societies such as chiefdoms appear to operate on the principle of ranking and prestige, wherein political institutions may not persist beyond a generation or so, and they tend to lack the kinds of permanent, bureaucratic structures more often associated with states. According to Kantner (2010: 256), transitory leaders “achieve their authority by building charisma and trust within a particular arena of expertise.” In these cases, authority or political power is not institutionalized and can be somewhat fleeting. This stands in contrast with larger-scale, more complex polities, marked by enduring laws, institutions and bureaucracies, which have been referred to as archaic states, city-states, territorial states, and empires. Based on case studies from various regions and time periods, conceptualizations and defining criteria abound for forms of ancient states (Childe 1950; Claessen 2002; Cowgill 2004; Haas 2001; Kim 2013; Kowalewski 2019; Pauketat 2007; Trigger 2003; Yoffee 2005). In general, these conceptualizations do possess certain commonalities in terms of major features of the state. Kin relationships typically play a smaller role in political interactions, and there is marked differentiation of populations within social strata and classes. Most researchers also tend to agree that states represent highly centralized polities that govern substantially large populations, and that they possess a legitimized monopoly over capabilities such as the application of deadly force. In many of these examples, there tends to be institutionalized forms of inequality in terms of power, wealth, and social status, often with a monopoly over the legitimate use of violence and physical force concentrated within the hands of the state. According to Yoffee (2005: 16), archaeologists have tended to separate states from non-states in the archaeological record by pointing out a dichotomy between complex societies and less complex counterparts, wherein differences exist in the degree and nature of social differentiation. While in less complex societies major roles are allocated on an ascriptive basis and division of labor is based on family and kin ties, in societies of greater complexity “a central authority develops in order to bring relatively autonomous subsystems within the contours of a larger institutional system” (Yoffee 2005: 16). The central authority consists of key members that are recruited by competence, and not exclusively on the basis of some ascriptive status (Yoffee 2005: 16). According to Yoffee (2005: 17), the state can be seen as a governmental center acting through a generalized structure of authority, making certain decisions in disputes between members of differentiated groups, maintaining central symbols of society, and undertaking the defense and expansion of the society. Another key difference between states and smaller-scale societies lies in a sense of permanence, persistence, and durability of political institutions and practices. Institutionalized and legitimate power exists over certain resources, the use of

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deadly force, and other aspects of societies. A key attribute distinguishing states from other political organizations is enduring governance (Kim 2017). To be sure, the durability of states is not automatic, total, nor without challenges. Those in power follow strategies to maintain inequalities that can be resisted and challenged. As noted by Yoffee (2016), a state’s ability to “penetrate” societies through “infrastructural power” can face resistance, and degrees of state power can be marked by both stability and fragility. One other important distinction when dealing with ancient states is a dichotomy between pristine or primary states and secondary ones. Only a small number of examples of true primary state formation have been cited by researchers (Childe 1950; Cowgill 2004; Spencer and Redmond 2004; Trigger 2003), and the majority of ancient cases for state formation in the world have involved varying degrees of interaction with existing state-level neighbors. The vast majority of ancient state societies were essentially secondary or derivative (Parkinson and Galaty 2007: 114). In some models of secondary state development, such polities may have formed as remnants of larger entities that broke up after florescence, or potentially as competing polities that formed at the edge of more mature complex societies (Parkinson and Galaty 2007: 125). Given the geographic and chronological context for the Co Loa case, I would stress the importance of models of secondary state formation. Consequently, it is necessary to consider various levels of analysis. On the one hand, the micro-level scale of agent or faction decision-making should be considered, elucidating intra-political interactions of societies. On the other hand, a pan-regional or macro-level scale is also vital to consider. Any state, even a pristine one, does not emerge entirely within in a social or environmental vacuum, and intergroup political interactions are likely instrumental in shaping the policies and strategies of leaders as they centralize and consolidate power and authority. As I will discuss in a later section, Co Loa’s proximity to models of Sinitic statehood and imperialism to the north probably resulted in emulative strategies for local leaders and rulers. Moreover, I agree with Yoffee’s (2016) argument that states are marked by both stability and fragility. Because the political apparatuses of state societies tend to function within larger-scales of complexity, usually with power differentials between ranges of social strata, it stands to reason that inequalities in status and wealth require both cultivation and maintenance to safeguard against forms of resistance, competition, and conflict. From this perspective, it is important to note the importance of leadership strategies employing physical and ideological bases of power. All this being said, the RRV’s emergent complexity, as associated with Co Loa, is salient for bodies of theoretical literature that deal with (1) secondary state formation, and (2) the emergence and durability of institutionalized power through ideological and military mechanisms. In other words, Co Loa’s cultural history illustrates how the state and its institutions can develop, along with how they are maintained over time.

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The Co Loa Case

Based on a combination of textual, art historical, and archaeological data, many researchers see the emergence of highly complex societies within Southeast Asia as occurring during the first and second millennia of the Common Era (Higham 2014; Miksic and Goh 2017; Murphy and Stark 2016), citing examples such as Angkor (Cambodia), Bagan (Myanmar), Champa (Vietnam), Dai Viet (Vietnam) and Srivijaya (Indonesia), among others. In these traditional perspectives on the florescence of these “classic” civilizations and complexity within Southeast Asia, some researchers have argued that their development was attributable to the influences of neighboring regions, namely parts of present-day China and India/Pakistan (see, for example, Wheatley 1983), which saw earlier formations of “pristine” or primary states. This view on Southeast Asia’s relatively late appearance of kingdoms, states, and other forms of highly populous and sociopolitically complex societies held that the region’s complexity was essentially derivative, having been impacted by the expansion of Indian or Sinitic civilizations. As eloquently stated by archaeologist Stark (2015: 81), most early scholars working in mainland Southeast Asia “wrote from an unavoidably regionalist bias that emphasized either the role of China or India in shaping early Southeast Asian cities, or the importance of Chinese documentary data.” In more recent decades, however, scholars have relied on a greater availability of archaeological data to complicate and challenge models of “Indianization” and “Sincization”, perspectives which tended to view late prehistoric and protohistoric Southeast Asian societies as passive recipients of external culture. Although there is little question that external influences helped to shape the forms of complexity witnessed during the Common Era, many archaeologists now hold that the development of politically centralized polities in Southeast Asia was the product of more nuanced and complex processes of interactions and local agencies. Far from being mere passive recipients of external cultural practices and modes of political institutionalization, societies within Southeast Asia were actively undergoing local processes of cultural change. With a growing database of archaeological information, owing to an increase in archaeological investigations occurring within the region, researchers now can see threads of cultural continuity and development linking prehistoric societies of the first millennium BCE into the Common Era, affording important glimpses into processes of change that were well underway before the rise of the historically known and classic civilizations such as Angkor and Bagan. Significant organizational changes occurring in mainland Southeast Asia between 500 BCE and 500 CE laid “the foundation for the region’s earliest states along its South China sea coasts and major inland river valleys, from Myanmar to Vietnam” (Stark 2006: 408). A compelling example of this is the Co Loa case, where access to archaeological data from recent field investigations affords a more complicated picture of social evolution in the region. The Co Loa case provides insights for emergent, large-scale sociopolitical complexity during the closing centuries BCE. Today, the Vietnamese consider the northern region of modern-day Vietnam, known as Bac Bo, as the

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crucible of Vietnamese cultural identity. This area consists of the Red River Valley and delta. Co Loa, a 600-ha settlement, was one of the most culturally significant settlements of this region’s prehistory, and represents one of the earliest forms of city within Bac Bo and mainland Southeast Asia. Marked by monumental earthen ramparts, many of which are still extant today, Co Loa is viewed as the first capital of an incipient Vietnamese civilization (Taylor 2013). Situated some 17 km from the center of Vietnam’s modern capital of Hanoi, Co Loa is one of the largest prehistoric settlement sites of Southeast Asia. Since 2007, I have co-directed with investigations at the site, focusing on the enclosure system. Our investigations suggest much of this system was constructed by the Co Loa Polity, and that these monumental features required substantial labor and investment for construction. The bulk of the fortification features appear to be contemporaneous, and the main construction phases span the timeframe of 300–100 BCE (see Kim 2013, 2015; Kim et al. 2010). I refer to the society responsible for the rampart system and many of the settlement’s specific material remains as the Co Loa Polity. For a variety of reasons, I see the Co Loa Polity as a form of early state in the region. As detailed earlier, certain theorists offer defining characteristics for the state, such as Yoffee’s (2005: 17) description of a “governmental center acting through a generalized structure of authority, making certain decisions in disputes between members of differentiated groups, maintaining central symbols of society, and undertaking the defense and expansion of the society.” These elements, particularly structures of authority, central symbols, and the undertaking of defense, seem to be present for the Co Loa Polity. In previous publications, I have argued that the sheer size and scale of the fortification system demonstrate that its original and relatively rapid construction was directed by centralized, state-level society (see Kim 2013, 2015 for details). The material data suggest a massive undertaking was planned and executed with some overall vision and leadership. This argument is supported by data indicating chronology and construction methods for the majority of the rampart system. The construction project involved approximately one to two million cubic meters of earthen materials, and appears to have occurred within a window of approximately of a few decades to two centuries. The construction involved a combination of layers of piled earth as well as rammed or stamped earth. The latter techniques are significant as they are reminiscent of Sinitic methods of wall-building, a point I will return to in a later section. Excavations have provided stratigraphic data, artifacts, and radiocarbon determinations that combine to suggest much of the rampart system was built concurrently during what I refer to as the Co Loa Polity period (c. 300–100 BCE), with evidence of later refurbishment or amplification phases (see Kim 2013, 2015; Kim et al. 2010). Architectural energetic calculations indicate that thousands of individuals would have been involved for the rampart system, and this does not take into account other architectural features of the settlement. The system thus functions as a proxy measure for institutions related to integration and centralized planning.

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The ramparts were associated with a collection of gates, moats, canals, ditches, bastions, and watchtowers. Functionally, the system offered utility in terms of defense, deterrence, transportation, and agricultural production (Kim 2015). The ramparts, standing from three to ten meters in height depending on location, were associated with outer ditches and moats. The notion of defense is bolstered by the presence of several baffled gates and bastions. The primary impetus for the system’s construction would have been related to defense and concerns over security, though this does not preclude other potential motivations and uses (Figs. 3 and 4). The moats and canals were interconnected and linked to an interior reservoir. The entire system was linked to the local Hoang Giang River, which in turn was connected to the Red River. This water system likely facilitated transportation and linked Co Loa with other societies throughout the region and beyond, since the location would have also afforded coastal access to the South China Sea. Additionally, some interior spaces would have been ideal for intensive wet-rice production with moat-fed paddies. Cultural practices, related to both militarism and intensive farming, are further indicated by the recovery of bronze implements such as crossbow bolts and plowshares.

Fig. 3 Photograph of the exterior face of the Middle Wall at the north gate. The photograph was taken after vegetation was cleared and just prior to excavation of the rampart. Photograph by author

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Fig. 4 Photograph of the excavation of the outer ditch/moat of the Middle Wall. The ditch/moat extended from the exterior face of the Middle Wall (right), reaching a depth of approximately 4 m from the ground surface. Photograph by author

Excavations within certain locations of the Inner Wall have also revealed bronze casting facilities, suggesting the potential for attached craft production (Kim 2015, 2017; Lai 2014). These investigations yielded evidence of centralized control over production and distribution of various metal implements and weaponry, such as bronze crossbow bolt points, providing support for the hypothesis that a highly consolidated political structure marked society at Co Loa (Lai 2014). The artifacts and features, dating to the third century BCE, included a firing kiln, bricks, stylized ceramic roof tiles, and lithic molds for casting bronze projectile points. Several lithic molds for casting bronze points and spearheads have also been excavated, and all of the molds were recovered from middens within the area. The evidence shows that the Co Loa Polity possessed some degree of control over valuable resources and skillsets associated with the specialized production of bronze tools and weaponry. The standardized, mass production of weaponry strongly implies a monopoly over the use of deadly force, a distinguishing trait of state-level societies. The presence of a production facility within the Inner Wall area, which would have been the most defensible location of the settlement, speaks to the likelihood that a highly centralized polity had some form of restricted control over the production of important implements of both war and agriculture.

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Taken altogether, material data suggest political authority was consolidated, enduring and institutionalized to some degree. I hypothesize that the successful completion of the monumental construction project would have required highly centralized planning and control over varied resources, a vast labor pool, and an organized military apparatus. The system was not the result of accretional building, as there was no evidence of natural fill episodes between building sequences. In addition, the society responsible for the rampart construction clearly anticipated a persistent capacity to maintain and upkeep the system. Arguably, the society planning and initiating the undertaking would not have embarked on the project unless leaders were confident that sufficient resources would be available for both successful completion and for an indefinite capacity to upkeep. One other category of material remains to discuss is the presence of ceramic roof tiles at Co Loa. Thousands of fragments have been unearthed during excavations of the ramparts and various areas of the interior spaces (Kim 2015). Through investigations, surveys, and chance finds at collapsed portions of the rampart system, it is clear that the roof tiles are present in the same stratigraphic layer. The presence of the ceramic roof tiles at Co Loa is compelling for two main reasons. First, it is the only site within all of northern Vietnam to possess ceramic roof tiles at that point in time. As will be discussed below, over a hundred sites have been excavated that date to the first millennium BCE within the Red River Valley region (part of the late prehistoric Dongson Culture period). None of these sites have yielded roof tiles, and such architectural features would only appear elsewhere in the RRV centuries later. While they overlap chronologically with the overall Dongson Culture period, these Co Loa artifacts are considered to represent elite-level or royal characteristics as they are found only at Co Loa during the first millennium BCE. Moreover, no other Dongson era settlement site approaches the areal size and scale of Co Loa. The production and use of the materials appear to have been restricted, and they likely held symbolic weight. A significant amount of effort would have been required to produce all of these tiles. The sheer quantity suggests they were manufactured locally, and the material costs would have included timber fuel for firing kilns. It is probable that the roof tiles were part of edifices, whether on the ramparts or throughout the settlement. The singular presence of these tiles only at Co Loa signals the importance of the settlement as a culturally significant location, likely a political capital or seat of power. Production and uses of the tiles would have differed from any previous form of roofing used in the region, and likely would have required a different form of architecture. The physical weight of this type of roofing would have meant a heavier investment in new forms of construction and structures. Combined, these data suggest a qualitative change occurring during the Co Loa Polity period. A second reason for the significance of the roof tiles is their shared stylistic affinities with counterparts to the north, specifically within Sinitic contexts. Contemporaneous capital cities of ancient China were similarly marked by royal or elite buildings with ceramic roof tiles. Some of the decorative motifs of the Co Loa tiles

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Fig. 5 A Co Loa roof tile fragment. Photograph by author

reflect both similarity and difference with contemporaneous northern examples. The roof tiles, crossbow technologies, and uses of rammed earth are all intriguing, and suggest connections to Chinese cultural practices. I will discuss the implications of these affinities in a later section (Fig. 5). Decades ago, Winzeler (1976) observed that the earliest forms of urbanization and state in Southeast Asia did not appear until the first centuries CE. Along these lines, Wheatley (1979: 292; 1983: 420–421) argued that urbanism in the RRV emerged largely as a byproduct of Sinitic civilization. This general perspective has remained somewhat prevalent, as researchers have continued to suggest that material evidence for state-like societies is lacking prior to the historic period, which begins in the mid-first millennium CE (Higham 2014). With greater access to archaeological sites and materials, the picture has shifted considerably in recent years. The totality of material data gathered at Co Loa to date clearly demonstrates the establishment of a centralized polity during the last few centuries BCE, as well as the settlement’s likely standing as a primate center of some kind. It thus follows that the longer-term, local cultural history of the RRV can provide insights around factors for emergent complexity.

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Foundations of Complexity and Co Loa State Formation

Data from Co Loa and its larger spatio-temporal context can shed light on how specific historical trajectories, environmental conditions, forms of political economic systems, and modes of social interaction can foster changes in sociopolitical organization. Reviewing the available archaeological evidence from the wider region shows how a mix of variables led to critical changes throughout the first millennium BCE. The RRV region was home to numerous late prehistoric communities associated with the Dongson Culture (c. 600 BCE – 200 CE), renowned for sophisticated production of ceremonial bronzes such as large drums (Bui 2015). Over a hundred Dongson Culture sites, mostly graves, have been identified throughout the region, in deltas, coastal areas, and mountains. The advent of the Dongson Culture saw intensifying practices of wet-rice production, major habitation sites in the delta, an increase in military and ritual practices, and a growing differentiation of status and wealth, as shown by rising disparities in grave goods (Bui 2015; Murowchick 2001). Mortuary data from Dongson contexts suggest greater levels of social differentiation and inequality as compared to preceding cultural periods. In the first millennium BCE, longstanding exchange patterns, stemming from the Neolithic era, afforded new opportunities for certain groups to gain advantages in economic competition related to metal industries. Societies of the RRV had been interacting with neighboring areas of southern China elsewhere for centuries. However, it is during the late second and early first millennia BCE that metallurgical innovations appeared within the RRV, culminating with the sophisticated production industries of the Dongson Culture. The presence of certain raw material sources, such as copper and tin, in locations throughout the RRV afforded opportunities for local communities within the Dongson cultural sphere to capitalize on the production and exchange of a range of both utilitarian and prestige goods made of bronze (Kim 2015). As reflected by the distribution patterns of the iconic bronze drums, for instance, it is apparent that many societies throughout the RRV and beyond enjoyed both direct and indirect access to one another, thus fostering long-distance interaction patterns (see Calo 2009). Societies of the Yunnan plateau of present-day southwestern China, for example, also reflect similar patterns of cultural change during the first millennium BCE. The Dian Culture societies of Yunnan were situated at the other end of the Red River itself, and their material records indicate growing degrees of social ranking, exchange, and militarism (Murowchick 2001; Yao 2016). Dian culture materials bear striking stylistic affinities with the Dongson, particularly with the large bronze drums and other bronze items. Sophistication in metallurgy offered leaders in both Yunnan and the RRV the means and options to garner considerable wealth and power. The data suggest that possession of certain bronzes, and the control over the means to produce them, gave elites enormous power (Murowchick 2001: 133; Yao 2010, 2016) (Fig. 6).

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Fig. 6 A bronze drum found at Co Loa

As noted by Higham (2014: 197) significant potential for cultural change was brought about in Southeast Asia by innovations in bronze and iron smelting, and such effects are evident for Dongson societies during the mid-first millennium BCE. Such impacts were related to agricultural productivity and wide-ranging exchange patterns, factors that would have contributed to population growth, as well as inequalities in social status and wealth within and between communities. Whereas pre-Dongson political economies hint at craft specialization and some degree of social ranking, Dongson Culture sites offer clear evidence for a high degree of metallurgical expertise, craft specialization, interregional interaction, agricultural intensification, and status differences. Bronze plows, for instance, only began to appear in Vietnam at Dongson sites, and some 200 specimens have been recovered to date (Pham 2004: 199). This farming implement in particular, which would have been drawn by water buffalo, allowed tremendous advantages and efficiencies in rice farming. By Dongson times metal cultivation tools became more varied and specialized. Such innovations in agricultural practice, likely related to the

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generation of food surpluses, led to enormous economic and political changes for societies of the RRV. It is thus not surprising that the Dongson period is when the RRV begins to show marked degrees of social differentiation. In addition to innovations for food production, the Dongson period record also suggests that forms of competition, militarism and warfare became more significant (Kim 2017). On the other end of the Red River, bronze was important for Dian Culture military power, and iconographic depictions on bronze drums show the prevalence of militarism. “Both archaeological and iconographic evidence make it very clear that warfare was an extremely important concern for the Dian elite” (Murowchick 2001: 159). Militarism seems to have served both external and internal functions, with bronze being critical to military power. Vast amounts of bronze were dedicated to the manufacture of weapons and armor, many of which appear as a major category of elite grave furnishings and funerary goods (Murowchick 2001: 160). Warfare was also depicted in Dian bronze art, with scenes showing bound enemies and the subjugation of neighboring enemies (Murowchick 2001: 163). Many bronze artifacts show what appear to be Dian warriors holding severed heads and what may have been sacrificial victims. Possession of bronzes, and the means to produce them, gave the Dian elite an ability to maintain power and control over their own people and many of their neighbors (Murowchick 2001: 170). It is reasonable to posit that Dongson communities experienced analogous social patterns (see Kim 2017). Similar to Dian societies, factors such as agricultural intensification, growing population, bronze working, and a developing prestige ideology related to bronze goods, all appear to have fomented militarism. The presence of bronze weapons in Dongson burials reflects the social importance of conflict, and half of recovered bronze implements are weapons (Hoang and Bui 1980: 64). These bronze items can be separated into projectile weapons (javelins, socketed spearheads, socketed and tanged arrowheads), proximity or shock weapons such as swords, fighting axes, daggers, and ge halberds, and shields (Pham 2004: 199). Daggers were also very common and over 200 have been found in Dongson burials. The abundance and diversity of weapons suggest that competition and warfare was not an uncommon phenomenon (Kim 2017). Furthermore, Dongson bronze drums and other vessels lavishly depict ritual and ceremonial activities along with battle scenes with warriors atop war canoes (Higham 2004: 58). Warriors are shown standing on firing platforms, in some cases with captives. These depictions of warriors on boats suggest the possibility that raiding by waterways was a significant occurrence, and potential targets may have included settlements along the river. As intimated by Calo (2009: 2), the distribution of bronze drums throughout the region may have been tied to exchange systems related to strategies of power and alliance building, and I suspect competition and conflict were connected to such exchange networks. The combination of artifacts and iconography points to the roles played by coercive strategies and associated tactics of physical intimidation, raiding, conquest, and subjugation, in bringing about sociopolitical change.

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In the RRV during the first millennium BCE, various strategies were enacted by elites in different communities to obtain economic wealth and political power. Those living in the Red River plain were probably able to accumulate considerable power through the exchange of bronze goods within an interregional interaction network that connected southern and southwestern China, northern Vietnam, and parts of Southeast Asia through overland, riverine and coastal routes. High-status bronze goods likely functioned as status markers and emblems of authority, serving to ideologically endorse the growing disparities of wealth and status asymmetries. Additionally, increased use of bronze undoubtedly furnished new advantages for military weaponry and agricultural intensification, allowing higher, sustainable population levels and affecting decisions related to military tactics. Military power and coercive force, especially after the introduction of metal weaponry, presented additional avenues for garnering power. Taken altogether, these various trends and cultural practices, as related to bronze production, exchange, farming, competition, and militarism, all contributed in the longer-term development of complexity in which institutions of power were formulating. But what accounts for Co Loa and its brand of multi-generational durability of state-level institutions? As mentioned above, no Dongson Culture sites have yielded evidence of architectural features such as roof tiles, and none exhibit signs of monumental fortification features. All Dongson settlement sites found to date are much smaller than the 600-ha size of the Co Loa settlement, by several orders of magnitude. Because the settlement of Co Loa is rather unprecedented within the RRV as compared to contemporaneous Dongson Culture sites, researchers have long debated both the chronology and the causes for the settlement’s emergence. As detailed above, excavations at Co Loa show political integration extant as early as the third century BCE, with centralized and likely restricted control over specialized production and vital resources. The monumental construction projects, which involved extensive, landscape modifications and the direction of requisite labor and resources for intensive agricultural production and defense, reinforces the notion that a powerful authority had established institutions of control and governance. Why did such integration happen at that point in time, and how was it able to persist? Related to that, researchers might ask why does a state emerge and persist in some times and places but not in others. To address these questions, it is necessary to explore more proximate causes, trends, and decision-making by political leaders.

4

The Maintenance of State-Level Institutions: Strategies of Physical and Ideological Power

The RRV was annexed by the Chinese Han Empire at an ascribed date of 111 BCE, prompting the beginning of near continuous periods of Sinitic colonial rule over the region until the tenth century CE. Though the degrees of Sinitic control varied through time, the timeframes spanning 111 BCE to the tenth century CE are known

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as the Chinese domination periods (Taylor 2013). Traditional, Sinocentric explanations for the development of complexity and civilization in the RRV generally see the Han arrival as the main cause. These explanations, largely dependent upon Han court chronicles, describe the local natives as “barbarians” in need of civilizing. The accounts essentially denied the presence of local social complexity. On the other hand, Vietnamese legends and folk tales, officially recorded much later and presumably based on oral traditions, suggest that powerful local polities and kingdoms had existed in the area prior to Han arrival, and that Co Loa was the capital of one of these polities (namely the Au Lac Kingdom) (see Taylor 2013). Until recently, it was difficult to resolve these ongoing debates about the timing and cultural context for the settlement’s emergence. The recent investigations of the monumental rampart system have allowed researchers to determine the timing of construction, recognizing a local and indigenous source for complexity that predates Han arrival (Kim 2015). These findings challenge the Sinocentric model, which saw the foreign imposition of civilization. Researchers can now see the importance of local strategies leading to change. However, the material data also make clear that the Co Loa Polity did not emerge in a vacuum. While it is valid to see local trajectories of continuous change leading to the Co Loa phenomenon, it is also vital to consider relations with neighboring regions, especially those to the north. The reason the north was significant pertains to the sociopolitical climate of the third century BCE, namely the significant cultural changes occurring in China’s Warring States period and on the eve of unification under the Qin imperial polity. Political turmoil associated with Warring States China likely meant movements of people connecting parts of southern China and northern Vietnam (Higham 2014: 198). Times of conflict can create novel patterns of push and pull, resulting in migrations of people. Various ideas, goods, and technologies likely found their way into the RRV. It is probable that political leaders associated with the Co Loa Polity followed specific strategies to consolidate political authority and establish a state-level apparatus. Part of these strategies involved appropriation of foreign and exotic cultural practices, innovations, and symbols. As described above, several material markers associated with Co Loa reflect affinities and parallels with Sinitic Civilization. These include the use of rammed earth construction methods, architectural features such as the ceramic roof tile, and crossbow technologies. The presence of these attributes during the third century BCE, centuries before Han annexation, indicate that colonization was not the primary mechanism of knowledge and cultural transfer. Instead, the parallels, which predate the 111 BCE annexation date, would suggest that the leaders of the Co Loa Polity were already familiar with these Sinitic practices and trappings of power and authority. For instance, Co Loa leaders likely knew that roof tiles were reserved for royal or elite buildings in capitals of Chinese civilization. The establishment of a highly fortified capital settlement bearing some cultural resemblance to Chinese capital cities strongly suggests local strategies of emulation. Co Loa’s political leaders may have been appropriating these exotic and foreign elements, whether known directly or indirectly, as part of their own leadership strategies related to

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legitimization and institution-building. This would have included a repertoire of innovations and tactics related to military endeavors as well, such as the adoption of rammed earth methods of wall-building and the uses of weaponry such as crossbows with bronze triggers and bolt points. Centuries of exchange patterns had already connected the two regions, and in a more proximate micro-scale, namely the decades of the third century BCE, even greater levels of cultural and knowledge transfers occurred owing to the turmoil of the Warring States period as the Qin fought to unify much of an incipient China. In a recent analysis of craft specialization associated with crossbow technology during the imperial Qin period, Li and colleagues (2014) argue that crossbow technology was not likely to be common or widespread at the time, and that associated knowledge, skills, and materials would have been restricted. They also write that the introduction of trigger-fired crossbows during the Warring States period revolutionized military warfare. While it is not clear how knowledge of certain technologies reached the RRV, it is quite plausible that the introduction of new military technologies and associated tactics had an effect on local sociopolitical developments. The work of Victoria Tin-bor Hui (within this volume and elsewhere, such as 2005) shows how the long and complex cultural-historical trajectory of change for Chinese civilization, commencing in ancient eras of nascent urbanism and culminating in massive imperialist polities, would have had profound effects on regional developments within Asia, rivaling the impact of the Roman Empire on the other end of the Eurasian landmass. Interactions with the Sinitic world undoubtedly helped to shape the character of emergent complexity in regions along its peripheries and frontier zones, the realms of so-called “barbarians”. Returning to the twin questions of why Co Loa emerged at that time and what made its authority persist, I would return to an earlier discussion of secondary state formation wherein the Co Loa Polity emerged through direct or indirect interactions with existing state-level societies of ancient China. I would also point to nuanced leadership strategies of legitimization and authority, strategies that employed a mix of coercive and ideological power. With the Co Loa case, the evidence of mass-produced, state-of-the-art weaponry and fortifications speaks to a powerful hold over resources and a healthy concern for security. The capital city was well defended, and its physical power was manifested by its monumental system of defenses. This power was on display, likely serving to deter attack, aggression, and even resistance from both external and internal threats. Aside from defensive utility, the walls likely held value as a symbol of authority and expression of legitimized power, thus serving as what Elizabeth DeMarrais and colleagues (1996) have referred to as the materialization of physical and ideological power as related to political strategies. According to Arnold (2011: 152) ideologically sanctioned systems of social inequality are often associated with the first phase of the consolidation of power structures. In agreement, I argue that Co Loa’s ramparts helped to support an ideological system conducive to the state and institutionalized forms of authority and inequality. Co Loa’s ramparts would have provided physical, symbolic, and psychological protection for the society and its various members. The walls would have also served as a means of symbolic display, reflecting an

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unprecedented degree of power and the means to adequately defend the seat of power and a capacity to project force afield when necessary. Beyond that, however, there may have been other functions of the walls. Defensive and non-defensive functions are by no means mutually exclusive and are highly variable across time and space (Arkush and Stanish 2005; Hill and Wileman 2002; Keeley 1996; Keeley et al. 2007). City walls can operate in a defensive capacity, but they can also be part of a social investment yielding value in different cultural spheres. On the topic of ideology, I would also suggest, albeit speculatively, that the monumentality of Co Loa could have served to foster some shared sense of community identity. It is possible that the fortified city functioned as a place of refuge in times of perceived threat for surrounding community members within the region. In that regard, I propose the notion of a shared experience or identity, as encapsulated within a polity’s ideological tenets, which functions to connect all members of a given society, regardless of socioeconomic status or class. This idea of a shared identity is analogous to what Anderson (1991) has famously referred to as an ideology of imagined community. It is this sense of community, perhaps embedded within a shared ideology, which is important to consider when it comes to durability of the state and its institutions. How are newly integrated, complex polities able to maintain themselves and to keep from fragmentation? Only by averting fragmentation can states truly form. Some element of coercion or authority backed by force is necessary in order to create and maintain institutions of marked social and political difference. But ideological belief systems, if effectively shared across social spectra, can be powerful in promoting mutual interests. Another notion that may be productive to consider is the idea of “soft power”, as put forth by political scientist Nye (2008). Although he was referring to modern-day states when discussing the kinds of power wielded by leaders, elements of the notion of soft power can be insightful for how leaders of all kinds of complex polities might try to influence others. According to Nye (2008: 94), soft power refers to “the ability to affect others to obtain the outcomes one wants through attraction rather than coercion or payment. A country’s soft power rests on its resources of culture, values, and policies. A smart power strategy combines hard and soft power resources.” In that regard, archaeologists might see how nuanced strategies of leadership employing a mix of tactics can be effective in maintaining institutions.

5

Unintended Consequences and the Punctuated Nature of State Formation

In a groundbreaking recent study, Peter Turchin and colleagues (2017) explore social evolution using an examination of over 400 societies across 30 world regions spanning the Holocene. The authors consider dozens of variables to help explain the emergence of social complexity, as marked by larger-scale societies with specialized governance, complex economies, and sophisticated information systems.

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They cite how such changes can be materially reflected in public buildings and monuments, agricultural and transport infrastructure, and written records and texts. Ultimately, the goal is to identify any discernible relationships between variables that can be meaningfully measured and made predictable. According to the authors, a major conclusion is that “key aspects of human social organization tend to coevolve in predictable ways. This result supports the hypothesis that there are substantial commonalities in the ways that human societies evolve” (Turchin et al. 2017: 4). Another significant observation is how complex societies and their institutions “enable the coordination of large numbers of people to act in a politically unified manner” (Turchin et al. 2017: 4). These findings are intriguing and bolster arguments made about the longer-range variables responsible for emergent complexity in the RRV. I would agree with the authors that some aspects of human societies evolve in predictable and interconnected ways, given the right conditions. However, I would also stress the need for finer-grained consideration of more local and temporally proximate variables. Human social actions and interactions can be messy. As I have written elsewhere (Kim 2015: 254): “The transition from a nondurable form of centralized polity (marked by more transitory leadership) to one marked by more durable forms of institutionalized authority does not happen in a unilinear progression, automatically, or as a matter of natural course. It happens as an outcome, whether intended by agents or not, resulting from some combination of events, trends, and proximate decisions and actions.” Mann (1986: 1) notes that societies are not unitary actors, but comprise “multiple overlapping and intersecting sociospatial networks of power.” Building on this idea, I propose that the emergence of state-level societies, marked by durable institutions of power that persist beyond the life or career of a particular leader, is the product of a combination of human interactions, which can be human-human and human-environment by nature. This perspective is similar to that expressed by Blanton and Fargher (2009) regarding a behavioral theory of collective action and the formation of a collective, premodern state, where variations in the juxtaposition of power between different groups and factions affect the development and ultimate forms of the state. In their argument, collective action can account for varying strategies across a continuum of interactions, from cooperative to conflictive. I would concur, especially given the enormous variation discernible in the category of premodern states. In addition, I would see shifting political circumstances affecting the weight and impact of different variables, thus leading to different pathways to state formation. I would also argue that governing bodies do not automatically emerge from a social evolutionary trajectory—rather, they emerge in punctuated fashion when certain conditions are present. The formation of a state is a highly complex and interactive process, involving a range of actors and groups with countless agendas and motivations, ensuring that state formation is by no means a smooth process or inevitable development. Carneiro (1998) writes that there is a flashpoint when autonomous communities transform into chiefdom-level societies. In this view, political complexity requires some form of short-term catalyst, and a similar “flashpoint” may be involved in the formation of a state. Claessen and Skalnik

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(1978) suggest that several factors, regardless of historical sequence, played a relatively important role in the formation of early states, including population growth and/or pressure, war in the form of conquest or raiding, or threat of war, and influence of previously existing states. Building on these perspectives, I posit that state formation may actually be more appropriately viewed through a lens that recognizes a punctuated nature of political development. This complements but also stands in contrast with a view stressing long-term trends wherein the state is an almost inevitable outcome of cultural development. Instead, when dealing with state formation I see no inexorable social evolutionary path—instead I see the complex interplay of variables that sometimes leads to the formation and persistence of political organizations. Throughout the history of any region in which a state does emerge, it is quite possible that numerous instances of near emergence preceded the eventual formation of that state. Although a combination of long-term variables and trends is necessary to create the right kinds of permissive conditions for a state to eventually emerge, this does not mean that a state will always form in all cases where these conditions are present. A state is a product (or sometimes byproduct) of human decision-making, strategies, and interactions. I would argue, then, that social transformations resulting in state-level societies are marked by punctuated change (see Kim 2015). Furthermore, instead of viewing state emergence as simply a unique developmental event or historical endpoint, I believe it is useful to consider it in terms of regime transition. In what I would characterize as punctuated regime transition, ancient state emergence is more appropriately viewed as an outcome of change, not necessarily reflective of a conscious strategy or decision-making on the part of leaders and social agents in an attempt to bring about the formation of a state-level apparatus of governance. When individuals and groups of people make decisions in a political environment, varying strategies and goals, combined with incomplete information, can all influence events and make final outcomes unpredictable. For the RRV, the geographic setting was an ideal setting for the formation of politically complex societies of the Dongson era. But a pivotal and decisive factor moving sociopolitical configurations into a domain of statehood required competition and the use of coercive power. As offered by Yoffee (2005: 15), researchers must be cognizant of the various subsystems of ancient complex societies, different local community authorities, ethnic group and their leaders, and social corporations of elites, all or some of whom can “aspire to their own autonomy are at least partly independent of other parts of society, and compete for power.” Citing the work of Mann (2008), Yoffee’s recent study (2016) explores how groups of individuals who stood apart from the institutions of the state resisted centralized power and limited the reach of the state’s social organization of infrastructures. The upshot of such perspectives is clear—the state does not necessarily develop as a result of direct intentionality, and can emerge as an unintended consequence of the complex interactions of multiple parties. Archaeologists should consider strategies and activities being pursued and enacted by people that would have prevented the emergence of states. In evaluating the onset of hierarchical sociopolitical systems and the development of centralized and

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permanent leadership in middle-range societies, Kantner (2010: 281) stresses the importance of the role of agentive behavior and decision making in the face of social and structural forces. Indeed, Kantner (2010: 280) points out that in most of human history there has been what he calls “the collective force of reverse dominance hierarchies and leveling mechanisms,” preventing the perseverance of inequality is typical. In this regard, agency approaches that recognize the efficacy and significance of strategies carried out by various segments of a society can complement perspectives on competition and conflict. If disparate agents and groups, whether within a society or between neighboring communities, are fulfilling different objectives and agendas in their interactions, there will be occasions of conflict that can either be peacefully negotiated and resolved, or that might lead to struggles wherein physical power becomes an instrumental tool. In this manner, conflict, coercion, and sometimes outright conquest lead to consolidation of power, and this momentous event need not be premeditated (Kim 2017). This kind of view is similar to one expressed by Johansen and Bauer (2011: 10) wherein they argue that politics often proceed along social trajectories “in which power operates though complex configurations of complimentary and juxtaposing modalities at times through relations and forms not immediately recognizable as such.” In a recent publication, Richard Blanton (with Lane Bargher, 2016: 3), offers a perspective on how institutions are constructed, meaning those “rules and associated forms of social organization and culture” that promote cooperative behavior. As eloquently stated in the publication (Blanton and Fargher 2016: 5), “cooperation is more likely to thrive when well-crafted institutions are able to shape individual choice toward cooperative action.” The key is the presence of institutions that can help minimize problems related to “free-riding” or conflicting agendas. Citing research on feasting as a principal component of establishing cooperative social organizations in southern Peru circa 2300 years ago, Charles Stanish and colleagues (2018) offer a cultural evolutionary model leading to complexity and early state formation. The authors suggest that integration into a cooperative group was associated with a network strategy, and their data indicate that the most effective initial strategy in early state formation was to build wide alliances at the outset, as opposed to first consolidating local ones that subsequently expanded. Evaluating the evidence from southern Peru for emergent complexity, Stanish and colleagues (2018) argue that a model in which cooperation intensifies in a small area and then expands is not supported. Rather, the authors argue that successful strategies for creating intense cooperation at the local level required the incorporation of a much more widely spread group of people who congregated for significant periods of time in specifically-built feasting locations. I would agree with the general tenor of the perspectives offered by researchers such as Blanton, Stanish, and others. The cases they cite do demonstrate the importance of cooperative forms of interaction. I would also stress, however, that forms of conflict and competition are still vital for state formation and are not mutually exclusive with notions of cooperation. Conflict or threat of conflict with other societies, for instance, can stimulate greater levels of intra-societal cooperation. Also, even intra-societal conflict, competition, or factionalism can lead to the formation of institutions whether as direct or indirect

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(and sometimes unintended) outcomes. In that regard, my view of state formation sees both cooperation and conflict as key strategies for the emergence and maintenance of political institutions in highly complex societies with relatively high population levels. This view on conflict is in keeping with the overall arguments put forth by others, such as Carneiro (1970, 2018), that see the importance of forms of warfare in the origins of state institutions. In a reformulation of his circumscription theory, Carneiro (2012: 27) writes: “A heightened incidence of conquest warfare, due largely to an increase in population pressure, gave rise to the formation of successively larger political units, with autonomous villages being followed by chiefdoms, the process culminating in certain areas with the emergence of the state.” Examining the Co Loa case, I see support for elements of Carneiro’s theory. Coercive power and conquest warfare were surely not the only variables, as the evidence speaks to a mix of cooperative and competitive forms of interactions. Nevertheless, growing population levels and militarism do appear to be coincident in the Red River delta and larger valley region, and coercive strategies would have been instrumental in effectuating momentous cultural changes. Furthermore, the natural features of the valley meant that those societies in the region were geospatially bounded to some extent, given the presence of the sea to the east and southeast and mountainous terrain to the north and west. In that regard, population growth would have enhanced the effects of circumscription. Today the Red River plain boasts one of the densest populations for Southeast Asia, and it has the longest period of occupation for any of mainland Southeast Asia’s lowland plains (Nishimura 2005: 99). Unfortunately, there is a paucity of settlement data for the region with which to generate estimates of ancient population densities during the closing centuries BCE. However, Sinitic imperial accounts of the area after the commencement of Han annexation include census records indicating high population levels. The figures provide a valuable starting point for consideration, and at the start of the Common Era the region was reportedly the most densely populated area in the Han Empire south of the Yangzi River, with an estimated total population of nearly a million individuals living in over 140,000 households (O’Harrow 1979: 156). If these accounts are even remotely accurate, it is reasonable to conclude that the Red River delta was home to thousands during pre-Co Loa and Co Loa periods, during which societies were engaged in intensified and innovative agricultural production. The use of ox-drawn, metal plows would have permitted the generation of food surpluses well above subsistence requirements, thus sustaining high population levels (Higham 2002: 177). Seen in this light, the Co Loa case provides some support for circumscription theory. Coercive strategies have been employed by groups and factions in many archaeological cases throughout human history, often involving warfare, but these situations did not always result in the formation of a state where one was absent. This would suggest that warfare and coercive power do not constitute a sufficient condition for the consolidation of state-level political power and development of its institutions. In the RRV, however, the Co Loa case illustrates how the intentional uses of coercive power may have been a necessary condition. Whether in explicit

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forms of physical power or in tacit forms of ideological influence, agentive strategies related to (or even soft power) coercion are implicated for both the emergence and persistence of the Co Loa state apparatus. State formation results from the actions of both cooperating and competing people, grouped in alliances or opposing factions with different agendas and interests. This view recognizes how attitudes and allegiances can change, and how interactions can be quite complex, fluid, and unpredictable.

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Concluding Remarks and Future Research

The archaeological record of Vietnam’s Red River Valley region speaks to the development of state-level society, resulting from cascading effects of both long-range and proximate factors. Over time, these factors led to increased social differentiation and political centralization, culminating with the emergence of permanent, state-level institutions by the third century BCE. Demographic and environmental conditions worked in conjunction with strategies and decision-making by key agents and groups to produce significant cultural changes. A combination of ecological conditions, resource concentrations, and geographical features conferred certain advantages upon some of the region’s communities, providing leaders the means to use various strategies. Interregional networks of interaction facilitated the movement of people, innovative ideas and technologies, and valuable goods, contributing to growing wealth disparities and power asymmetries especially in areas with better access. Bronze working resulted in greater agricultural efficiencies, leading to surpluses, greater population density, and regional competition. These longer-term trends, unfolding over centuries and even millennia, constituted the deeper currents creating conditions favorable for eventual political consolidation of authority. That this integration happens during the third century BCE, however, is due to arguably more random sets of outcomes derived from sociopolitical interactions and various leadership strategies. In the end, a combination of power, coercive strategies, and warfare likely functioned as a pivotal, proximate cause for state formation, wherein previously autonomous communities became part of a larger and permanent political entity, one unprecedented for the region. In sum, the Co Loa case illustrates a pathway to state formation through a cascading effect of both long- and short-range variables. As discussed, one prominent factor for the Co Loa phenomenon pertains to interactions with emergent Sinitic civilization to the north. The conflicts associated with China’s Warring States Period of the mid- to late first millennium BCE led to imperial consolidation in China’s Central Plains, with ripple effects reverberating throughout peripheral regions. These effects were felt both directly and indirectly in areas of southern China, northern Vietnam, the Korean Peninsula, and elsewhere. Coalescing imperial power in the Central Plains had a more direct impact on the various “Yue” societies of southern China’s Yunnan and Lingnan areas (see Allard 2014), and inhabitants of the RRV would have surely been aware of potential

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threats. Accordingly, historical trends in nascent imperial China may have played a critical role in motivating the construction of Co Loa’s defenses. Even the various Yue polities of southern China, with whom RRV communities were actively interacting with, may have also been perceived periodically as threats as the Co Loa Polity constructed its fortified capital. To that end, future cross-cultural research projects might benefit from network approaches to examine changes within the wider, pan-Asian region. This would be particularly salient since local forms of social complexity in disparate regions were similarly affected by interactions with a growing imperial presence emanating from the Central Plains of ancient China. The presence of stamped earth walling and royal roof tiles in the RRV is mirrored by similar kinds of material culture and practices elsewhere, such as southern China and even the Korean Peninsula. Societies of the Korean Peninsula underwent profound social changes during the late first millennium BCE and early centuries CE as both direct and indirect connections with the Qin and Han Empires intensified. All throughout the outer areas of a nascent imperial China, those deemed Yue or “barbarians” (see Brindley 2015) were not passive recipients of foreign, Sinitic culture. Rather than having Sinitic practices and ideologies simply imposed upon them, these “barbarians” were active agents in exchange and appropriation to tailor practices and symbols for their own local leadership agendas. By tracking the changes in material culture, and how elements and motifs may have permeated cultural frontiers through mechanisms of exchange, migration, local appropriation, and emulation, it may be instructive to compare network histories and political landscapes, akin to the work of researchers in other settings, such as that of Knappett (2011) or of Lulewicz’s (2019) examination of Mississippian sociopolitics in North America. For Asian contexts, similar uses of network approaches have been productive, such as Campbell’s (2009) consideration of the Late Shang in Bronze Age China and Mizoguchi’s (2009) examination of early state formation in Japan. Particularly intriguing is Mizoguchi’s (2013) studies of influence and authority during the Yayoi and Kofun periods of ancient Japan (c. first millennium CE), which employ network analysis to track the circulation of prestige goods as part of state development. Johansen and Bauer (2011: 17) encourage archaeologists “to move beyond the notion of politics as something essential to a particular institutional structure or form to an understanding of politics as a diversity of action and practice at a variety of scales and contexts towards particular articulations, aggregations, frictions, and divergences.” In that spirit, I see the cross-cultural examination of agentive strategies in various kinds of societies, whether deemed “state” or forms of “non-state,” as potentially illuminating for theories on complexity. At Co Loa, more fieldwork is needed to augment and further test hypotheses related to the establishment of institutions and the operations of the Co Loa Polity. As of this writing, my colleagues and I are conducting or planning new initiatives to address pressing questions. For instance, at what point did significant landscape modifications begin occurring to transform the area for intensified farming, growing urbanization, and large-scale defense? What was the fuller nature of the rampart and canal system, and are there other features no longer visible on the surface that can be discerned? These questions are being explored through planned projects related

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to paleoenvironmental reconstructions (using archaeobotanical analysis) and analysis of remote sensing data (from ongoing on-the-ground and airborne surveys like LiDAR) (Kim and Quick, in press). A wider and finer-grained settlement history will augment our knowledge. Regionally, more information regarding Dongson Culture sites will also be insightful. Work is underway to test hypotheses related to metallurgy and craft production/exchange through the compositional analysis of bronze products (Allard et al. 2019). How did such innovations spread and foster patterns of exchange and circulation? Are there ways to track the circulation of high-status or prestige bronzes, such as the iconic drum, and the effects of such production and movements for social change? Finally, questions related to violence, militarism, and coercive power ought to be further explored. Past research has already confirmed the importance of militaristic activities within the Dongson period, with indicators such as specialized implements and iconographic depictions. More work on settlement features and their distribution can be helpful. Aside from the massive fortification features of Co Loa, fieldwork to date in the RRV has largely overlooked potential markers for defensive architecture during the first millennium BCE. A greater emphasis on warfare can prompt future studies to explore various indicators for conflict and warfare, even on smaller scales. Besides landscape modifications and defensive works, geospatial analyses might reveal buffer zones, as well as peculiar exchange patterns that can signal affiliations or alliances. Indeed, the expansion of imperial China at the end of the first millennium BCE and the early centuries CE contributed to tremendous sociopolitical changes in the Korean Peninsula, where a mix of textual and material data indicates uses of warfare and violence. Capital cities begin to appear in areas of Korea at this time, with massive earthen ramparts strikingly similar to those seen at Co Loa centuries earlier (Kim and Heo 2019). Future research will surely elucidate interesting patterns of interconnected pan-regional changes as related to the appearance of proto-historic and historic early states of Northeast and Southeast Asia. Acknowledgements I wish to thank the editors, Dmitri M. Bondarenko, Stephen A. Kowalewski, and David B. Small, for their invitation to contribute to this volume and series on the evolution of social institutions. It is an honor to be given the opportunity to offer thoughts and research from the Red River Valley in this wider theoretical context. Finally, I would like to dedicate this paper to the memory of my late friend and mentor, Robert Carneiro, whose work continues to inspire generations of researchers.

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Institutional Evolution of Ancient Greece David B. Small

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Introduction

This chapter examines the cultural evolution of ancient Greece. It is vital that the reader understand that ancient Greece was not the Greece that we recognize today, a political invention that began in the early nineteenth century. In antiquity, it was something different. Starting around 1000 BCE Greeks were migrating from the Greek mainland to the western parts of Turkey, and in the eighth century BCE, they were extending themselves further, with settlements in the Black Sea, North Africa, Sicily, Southern Italy, Southern France, and Eastern Iberia (Malkin 2011). We do not know when Greece was actually occupied by Greek-speaking peoples. It used to be thought that the first Greek speakers did not arrive into Greece until sometime toward the middle of the second millennium BCE (Drews 1988), but such an argument is not given much credit anymore, and it has even been argued that the first Greek speakers might have been Neolithic immigrants from Asia Minor (Renfrew 1987). In this overview of the development of institutions in Greece, I am going to present a descriptive account of the evolution in a series of eras, starting with Neolithic, and ending with the middle years of the Roman Principate.

This chapter is a reduced version of several points made in my last book (Small 2019). Because of the abbreviated length of this chapter, several issues such as that of an analytical approach and the deviant case of evolution in Iron Age Crete cannot be discussed. The reader is strongly encouraged to refer to that publication in conjunction with this chapter. D. B. Small (&) Department of Sociology and Anthropology, 31 Williams Drive, Bethlehem, PA 18015, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2020 D. M. Bondarenko et al. (eds.), The Evolution of Social Institutions, World-Systems Evolution and Global Futures, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-51437-2_11

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1.1 Neolithic (Ca. 6800–3200 BCE) The Neolithic signaled the introduction of agriculture into Greece, apparently arriving from the Near East (Souvatzi 2008). Settlements themselves were varied, with small individual “farmsteads” in parts of the Peloponnese and villages in parts of Thessaly. Some of our best information on the Neolithic in Greece comes from archaeological work from settlements in Northeastern Greece. Work with settlements in Thessaly, such as Dhimini (Chourmouziadis 1979) and Sesklo (Tsountas 1908), indicates that one of the most important observations is that social institutions, religious, crafts producing, burial, etc., in these communities were strongly embedded in the household, which was the basic unit of social organization (the best treatment of the household is Souvatzi 2008). It is important to realize that the term “household” does not equate with that of family. Households were composed of individuals who ate and slept in the same house and who were economically tied to one another. It does not mean that all members of the household were related by kinship. Various individuals such as slaves, independent retainers, economic partners, and others could and probably did occupy positions within the household. These household units varied in size from those which would occupy one or two rooms to larger, multi-roomed structures which were set apart from the rest of the community’s housing (Kotsakis 2006; Kotsos and Urem-Kotsou 2006). There was little spatial differentiation within the houses, however, which indicates that the household was not strongly articulated by gender, age, or various functions. That is, all activities took place in the same or closely adjacent areas of the house. There were various institutions contained within the household. Some were associated with crafts production. The household was apparently the center for institutions that incorporated ritual practice as well. These ritual contexts must have included some sort of feasting activity. Recent arguments (Halstead and Isaakidou 2011), point to the fact that some of these feasts could have accommodated a large number of participants and that the serving ware, which lacks special vessels such as pitchers, indicates that there was little elaborated distinction between those attending the feasts themselves. Neolithic feasting appears to have taken place without pre-established asymmetrical relationships. The household also incorporated funeral rituals, as there are several examples of intramural burial at settlements such as Dhimini. We lack strong evidence of extra-household funeral behavior, which suggests that funerals, because they were contained within the household, might not have been an important means of social integration outside the household itself. In general, there was a little elaboration of the funeral institutional context. We also lack strong evidence for religious ritual existing outside the household. Neither Sesklo nor Dhimini contained an independent building that was unambiguously religious, representing an ideological institution not attached to a

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household, and I remain unconvinced by attempts to identify such a building at Neo Nicomedia because the argument is based on very slim evidence (Marangou 2001). We are left to conclude that what religious practice there might have been in the Neolithic was embedded in domestic life. Just what the ideology of these domestic religious rituals was is only incompletely understood. Bucrania, or plastered over bulls’ skulls, have been found in some Greek Neolithic domestic contexts. This shows that the ideological attention paid to the bull in later Greek history has a deep local history, as well as connections to similar Neolithic communities in Anatolia. There is good evidence that some of these institutions, e.g., those embedded in trade and craft production, were associated with intercommunity networking. For example, both Dhimini and Sesklo, as well as several other sites, supply us with evidence of obsidian sourced from the Aegean island of Melos, which points to some sort of intersite commerce, perhaps even the presence of itinerant stone tool makers. It (Talalay 1987) has been argued that split figurines found at some Neolithic sites were products of formal agreements between families in different communities. Numerous ethnographic studies of communities with similar social structure indicate that the contexts for this type of association were feasting ceremonies within which there was an exchange of intercommunity goods, by either redistribution or formal exchange. While we have been talking about positive aspects of connection and cooperation between settlements, there is another, somewhat more sinister form of connection, raiding, which probably played an important role. Settlements such as Sesklo and Dhimini had defensive features such as stone walls with baffle gates, and ditches with V-shaped slopes. There is also some indication of fortifications. There is additional good evidence for a concentration on defense in settlement distribution in Thessaly that goes back to the early years of the Neolithic (Runnels et al. 2009). Here, survey indicates that there were no man’s lands in between the settlements. Again, these raids must have been organized and carried out within the households themselves, either alone or in conjunction with other households. In sum, the hallmark of these communities was the observation that the household was the basic social unit. The household incorporated important social institutions, such as those of religion, craft production, burial, trade, and even raiding. The full articulation of these institutions into independent social entities was not to occur for some time to come. Although embedded in the households, it was likely that it was these social institutions that helped to hold the communities together, but the glue must have been weak. Our knowledge of extra-household institutions is slight, and there is little to indicate that there was a pronounced hierarchy among the households themselves.

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Developments Ca. 3200–2200 BCE

2.1 The Mainland The introduction of bronze working signaled the start of the Early Bronze Age in Greece around 3200 BCE. Archaeologists usually break the study of this period into analyses of three distinction regions: the mainland, the Cyclades, and Crete. We will follow this division. During this period, we witness different forms of cultural development in these three different regions. There is a general increase in evidence for greater social complexity throughout these areas, with attention being paid to feasting, defense, intercommunity communication, and exchange. At the period’s end one thousand years later, important cultural changes occurred, which were to carry these cultures into new configurations of social structure for the next several centuries. On the mainland, this period was more complex than that of the Neolithic. The mortuary record shows that there were probably different new distinct institutions and contexts bound into funerals. In domestic contexts, families were involved in several different productive institutions, as well as communal eating. Craft specialization also shows that there must have been crafting institutions that were more than simply another sphere of household activity. The high level of quality of some of the ceramics indicates that they were most likely the products of skilled independent crafts producers. Archaeologists divide this period on the mainland into two cultures: the Eutresis (Goldman 1931) and the later Korakou (Blegen 1921). The Korakou culture was probably more complex than the Eutresis, although the slimmer archaeological record on the Eutresis side might be biasing the observation to a degree. An important consideration when we compare the social structure of this period with the previous Neolithic is whether there were institutions now outside the confines of the household. In most cases of increasing social complexity, we would expect to see some sort of extra-household institutions appearing as a society such as the Greek Neolithic becomes more complex. We do have some indication that these institutions did now exist, but our evidence is limited. Corridor houses, such as the House of the Tiles at Lerna, have been cited as examples of extra-household institutions (Pullen 1986, 1994, 2008, 2011). These extra-household institutions would have been the beginnings of a political economy, that is, an extra-household economic system that ties together law or custom, politics, and economics and is seen as a hallmark of cultures that have social institutions active above that of the household. One of the primary arguments for the presence of a political economy in the early years of this era is that the numerous seals found in the House of the Tiles indicate that there was some type of top-down means of collecting and storing goods as a form of tax from other households. The “taxes” in the form of storage containers filled with agricultural products would have been housed in the House of the Tiles (Heath 1958). The seals are often thought to represent an overarching interest in and control over the storage

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and probable distribution of these agricultural products that came from other households, a hallmark of early political economies. However, there are some serious problems with this identification. The most salient is that the seals themselves are too divergent. More than seventy different seals were collected from the House of the Tiles (Peperaki 2004, 2010). This might indicate that rather than a top-down tracking of goods, seals were used by the owners or producers of the various goods which were stored in the building itself to identify their own goods (Weiberg 2007). A secondary point is that we do not know if the seals represent a system of records contained within the same household or kin group or were used to control goods between households, which would indicate the beginning of a real political economy. Stronger evidence for an extra-household community institution can perhaps be seen in the frequent fortifications around many sites. The coordination and the expense of such wall construction projects speak indirectly but strongly for some sort of economy that operated outside the confines of a single household. The expense of the fortifications might well have been more than one kin group could support, and such fortifications would have required some sort of hierarchical organization overseeing the construction.

2.2 The Cyclades Our evidence for domestic activities for the Cyclades is very slim (Renfrew and Cherry 2011). A large percentage of our archaeological information does come from burials allowing us to at least reconstruct a possible funeral context, where figurines were used within the funeral celebration, as well as pyxides (cosmetic containers) and collared jars. The importation of feasting vessels, such as the sauceboat, from the mainland shows us that there were some commensal institutions that probably highlighted connections that various groups held with settlements other than their own. This extends us to the observation that the longboat was probably employed by those in larger communities, which would probably have housed feasts using imported ware more than smaller communities. Renfrew’s recent work with the sanctuary of Dhaskalio Kavos at Keros (Renfrew et al. 2007, 2013) shows strongly that some households were participating in offsite institutional contexts in which various people from the Cycladic islands were gathering for distinct religious purposes. No doubt, these intercommunity contexts also functioned to facilitate communication, alliances, and possible exchange between different groups in the Cyclades.

2.3 Crete It is hard to get a true measure of social complexity on Crete for this period. The material evidence indicates that Crete was occupied by various cultural complexes. The mortuary evidence shows that funeral institutions were becoming elaborate and

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probably spinning off institutions of collective intersettlement gatherings, as seen probably in the presence of large tholoi (dome-shaped tombs) in the south-central region of Crete. The situation on the northwest coast also indicates that the funeral institutions there might have been active in competition between households (Legarra Herrero 2009, 2012). We have only the remains from the site of Myrtos (Warren 1972) to tell us what a community might have looked like, and while Myrtos shows no hierarchy between its composite households, a kind of hierarchy might well have been playing out in other settlements. Likely areas for this type of household relationship might well have been not only at Knossos and other later palatial centers but at communities on the north coast as well. Here, we have burial goods that appear to be part of a larger strategy of household competition and community status aspirations. Some have claimed a settlement hierarchy between sites, but differences in size do not necessarily transfer over into a hierarchy of functions (Haggis 2002).

3

The Beginning of Change and the Evolution of a Koine

Shortly before the turn of the third to second millennia, we can detect some significant changes in Crete, the Cyclades, and the mainland. The changes were not the same in each region. In Crete, we see a dramatic evolution of cultural complexity in the appearance of palace centers, towns, and rural peak sanctuaries. New modes of feasting appear in the Cyclades as they become more interconnected by the introduction of sail-equipped ships that bring the Cycladic cultures into closer connection with the Near East and Asia Minor. The mainland experiences similar commensal innovation as it provides a foundation for the later rise of the Mycenaean polities in the second half of the second millennium. These three regions are becoming more and more interconnected, producing a cultural koine (unity) by the early years of the second millennium, if not somewhat earlier.

3.1 Crete The early second millennium was a period in which Crete witnessed profound social structural transformation, a transformation which would eventually produce the social structure of what are referred as the Middle Minoan or palace periods (ca. 1900–1500 BCE). The period is especially marked by the ascent of political and economic centers, such as those at Knossos, Phaistos, and Malia, plus the appearance of peak sanctuaries, and large towns. The palaces are roughly from the same time period, with initial work on their construction commencing around 1900 BCE (McEnroe 2010 for good introduction). Knossos swamps the other two of this trio in size. Later centers included Zakros, located on the easternmost tip of the island.

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The roles that these palaces played in the culture of Crete must have been varied, and archaeologists have yet to arrive at a consensus as to their true character. Some conclusions are obvious, however. They must have been the residences of powerful families. The great size of the palaces would indicate that they played some sort of centralizing function within Crete. The variety of spaces for gathering and feasting, plus the evidence of large storage facilities in many of them, is strong evidence for one role being that of community gathering, perhaps for political ends. The great corpus of religious material found in the palaces would also indicate that one of the reasons for community gathering was to conduct religious ritual as well. Finds of early forms of writing for administration purposes in the palaces argue strongly for an important role for the palaces in political and economic oversight. Prestige items, turned up in palatial excavations, point to the integration of the palaces in the trade of luxury goods, as both consumers and possibly as producers. The appearance of these palace centers represents the adoption of a new social structure for much of Crete. There was increased activity associated with large-scale feasting at two of the palatial centers, Knossos and Phaistos. In fact, feasting is associated with these centers at a very early date. There was a major reorganization of residential and ceremonial space that occurred at Knossos in the late EM I or early EM IIA (ca. 2700–2600 BCE) (Day and Wilson 1998, 2002, 2004; Wilson and Day 2000). The product of this reorganization was an early emphasis on courtyard space, suggesting a focus on gathering, most likely ritualized feasting. Along with this courtyard, there were buildings around its periphery, maybe early predecessors of later administrative and religious sections of the later palace at Knossos itself. Investigations at Phaistos show a similar history (Todaro 2005; Todaro and Di Tonto 2006), with similar attention paid to the construction of courtyards. The same is true for Malia, the earliest example of a palace on Crete (Pelon 1992). I must point out the importance of another context for feasting which was active at this time and probably associated with developments at the palace, the Minoan peak sanctuary. Hard to access even today, Minoan peak sanctuaries were sacred places located on mountain peaks. Many of these sanctuaries first appeared at the time that we witness large-scale feasting at the palace sites. Archaeological investigation shows that they were sanctuaries that were essentially open to the air. Activities associated with these sanctuaries were gathering, ritual, and feasting either at the sanctuary or offsite, as part of a pilgrimage (Haggis 1999; Kyriakidis 2006; Peatfield 1987). Like the role of the palaces, peak sanctuaries must have been operating to create a new social structure for Crete at this time. For the towns themselves (Buell 2014), we witness a range of institutional diversity manifesting itself in political and economic ways. Towns such as Gournia and Palaikastro show that the composition of Cretan towns was not even from town to town. Palaikastro shows a definite elite presence, with different ways in which the elite would interface with the community. Gournia was somewhat more egalitarian, with similar-sized domiciles and a similar way in which the family interacted with the community. Communities like Gournia do show economic specialization and a communal ritual. Both Gournia and Palaikastro also exhibit

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evidence of town planning, with various areas of different functions marked out in the community as well as attention paid to the construction and the care of streets.

3.2 The Cyclades Despite the paucity of evidence, we can see that there was significant cultural change in the Cyclades at this time. Between 2400 and 2200 BCE, new cultural materials and behaviors appear on the scene. The Cyclades had incorporated some new institutions, probably based on feasting, perhaps associated with Anatolian cultures, which were now popular in the Cyclades as well as on the mainland. There were cups with affinities to those used in Anatolia. The fast wheel was now being used in pottery manufacture. The Cycladic landscape was now dotted with the construction of some small fortified sites at places like Kastri on Syros. As we approach the introduction of the Cyclades into the second millennium and move toward the middle of that millennium, we see some dramatic changes in the way of life on the islands (Sotirakopoulou 2010). While there is evidence for a continued infilling of the landscape on some islands, such as Syros and Mykonos, on other islands there was a sharp decrease in the small farm settlements which had characterized the islands in the previous millennium. This can be seen very dramatically in the progression of the settlement pattern at Melos (Renfrew and Wagstaff 1982; Whitelaw 2004). This movement was also joined by the general disappearance of hamlets and some large sites such as Chalandriani-Kastri on Syros. What replaces these settlements is a settlement pattern that is very new. This culture saw a dramatic shift toward greater nucleation and an almost complete abandonment of earlier farmsteads. Data for Cycladic communities in this period is spotty, so we cannot speak well to the issue of community social structure, but we do know that burials were now different, signaling new funeral institutions. The predominant burial was a tomb with multiple inhumations. There was also a cessation in burying people with marble figurines. This change could well be tied into the end of Daskaleio-Kavos’s use on Keros as some type of maritime sanctuary for the disposal of such figurines, as we saw previously. This culture is also noted for the spread of a new ceramic vessel, the duck vase. Ceramics like the duck vase appear to have been transport containers. The appearance of this vase in the Cycladic archaeological record at this time is probably signaling the ever-increasing importance of trade in the Cyclades. What could have produced such a drastic change in the Cyclades? The most cogent explanation appears to be the introduction of sail-powered boats into the Cyclades and the effect that they had on Cycladic cultures (Broodbank 2002). Minoan seals from the EMIII to MMIA periods (ca. 2300–1900 BCE) show what appear to be the first examples of deep-hulled sailing ships in this part of the Mediterranean. Such ships were probably sailing the Levantine coast already for several centuries before becoming part of the transportation system of the Cyclades.

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3.3 The Mainland This period is best understood as a formative stage for the appearance of Mycenaean polities in the later second millennium. Change on the mainland actually began in the EH III period (ca. 2200–2000 BCE). During this time, there was a decrease in settlements. Places such as Lerna were destroyed and a new settlement pattern was taking hold, which saw settlements more often on elevated hills than more evenly dispersed as in EH II. There seems to have been some decrease in population after 2000 BCE. But this conclusion must be tempered by an understanding of the archaeological record. Most Middle Helladic (ca. 2000–1500 BCE) sites were built over earlier ones, and while survey has shown that there was a reduction in the number of sites in the Middle Helladic period, inconsistencies in identifying the sizes of sites make conclusions based on absolute population figures hazardous (Osborne 2004). What material we are able to identify as Middle Helladic comes basically from southern and central Greece. Western Greece and Thessaly do show some Middle Helladic settlement, but in general, the material does not extend into the north. Our best material for understanding towns comes from Lerna and Asine. Our best information comes from domestic and burial contexts. Looking at the household, the archaeological record indicates that several houses from this period were laid out axially, with up to three areas for the development of social institutions (Goldman 1931: Fig. 5.5 for good example). Such houses would have provided several spatial institutional contexts for the household and its visitors. The outer space or porch would have been a principal context for the interaction of household members and outsiders. A middle room, often fitted with a hearth, probably served as the locus of several intrahousehold or even household-visitor institutions. The backroom could have served as a storage space or one for more private household behavior. We have more information from burials than houses in this period (Milka 2010). Two types of predominate are one with settlements and one in extramural cemeteries. The intramural burials were mostly children and infants with little enclosed grave goods. The extramural burials were more elaborate. With space now marked off for burial outside the community, burials were now more visible and open to elaboration. Several of these cemeteries had tumuli (artificial mounds over graves); marked-off circles; elaborate grave goods, with many imported from the islands; evidence of multiple and secondary burials; and evidence of funeral feasting. The material from the burials indicates that these societies were experiencing a social process where different kinship groups were using the context of the funeral as a means for accruing some sort of social hierarchy or distinction.

3.4 Changes in the Latter Part of the Second Millennium BCE Significant changes and events occurred in the latter half of the second millennium: the island of Thera exploded; Crete witnessed dramatic changes in the loss of several centers and the possible extension of the role of Knossos on the island; and on the mainland, various households rose to prominence.

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3.5 Charting Social Evolution on the Mainland The rise of new centers on the mainland parallels what we know of the rise of the Cretan centers of Knossos, Phaistos, and Malia, in the importance of elaborate feasting. The later part of the Middle Helladic period (ca. 1550–1350 BCE) in keeping with trends seen earlier is known for the presence of increased elaborate funeral feasting, seen at Mycenae and later at Pylos. The result was the evolution of new institutions often embedded in households, which made a few households dominant within the Argolid, Messenia, and sections of Boiotia.

3.6 Institutions of the Palaces In the end, elaborate funeral feasting led to the development of a constellation of institutions related to the hierarchical position of a single house at various Mycenaean centers. The best-understood palace is that at Pylos (Blegen and Rawson 1966). The palace at Pylos is divided into several different spaces that housed various functions, from elite ceramic manufacture to storage to domestic functions. The most important part of the palace, however, from a political and economic viewpoint was the series of rooms that included the megaron (great hall) complex. This suite of spaces began with a monumental entrance that led into a large forecourt. From the forecourt, one preceded into the megaron, which was divided into an entranceway, a room behind that, and then a large room with a hearth, which was open to the sky. The megaron held the political and religious activities associated with the ruler of the palace. There is much to signal that the megaron, in its tripartite spatial division, found its ancestor in Middle Helladic houses.

3.7 Record Keeping At Pylos, there are two rooms near the gate to the megaron’s forecourt. These rooms housed numerous Linear B tablets, records that oversaw transactions between those within the palace and others. It is tempting here to conclude that this gate was the locus for reviewing and checking obligations between those within the house and those outside. If so, the position of this archive would indicate that transactions were reviewed at the gate, face to face with those coming to the palace and not further within the building. The archives were written in Linear B (Chadwick 1990), which was the last prehistoric script we have from Greece. The script itself appears to have been used by scribes whose job it was to oversee the distribution of wealth into and out of the palaces. No evidence exists for the use of Linear B for any type of literature, however.

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3.8 The Institutions of the Palaces: What the Texts Tell Us Our Linear B documentation sheds some light on different officials who would have been part of these new institutions within the palaces. The titles and their possible functions are as shown in the following list. Unfortunately, we know little of the actual functions of each of these people. In some few cases, these titles match those mentioned by later poets such as Homer and Hesiod in the eighth and seventh centuries. It appears that they were associated with some sort of administrative structure. Wa-na-ka

Ra-wa-ke-ta

E-qe-ta Da-mo-ko-ro Du-ma-te: Po-ro-du-ma-te Mo-ro-qa Qa-si-re-u Ko-re-te-re Po-ro-ko-re-te

(Wanax in Homer) Leader of the polity is seen later in the Iliad as a “lord.” Stirrup jars at Thebes, Eleusis, Tiryns, and Chania (containing olive oil) are marked as connected to the wanax, indicating that he was a landholder, who was processing oil. In later Greek (Homer to Hellenistic) the word is used to signify lord or leader, used with gods and kings. (Lawagetas in Homer) The term in Greek means “leader of the people.” Little is known about this title. At Pylos, the person with this title appears to have been the second largest landowner, next to the wanax. Possible representative of the palace or center in the territories. Perhaps also a companion of the wanax. Some kind of territorial functionary Perhaps similar to the da-mo-ko-ro Possible territorial functionary Possible territorial functionary, possible military commander (Basileus in Homer and Hesiod) Possible territorial functionary, possible leader of a small group Possible leader in charge of a major administrative unit at Pylos Perhaps similar to the ko-re-te-re

3.9 Institutions of the Economy Our understanding of the economies of the Mycenaean polities comes from Linear B records from Pylos and Knossos principally, and archaeological materials found at the palaces and extensions to analogous situations in modern-day Greece. Halstead (1993, 2007) argued that the Mycenaean polities incorporated a wealth-finance economy. What that means is that prestige manufactured items were used to pay off those who were supplying the palaces with staple goods. Recent research (Galaty et al. 2011; Halstead 2011; Nakassis 2010; Schon 2011; Shelmerdine 2011), however, is elucidating a somewhat different picture of the Mycenaean economy. Most of what was distributed by the palace was staple goods. But the bulk of these goods appears to have been redistributed at feasts. This argues

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quite clearly that redistribution had not become a codified system, being still embedded in feasting institutions, which probably predate the construction of the palaces. Despite some recent new thinking on the Mycenaean economy, some earlier observations still appear to be valid. The palaces oversaw the input of raw materials for their workshops. The palaces themselves probably owned land close to the center and grew on that land wheat, olives, figs, and grapes, and raised sheep. It was probably from these lands that the palaces obtained goods to pay laborers, and we have some records of the palaces supplying wine, probably from their own estates, to communities for drinking in festivals. What I have outlined so far is attested in the Linear B records, but the archaeological record also indicates that the palaces obtained pottery, cereals, and pulses, and young male sheep from their own lands or from non-palatial holdings. Within their territories, we also find evidence of jewelry and stirrup jars for perfumed oil, which must have come from palace workshops. Outside their territories, the palaces were also involved in additional trade. We have found raw ivory (probably from Africa or the Near East) and semiprecious stones (such as amber from northern Europe) within the palaces, and stirrup jars for perfumed oil at sites outside their territories as well. Within 100 years, the palaces were gone. Pylos fell. We have some data which show that Mycenae perhaps, but Tiryns for certain, did manage a short comeback during that period, but it was unsuccessful. The danger that the palaces were fortifying themselves against apparently got the upper hand, because by ca. 1100 BCE the palaces ceased to exist.

4

The Eleventh to Eighth Centuries

From a rather inauspicious start in the later eleventh century, by the opening of the sixth century BCE, Greece had undergone a dramatic evolution. Within its many poleis, that is, Greek “city-states” (Hansen 2006) and ethne (regional ethnic groups with internal political institutions; Mackil 2013), there were new or transformed institutions—councils, assemblies, funerals, markets, new religious practices, etc.— linked in ways which formed a new social structure. There is little evidence for a gradual evolution of this structure, and the change was rather sudden and total, coming in a period of about two to three centuries (Small 2018). Apparently, by the end of the sixth century, there was a consensus as to what would structurally constitute a proper polis or ethnos. This type of evolution, when there is a rapid development of a new social structure, rather than a more piecemeal one, is similar to what we saw earlier in Crete and in the middle of the second millennium in the Argolid, Messenia, and Boiotia. The start of Iron Age or the period right after the collapse of the palaces (ca. eleventh century BCE) was one within which the Greek world had a rather stable social structure that was affected by the stimulus of new wealth, which began to

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appear as early as the eighth century. This strong stimulus produced a period of structural chaos and associated social conflict and community fissioning, which resulted in a host of new institutions. To understand this change, I am going to outline what institutions existed before the eighth century and then those that occurred after.

4.1 Institutions Within the House Our material evidence for domestic institutions in the early period is thin. We have evidence from just a few sites, and there is no certainty that what these sites tell us can be applied to much of the Greek world as a whole. Yet they do provide us with some material, which, with an obvious caveat, can supply us with an image of what the houses were probably like in some communities, and what institutions they contained. They are Nichoria (McDonald et al. 1983) and Oropos (MazarakisAinian 1989). Perhaps the most famous at Nichoria is house IV-1, an apsidal (with an oval end) construction dating from the tenth century. The overall characteristics of its plan show that the house was essentially divided into two areas, with a space in between. One end of the structure is marked off with what could have been a porch, but easily an animal pen as well. If a porch, then those residing in the house would have had an intermediary space between their domestic space and that of the community. This would have provided a context for some sort of institution at the interface between family and town. The other room in the house was much larger and curved on its short end. An interesting feature of house IV-1 is the circular hearth in the main room. It is most likely that this room housed feasting activities, between family members and between family and outsiders. In general, there is a correspondence between the inner room of this house and the hearth rooms of Middle Helladic houses, and the megara of the Mycenaean palaces, which would indicate a continuation of domestic institutions from these earlier periods. Although our information is still fragmentary, two observations can be made about houses in this early period, at least at Nichoria and Oropos. First, the layout of the houses, with one main room, shows that there was little internal spatial articulation of status, roles, or occupation in the families. Unless we consider the possibility that occupation of this area was allocated to different people at different times of the day, we would have to conclude that there was little attention paid to institutionalized segregation of males, females, children, and visitors within the house. Second, there appears to have been no separate spatial context for the interface of the household with the rest of the community, although, in the one case of house IV-I, the porch, if a porch, could have housed some institution of this type. What institutional context existed for the purpose of family/outsider contact was mainly in the main room of the house, where the daily activity of the family took place. This would have made the prohibition of various family members such as women and children from interacting with outsiders almost impossible. The institutions of family/outsider contact must have included all the family members.

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4.2 Religious Public religious services were probably held in the open and not associated with a temple building. Homer, describing customs that must have been familiar to audiences of his time, supplies us with what we know of the services themselves (Kitts 2011). They were primarily sacrifices at a makeshift altar. The sacrifice was the killing of animals, the burning of part of the carcasses as an offering to the deity, the pouring of a libation, and a sprinkling of barley grouts into the flames. One context in which open religious services were conducted was the sanctuary. There were two types, that within a polis and that which was shared by several poleis. Of this second type and perhaps one of Greece’s most famous sanctuaries, Olympia, can trace its ancestry to the ninth century (Morgan 1990). Located in the western Peloponnesos, in the region of Elis, the sanctuary in this early part of the Iron Age offered up terracotta figurines of Zeus and small bronze figurines dating to the ninth century. These appear to have been votive offerings, as were large bronze tripod cauldrons, which might date from this early period as well. The bronze figurines were mainly bovine, suggesting strongly that herding was an important agricultural pursuit, and thereby dedicated by cattle-owning Greeks. The sanctuary had not yet adopted its role as an athletic complex. Its role was most likely focused on the worship of Zeus (and possibly other deities, such as Hera) and elite feasting. Zeus presumably had an altar, traces of which might well have been the famous ash altar, referred to by the second-century CE travel writer Pausanias. Sanctuaries like Olympia were critical institutional contexts for the evolution of ancient Greece because one of their additional functions was to provide a neutral space for elites from different communities to gather. This function can be seen in the later athletic contests, held at not only Olympia, but also Delphi, Nemea, Isthmia, and elsewhere, which were often dominated by Greek elites, but this role must have been operational in the early years of the Iron Age as well. The ability to leave one’s own community and travel to a peripheral center like Olympia must have been a privilege to those who could afford to leave their homesteads. The fact that the dedication of expensive bronze tripods began in the ninth century also supports this conclusion and indicates that one of the things elites did when they visited Olympia was engage in feasting. The tripod has a long history of use in formalized feasting among the Greeks (Gimatzidis 2011). It appears that the sanctuary was serving as a focal point for meeting and communication between people in different communities within the regions around the sanctuaries. As noted, most of the early evidence for activity at the sanctuaries is related to feasting, which suggests a context geared toward communication and exchange. Most importantly, the sanctuary was serving as a context for institutions that would negotiate and perpetuate relationships between people from different communities. These relationships could be based on equality or inequality. The mechanism for these types of relationships would have been some sort of recognized gift giving.

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4.3 Funeral Practices It would appear that elite funerals were often followed by institutionalized funeral games. Funeral games were held sometime after the funeral itself. This would allow elite competitors time to travel from different communities to compete in the games. Homer’s depiction of the games for Patroklos indicates that some of the contests in this period were chariot racing, boxing, wrestling, javelin throwing, foot racing, and archery. While Homer provides us with a depiction of an elite funeral, the burial record of the Iron Age supplies us with a larger picture of funeral practices. The burial record varied from community to community, with cremation or inhumation being a key distinction. There was, however, a general trend toward cremation in most communities. Furthermore, we know from eighth-century amphorai that the funeral celebration, at least in its idealized form, was a protracted process, which included much more than graveside behavior. Large amphorai and kraters that served as grave monuments at Athens depict some of the features of funerals at this time (Kurtz and Boardman 1971). Some of what is depicted on these vessels is the prothesis, or the laying-out of the body. This exhibition of the dead is attended by male and female mourners, often seen either beating their breasts or pulling out their hair. On some vases there are also depictions of children. We also see the ekphora, or procession with the dead to the cemetery. This is displayed as similar to the prosthesis, in that we often see mourners as well. The body appears to have been pulled on a wagon. There is also a shroud over the body. In a lower register on several of these vases is a row of chariots and drivers. This could well be a representation of a funeral game. Arms and armor were often included in burials. This represented a strong tie or association between the arena of warfare and the representation of individuals in funeral and burials.

4.4 Institutions of Warfare/Battle Until recently, the common opinion was that the manner of fighting was centered on one-to-one combat. Elites would ride out to the field on chariots, dismount, and fight elite opponents. Careful study of the Homer’s works, however (Wees 2004), has shown that the soldiers, although they might have been led by leaders who would engage in this type of one-to-one combat, were grouped as infantry into fighting units, called phalanges (singular: phalanx). What form these units took is not knowable with any certainty. The fact that the soldiers were using javelins, however, strongly indicates that they were massed in open order, that is, with about an arm’s length of space between each man. We have no good information on the internal strategy of battle between opposing phalanges. While cavalries probably existed, and were even seen as the principal fighting method until 700 BCE by Aristotle, we have little evidence for their use in this period. In front of the infantry were probably stationed individual fighters, the

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heroes of the Iliad, who more than likely resembled skirmishers, advanced individuals who would fight ahead of the infantry’s line. Within formation, there was probably a sense of common purpose, with an allegiance to the reason for the conflict (revenge, dominance, family or other larger kinship ties, etc.), to the leaders who would have been fighting in front. The purpose of warfare in this period was probably not linked to Homer’s recall of a heroic fight with Troy, but as men like the old king Nestor in the Iliad relate, to raids on other families and communities to secure cattle and other goods for profit. These raids might well have established regularized transfers of goods between different communities, and thereby to cement intercommunity relationships.

4.5 Institutions of Leadership and Power With the palaces gone, the upper echelon of society was absent and communities must have resembled somewhat those of the Middle Helladic (first suggested by Snodgrass 2000). A good term for understanding the creation of leadership and power after the palatial collapse is that of “reboot” (Antonaccio 2016; Galaty et al. 2016). Palatial hierarchy was gone, and what remained were less hierarchical reciprocal relationships between individuals and families. Intensification and manipulation of these relationships, often in feasting contexts, by the use of prestige goods and claims to important ancestry (Antonaccio 2002, 2006), produced unequal relationships of power and status. In addition to this mechanism, individual positions of leadership and power could also be enhanced by leadership skills themselves. Important information on these institutions comes from the works of the seventh-century BCE singer of epics, Hesiod, and our somewhat earlier oral poet, Homer. Hesiod supplies us with a wealth of information on his century in his short epic poem, the Works and Days, which was written about daily life in Greece. The Homeric material is a bit different, in that it pulls images from times as early as the Mycenaean period, but also builds a world which is thoroughly descriptive in much of its social structure of the eighth century BCE (Finley 1991; Morris 1986b; Snodgrass 1974). Both these epic singers provide us with several leadership roles (Crielaard 2011), most often focused on the basileus. He was probably a local leader who held power through a variety of means: two of the more important being the power of his estate and his personal ability to lead in various contexts. Society during this period was horizontally segmented, composed of similar units of basileus-led people (Drews 1983). Leadership among basileis was not fully instituted. For example, Agamemnon was the principal basileus among the Greeks at Troy, but he apparently held no formalized rule over the other basileis. This is interesting, because he takes the title of wanax, which might well show that the earlier Mycenaean wanax’s power was poorly felt outside the limits of his controlled estates. This basileus-type of leadership existed in the Middle Helladic period and is represented by the qa-si-re-u from Linear B texts (Palaima 1995). There were no hard institutionalized

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functions for the basileus. From Homer, we recognize that the chief basileis such as Odysseus, Agamemnon, and Achilles possessed no institutionalized areas of competence or responsibilities. Leadership in arbitration or fighting came from personal skills. Two other sociopolitical institutions are described in the epics as well, the council and the assembly. In both of these men would meet to discuss issues, often brought forward by a leader. The council was an assembly of leaders. The assembly was a congress of a larger group of men, most of whom were not leaders. It is important to note that in each case, the council and the assembly were actually more reactive than active. The council could be called by a leader to seek advice or to carry out the ideas of the leader, as in the council of the Phaiakians in the Odyssey, who were persuaded to carry out the will of the king to give Odysseus a ship with men so he could sail home. The council could also meet in conjunction with the assembly so that the assembly would be persuaded to give assent to the council’s decisions. There is some evidence that meetings themselves were at least somewhat institutionalized. That is, they met in a regular assigned place, the agora, and they were usually called by heralds, who also controlled the behavior of the assembly. There is no evidence that the assembly was a group that could initiate action. They were mainly a reactive institutionalized body of men, a very important point to which I shall return later.

4.6 Economic Institutions In this period, a great deal of economic activity was embedded in the institution of gift exchange. We saw that some early intercommunity meeting places, such as Olympia, probably served as loci for this type of behavior. Within the obligations involved in this exchange came ties which could be used economically later on. Subsistence assistance would have been part of this activity. While intercommunity settings such as Olympia could have served as places for such institutions, we also have the field of battle. In Homer’s epics, at least, it was an arena of gifting: there are several examples of gift exchange between elites in his epics (Donlan 1982, 1989). From an anthropological perspective, it is possible to argue that this was a reciprocal gift-exchange economy which existed probably primarily between ancient Greek elites. Morris (1986a) has argued that the appearance of iron in early graves reveals a gift-exchange relationship between elites. The presence of overseas trade goods, which were not necessarily prestige items, shows that there were markets in Greece at this time. But they were probably not the principal players, in the driving force behind commerce. In the early years of this era, we can identify notable institutions such as those within the house, those connected to funerals, to religious practice, to warfare, and to political institutions. The picture is not as clear as we would like, but we can see structural connections between institutions within funerals and those within warfare and by reference to epic poems, between those which were political and those of warfare.

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This structure was to be challenged by the injection of new wealth and new social statuses into communities as the period progressed. The old social structure could not supply satisfying community social roles for these new groups and individuals. The result was community fissioning. We can even say that these communities almost exploded (Small 2018), with a rapid expansion of Greek people into the Mediterranean and the Black Sea. This expansion produced a new social armature of networking connections between people in these communities. The stage was being set for the next step in the formation of the culture of the ancient Greeks.

4.7 The New Structure and Characteristics of Its Emergence What emerged was a Greece which we are accustomed to regarding as emblematic of “Greek culture” itself. It contained institutions such as the assembly of citizens, the gymnasion, or the specialized poliadic or community cult. In addition, these institutions were connected to one another within a recognized-as-Greek social structure which was to last until the later years of the Roman Empire.

4.8 The Religious Sanctuary By the eighth century, new religious developments were taking hold. Several religious contexts had become strong fixtures in the Greek world. Formalized sanctuaries, within cities, as centers for ethne, as interstate places for gathering, as rural forms of celebration at the limits of territories of polities, were becoming fully developed as institutional contexts by the seventh century. A good example of a “typical” Greek community sanctuary is that of Athena Polias, from the polis of Priene in western Turkey (Carter 1983). The sanctuary was constructed in the fourth century BCE, but its components were the same as those of earlier community sanctuaries. The sanctuary is set off from the rest of the city by a wall, which demarcated a segregated, sacred space or temenos. There is an elaborate gateway, the propylon, which marks the transition from profane to sacred. The most important installation in the sanctuary is the large altar, which lies to the east of the temple of Athena. The altar area would have been a locus for singing, dancing, and the act of sacrifice itself. This sanctuary also contained an additional building in its northern section, a possible treasury. A treasury was a building, often almost identical to a temple, which also housed dedications and votives to the deity. This material could be dedicated by a specific group or even a polis (for analysis of treasuries as elite dedications, see Neer 2001, 2004). This sanctuary and other religious sanctuaries served as contexts for the institution of community competitive display. Along the south wall of the temenos, we find honorific statues. Most of the statues were erected by elites within the city, often representing them or family members and often recording their community

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status. The statues were just as prominent as the altar and the temple and provided an important contextual background for the other institutions contained in this temenos.

4.9 Athletic Contests Represented by funeral games earlier in this period, athletic contests claimed their independence and became extremely popular. We know of more than 150 recorded athletic events. The social context of the athletic games was somewhat similar to the civic sanctuary. Places like Olympia housed honorific statues of athletic champions and housed treasuries that were often tied to famous individuals. Victory in an athletic contest could be used as leverage in one’s home community for political advantage. Athletic sanctuaries, like Olympia and Delphi, were also now locations for dedications of arms and armor from military engagements, replacing to a great extent the association that burial had with warfare in earlier years of this millennium.

4.10 Warfare/Battle By 600 BCE, the institution of battlefield warfare had changed dramatically from the small raids of the Early Iron Age (for a thorough treatment, see Hanson 2002; Kagan and Viggiano 2013; Rawlings 2007; Sabin et al. 2007). Two significant new characteristics had emerged: hoplite-engineered battle and the ritualization of engagement. Hoplite-engineered battle represented an important new feature in battle. Hoplites were warriors, massed together in a phalanx, employed spears and swords, but also a hoplon, or round shield. The effective protection of the phalanx required a combined effort to use the hoplon for defense of the entire phalanx itself. This emphasized the ideal that success in battle was a shared effort rather than one which relied on individual prowess. Engagements were now ritualized. Sacred oaths were pronounced before battlement, omen were sought, and rules now prohibited the mutilation of the defeated.

4.11 Funerals and Burials Two important new features related to funeral custom, which we did not see in the earlier Iron Age, were a tendency to monumentalize the grave and attempts to restrict such monumentalization. This monumentalization was part of a process of social competition through the display of elevated status or aspired status and was met by attempts to curb this behavior in the cemeteries (Small 1995). We have several examples of laws that sought to restrict monumentalization and the ability of burying groups to have elaborate funerals.

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4.12 Political Institutions By the end of the sixth century, most Greek polities had a similar political structure. Their assemblies were now more proactive than those of the earlier Iron Age. There was an assembly, the ekklesia, where citizens (the demos) who were propertied men over eighteen gathered to vote on general measures of polity governance. They also had a boule, which was a small group of selected individuals who would set the agendas for the assembly. Many also had a gerousia, or council of older men (called the Aeropagos in Athens). Most also had public courts within which the citizens served as jurors. The courts were not like those we have today. Several thousand citizens could sit in judgment of a case. The basileis of the Iron Age were now replaced with various appointed and elected magistrates. There were often several to a city and known as archons. They functioned as administrators, looking over issues such as those of finance or warfare. A very important feature of this structural composition is that it did not determine how political power within the polis was constituted. The reader may be surprised to learn that poleis, which had large assemblies that would support democracies, could exist as oligarchies, monarchies, or tyrannies (see Hansen 2004: 1338–1340, index 11 for a summary). A large assembly did not ensure that anti-democratic forms of government did not occur. Economic institutions which were part of the larger governmental sphere were minimal and most not directly under governmental oversight. Taxation was minimal by modern standards and limited in the main to small fees on commodities. Few ancient polities had direct access to economic wealth. The means of indirect financing was the liturgy. The liturgy was an institution whereby rich individuals in an ancient polity financed state institutions. In ancient Greece, there were essentially two major types of liturgies: those which financed the military and those which financed nonmilitary events. The military liturgies consisted of private financing of the navy. Individual ships could be fitted out with men and equipment. Often the individual who fitted out the ship also had the responsibility of being the captain of that ship in battle. By far the most common liturgies, however, were non-military. Many supplied funds for dramatic festivals. Often the choruses of plays were paid for by private funds. Private individuals also supplied financial support for important institutions, such as those housed in the gymnasion (see below).

4.13 Additional Institutionalized Public Assembly; the Theater In addition to periodic meetings for political purposes, the Greeks were expanding the custom of public assembly with the development of the ancient theater (Bieber 1961; Green 2013). Institutionally, the theater was an important context. First, it provided a social context for Greek drama, which often highlighted important social issues. Next, it provided an arena for public assembly that was more inclusive than

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political ones. A wide range of attendees could be in a theater crowd, from male citizens, to non-citizens, to underage theater-goers, to possibly even women. It was also a powerful context for social competition through display. Although ancient theaters look rather bare today, we know that in antiquity they were filled with people who were competing for status by wearing gold crowns, making purposefully delayed entrances, using heralds to announce their entrances, wearing expensive clothing, owning retinues of slaves, etc.

4.14 The Gymnasion Participation in public assembly was a means by which one could identify with his or her own community. Identifying with the community was also integral to the institutions housed in another building, the gymnasion. The ancient Greek gymnasion was a building that held two parallel types of activities: physical training and education. A fit body was important for mental health. Most Greek gymnasia had a large interior colonnaded courtyard referred to as a palaistra, or exercise yard. Attendance in the gymnasion was restricted to men of the polis. However, you did not have to be a citizen to participate. There is evidence of metics (foreign residents of the community) participating in the gymnasion as well.

4.15 Economic Institutions, Principally Markets By the fifth century, there were a number of economic institutions that were playing significant roles in society. The reciprocal gift giving of the earlier Iron Age was still active with intercommunity sanctuaries playing a significant role. Usually signified by the institution of guest friendship these contacts were set up by itinerant elites who would have met each other at various interstate celebrations, such as the games at Olympia or the festival of the Dionysia at Athens (see Herman 2002 for similar institutional dynamics). Inscriptional evidence points to the fact that elites were using these connections to both sell grain to areas in Greece where there was a grain shortage and to secure grain from other elites, if they were in a region of grain shortage themselves. The power of these contacts lays in the ability of various elites to use their own grain surplus, plus connections to other grain sources to leverage their power within their own communities. We also witness an increase in the number and the importance of markets (Tandy 2000). Every polis had by now an active central market, usually set in the agora. However, this is not to argue that the polis was set on a market economy. There are several very important differences between our modern market economies and that of the Greeks. For example, the profit motive and the relationships between people that were generated in the market were not the primary features that determined the economy, as they are today. The relationship between interpolital elites and reciprocal exchange was just as important a feature in determining the characteristics of the ancient Greek economy.

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4.16 The Household As a society becomes more institutionally complex, new cultural divisions are often reflected in the fact that domestic architecture will utilize more spatial distinctions within the house that correlate with the new institutions and roles being created in the culture (Jameson 1990; Kent 1993; Westgate 2015). We have evidence for houses with multiple rooms, but we do not have enough data to tell us very well what the different rooms were used for. Nevertheless, what little we have does tell us something. By the fifth century BCE and probably earlier, the Greek household had solidified around institutions that governed access to different sexes, placement of activities, and controlled interfaces with the larger community (Nevett 2001, 2010). One of the most salient features of the Greek house in this period is control of access to family members, specifically women. Most houses appear to have had some sort of interior courtyard, where a great deal of family activity took place. Since the principal workers within the courtyard would have been women, access and views into the courtyard were controlled by offset doors and alley entrances. By the middle of the fifth century, we have evidence that a separate space was being created for an interface between the family and the community. In many houses, an andron, or room for entertaining, was included in the spatial arrangement. The andron itself was an extremely important addition to the household. It housed entertainment participated in only by the men of the family and men from the wider community.

4.17 Another Complexity: Structure Within the Ethne Up until this point, the focus has been on the evolution of the Greek polis. But there was a large part of the Greek mainland which was not polis-centered. Thessaly, Lokris, Phokis, Doris, Aitolia, Arkadia, Boiotia, and Akhaia, which were identified as coterminous with different subsets of Greeks—that is, ethne—were organized by internal networks, which bound communities in these regions together along economic, political, and religious parameters. The identity of the region was not based on the polis as much as it was based on these networks. The networks between the different communities appear tied to the needs of the population within the specific region. For example, there were often rules establishing the right to own land in other communities and the right of intermarriage, an obvious measure to buffer agricultural risk and general economic fragmentation within a region. These different communities that made up the ethnos often claimed common descent through a heroic ancestor. Nodes on these networks were the sanctuaries in the region. Periodic assemblies of representatives from the communities in the ethnos would be held at a sanctuary. It was here that political issues were discussed. One of the most prominent of these issues was how the ethnos was going to react to pressures from either other ethne or a polis.

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By the fourth century BCE, some ethne had formalized their internal networks to form a koinon or league. These leagues can best be seen as regional power structures, which in form and function evolved according to the developing social interactions between the people and the communities that compose the league.

5

Developments After the Rise of Macedon

The structural reorganization of ancient Greek culture that occurred after the eighth century was set by the sixth century and was to remain rather stable for some time, at least until the later years of the Roman Empire. However, this does not mean that the culture of the ancient Greeks remained static during this period. Various institutional contexts, within and outside the community, were to continue and evolve as different polities were being absorbed into Hellenistic kingdoms and eventually the Roman Empire (for good historic overviews, see Bugh 2006; Green 1990). Compared with earlier periods, structural change in the Hellenistic and Roman periods was more of an addendum, some modifications and change applied to what had already been created rather than dynamic change. Structural collapse did not arrive in the Classical world until the third century of the Roman Empire. The principal forms of social structure that the Greeks had built by the sixth to fifth centuries set the foundation for society for the next 700 years. Only a few additional institutions appeared. For example, Hellenistic monarchs and Roman strongmen were to use the intercommunity sanctuaries and their connections to control the direction of much of the Greek world. Religious institutions within the polis took on an additional connection to the Roman emperor. Coupled with this development, social institutions within polities were now more and more used by elite families to secure and maintain elevated social positions. Several of the institutions that were public in the past were now being absorbed into the houses of the wealthy as they and their interests were to eventually become more important than those of the polis as the Roman Empire moved into late antiquity.

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Basic Features of Political Organization and Social Structure of Rurikid Polity in the Tenth Century Aleksei S. Shchavelev

People named Rus’ (Old Slavonic “poycь”