Greek Perspectives on the Achaemenid Empire: Persia Through the Looking Glass 9780748647248

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Greek Perspectives on the Achaemenid Empire

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EDINBURGH STUDIES IN ANCIENT PERSIA Dealing with key aspects of the ancient Persian world from the Achaemenids to the Sasanians: its history, reception, art, archaeology, religion, literary tradition (including oral transmissions) and philology, this series provides an important synergy of the latest scholarly ideas about this formative ancient world civilisation. series editor Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones, Cardiff University e d i t o r i a l a dv i s o ry b o a r d Touraj Daryaee Andrew Erskine Thomas Harrison Irene Huber Keith Rutter Jan Stronk t i t l e s av a i l a b l e i n t h e s e r i e s Courts and Elites in the Hellenistic Empires: The Near East after the Achaemenids, c. 330 to 30 bce By Rolf Strootman Greek Perspectives on the Achaemenid Empire: Persia through the Looking Glass By Janett Morgan forthcoming titles Reorienting the Sasanians: Eastern Iran in Late Antiquity By Khodadad Rezakhani The Bactrian Mirage: Iranian and Greek Interaction in Western Central Asia By Michael Iliakis Plutarch and the Persica By Eran Almagor Sasanian Persia: Between Rome and the Steppes of Eurasia By Eberhard Sauer Visit the Edinburgh Studies in Ancient Persia website at www.euppublishing.com/series/esap

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Greek Perspectives on the Achaemenid Empire Persia through the Looking Glass

Janett Morgan

EDINBURGH University Press

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Edinburgh University Press is one of the leading university presses in the UK. We publish academic books and journals in our selected subject areas across the humanities and social sciences, combining cutting-edge scholarship with high editorial and production values to produce academic works of lasting importance. For more information visit our website: www.edinburghuniversitypress.com © Janett Morgan, 2016 Edinburgh University Press Ltd The Tun - Holyrood Road 12(2f) Jackson’s Entry Edinburgh EH8 8PJ Typeset in 11/13pt Sabon by Servis Filmsetting Ltd, Stockport, Cheshire, and printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon CR0 4YY A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN 978 0 7486 4723 1 (hardback) ISBN 978 0 7486 4724 8 (webready PDF) ISBN 978 1 4744 0455 6 (epub) The right of Janett Morgan to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, and the Copyright and Related Rights Regulations 2003 (SI No. 2498). Published with the support of the Edinburgh University Scholarly Publishing Initiatives Fund.

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Contents

List of Illustrations vi Acknowledgementsxiv Note on Abbreviations and Style xvii Series Editor’s Preface xviii Mapsxx Introduction: Perspectives, Looking Glasses and the Achaemenid Empire

1

1 Journeys of the Mind: Greek Perspectives on the ‘East’ before the Achaemenid Empire

18

2 Journeys through the Looking Glass: Early Perspectives on the Achaemenid Empire

67

3 Facing the Gorgon: Reactions to the Achaemenid Empire in Classical Athens

125

4 What the Butler Saw: Intimate Perspectives on King and Court in Classical Ionian Texts

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5 The Mirror Crack’d: Spartan Responses to the ‘East’ and to the Achaemenid Empire

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6 Entering the Hall of Mirrors: Macedonia and the Achaemenid Empire

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Conclusion: Travelling with Eunuchs

293

Bibliography298 Index354

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List of Illustrations

Fig. I.1  View of the site at Persepolis before restoration (photograph by Luigi Pesce, 1840s to 1860s). Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Accession Number: 1977.683.70. Gift of Charles K. and Irma B. Wilkinson, 1977. www.metmuseum.org. 2 Fig. I.2  Line drawing of a Greek soldier fighting an Achaemenid soldier. From the Edinburgh Cup. Painted by the Triptolemos Painter, c. 460 bce. National Museum, Scotland A.1887.213 (drawing by author). 4 Fig. I.3  Greek soldier attacking Achaemenid archer on the Eurymedon Vase, painted by the Triptolemos Painter, c. 460 bce. Hamburg, Museum für Kunst und Gewerbe 1981.173 (drawing by Paul Butler). 6 Fig. I.4  Achaemenid-­style glass phiale made in the ‘Greek east’, sixth century bce. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Accession Number: 69.11.6. Purchase, Arthur Darby Nock Bequest, in honour of Gisela Richter, 1969. www.metmuseum.org.12 Fig. 1.1  Frontispiece from the Museum Wormianum (1655), showing Ole Worm’s cabinet of curiosities (Smithsonian Institution Libraries [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons).22 Fig. 1.2  South façade of the British Museum (photograph by Edmund Connolly). 25 Fig. 1.3  Plan of male cremation and female inhumation in the central room of the Toumba building at Lefkandi, c. 950 bce (Popham, Calligas and Sackett 1993: pl.13). Reproduced with permission of the British School at Athens.27 Fig. 1.4  Drawing of an engraved Near Eastern bronze bowl from Toumba Grave 55.28 (Popham and Lemos 1996: vi

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List of Illustrations

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pl. 133). Reproduced with permission of the British School at Athens. 28 Fig. 1.5  Photograph of centaur figurine from Toumba Graves T1 and T3, Lefkandi (Popham, Sackett and Themelis 1980: frontispiece). Reproduced with permission of the British School at Athens. 33 Fig. 1.6  Replica miniature tripod (photograph by author). 41 Fig. 1.7  Replica of Geometric-­style kantharos cup from the seventh century bce with chariot scene (photograph by author). 44 Fig. 1.8  Bronze figurine showing man and centaur, mid-­ eighth century bce. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Accession Number: 17.190.2072. Gift of J. Pierpont Morgan, 1917. www.metmuseum.org. 45 Fig. 1.9  Early Corinthian tripod pyxis showing woman between sphinxes on leg and woman among animals on lid, c. 620–590 bce. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Accession Number: 22.139.4a, b. www.metmuseum.org.59 Fig. 1.10  Monumental stone columns from the temple of Apollo, Corinth, c. 540 bce (photograph by author). Reproduced with permission of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Corinth. The copyright of the antiquities depicted herein belongs to the Hellenic Ministry of Culture & Sports (Law 3028/2002).61 Fig. 1.11  Medusa pediment on the temple of Artemis, Corfu, c. 590 bce (drawing by Alexander Morgan after Tataki 1990: 134–5). 62 Fig. 2.1  Plan of the Persepolis Terrace, c. 470–450 bce (Roaf 1983: fig. 155). Reproduced by kind permission of the British Institute of Persian Studies. 74 Fig. 2.2  Genius figure from Pasargadae, with Assyrian-­style wings, Elamite clothing and Egyptian-­style crown (photo: B. Grunewald, D-­DAI-­EUR-­THE-­R-­1975–0200). © DAI Fotoarchiv Teheran. All rights reserved. 75 Fig. 2.3  Tribute delegations on the Apadana at Persepolis (photograph by Luigi Pesce, 1840s to 1860s). Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Accession Number: 1977.683.61. Gift of Charles K. and Irma B. Wilkinson, 1977. www.metmuseum.org.78 Fig. 2.4  Relief from Khorsabad with gift-­giving scene

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showing lion-­headed situlae (drawing by Alexander Morgan after Botta and Flandin 1849: pl. 103). 92 Fig. 2.5  Gold Achaemenid rhyta with lion terminal, fifth century bce. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Accession Number: 54.3.3. Fletcher Fund, 1954. www. metmuseum.org.93 Fig. 2.6  Achaemenid seal showing king fighting lions, fifth to fourth century bce. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Accession Number: 1985.192.5. Gift of Martin and Sarah Cherkasky, 1985. www.metmuseum.org. 96 Fig. 2.7  Relief sculpture showing king fighting lion from the Hall of 100 Columns, Persepolis (photograph by Lloyd Llewellyn-­Jones). 97 Fig. 2.8  East Greek trefoil oinochoe from Ionia showing waterbird and sphinx, c. 625–600 bce. J. Paul Getty Museum, Getty Villa. Object no. 82.AE.126. Gift of Vasek Polak. Digital image courtesy of the Getty’s Open Content Program.99 Fig. 2.9  Outline plans of the tomb of Cyrus and the tomb at Taş Kule, showing stepped bases (drawings by author after Cahill 1988: fig. 4 and Curtis 2000: fig. 41). 102 Fig. 2.10  Clazomenian sarcophagus, c. 480–470 bce. Attributed to Albertinum Group. J. Paul Getty Museum, Getty Villa. Object no. 77.AD.88. Digital image courtesy of the Getty’s Open Content Program. 103 Fig. 2.11  Marble stele (grave marker) of a youth and little girl, with capital and finial in the form of a sphinx, c. 530 bce. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Accession Number: 11.185a–d, f, g, x. Frederick C. Hewitt Fund, 1911; Rogers Fund, 1921; Munsey Funds, 1936, 1938; and Anonymous Gift, 1951. www.metmuseum.org. 108 Fig. 2.12  Plan of Archaic Acropolis showing the possible positions of ‘treasury’ buildings C, D, E at 5 and Hekatompedon at 6 (Dinsmoor 1947: fig. 3). Courtesy of Archaeological Institute of America and American Journal of Archaeology.110 Fig. 2.13  The remains of the Hekatompedon pediment from the Athenian Acropolis, c. 570 bce. Acr. 3+, 36+, 35+ (photograph by Socrates Mavromatis). Courtesy of the Acropolis Museum, Athens. The copyright of the antiquities depicted herein belongs to the Hellenic Ministry of Culture & Sports (Law 3028/2002). 113

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List of Illustrations

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Fig. 2.14  Reconstruction of the central scene of lions attacking a bull on the pediment of the early temple of Athena, Athenian Acropolis (Howe 1955: pl. 83, fig. 14). Courtesy of Archaeological Institute of America and American Journal of Archaeology.114 Fig. 2.15  Scene of lion attacking bull, from the Apadana staircase at Persepolis (photograph by Lloyd Llewellyn-­Jones). 114 Fig. 2.16  Remains of Building F, c. 550–525 bce, lying underneath the later Tholos building in the Athenian Agora (2002.01.0269). Courtesy of the American School of Classical Studies at Athens: Agora Excavations. 115 Fig. 2.17  Plan of the Pisistratid Telesterion at Eleusis, c. 550–510 bce (drawing by author after Lawrence 1983: 335, fig. 328). 117 Fig. 2.18  Parasol on sixth-­century bce Attic vase fragment (drawing by author after Athens National Museum, Acropolis Collection 682, in Graef and Langlotz 1925: pl. 46). 119 Fig. 2.19  Relief of King Xerxes (485–465 bce) in the doorway of his palace at Persepolis with parasol bearer (photograph by Luigi Pesce, 1840s to 1860s). Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Accession Number: 1977.683.63. Gift of Charles K. and Irma B. Wilkinson, 1977. www.metmuseum.org. 120 Fig. 2.20  The ‘Persian or Scythian’ horseman, c. 520–510 bce. Found in 1886 near the Erechtheion but originally placed on the Athenian Acropolis (photograph by Socrates Mavromatis). Courtesy of Acropolis Museum, Athens. The copyright of the antiquities depicted herein belongs to the Hellenic Ministry of Culture & Sports (Law 3028/ 2002).122 Fig. 3.1  Line drawing of red-­figure oinochoe, c. 450 bce, showing Achaemenid male seated on a mule. Found in Tarquinia, Etruria. Berlin Antikensammlung, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin V.I.3156 (drawing by author after Shapiro 2009: 66). 127 Fig. 3.2  Black-­figure neck amphora, c. 500 bce, showing Theseus fighting the Minotaur. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Accession Number: 21.88.92. Rogers Fund, 1921. www.metmuseum.org.  135 Fig. 3.3  Model of the Tholos building in the Athenian Agora,

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c. 470 bce (2008.20.0021 LCT14). Courtesy of American School of Classical Studies at Athens: Agora Excavations. 151 Fig. 3.4  Plan of the Odeion of Pericles (2004.01.0092 HAT 79–35 Travlos 1968/1971). Courtesy of American School of Classical Studies at Athens: Agora Excavations. 153 Fig. 3.5  Reconstruction of a dining room in the South Stoa, Athens, c. 430–420 bce (2008.20.0040 PD 791). Courtesy of American School of Classical Studies at Athens: Agora Excavations.156 Fig. 3.6  Line drawing of ‘Persian’ and ‘Scythian’ on Athenian black-­figure neck amphora, c. 520 bce. Found in Italy. Museo Archaeologico 3845 Side A (drawing by Rachel Harrison after Shapiro 2009: 59). 166 Fig. 3.7  Greek fighting an Achaemenid soldier on Athenian red-­figure Nolan amphora, c. 480–470 bce. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Accession Number: 06.1021.117. Rogers Fund, 1906. www.metmuseum.org. 169 Fig. 3.8  Nude Greek warrior running, on Athenian red-­figure Nolan amphora, c. 480–470 bce. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Accession Number: 06.1021.117. Rogers Fund, 1906. www.metmuseum.org. 170 Fig. 3.9  Athenian red-­figure hydria with centauromachy and Greek and Persian warriors, c. 470–460 bce. Found in Capua, Italy. London, British Museum BM1920,0315.3. 171 Fig. 3.10  Line drawings of front and side of an Attic ‘Persian Class’ plastic vase composed of the head of a Persian, with scene of mistress and Persian servant girl on cup, c. 410–400 bce. Found in Nola, Italy (drawing by author after British Museum BM1849,0620.12). 172 Fig. 3.11  Attic red-­figure lekythos with Persian procession, c. 410–400 bce, from Basilicata, Italy. London, British Museum BM1882,0704.1 174 Fig. 3.12  Amazon being attacked by a Greek, on red-­ figure Nolan amphora attributed to the Dwarf Painter, c. 440–430 bce. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Accession Number: 56.171.42. Fletcher Fund, 1956. www.metmuseum.org.176 Fig. 3.13  Amazon defeating a Greek, on red-­figure Nolan amphora attributed to the Alkimachos Painter, c. 470–460 bce. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Accession Number: 41.162.16. Rogers Fund, 1941. www.metmuseum.org.177

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Fig. 3.14  Metope showing the battle between a Lapith and a centaur, from the Parthenon, Athens, c. 447–432 bce. South Metope XXX. London, British Museum, BM1816,0610.14.178 Fig. 3.15  Athenian treasury at Delphi (photograph by Matthew Evans). Reproduced with permission of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Phocis-­Delphi. The copyright of the antiquities depicted herein belongs to the Hellenic Ministry of Culture & Sports (Law 3028/2002). 184 Fig. 3.16  Remains of the Athenian stoa at Delphi, with remains of the fourth-­century bce temple of Apollo behind (photograph by author). Reproduced with permission of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Phocis-­Delphi. The copyright of the antiquities depicted herein belongs to the Hellenic Ministry of Culture & Sports (Law 3028/ 2002).188 Fig. 4.1  Tombs on the Appian Way in 1756, from Le antichità Romane. Tomo II, tav. II. Opere di Giovanni Battista Piranesi, Francesco Piranesi e d’altri. Firmin Didot Freres, Paris, 1835–9 (Giovanni Battista Piranesi [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons). 212 Fig. 5.1  Lead figure of winged goddess from the sanctuary of Artemis Orthia. Made in the seventh or sixth century bce. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Accession Number: 24.195.42. Gift of A. J. B. Wace, 1924. www. metmuseum.org.230 Fig. 5.2  Line drawing of a Gorgon’s-­head shield attachment of the sixth century bce from the sanctuary of Athena Chalkioikos, Sparta. National Museum, Athens. NM15917 (drawing by Alexander Morgan). 231 Fig. 5.3  Laconian terracotta kylix with sphinx tondo, dated to the sixth century bce and excavated at Sardis. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Accession Number: 14.30.26. Gift of the American Society for the Exploration of Sardis, 1914. www.metmuseum.org. 232 Fig. 5.4  Laconian bronze mirror from the second half of the sixth century bce with Near Eastern decoration, found in southern Italy. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Accession Number: 38.11.3. Fletcher Fund, 1938. www. metmuseum.org.235 Fig. 5.5  Line drawing of hero relief from Chrysapha, c. 540 bce. Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, Pergamon Museum 731

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(drawing by Alexander Morgan from Salapata 2006: 544, fig. 3). Fig. 6.1  Mosaic of Bellerophon fighting the chimera, from House A vi 3, Room b, Olynthus (photograph by author). Reproduced with permission of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Chalcidice and Mount Athos. The copyright of the antiquities depicted herein belongs to the Hellenic Ministry of Culture & Sports (Law 3028/2002). Fig. 6.2  Threshold mosaic showing griffins attacking a stag, from House A vi 3, Room b, Olynthus (photograph by author). Reproduced with permission of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Chalcidice and Mount Athos. The copyright of the antiquities depicted herein belongs to the Hellenic Ministry of Culture & Sports (Law 3028/2002). Fig. 6.3  (a) Silver kalyx cup with central omphalos, dated to the second half of the fourth century bce, from Cist Grave 1974, Stavroupolis, Thessalonike, AW 7427 (Ninou 1979: cat. no. 280). (b) Silver kalyx cup with central omphalos, dated to the second half of the fourth century bce, from Grave Γ Sedes, Thessalonike, AW 5425 (Ninou 1979: cat. no. 317). Reproduced with permission of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Thessalonike Region. The copyright of the antiquities depicted herein belongs to the Hellenic Ministry of Culture & Sports (Law 3028/2002). Fig. 6.4  Lydian tribute bearers bringing kalyx cups and bull-­ handled amphorae as gifts for the Achaemenid king at Persepolis (photograph by Lloyd Llewellyn-­Jones). Fig. 6.5  View of the archaeological site of Olynthus, showing regular patterns of construction in the streets and house blocks (photograph by author). Reproduced with permission of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Chalcidice and Mount Athos. The copyright of the antiquities depicted herein belongs to the Hellenic Ministry of Culture & Sports (Law 3028/2002). Fig. 6.6  Reconstruction of the Philippeion at Olympia, from Herrmann 2003: 124 (K. Herrmann, Rekonstruction 1988, drawing by Eva-­Maria Czako, D-­DAI-­ATH-­ Olympia-­4907). Courtesy of the Deutsche Archaeologische Instituet Athens. Fig. 6.7  Fifth-­century bce rock-­cut tombs from Myra, showing a mixture of Greek, Anatolian and Achaemenid architectural forms (photograph by Jake Taylor).

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265

276 276

278

279 281

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List of Illustrations

Fig. 6.8  Rock-­cut grave of Achaemenid king at Naqsh-­e Rustam (photograph by Lloyd Llewellyn-­Jones). Fig. 6.9  Grave monument of Niceratus and his son Polyxenus, metics from Istros on the Black Sea coast, found in Kallitheia. Piraeus Museum, 2413–1519 (photograph by author). Reproduced with permission of the Archaeological Museum of Piraeus. Copyright Hellenic Ministry of Culture, Education and Religious Affairs. The copyright of the antiquities depicted herein belongs to the Hellenic Ministry of Culture & Sports (Law 3028/2002). Fig. 6.10  Plan of the palace at Vergina in the late fourth century bce, showing dining rooms with bordered edges for couches (drawing by Alexander Morgan from Andronikos 1984: 43). Fig. C.1  Monument of Lysicrates, from James Stuart and Nicolas Revett, The Antiquities of Athens, 1762 (By Twospoonfuls at en.wikipedia [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons).

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Acknowledgements

This book began many years ago with a collision of my two research interests in ancient Greek housing and Greek relations with communities in the wider Mediterranean. I began to explore the absence of evidence for monumental residences in Archaic Greece and became fascinated by the possibility that mobility was an essential component in Archaic Greek elite identity. I began to develop a project, putatively entitled ‘Tyrants and Tents’, and to look at how images of the east filtered into the creation and assertion of elite identity. This led me to re-­examine the role of ‘external’ artefacts in internal social and political dialogues and especially to consider the many representations of Achaemenid Iran that began to appear in late Archaic and Classical Greek contexts. My topic was quite unusual and, in its early stages, benefitted greatly from the input of staff and students at the institutions where I taught. Students on the ‘Barbarians!’ Course at Royal Holloway and on the ‘Kingdoms, Cities and Hellenisation’ and ‘Tyrants’ courses at Cardiff went on a ride into the unknown with me and I will be eternally grateful for their comments and questions. My especial thanks go to Edmund Connolly, Sam Ellis, Jonathan Evans, Matthew Evans, Lydia McCann, Rory McDaid, Elizabeth Tabbernor and Aron Williams. I also benefitted from the encouragement and wisdom of academic staff who commented on ideas and papers. My especial thanks go to Richard Alston, Amanda Claridge and Edith Hall at Royal Holloway and at Cardiff to Guy Bradley, Kate Gilliver, Bill Jones, Kevin Passmore, Toby Thacker, Laurence Totelin, Shaun  Tougher, Garthine Walker and Martin Wright, and particularly to Keir Waddington for his generous support, cake and  coffee! My ideas were further tested in invited academic papers and at conferences and I offer my thanks to contributors at the Institute of Classical Studies Ancient History Seminar, Oxford Archaeology Group Seminar Series, Celtic Conference in Classics and The Hellenistic xiv

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Acknowledgements

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Court and Visual World of Persianate Culture conferences in Edinburgh. I have been very grateful for the support and assistance that I have received from Edinburgh University Press, especially from Professor Andrew Erskine for his support at the proposal stage, Carol MacDonald for her enthusiastic support and encouragement throughout the process, and Adele Rauchova, Ellie Bush, Fiona Sewell and James Dale for their advice and assistance in the final months. I am also grateful to the anonymous reviewers for their comments. I would like to thank the many colleagues and friends who assisted in gathering the photographs, especially my small army of photographers from friends and family, who are listed in the individual image credits. My thanks also go to Sophie Dumont and Craig Mauzy at ASCSA, Madeleine Donachie at AIA/AJA, Lloyd Ridgeon at BIPS, Amalia Kakissis at BSA, Iain Calderwood at the British Museum, Hans Rupprecht Goette, Joachim Heiden and Judith Thomalsky at DAI, Paul Butler and the many generous colleagues in Greece at the Archaeological Receipts Fund, Acropolis Museum, Piraeus Museum and Ephorates at Corinth, Phocis-­ ­ Delphi, Chalcidice and Mount Athens and Thessalonike Region, whose kindness and assistance in obtaining permissions at a time of great stress for them was greatly appreciated. I also benefitted considerably from the Getty’s Open Content Program and the Metropolitan Museum of New York’s Open Access for Scholarly Content Programs; two schemes whose generosity truly enhances academic scholarship. I would like to thank my family for putting up with me while I researched and wrote; especially my wonderfully patient husband Robert and daughter Charlotte, whose knowledge of grammar, thoughtfulness and instinct for knowing when to appear with a cup of tea are second to none. Finally, this book would never have happened without the contributions of four incredible men, to whom I am immensely grateful. My dear friend Shaun Tougher’s constant encouragement and sense of humour kept me going when things got tough, and his company made the process of writing a far more pleasurable experience than it might otherwise have been. My son Alexander has lived with mobile elites for far too many years and has freely and generously commented on ideas and drafts, as well as contributing plans and pictures for the end result. My editor and mentor Lloyd Llewellyn-­Jones saw possibilities in the project and in my work at an early stage, and has remained my greatest cheer-­leader and most invaluable critic. Words are inadequate to express the great

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personal and academic debt that I owe to him. Finally, I would like to thank my father, Bill Harrison, whose love and encouragement have always sustained me and whose sense of humour I will sorely miss. I dedicate this book to him and to my mother Joan, who by their enthusiasm and example taught me to learn by finding out.

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Note on Abbreviations and Style

Unless otherwise stated, all ancient texts, authors and collections of inscriptions follow the abbreviations in the Oxford Classical Dictionary (4th edition). All names follow Latinised forms, except where Greek forms are more commonly used.

xvii

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Series Editor’s Preface

Edinburgh Studies in Ancient Persia focuses on the world of ancient Persia (pre-­Islamic Iran) and its reception. Academic interest with and fascination in ancient Persia have burgeoned in recent decades and research on Persian history and culture is now routinely filtered into studies of the Greek and Roman worlds; biblical scholarship too is now more keenly aware of Persian-­period history than ever before; while, most importantly, the study of the history, cultures, languages and societies of ancient Iran is now a well-­established discipline in its own right. Persia was, after all, at the centre of ancient world civilizations. This series explores that centrality throughout several successive ‘Persian empires’: the Achaemenid dynasty (founded c. 550 bce) saw Persia rise to its highest level of political and cultural influence, as the Great Kings of Iran fought for, and maintained, an empire which stretched from India to Libya and from Macedonia to Ethiopia. The art and architecture of the period both reflect the diversity of the empire and proclaim a single centrally constructed theme: a harmonious world-­order brought about by a benevolent and beneficent king. Following the conquests of Alexander the Great, the Persian Empire fragmented but maintained some of its infrastructures and ideologies in the new kingdoms established by Alexander’s successors, in particular the Seleucid dynasts who occupied the territories of western Iran, Mesopotamia, the Levant and Asia Minor. But even as Greek influence extended into the former territories of the Achaemenid realm, at the heart of Iran a family of nobles, the Parthian dynasty, rose to threaten the growing imperial power of Rome. Finally, the mighty Sasanian dynasty ruled Iran and much of the Middle East from the second century ce onwards, proving to be a powerful foe to Late Imperial Rome and Byzantium. The rise of Islam, a new religion in Arabia, brought a sudden end to the Sasanian dynasty in the mid-­600s ce. xviii

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Series Editor’s Preface

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These successive Persian dynasties left their record in the h ­ istorical, linguistic and archaeological materials of the ancient world, and Edinburgh Studies in Ancient Persia has been conceived to give scholars working in these fields the opportunity to publish original research and explore new methodologies in interpreting the antique past of Iran. This series will see scholars working with bona fide Persian and other Near Eastern materials, giving access to Iranian self-­perceptions and the internal workings of Persian society, placed alongside scholars assessing the perceptions of the Persianate world from the outside (predominantly through Greek and Roman authors and artefacts). The series will also explore the reception of ancient Persia (in historiography, the arts and politics) in subsequent periods, both within and outwith Iran itself. Edinburgh Studies in Ancient Persia represents something of a watershed in better appreciation and understanding not only of the rich and complex cultural heritage of Persia, but also of the lasting significance of the Achaemenids, Parthians and Sasanians and the impact that their remarkable civilisations have had on wider Persian, Middle Eastern and world history. Written by established and up-­ and-­coming specialists in the field, this series provides an important synergy of the latest scholarly ideas about this formative ancient world civilisation.

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Maps

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Map 1. The ancient Mediterranean showing sites in Italy and North Africa mentioned in the book.

Map 2. The main sites mentioned in the book from mainland Greece and Asia Minor.

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Black Sea

AEOL~ e-At-arneus

LYDIA Bi n Tepee

• Sardis

RMaiander

REurymedon

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R. Volga

SCYTHIA

R.Don

./

..,

ARABIA

LIBYA

/ ///0 ACHAEMENID / : / / / / EMPIRE I"

0

I

I

I

'

I

1,000 km

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Map 3. The Achaemenid Empire and Near East.

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Map 4. Classical Athens showing the locations of buildings discussed in the book.

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Introduction: Perspectives, Looking Glasses and the Achaemenid Empire

FA L L I N G T H R O U G H T H E L O O K I N G G L A S S : A TA L E W I T H M A N Y P E R S P E C T I V E S From a distance, as we approach it, across the wide plain of Mervdasht, it appears for long to be quite insignificant . . . It is only as we ride up to the great front wall, and still more as we wander among its megalithic ruins, that the full impression of its grandeur forces itself upon the mind.1

From 1889 to 1890, George Nathaniel Curzon, aristocrat, statesman and traveller, visited Iran for the purpose of writing a book about his travels and the wonders he had seen.2 His reactions to the site of Persepolis are intriguing, for they shift and warp as his proximity alters. Seeing the site first from a distance, Curzon found it unimpressive and insignificant. As Figure I.1 shows, the jumble of walls and isolated doorways visible in the latter half of the nineteenth century offered little evidence of the immense power of the Achaemenid kings who built at Persepolis from the sixth to fourth centuries bce. On arrival and with closer inspection of the site, Curzon changed his mind, declaring that he could ‘well believe that no more sumptuous framework of regal magnificence was ever wrought by man’.3 Yet as he moved closer still to study the intricate carvings of men, animals and objects on the walls and staircases of the buildings, Curzon became distant. He looked at figures such as the young eunuch on the front cover of this book and declared that he was ‘struck by a sense of monotony and fatigue. It is all the  1 

Curzon 1892 II: 150. On Curzon’s trip and the modern history of Persepolis, see Mousavi 2012: esp. 146–9.  3  Curzon 1892 II: 153.  2 

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Fig. I.1. View of the site at Persepolis before restoration (photograph by Luigi Pesce, 1840s to 1860s). Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Accession Number: 1977.683.70. Gift of Charles K. and Irma B. Wilkinson, 1977. www.metmuseum.org.

same and the same again, and yet again.’4 In one visit, Curzon gives us three views of Persepolis; unimpressive, magnificent and boringly r­epetitive; yet throughout Curzon’s visit, Persepolis remained unchanged. It stood still and silent, a mute observer. It was Curzon who shaped Persepolis to fit the needs of his tale, from the romance of the ruined civilisation lost in the landscape, to memories of an ancient power at its height, to disdain for its static and repetitive imperial sculpture. What Curzon presents us with is not a view of Persepolis but a tale of his own perspectives. Curzon’s shifting responses to Persepolis offer a useful paradigm for ancient and modern engagements with the Achaemenid Empire. From the sixth to the fourth centuries bce, Achaemenid kings ruled an empire more vast and diverse than any previous one, yet few ancient peoples can have suffered so greatly from the effects of geographical,  4 

Curzon 1892 II: 193–4. 

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political and chronological distance and the warped perspectives that these create.5 In his initial distance from and dismissal of Persepolis, Curzon echoed the critical narratives constructed by ancient Greek writers, who sought to diminish and belittle the Achaemenid achievement. In the period after the Graeco-­ Persian Wars, Achaemenid Iranians were presented as cruel despots who sought to enslave the freedom-­loving Greeks, only to be defeated by them and to be mocked afterwards for their failure. Greek histories, dramas and philosophical tracts described the Achaemenids as wealthy, hubristic barbarians whose lifestyles were luxurious and decadent, whose wives were cruel and dominating and whose every whim was served by their eunuch courtiers.6 These perspectives were also played out in scenes on Greek vases, which showed Achaemenid men as the losers in battle, distinguished from the Greeks not only by their posture but also by their highly decorated clothes, as we can see in Figure I.2.7 In his wonder at the glory of Persepolis, Curzon’s second perspective shows an alternative, contradictory and more positive reflection of the Achaemenids and their empire that ran alongside the negative images in ancient Greek sources. These reveal that in the period before and immediately after the Graeco-­Persian Wars, Athenians sought to emulate Achaemenid dress and lifestyles.8 They also used Iranian architectural forms and styles in the rebuilt Athens of the fifth century bce. The Parthenon Frieze echoes the procession friezes from Persepolis, while the Odeion adopts the form of an Achaemenid Apadana building.9 In the fourth century bce money from Achaemenid sources helped to rebuild the Long Walls of Athens and the Great King became guardian of the peace negotiated between the warring Greek city-­ states.10 Indeed Xenophon’s Cyropaedia, written in the fourth century bce, calls the early Achaemenid Empire the ‘greatest and most glorious’ of the eastern kingdoms.11 Greeks fought with, as well as against, Achaemenid soldiers in Egypt and in the late Classical period some Greeks sought to ally themselves and  5  Lintz 2008: 257; for an overview of problems for Achaemenid historians, see Briant 2002a: 695–7. On the range of the empire, see Map 3 and Waters 2014: 6–7, Fig. 1.  6  For examples, see Aesch. Pers. 532–5 (on hubris); Ar. Ach. 111–22 (gold and eunuchs); Pl. Leg. 637E (luxurious habits); Hdt. 9.111 (the cruelty of Amestris).  7  For other examples, see Raeck 1981; Shapiro 2009.  8  Bdelycleon wears a cloak from Ecbatana (Ar. Vesp. 1131); Callias emulates the Great King in having his own andron (male space) and eunuch servant (Xen. Symp. 1.4.3–7; Pl. Prt. 314C–15D); and a cult statue set up by Lysimache wears a Persian tunic (IG II2 1524.202–4).  9  For discussions of these buildings, see Chapter 3. 10  Long Walls (Xen. Hell. 4.8.9–10; Diod. Sic. 14.85.2–3); Peace of Antalcidas (Xen. Hell. 5.131). 11  Xen. Cyr. 8.8.1–2.

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Fig. I.2. Line drawing of a Greek soldier fighting an Achaemenid soldier. From the Edinburgh Cup. Painted by the Triptolemos Painter, c. 460 bce. National Museum, Scotland A.1887.213 (drawing by author).

their cities with the Achaemenid king as a counterpoint to the rise of the Macedonians.12 While Curzon’s first two reactions to Persepolis show empathy with ancient Greek views, his final comments reveal a more political dimension. In his intellectual distancing and rejection of Achaemenid art, Curzon offers us a picture of the Achaemenid world through a looking glass, with a view warped to suit the political agendas of his own time.13 For Curzon, and for many European politicians and scholars, the ancient Greeks were eulogised as the founding fathers of 12  For treaties with Achaemenid Iran, see Andoc. 3.29; Dem 19.273. For discussions, see Cawkwell 2005; Mitchell 1997; Miller 1997: 3–28, 89–133. For an overview of Greek and Achaemenid contact, see Miller 2002. 13  Schnapp 1996; Shanks 1996: 58; Lintz 2008: 257.

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the democratic west whose art, architecture and culture represented a golden age of human achievement.14 In contrast with the Greeks, Achaemenid Iranians were portrayed as imperial aggressors who sought to bring about the fall of democracy and the Greek achievement by military means. The elevation of the Graeco-­Persian Wars to the status of ‘Great Event’ served the needs of modern political agendas, which drew their authority and justification from ancient narratives of Greek superiority and ideas of modern hegemony created around the defeat of the Achaemenid Empire.15 The Greeks and their Achaemenid counterparts became characters in a contemporary fairy tale of ancestry and inherited political authority where Greek victory led to the flowering of Greek culture and onwards to the birth of modern Europe, or, as Brunt would have it, ‘In 480–79 the Greeks saved themselves and the future of European civilisation from Oriental conquest.’16 In light of this, it is not surprising that Curzon felt compelled to denounce the sculptures at Persepolis as the artistic propaganda of an imperial despot. Curzon’s shifting reactions offer an important lesson for scholars who wish to study the Achaemenid Empire. We must remain aware that our perspectives have been shaped by the looking glass of political agendas, whether ancient or modern, and that our own reconstructions are not immune from the distortions of contemporary mores. As Erich Gruen has pointed out, contemporary explanations for Greek representations of the Achaemenids are influenced by modern disquiet on the topics of alterity, ethnicity and i­dentity.17 This encourages us to prioritise Greek views, so that we see the period before the Graeco-­Persian Wars as one of peace and contact while the period after was one of hubris and xenophobia.18 In this post-­ war world, Greek military victory against the Achaemenid Empire stimulated Greek antipathy towards the Achaemenids and led to the emergence of ‘orientalist’ narratives, the birth of racism, and the creation and assertion of identity through the construction 14  On the political implications of this view, see Said 1978; Bernal 1987; Morris 1994; Jones 2000: 445. 15  Rollinger is particularly critical of the ‘legend of “Greek wonder” as a self-­generated process’ (2006: 198). 16  Brunt 1953: 147. For a more recent assertion that the Graeco-­Persian Wars caused a rupture between east and west, see Holland 2005: Introduction. For views from a more Achaemenid standpoint, see Sancisi-­Weerdenburg 1987a; 1987b; Briant 2002b. 17  Gruen 2011b. 18  For a critique of the pervading influence of Hellenocentric approaches, see Rollinger 2006: 198–9. Raaflaub too notes the ‘hopelessly Graeco-­centric and outdated’ view of Greek– Achaemenid relations (2009: 90–1). For a more recent study on the problems of writing about ancient Iran, see Harrison 2011.

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Fig. I.3. Greek soldier attacking Achaemenid archer on the Eurymedon Vase, painted by the Triptolemos Painter, c. 460 bce. Hamburg, Museum für Kunst und Gewerbe 1981.173 (drawing by Paul Butler).

of a polarised and demeaned ‘Other’.19 We present all perspectives on the Achaemenids and their empire through the lens of the ‘Great Event’, from the fifth-­century bce scene of a Greek soldier attacking and humiliating the Achaemenid archer on the Eurymedon Vase in Figure I.3, to the role of Cyrus as a paradigm for the perils of imperialism in Xenophon’s Cyropaedia.20 In focusing our gaze so firmly on the Graeco-­Persian Wars as ‘the’ explanation, we limit our ability to view any other possible reasons for the emergence and use of these perspectives. If we are to understand why the Greeks developed so many different representations of Achaemenid Iran and Iranians, we must move out from under the shadow of the ‘Great Event’, put aside the looking glass that we have created and view the evidence from a fresh perspective.

19  On orientalism, see Bernal 1987; Hall 1989; Harrison 2000; Llewellyn-­Jones 2012. For discussions of racism, see Hölscher 1998; Isaac 2004. For alterity and identity, see Hartog 1988; Hall 1989; Castriota 1992; Nippel 2002. For an overview of the available literary evidence, see Tuplin 1996: 132–77. 20  Drews 1973: 36. For discussions of the Cyropaedia, see Chapter 4.

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TA K I N G A N A LT E R N AT I V E P E R S P E C T I V E In this book I will re-­ examine Greek perspectives on the Achaemenids and their empire and challenge the central position of the ­Graeco-­Persian Wars in the explanations that we offer for them.21 Instead of focusing on the ‘Great Event’, I will take a longue durée approach and examine the perspectives on eastern peoples created before, during and after the Graeco-­Persian Wars. This will enable me to show how representations of the Achaemenids fit with ideas and patterns of behaviour which developed long before the Achaemenid Empire emerged and continued long after it fell.22 I will show that the perspectives are not simple responses to victory, but reflect and reinforce the unique social and political agendas that developed within different Greek communities from the tenth to the fourth centuries bce. I will widen our perspective by looking more closely at material representations as well as textual sources. Our understanding of Greek perspectives on the Achaemenid Empire to date has been shaped largely by texts, yet as Fletcher has succinctly noted, ‘What people say and what they do is not the same.’23 There is a material side to the perspectives that remains under-­investigated while we continue to allow war narratives to dominate our view. The scenes in Figures I.2 and I.3 were depicted on objects, a cup and an oinochoe (jug), both of which were designed to be handled, shared, used and discussed by their users. Instead of consistently interpreting the perspectives and representations through the filter of war, I will explore the reception of the objects and images containing Achaemenid perspectives and show how they played a vital role in dialogues of power and status by reflecting the knowledge and mobility of their owners and users. I will argue that these two features remained consistently important in the construction of narratives of social display, competition and identity from the tenth to the fourth centuries bce. A P P R OA C H I N G T H E L O O K I N G G L A S S As I aim to move away from the security of a standard explanation, it is important for me to begin by setting out how my work will engage with existing scholarship and build upon it. In order 21  For similar views about our over-­emphasis on the Graeco-­Persian Wars, see Balcer 1985; Cawkwell 2005. 22  Rung 2008. 23  Fletcher 1989: 34.

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to understand the development of perspectives we will begin in the tenth century bce, long before the Achaemenid Empire emerged, by considering the evidence for contact between early Greek communities and communities in the wider Mediterranean and Near East. I will show how non-­native artefacts and ideas played vital roles in patterns of behaviour relating to identity, competition and power both before and after the arrival of the Achaemenids. It is my contention that only by taking a wider view can we see such processes at work. Indeed, scholars are increasingly recognising the value of broader studies: Forsdyke has called for a ‘chronologically deep and geographically broad’ approach to Greek history, while Morris has also argued for the importance of wider perspectives.24 However, it is important to be aware of the problem raised by Finley that in using the longue durée, boundaries can collapse and studies of the distant past become distorted by the human mind, so that ‘centuries become as years and millennia as decades’.25 A similar caution has been raised more recently by Morris and Fantalkin, who have noted the problems that can be caused by broad narratives that disconnect evidence from its historical and chronological context.26 In order to counter this, I will offer case studies of specific perspectives and their integration into behavioural patterns alongside more general investigations into their social, political and historical context. Our earliest evidence for contact and representation is wholly archaeological. The appearance of non-­ native objects or objects made in non-­native styles begins in Greek communities in the ninth and eighth centuries bce.27 Early scholarship focused on cataloguing items and searching out their places of origin or influence.28 While these studies expanded our knowledge of forms and shapes, they offered few insights into the reasons why particular perspectives gained currency at various times and places. The non-­native objects appeared at the same time as other changes in building and burial evidence, leading scholars to suggest that contact had stimulated social and political change.29 Archaeologists aligned the material with studies by anthropologists to show how information ‘diffused’ between different groups, moving ideas and artefacts from 24 

Forsdyke 2005: 15; Morris 1998a: 70. Finley 1977: 17. 26  I. Morris 2003: 42; Fantalkin 2006. 27  For examples, see Chapter 2. 28  Van Dongen 2008. 29  For substantivist theories see the essays in Garnsey, Hopkins and Whittaker 1983; for world-­systems theories, see Wells 1980. For a study of the applicability of models to the Achaemenid Empire, see Miller 1997: 244–7. 25 

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‘complex’ societies into more simple groups and thus stimulating change.30 In my study, I will seek to move away from these ‘prestige-­ goods’ theories, as they offer a single, exogenous explanation for change that prioritises the role of outsiders and ignores the dynamic role of internal social and political stimuli in creating and endorsing ­perspectives.31 They further ignore the way that time can re-­shape those perspectives or lead to the creation of new ones, and the possibility that one object can produce a range of responses.32 In response to criticism, later scholars began to refine ‘prestige-­ goods’ studies to move away from concepts of unilateral ‘change’ and look more closely at the relationship between artefact and user.33 The small quantities of non-­native objects coming into early Greek communities hinted that they may have played an important role for elites, conferring prestige on owners or users and being used to create and articulate social and political hierarchies.34 Brisart’s study of ‘orientalising’ objects in Athens, Argos and Crete has more recently returned to the issue of object and status by re-­examining the relationship between non-­native objects and social and political identity. He notes that there are two types of response to the objects: the first response sees them drawn into dialogues of display in public behaviour; the second sees them used as a means to define an elite citizen group and exclude those perceived as outside the group.35 Brisart’s approach acknowledges that even where the same artefacts or ideas are coming into communities, different perspectives may result; however, it does not really explain why or how external ­artefacts and ideas shape elite identity. Agency theories, which observe that the material record reflects the conditions and the decisions and behaviour of individuals and groups, offer a useful approach for exploring why external ideas and artefacts became important to elites in Greek communities.36 The places where and times when non-­ native artefacts are displayed, and the groups and individuals who are given access, are not randomly selected but are the product of decisions. The choice 30 

For discussion of older models of contact and change see Renfrew 1969. Arafat and Morgan 1994. 32  Raaflaub 2000: 62–3; Shanks 1999: 3. 33  More recent theories include anthropological approaches (Frankenstein and Rowlands 1978), ‘centre–periphery’ models (Rowlands, Larsen and Kristiansen 1987; Champion 1989) and models of peer–polity interaction (Renfrew and Cherry 1986). For a review of the ­literature, see Oka and Kusimba 2008. 34  As Raaflaub succinctly puts it, ‘What is accepted [within a community] . . . depends, among other factors, on local conditions and the needs and interests of local elites’ (2000: 61). 35  Brisart 2011. 36  Dobres and Robb 2000; Fowler 2004. 31 

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of artefact is equally important, as style and shape carry a range of semiotic messages to users.37 One essential component of non-­ native objects and ideas is that they stand out. Owners and users are deliberately selecting and using material that is visibly non-­native in order to make a statement within native contexts. In recognising the importance of human agency, we can come to understand the decision to use or display the perspectives as a dynamic process. As Meskell notes, ‘persons exist and are constituted by their material world’.38 The choice to use non-­native objects or ideas is shaped by individual decisions and socio-­political contexts and in turn shapes them. It is essential to think about the symbolism of objects and the political capital gained by elites from visible, local displays of non-­ native artefacts or the consumption of ideas and artefacts from external communities. The employment of objects from non-­native cultures in local socio-­political dialogues was not a practice begun by the Greeks. Assyrian monarchs also acquired and displayed the objects of lands that they had defeated as a symbol of their power and status. Studies such as Helms’ Craft and the Kingly Ideal and Ebbinghaus’ investigations into animal-­headed vessels in Anatolia offer a wider perspective, which think about the importance of non-­ native artefacts in wider elite rather than local dialogues of power.39 Although his study was focused on monumental building, Trigger’s thermodynamic explanation for symbolic behaviour offers an interesting alternative perspective that directs our attention towards the symbolic, human value of objects and ideas.40 Trigger suggests that monumental building and luxury objects symbolise human energy and the power of the owner or user to control such energy to their own advantage.41 Perspectives on the east and the Achaemenid Empire are thus complex symbols that show the ability to control human energy across great distances, as well as superior knowledge of places far away. Non-­native artefacts can also reveal the development of relationships between groups. In his study of ‘Greek’ objects found in local Black Sea communities, Tsetskhladze suggests that the small quantities and types of non-­native goods found in Black Sea sites offered evidence of tribute, that is, gifts exchanged by Greeks with locals in 37  38  39  40  41 

Wiessner 1989; Whitley 1991b; 2013. Meskell 2004: 7. Helms 1993; Ebbinghaus 2008. See also Rollinger 2001. Trigger 1990. Trigger 1990: 125.

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order to facilitate relationships between them.42 Instead of a situation of cultural imposition, we could be viewing one of mutual benefit. Tsetskhladze’s observations can be supported by studies of ‘gift exchange’ in the ancient Mediterranean.43 These show that non-­native objects can take on wider roles in enabling co-­operation between different groups and offer an opportunity to create and support dialogue between outsiders and residents.44 The same may be true for ‘eastern’ objects found in Greek contexts, which can offer a means of communication for groups from different communities and create a group that transcends geographical or political boundaries. In light of this, studies that focus on the continuity and regularity of cultural contact between Mediterranean people offer a more nuanced means to approach contact evidence. As Genz points out, contact is not a geographical inevitability but requires particular social and economic conditions to make exchange desirable.45 Hordern and Purcell’s seminal study of the Mediterranean as a zone of micro ecological zones moved research away from presumptions of defined nation states with clearly identifiable ethnic groups and opened up research into interdependency across the Mediterranean.46 The articles by Malkin and Morris in the Mediterranean Historical Review built on these ideas to explore the development of social, political and religious networks, which operated across the Mediterranean and into the Near East, allowing different groups to share ideas and identities.47 More recently Vlassopoulos has sought to refine our approach to examining ancient networks. In his monograph Greeks and Barbarians, he considers how different places of engagement could shape encounters and how the processes of globalisation and glocalisation could produce different types of interaction.48 We must be careful to avoid assuming that the meaning of an object will remain the same in different contexts. Kistler’s study of the reception of Achaemenid glass vessels in Halstatt communities offers a refreshing example of how a search for the subtleties of meaning can enhance contact and network studies.49 These delicate 42  Tsetskhladze 2010. For similar discussions, see Crielaard 1998; Lemos 2001; 2005; Niemeyer 2004; Hodos 2006. 43  On gift exchange in the Mediterranean, see Mauss 1954; on diplomatic gifts between Greeks and Near Eastern monarchs, see Muscarella 1992: 42. Tsetskhladze notes that Persians, Macedonians and Thracians all practised forms of exchange relationships (2010: 42). 44  Dominguez 1999. 45  Genz 2010. 46  Hordern and Purcell 2000. 47  Malkin 2003; I. Morris 2003. See also Skinner 2012. 48  Vlassopoulos 2013: esp. 11–32. See also Vlassopoulos 2007b. 49  Kistler 2010.

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Fig. I.4. Achaemenid-­style glass phiale made in the ‘Greek east’, sixth century bce. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Accession Number: 69.11.6. Purchase, Arthur Darby Nock Bequest, in honour of Gisela Richter, 1969. www.metmuseum.org.

vessels were carried across great distances from the Achaemenid Empire into Europe. Their form, as shown in Figure I.4, emulates vessels present on the Persepolis reliefs and in other Achaemenid contexts. Kistler convincingly shows how their meaning changed as they moved through the different networks that received them, and changed again as they arrived in their recipient communities in Europe. Kistler’s glass phiale moved from offering a symbol of adherence to the Achaemenid regime to becoming a symbol of power within the local Halstatt group. Kistler’s work emphasises the importance of context in the study of contact and acquisition. Even within one small area, the same non-­native artefact could play very different roles for different groups.50 Objects are made to be used. In seeking to understand why ­perspectives on the ‘east’ and the Achaemenid Empire achieved currency at particular times I will therefore take a phenomenological approach, to take into account the experience of using the perspective as well as viewing it.51 Images of Achaemenid Iranians in zany trousers, as shown in Figures I.2 and I.3, were on vases. These are objects that are made to be handled, to hold liquids or food and to be used in specific contexts. It is important to consider how these experiences may have shaped the perspective and how perspectives were in turn re-­shaped by the experience. As Malafouris has noted, 50  51 

Dietler 1995. Tilley 1994: 12.

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the creation and handling of artefacts are a dialogue of the mind, not just an experience born of practical needs.52 We need to think more laterally of use and users: what do users gain from acquiring external artefacts or following external cultural practices? Hodder’s study of ‘entangled’ objects asks us to think of the information behind as well as within an object, ‘how we perceive and imagine the thing’.53 A drinking cup does not travel by itself. One small object such as a drinking cup may require a wide range of knowledge and a series of complex interactions before it can be acquired and used.54 These exchanges further add to the symbolism of the cup in the present, and continued interactions may add to its symbolic value in the future. This means that it is essential to look at the social, political and historical context into which non-­native artefacts and ideas are brought and used. The communities of the Archaic and Classical Greek world were many and varied and each was composed of different groups who constantly defined, revised and manipulated perspectives for their own needs.55 Different communities have different socio-­political structures and different needs: the dialogues that non-­native artefacts are employed in will likewise differ.56 If we accept this we can begin to look at when, where and then why different types of artefacts and different perspectives on the Achaemenid Empire become relevant. DEFINITIONS Before we begin, it is important for me to clarify my approach to certain issues of terminology. First, it is very hard to discuss the engagements of Greek communities and lands to the east without using the term ‘east’. As we have already seen, for some scholars, the Graeco-­Persian Wars represent the most important moment in ancient history, whose implications carry forward into the modern world: they are the moment where east and west became distinct.57 This is problematic in that it can imply a geo-­political division that 52 

Malafouris 2013. Hodder 2012: 32. Hodder 2012: 3–12. 55  For a range of papers on relationships between external cultures and identity see Gruen 2011a. 56  Ian Morris notes the importance of social structure and cultural practices in determining responses (1997). 57  For Burkert, notions of Greek identity as different from the orient stemmed from the repulsion of attacks by the Achaemenid Empire (1992: 1); Brunt 1953: 47. For a critique of orientalist approaches, see Vlassopoulos 2007a: 101–22. 53  54 

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did not exist in the time period that I am discussing and reflects a politicised view of the geography of the Mediterranean.58 More recently, scholars have sought to understand the Mediterranean as an area whose geography facilitated interaction between the different groups of people living around it. They have moved away from the idea of the Greeks as separated and isolated communities whose identities were constructed in opposition to each other and to the non-­Greek communities around them, and instead seek to understand their engagement in a ‘Mediterranean koinē of mobility and interregional links’.59 I am wholly in agreement with this approach and where I use the word ‘east’ in my text, I do so to indicate a ­geographical position, not a conceptual division. Second, terms with ethnic implications, such as ‘Greek’ or ‘Persian’, can also be problematic. It is dangerous to use ‘Greece’ in a political sense, as the world of the sixth to fourth centuries bce was one of independent city-­states, not a unified nation state. The use of ‘Greek’ can also imply a degree of cultural homogeneity that inhibits the investigation of difference. As I am interested in differentiating the perspectives on the Achaemenid Empire produced by different communities, it is important to maintain distinctions between them. I will therefore avoid using ‘Greek’ to denote cultural identity and will use ‘Greece’ to indicate locations where groups of Greek speakers reside; I will use ‘mainland Greece’ to refer to the main Greek peninsula incorporating Attica and the Peloponnese, ‘north Greece’ for settlements in Thessaly and Macedonia, and ‘east Greece’ to distinguish the Greek settlements in Asia Minor.60 The term ‘Persian’ requires similar clarification. Where Achaemenids apply the term ‘Persian’ to themselves, it is a reflection of a group, probably an elite group within the socio-­political structure of the empire.61 Where Greeks use the term ‘Persian’, it can reflect the inhabitants of the Achaemenid Empire or the images created of them by Greeks.62 I will seek to distinguish between the two in the book by using ‘Persia’ to refer to Greek perspectives rather than historical figures or places, for which I will use the term ‘Achaemenid’ or ‘Iranian’. Third, when referring to artefacts or ideas brought into Greece 58  For Said it reflects orientalism, the division and denigration of eastern history by ­comparison with the Graeco-­European model (1978). For the Mediterranean region, see Map 1. 59  Shanks 1999: 213; see also Hordern and Purcell 2000; Purcell 2005a; Vlassopoulos 2013. 60  For Greek sites discussed in the text, see Maps 2 and 3. 61  Waters sees the label ‘Persian’ as part of Darius I’s ‘invention’ of the Achaemenid line (1996: 11–18). 62  Tuplin 1996: 132–77; Shapiro 2009.

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from the east, scholars use a range of terms to describe them that reference their eastern origins, whether physically or conceptually. So we read about ‘orientalia’ or ‘exotica’ or products that are ‘orientalising’.63 Rather than call them ‘orientalia’ or other such terms that again perpetuate notions of division between east and Greece, or indeed between east and west, I will employ the terms ‘external’ or ‘non-­native’ to describe them. These words reflect the fact that their external origin is an important characteristic in the decision to acquire and use artefacts or ideas, and not the sign of a simple opposition. Finally, it is important to note that in using the term ‘elite’, I am referring simply to groups who hold political and social power at that time: this does not imply a rigid category.64 In most Greek communities from the Early Iron Age through to the Archaic period, membership of the elite was fluid and contested, with status and social mobility dependent on economic conditions.65 Duplouy’s study of elite behaviour further suggests that status was linked to performance, enhancing the visual and visible importance of displaying the perspectives.66 I am not suggesting that the ancient artefacts and ideas discussed in this book were used only by elites, but as changes in material culture tend to begin in elite spheres, a study of elite behaviour makes an excellent starting point from which to re-­ examine the evidence. O R G A N I S AT I O N My first two chapters will focus on establishing the roles played in socio-­political dialogues by external artefacts in Greek communities, and the evidence for continuity in those roles for the period before and after the rise of the Achaemenid Empire. I will begin in Chapter 1 by offering a study of Greek engagements with communities to the east before the rise of the Achaemenid Empire. Our perspective in this period comes from material evidence, and a study of this time presents us with an opportunity to look at how and why ideas and material from external lands came to be used within Greece, 63 

On the problems of this terminology, see Gunter 2012: 61–70. I follow here the simple and effective definition of elite offered by Forsdyke as ‘associated with political privilege’ (2005: 12). See also Carlier 1984. For status in burial, see the discussions in Morris 1987; 1992. 65  For a discussion of elites and social mobility, see Stein-­Hölkeskamp 1989: ch. 3. An example can be seen in the life of Sostratos, who attains elite status after acquiring wealth through trade (Hdt. 4.152). 66  Duplouy 2006: 12–30. 64 

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and at the roles that they played. I will consider how narratives of ‘renaissance’ and ‘orientalisation’ have shaped our view of contacts in this period and created perspectives that fit with contemporary dialogues. I will also offer a case study of the evidence from Corinth and its engagements with external artefacts and ideas up to the sixth century bce. In Chapter 2 I will look at patterns in the evidence for contact between Greece and the Near East from Croesus to Xerxes. It is my intention here to show how the Achaemenids fitted into pre-­existing patterns of contact and exchange, rather than creating a rupture. I will then look at the evidence for continuity in engagements with the Achaemenid Empire in the Archaic period and offer a contextual study of the presence and use of Achaemenid perspectives in three different areas: Anatolia, Ionia and Athens. In the remaining chapters, I will look at case studies of specific times, places and perspectives. In Chapter 3, I will focus on Athens and look more specifically at the plethora of perspectives in the post-­war period. It is in this time that scholars trace the emergence of Greek identity by means of the construction of an oppositional ‘Other’. I will look in detail at the socio-­political background of the representations and show that they were stimulated more by political change and elite competition than by victory in the Graeco-­Persian Wars. Chapter 4 looks at Ionian perspectives and, in particular, the creation of a new genre of engagement in the form of the Persica, historical narratives written by Ionian Greeks about Achaemenid Iran. I will consider the purpose of the Persica, their users and how their perspectives were amended for different audiences at different times. Chapter 5 turns to evidence from Sparta in the period before and after the arrival of the Achaemenids. I will look at how Sparta responded to contact with the east and the Achaemenid Empire and consider the proposition that closer contact with the Achaemenid Empire in the fourth century bce brought about the downfall of Spartan society. Finally I will turn to Macedonia. I will look at the evidence for Macedonian engagements with the east and the Achaemenid Empire from the tenth to the fourth century bce, and show how Macedonians created their own ‘Persia’ and used it to authorise the exercise of power in the new Hellenistic world. My project is ambitious and it is important to emphasise that I do not intend to present here a comprehensive chronological sequencing and investigation of every perspective on the Achaemenid Empire. My aim is to show that perspectives on the Achaemenids and their empire are not always a symbol of derision or cultural superiority stimulated by the ‘Great Event’, but reflect internal stresses and

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internal socio-­ political dialogues in the community that created them. By focusing on the material aspects of perspectives and their contexts of use, I will explore the different messages that can be read in acquiring, owning or using them. I will offer an alternative approach to explaining Greek perspectives on the Achaemenids and hope to create a debate that focuses more intensely on the unique socio-­political circumstances that stimulated the Greek need to use external objects and ideas in internal dialogues. I can only reiterate my complete agreement with the apposite words of Graham Shipley, who noted that ‘no historian should ever imagine that he or she has said the last word on a subject’.67 I hope that the ideas in this book will stimulate further research and shed light on areas that I have not been able to consider here.

67 

Shipley 1987: viii.

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1 Journeys of the Mind: Greek Perspectives on the ‘East’ before the Achaemenid Empire In this chapter we will look at evidence for the presence, display and transformation of external objects and ideas in communities on the Greek mainland before the appearance of the Achaemenid Empire. We will explore the relationship between external artefacts and socio-­political structure by considering how and why external artefacts and transformations came to play a vital role in the construction of elite identity and in creating and affirming relations between elites of different Greek-­speaking communities. We will look at the information to be learnt from the artefacts themselves, as well as their distribution patterns, before turning to consider the evidence in context from the city of Corinth, which has played a major role in shaping our understanding of early perspectives on the ‘east’. FA N TA S I E S O F ‘ R E N A I S S A N C E ’ A N D ‘ O R I E N TA L I S I N G ’ Although we begin our study in a period long before the ­Graeco-­Persian Wars, our view of Greek perspectives on the east at this time continues to be filtered through the looking glass of political agenda. Narratives of ‘renaissance’ and ‘orientalising’ fit the evidence into a seamless pattern running from the lows of the ‘Dark Age’ to the heights of Classical Greece. This fantastic narrative begins at the end of the Bronze Age. As Mycenaean palace culture came to an end Mycenaean Greek communities were abandoned, external objects were no longer brought into settlements, and the skills of writing, building and creating art were lost.1 Scholars  1 

Snodgrass 1971: 2; Osborne 1996a: 32; I. Morris 2007.

18

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see this period as a Dark Age, when the Greek world was ‘poor, small and lacking in general organisation’.2 It was a situation that remained until the eighth century bce, when the material record suddenly sprang back into life. Now population levels rose as the number of settlement sites and graves increased and the first sanctuaries appeared with their votive offerings. There were artistic changes too with the appearance of new vase shapes, and narrative images and writing appeared again.3 Alongside these changes, scholars noted that external artefacts reappeared in mainland sites. It was a ‘renaissance’ of Greek culture, stimulated by renewed contact with eastern lands, but the changes did not stop there.4 As more external artefacts flood into mainland Greece and contacts increased, the process of change gathered momentum and accelerated into an ‘orientalising’ period in the seventh century bce. Early Greek communities no longer ‘took’ eastern products and ideas but began instead to transform them to make new artefacts and create new political, social and religious institutions that reflected Greek needs as well as ‘oriental’ ideas.5 This led to the birth of the polis, the community of political citizens, democracy, Achaemenid defeat and from there the ‘glory’ of Classical Greece. In these academic narratives of ‘renaissance’ and ­‘orientalising’, eastern lands represent a magical repository of knowledge, a world behind the looking glass in which the poor Greeks of the Dark Ages found the magic key that opened the door to Classical greatness.6 It is important to remember that narratives of ‘renaissance’ and ‘orientalising’ are interpretations of the evidence, not facts. The ‘renaissance’ and ‘orientalising’ periods are two stages in an invented historical process that scholars use to map and explain the social and political changes that led to the birth of the polis. We move from Mycenaean (contact) to Dark Age (isolation) to Renaissance (re-­ engagement) to Orientalisation (transformation) and from there to the development of the polis and the birth of Classical Greece. It is an explanation that sucks up evidence to produce one, unifying process of evolution from Dark Age to  2 

Osborne 1996a: 17. See also Kuhrt 2002: 17. Morris 2005; 2009.  4  Burkert 1992; Hurwit 1985: 40. On the contribution of the Phoenicians, see ­Frankenstein 1979; Aubet 1993; Niemeyer 1990; 2004.  5  Burkert 1992: 14; Whitley 2001: 103. For Ian Morris this is more revolution than renaissance (2005; 2009). There is a summary of the evidence in West 1997: ch. 1.  6  Burkert 1992. Other scholars are more cautious: Starr suggests contact simply helped Greek expression to take its proper form (1977: 59–60). Emlyn-­Jones sees the Ionians as a conduit of ideas for ‘their less-­advanced fellow Greeks’ (1980: 7).  3 

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democracy. Many scholars, such as Lin Foxhall, Susan Langdon and Sarah Morris, have cast doubt on this smooth interpretation of early Greek evidence, which ignores anomalies that do not fit with its agenda.7 The ‘renaissance’ narrative offers no explanation for evidence that contact between mainland Greek communities and their neighbours to the east was not severed by the Mycenaean fall. It ignores evidence suggesting that the ‘Dark Age’ could have been a time of stability rather than decline and that some elements of the ‘renaissance’ were already under way at sites such as Athens by the ninth century bce.8 It offers no insights into discrepancies in the distribution of external objects amongst Greek-­speaking communities, and glosses over the truth that ‘orientalising’ did not happen in the same way in all of the communities of Greece.9 It is a model that obscures the evidence before our eyes and encourages us to fit it all into a preconceived pattern where all roads lead to the polis and the birth of democracy.10 Yet the polis is an equally illusory refuge. It is a perspective created by nineteenth-­century scholars.11 As Whitley points out, it is simply another interpretation of the evidence.12 When we read evidence through the filters of ‘renaissance’ and ‘orientalising’, we perpetuate a myth of mainland Greece as inhabited by passive sedentary communities that ‘received’ goods and ideas from the more sophisticated communities of the east.13 We follow an anthropological lead in attributing changes in culture to an exogenous rather than an internal ­stimulant.14 We mould the evidence to fit a desired outcome, instead of seeking to understand the evidence in context.15 If we wish to understand how and why external acts were important to these communities at this time, we must step away from these filters and look again at the evidence.

 7 

Foxhall 1995; S. Langdon 1997; 2008: 292–7; Morris 1992a: 124. On continuities, see S. P. Morris 1997; Thomas 2009: 37–40; Crielaard 2006: 274–85. On increases in communications, see Niemeyer 2004. On Dark Age stability, see Lemos 2014; 2003: 190. On the earlier emergence of the ‘renaissance’ and continuity in contact, see Bohen 1997: 53; Morris 1992a; 1992b; de Polignac 1992; S. Langdon 1997: 2; Dickinson 2006a; 2006b: 120.  9  I. Morris 1997. See also Coldstream 2003: 86–202. 10  Morgan 2003: 49. 11  Morgan 2001a: 93; S. P. Morris 2003: 10; Davies 1997; Vlassopoulos 2007a. 12  Whitley 2001: 100–1; 1991b: 41. 13  For criticisms of ‘diffusion’ theory, see Archibald 2000: 218; de Polignac 1992: 119; Collis 1984: 33–4. 14  Raaflaub 2000: 62–3. 15  Kistler 2004; S. P. Morris 2003: 10.  8 

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CABINETS AND WHITE HOUSES In order to explore potential, we must be prepared to acknowledge possibility. In order to break away from our established pattern, we need to think about the relationship between external artefacts and users in a more abstract way. We will therefore begin with a comparative study in order to explore a more documented example of how external artefacts and ideas can be drawn into dialogues of elite identity. In eighteenth-­and nineteenth-­century Europe and America, the past of Classical Greece itself became an external agent in dialogues of identity and power. We will consider how the past of ancient Greece was used at this time and look for general principles in elite behaviour that might help us to understand and explain the appearance and use of external artefacts in early Greek communities. Building a cabinet of curiosities The ability to acquire and display unique artefacts has long played a role in dialogues of identity and status, and we can see this clearly in a study of the development of the cabinet of curiosities. Cabinets of curiosities were rooms that began to appear in the houses of wealthy Europeans from the fifteenth century onwards. As Figure 1.1 shows, early collectors, such as Ole Worms, focused on acquiring artefacts of natural history. Turtle shells, fossils and stuffed animals were c­ atalogued, shelved and hung from the ceilings. The rarer the exhibit, the more desirable it became to a collector. Over time, the contents of the cabinets became more eclectic and ancient artefacts were included alongside the natural wonders.16 In the eighteenth and early nineteenth century Sir John Soane acquired and displayed a mix of paintings, architectural sculpture, statues and other paraphernalia from the pasts of Greece, Rome and the Near East.17 He even built a special house to contain it and to display his collection.18 During Soane’s lifetime, invited visitors would enter the cabinet of curiosities to see its amazing contents and could not fail to be awed by the authority of its owner. Here was a man of status, a man who could travel beyond the limits of his homeland and who had the knowledge and power to bring back artefacts from distant places. Cabinet rooms were a hobby for the wealthy but they were also a 16  17  18 

Schnapp 1996: 167–77. Knox 2009. Dean 2006.

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Fig. 1.1. Frontispiece from the Museum Wormianum (1655), showing Ole Worm’s cabinet of curiosities (Smithsonian Institution Libraries [Public domain], via ­Wikimedia Commons).

clear symbol of high social status. The items within them came from places out of the reach of the average man, requiring the status, funds and ability to access distant locations and the fiscal power to excavate and acquire objects from them. These irems reflected a considerable ability to consume and control human energy.19 They also revealed the status of a wider group. Entry to the cabinet was restricted to those in the circle or acquaintance of the owner, reflecting the status of the invitees and their membership of an exclusive group.20 However, simply owning or displaying collected artefacts was not in itself sufficient to endow status. The true purpose of the cabinet was to show the owner’s extensive knowledge of natural science or of ancient cultures. This knowledge was acquired through education. One essential part of a true European gentleman’s repertoire was the ability to read in Latin and ancient Greek, to develop knowledge of ancient texts 19  20 

Trigger 1990. Altick 1978: 100–1; Klonk 2009: 19–47.

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and, increasingly, at the end of his e­ ducation, to visit the ruins of the Classical world on the Grand Tour in order to engage with the physical environment of antiquity and collect antiquities for his cabinet.21 The possession of a cabinet of curiosities reflected the owner’s exclusive education and ability to travel. It was a statement of elite identity and offered a means to assert status against other elites by competing to acquire rare and valuable items. The cabinet of curiosities was a ‘theatre of the world’ and a potent symbol of exclusivity, individual power and elite status.22 Transforming society Identity is a dynamic and shifting process and the roles played by artefacts and ideas will morph or be discarded as needs and opinions change. While collecting retained its status as a hobby for the wealthy, the number of collectors and collections increased, requiring the development of new ways to separate and reflect elite status. As a result, contexts of display in eighteenth-­and nineteenth-­century Europe began to shift from domestic to more public arenas. In 1759 the collection of Sir Hans Sloane was opened to the public in the British Museum.23 On his death, the collection of Sir John Soane, including his house, was given to the nation.24 Other collectors followed suit so that cabinets of curiosities and collections of the wealthy were bequeathed to the nation or opened to public viewing in acts of euergetism that made the Classical past a benefit for all. The arena of competition had shifted and the role of the cabinet transformed from a private matter to public display. This allowed the donors to acquire wider symbolic capital and differentiate themselves from their fellow elites as men who were able to act for the public good. In creating museums out of their cabinets, the wealthy bought public immortality. Other elite symbols remained ostensibly unchanged. The Tour remained the preserve of the wealthy elite, and those who had undertaken the Tour formed exclusive clubs and societies that promoted their belief in the Classical past as an example for the present. They continued to shape their status and identity around access to and knowledge of the Classical past. In 1734 the Society of the Dilettanti 21  22  23  24 

Shanks 1996: 68; Black 1992; Schnapp 1996: 121–77. Fiorani 1998: 268. MacGregor 1994. Dean 2006.

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was formed as a dining club for those who had been on the Grand Tour and wished to sponsor the study of Classical art.25 The Society funded building schemes and a scholarship for archaeological expeditions to Greece and Rome. It financed the trip of Nicholas Revett and James Stuart, whose book The Antiquities of Athens (1762), along with reports on the excavations at Pompeii by one of the Society’s members, Sir William Hamilton, contributed to the birth of Greek revival architecture. These were re-­imaginings or transformations of the architectural styles of ancient Greece and Rome. Private houses began to be built using forms and decorative styles from Greek and Roman architecture, but transformed to reflect the owners’ needs and tastes. These stately homes reflected the owners’ greater knowledge of external forms and ideas and also their power to engage with the past and shape it to suit their own needs and desires. As re-­ imaginings of the Classical past became visible in the European landscape, these transformed symbols of antiquity also began to move out from the private sphere and into the public arena. The reputation of ancient Greece as the birthplace of p ­ hilosophy and democracy, of intellectual and political freedom, made the style a suitable and potent symbol within the community. It was the style chosen by Sir John Soane for the Bank of England buildings, constructed from 1788 to 1833. It was the style chosen for the official buildings of the new American republic, the White House and Capitol Building in Washington, DC. It was also the style chosen for the new British Museum building, completed by 1857. As Figure 1.2 shows, the façade of the new British Museum building replicated the shape and style of a Greek temple. Rather than gods, the sculptures on its pediment deified knowledge in an evolutionary tale of the rise of civilisation, from the creation of man, to his meeting with the Angel of Enlightenment, to his acquisition of true knowledge in the form of art, music, drama, science and sculpture.26 At this time, ideas from an external culture, the exclusive past, were set into the community by elites. These ideas were used to create buildings that were symbols of power. Through their association with exclusive knowledge, control of resources and social status, they reflected and reinforced the authority of leaders to exercise power. They also re-­ created the present through the filter of the past, offering a perspec25 

Kelly 2009; Redford 2008. For a full description of the south pediment, see http://www.britishmuseum.org/about_ us/the_museums_story/architecture/south_pediment.aspx. 26 

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Fig. 1.2. South façade of the British Museum (photograph by Edmund Connolly).

tive on the democratic status of the community and the belief of its leaders that they were the heirs of the ‘glory that was Greece’. Our brief study of the eighteenth-­and nineteenth-­century engagement with the Classical past suggests that that the roles played by external artefacts and ideas follow one of three clear strands of behaviour that echo those set out by Brisart.27 First, we can see that external artefacts or ideas are used to reflect and define the elite status of an individual. Second, we see that the transformation of external artefacts and external ideas can be used to compete for status and enhance status divisions. Third, we can see transformations in the scale of external artefacts or perspectives used to make symbolic statements about power and authority. Armed with these general observations on relationships between elites and external artefacts or ideas, we can now turn to re-­examine the evidence from early Greece.

27 

Brisart 2011.

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BUILDING A CABINET OF CURIOSITIES: E X T E R N A L A R T E FA C T S I N G R E E C E U P T O T H E E I G H T H C E N T U RY bce Early ‘Greece’ and the ‘east’: reading the evidence There are two major concentrations of external artefacts in the period before the eighth century bce: these are at Lefkandi, on the island of Euboea, and at Athens.28 Lefkandi is the home of the Toumba ­building. Set up in the tenth century bce, this monumental longhouse contained two human burials and extraordinarily rich grave goods, many of them external. Figure 1.3 shows a plan of the two human burials. Burial 1 was a male cremation burial, placed in an antique bronze urn with friezes of lions and bulls decorating its rim and handles, which came from Cyprus, and Burial 2 was a female inhumation with jewellery, made of gold, faience and crystal and discs of gold covering her breasts.29 The faience and the techniques used to make the jewellery had come from eastern lands. Other goods either from or showing influences from the Near East found in the burial included a Babylonian gorget, a knife with an ivory handle, a bone flute of Sumerian or Babylonian origin and a krater with the tree-­of-­life motif painted onto it.30 Rich burials with external goods were also found in graves around Lefkandi. These included objects of faience and glass produced in countries from the east. One necklace of pendants included an image of the goddess Isis and a lion-­headed goddess wearing an Egyptian crown.31 Figure 1.4 shows a drawing of an engraved bronze bowl of north Syrian origin found in Toumba Grave 55 at Lefkandi.32 It is an exceptionally tactile piece of work. The size of the bowl, at approximately 280 mm in diameter and 122 mm in height, requires two hands to support it. As it has no handles, the holder feels the embossed details on the exterior, meaning that the holder caresses the figures of helmeted and winged sphinxes and trees around its sides, or holds the animals and palm trees on the base in seeking to manipulate the bowl.33 The bronze bowl is a clear statement of power. It is 28 

See Map 2. Catling 1993: 81–96; Popham 1993: 20. 30  Popham 1994: 15; Catling and Lemos 1990: pl. 54; Popham 1993: 21; Sackett 1993: 72. 31  Popham 1994: 22. 32  Popham, Calligas and Sackett 1988–9: 118; Morris 2000: 239; Popham and Lemos 1996: pl. 133. 33  Popham et al. 1988–9: 118. 29 

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Fig. 1.3. Plan of male cremation and female inhumation in the central room of the Toumba building at Lefkandi, c. 950 bce (Popham, Calligas and Sackett 1993: pl.13). Reproduced with permission of the British School at Athens.

made of a luxury material, with embossed scenes, showing an ability to consume the labour of specialised craftsmen.34 The strangeness of the creatures and style of the embossed figures show that the vessel is not local but has travelled from another community. It speaks of people and places far away and reveals the owner’s ability to 34 

Trigger 1990.

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Fig. 1.4. Drawing of an engraved Near Eastern bronze bowl from Toumba Grave 55.28 (Popham and Lemos 1996: pl. 133). Reproduced with permission of the British School at Athens.

martial and control resources across great distances and their greater knowledge in being able to access them, in much the same way as the objects in a cabinet of curiosities. More metal items were present in the nearby cemetery at Xeropolis, including rich jewellery, alongside

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objects of faience, glass beads and weapons with gold attachments, and more imported bronze vessels.35 While some of the jewellery was imported, other pieces were made on site. These ‘transformed’ objects used techniques from external communities, such as granulation and soldering, to make adapted versions of external artefacts. Higgins suggests that the finger rings at Lefkandi were inspired by Cypriot examples, while the spirals were influenced by contact with the north.36 According to Lemos, those found at Lefkandi were made at the site by ‘foreign craftsmen’.37 Evidence from Lefkandi and Xeropolis declines in the ninth century bce and burials appear in Athens whose wealth is ­ ‘comparable 38 to those in Lefkandi’. The graves here also contain gold funeral ornaments and imports from the Near East, as well as transformed objects, made using eastern techniques or styles.39 Coldstream writes of a ‘wealth of oriental imagery’ at Athens.40 The graves of three men in the Kerameikos all contained hemispherical bowls of a Cypriot type, while a female grave contained two gold finger rings of Cypriot type.41 There are also bronze Phoenician bowls, faience discs and ivory seals.42 The grave of the ‘Rich Athenian lady’ (H16:6), found in the area of the later Athenian Agora, contained gold finger rings and gold earrings made using techniques of granulation and filigree developed in eastern lands, as well as a necklace of faience disks.43 The grave also contained a pottery artefact, which Coldstream identified as model granaries and linked to elite status.44 External items also appear at this time in graves at other Greek mainland ­communities, such as Argos, but the quantities at these sites are small and Lefkandi and Athens stand out significantly amongst evidence from the tenth and ninth centuries bce.45 Within Lefkandi and Athens, the small quantities of our early external artefacts, their luxury materials and their presence in some but not all burials indicate that we are looking at the type of practices that distinguish between residents in a settlement and support an

35  36  37  38  39  40  41  42  43  44  45 

Lemos 2002: 165 n.164, n.166. Lemos 2002: 133; Higgins 1980: 221 (Cyprus), 220 (north). Lemos 2002: 133. Lemos 2006: 513 Strøm 1992: 47. Coldstream 2003: 358. Coldstream 2003: 31–3 (graves 2, 7, 38, 74). See also Smithson 1968: 82–3. Osborne 1996a: 47. Smithson 1968; Coldstream 2003: 56. Coldstream 2003: 55. For discussions on lesser deposits, see Lemos 2002; Coldstream 2003: 341–50.

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identification of elite behaviour.46 As with the cabinet of ­curiosities, external artefacts at Lefkandi and Athens can be seen to have acted as a mark of exclusivity and a symbolic means to illustrate membership of an exclusive, elite society.47 The key questions are: why now and why here? To answer these, we must look at the social and political structure of the communities where the artefacts were found and seek to understand the role of external artefacts within them. ‘Big Men’ and crisis responses In order to answer the question ‘why now?’ we will return to the period after the end of the Bronze Age and the ‘fall’ of the Mycenaean world. Mycenaean society was highly organised, with a central bureaucracy that controlled food and resource production and distribution.48 As the Mycenaean palaces fell, this central bureaucracy fell with it and the communities left behind needed to re-­organise or starve. There is evidence for different responses in different areas: in areas around the Mycenaean palaces, we find settlement continuity, albeit on a smaller scale.49 In areas further from the Mycenaean centres, older or more local forms of political organisation reasserted themselves: in others, new organisations were established.50 There is a reduction in the number of settlement sites, which scholars read as evidence of depopulation.51 Absence of evidence is not the same as evidence of absence. The visible decline in sites may indicate that the most widely adopted solution in this period was for the remaining inhabitants to become more mobile. In his study The Dark Age of Greece, Anthony Snodgrass explored the possibility that communities reverted to pastoralism after the fall. His suggestion did not receive wholehearted support.52 Yet the failure to find archaeological evidence for the sites of pastoralists does not mean that some form of mobile

46  Whitley suggests that the burial urn was not an heirloom but a symbol of the networks that brought it to Lefkandi (2013: 410). See also Crielaard 2003; 2006: 287; Appadurai 1986: 38. 47  Riva 2005: 204. S. P. Morris offers a necessary caution that we should be wary of dividing class so clearly by decoration, but as display reflects social identity and status, there are grounds for seeing a general rather than an exclusive trend (1997: 64). 48  Shelmerdine 2006; Killen 1985. 49  For a study, see Lemos 2014. 50  Foxhall 1995; Eder 2006: 560. 51  Snodgrass 1971: 364–5; Osborne 1996a: 22. For cautions on the use of graves to measure demography, see Scheidel 2003; 2004a; 2004b; Morgan 2009: 46. 52  Snodgrass 1971: 378–80; 1987: 193–209.

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society did not exist.53 More recently, scholars have recognised the importance of a mobile lifestyle as a crisis response in ‘conditions of environmental and political insecurity’.54 Indeed, Dickinson notes a ‘remarkable propensity’ for mobility in Aegean populations following the collapse of the palaces.55 The creation and abandonment of sites is a strategy employed for survival by many Greek communities throughout history. Even in historical times, texts tell us that a polis might need to move in order to ensure its survival.56 Increased mobility allows for the best exploitation of resources.57 A transhumant or semi-­mobile lifestyle means that animals and humans do not compete for the same vegetation and that resources are used more effectively.58 A transhumant lifestyle fits well with the geography and climate of mainland Greece. The high mountain ridges and valleys lend themselves naturally to the creation of territories around which groups can move to manage resources. This model can offer an explanation for periods of discontinuity in settlement and also for the emergence of different forms of land and social organisation at different locations in mainland Greece, including the settlement model of polis and chora.59 Survival requires organisation. Within territories, social structures and social hierarchies develop as groups fragment into m ­ anagers, overseers and workers. Following the studies of Marshall Sahlins, scholars have identified these managers as ‘Big Men’ and ‘Chiefs’.60 ‘Chiefs’ control and collect local production in exchange for organisation and protection. ‘Big Men’ collate and re-­distribute the production of the workforce. They or their emissaries traverse the territory to manage and protect it.61 As a result, a distinction develops between those who work the land and those who control the land. Mobility becomes the preserve of the managers and overseers who are the political elite. Their mobility allows them to raid the resources of others and to develop territories around which they move to collect resources, protect the inhabitants and maintain a watchful eye on resources. Mobility becomes a means of revealing status. 53 

Cribb 1991: 81. Cribb 1991: 63; McDonald and Coulson 1983: 322–5; Morris 2007: 217; Morgan 2003. On the importance of mobility in later periods, see Osborne 1991. 55  Dickinson 2006b: 117; see also Lemos 2002: 195–7. 56  Purcell 2005b: 256; Mackil 2004. 57  Hordern and Purcell 2000: 197–9; Chaniotis 1995. 58  Hordern and Purcell 2000: 198. 59  Purcell 2005b: 259; Dickinson 2006b: 118. 60  Sahlins 1963; Whitley 1991a. See also J. M. Hall 2007: 125–6; Tandy 1997; Foxhall 1995; Donlan 1985; Drews 1983. 61  Sahlins 1963. On the Phoenicians as agents, see Kopcke 1992: 108. 54 

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We can see this culture of ‘Big Men’ and elite mobility reflected in burials from the tenth to the eighth century bce.62 The Toumba burial at Lefkandi would have required a great deal of effort and resources to construct. Although this could be interpreted as a community act, the clusters of rich burials subsequently placed around the main burial suggest that the site and its burials were associated with power and may have conferred the authority to exercise power.63 By 1000 bce burials at a range of Greek sites are dominated by men whose differentiated status is reflected in their burial.64 Morris describes this differentiation as ‘heroisation’, that is, the use of death to promote a raised status for the elite.65 Rich ‘hero’ burials are widely spread in Early Iron Age Greece. They can be found in south Aetolia and Achaea as well as in east Lokris.66 It is in these richer graves and associated burials that we find external artefacts. The richest graves of this period also contain horse burials or images of horses. As an animal that eats large amounts of food and cannot be used to produce food, only to travel or race, horses are ‘luxury’ items and their ownership is a significant sign of status.67 Eder notes that the four horses in the Toumba building at Lefkandi are two pairs of chariot horses and their deliberate destruction is a clear display of elite wealth and prestige.68 Fragments of a horse sculpture from the fill of the Toumba building indicate that the figurine was one metre high and had its leg pierced for a wheel axle.69 Toumba Graves T1 and T3 at Lefkandi also contained fragments of a centaur figurine. When pieced together, as shown in Figure 1.5, this produced a decorated sculpture of approximately 36 cm in height and 26 cm in length.70 The size and decoration of the centaur show that it had taken much time and effort to create. It was a symbol of the ability of the owner to organise and consume specialist skills and effort, as well as a creature that may have expressed the ‘aristocratic’ ethos in its perfect melding of man and horse.71 These links to elite status may also be reinforced by a mark on the centaur’s knee, which could identify the centaur as Cheiron, wounded by the hero Achilles.72 The 62  63  64  65  66  67  68  69  70  71  72 

Mazarakis Ainian 2006. Lemos 2006: 523 Morris 1987; 2000. Morris 2000: 208–38. See also Lemos 2006: 516–17. Eder 2006: 563–4 (Aetolia and Achaea); Dakoronia 2006 (east Lokris). Langdon 1989; Lemos 2002: 98; Morgan 1993: 23; Hurwit 1985: 58–69. Eder 2006: 565. On chariots, see Crowel 1981. Lemos 2002: 99; Sackett 1993: 73 pl. 32, 26a, 26b. Popham, Sackett and Themelis 1980: 168–9 (grave 1), 169–70 (grave 3). On early centaurs, see Doyle 2014. Popham et al. 1980: 345.

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Fig. 1.5. Photograph of centaur figurine from Toumba Graves T1 and T3, Lefkandi (Popham, Sackett and Themelis 1980: frontispiece). Reproduced with permission of the British School at Athens.

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centaur thus reveals the owner’s knowledge of stories about heroes and the ability to commission the creation of figurines based on such tales. It is a powerful piece and a statement of power. There are also images of horses on two early Athenian Protogeometric vases, and a horse figurine was found here too. Snodgrass suggests that they may have pulled the funeral wagon, an occasion for elite display.73 Bohen associates the appearance of horse sculptures at around 900 bce with the ‘consolidation of aristocratic control’.74 For Coldstream, figurines of horses and granaries in graves offer a symbol of wealth and the ownership of land and livestock.75 If we look more closely at the objects themselves, we cannot ignore the fact that external and transformed objects in the eighth and ninth centuries bce are small in scale. They are luxury items of unique ­appearance, such as gold jewellery, bronze bowls and faience objects that could be worn, held or used by their owners. They are objects designed to have an intimate relationship with users through adornment of the body or use when eating and drinking. At Lefkandi, Lemos notes that external objects are more commonly found in female graves.76 This raises the possibility that women may have played a role in the acquisition of status, whether as objects of value in exchanges or even as rulers in their own right.77 The shapes, styles and materials of the objects will have stood out clearly amongst domestic material when worn, used or shown to any viewer. These features further enhance the two key symbolic features of distance and knowledge. The size and appearance of the artefacts mark them out as objects that have travelled far. As such, they show the power of the owner to access resources across large distances. They also reveal the owner’s greater knowledge of distant places and distant people and his ability to engage with them. For societies where mobility is a feature of status, contact with distant people, places and artefacts can be used to enhance local prestige and to distinguish political and ideological status by elites.78 In collecting and using external objects the owner reveals awareness of what the objects are and how they should be used. This 73  Snodgrass 1971: 415. On life-­cycle rituals as a source for display in the Early Iron Age, see Langdon 2008: 56–125. 74  Bohen 1997: 47. 75  Coldstream 2003: 55. 76  Lemos 2014: 181, 2006. 77  Morris 2007: 213; Lemos 2006: 521. It may also help to explain the appearance of double burials in this period. For examples, see Lemos 2002: 154, 160, 169, 170, 172, 173, 175, 189; Brouskari, 1980: 30. On the possibility that the women had status in their own right, see Langdon 2005. 78  Crielaard 2006: 190; 1993: 3.

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special knowledge differentiates the owner and the members of their group from those in the community who do not or cannot own such objects.79 The ‘transformed’ objects also present a statement of power. These are not simple changes that reflect the copying of Near Eastern styles, but political statements. The ability to take and transform the cultural objects of others requires specialist knowledge and considerable power. It establishes difference.80 It can also reflect an ability to move people. For Helms, the transformation of objects is evidence of ‘skilled crafting’ in which the acquisition of a craftsman also becomes a statement of power and the craftsman becomes a prized artefact.81 In depositing the objects in a grave, the owner shows the personal nature of the items and also their own power and wealth in removing them from circulation. In ‘Big Men’ societies, mobility and symbols of mobility offer key indicators of social status. In such contexts, we can see why external objects with shapes, styles and patterns indicating clear links to faraway lands, reflecting exclusive and specialised knowledge and the power to acquire, would be desirable as symbols of status. They differentiate the aristocrat from the farmer. However, these features alone cannot explain why we find higher concentrations at particular sites and lesser or none at others, and having looked at ‘why now?’ we must now consider ‘why here?’. Ameliorating risk: elite networks For rulers in ‘Big Men’ societies, the ability to travel and command resources becomes a key component in differentiating status. Both activities are essential to keep people fed and keep power. However, communities that depend on a ‘Big Man’ are essentially unstable. If the climate fluctuates and food cannot be produced and distributed, the system may collapse as workers leave to seek out another ‘Big Man’.82 Despite its magnificence, the Toumba building at Lefkandi was short-­lived.83 The settlement associated with the cemetery at Xeropolis has never been found and other settlements, such as Nichoria in the Peloponnese, were abandoned in the ninth century.84 79 

Dietler has noted a similar use of external objects within Halstatt societies (1996: 112). Hurwit 1985: 194. On the transformation of the alphabet, see Johnston 1983; Stoddart and Whitley 1988. 81  Helms 1993: 3. 82  Whitley 1991a. 83  Lemos 2002: 218–19. 84  Morris notes that by 1000 bce most of the settlements created in the post-­Mycenaean period had failed (2007: 217). 80 

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If a ‘Big Man’ is to survive, he must ameliorate risk by seeking to collaborate with others in the immediate locality.85 Collaboration may also be sought through relations with other ‘Big Men’, resulting in the formation of a network that cuts across territories, where allies help each other out in times of crisis. This is an activity that is essential for survival in the Mediterranean.86 Again, we may see these patterns of contact in the material record through a study of pottery styles and contexts.87 In the tenth and ninth centuries, pottery from Euboea can be found in the Cycladic islands, the north-­west Aegean and central Greece, as well as Anatolia, Macedonia, Cyprus and the Levant, along with reciprocal imports.88 Attic Protogeometric style influenced pottery styles in Boeotia, in the Aegean islands and central Crete and in the areas of the Argolid and Corinthia.89 Argolid Protogeometric pottery influenced styles at Corinth and Cos, and there are visible Spartan influences on Messenian pottery in the late tenth and ninth centuries bce.90 The patterns of sharing are distinct and indicate contact between groups from within territories rather than a simple flow of goods from one region to another. Eder suggests that similarities in the pottery styles of western Greece and the Ionian islands show regular contacts between these areas and contrasts with the absence of west Greek pottery in Italy and Epirus at the same time.91 New pottery with a style similar to that of Messenia and the Argolid becomes common to most of Laconia in the Protogeometric period.92 Similar groupings have been identified at Laconia, Ithaca and Achaea and in the southern Argolid.93 For Morgan, the geographical extent of pre-­eighth-­century styles and their distributions indicate the presence of political units.94 The appearance of similar images of ­feasting, hunting, chariots, seafaring and warfare on pottery from sites in central Greece, Lefkandi and the Peloponnese further suggests shared elite interests and life85 

Crielaard 2006: 288; Mazarakis Ainian 2001: 147; Whitley 1991a. Donlan 1985: 303–4; Purcell 2005b: 254–5. For cautions on the application of network theory to ancient evidence, see Brughmans 2010. 87  See Mauss 1954. 88  Lemos and Hatcher 1991; Crielaard 2006: 289–90. 89  Snodgrass 1971: 403. 90  Snodgrass 1971: 403; on Sparta, see Eder 2006: 562. For further examples, see Snodgrass 1971: 403, 85–8. 91  Eder 2006: 562. 92  Cartledge 2002: 72; Lemos 2002: 194. 93  Lemos calls this the ‘western koinē’ (2002: 194); on the Southern Argolid, see Langdon 1995: esp. 64, 68. 94  Morgan 2003: 27. 86 

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styles and an intensification of contacts between these areas in the Protogeometric period.95 As Crielaard notes, pottery can be part of a complex system of elite exchange, reciprocity and shared social conventions that reinforce the links between groups.96 External objects are important in these networks as a currency of exchange that bonds relationships. The gift of an external artefact raises the recipient to the level of the donor. The two participants in the exchange share access to exclusive  material and information. Ownership of the items sets them apart from others within their community, reinforcing their ­individual status and mutual accord. As the object travels  through different  networks, the meaning of the object alters  within these patterns of  exchange, information and display.97 The growth of elite networks produced new material expressions of status and power and the creation of new locations in which to interact.98 The establishment of altars and hearths showed individual largesse, and their visibility within and between communities developed a symbolic landscape around which elites moved, engaged and developed identities.99 This may explain why many of the oldest cult buildings are not in areas where the polis is attested, such as the tenth-­century bce Building ΣΤ at Chalcidice.100 It also explains why some sanctuaries take on the mantle of Pan-­Hellenic sites: Morgan calls Olympia the ‘meeting place of petty chiefs of the west’.101 Again this makes particular sense in light of the geography of Greece. The dominant political structure that developed was the ethnos. In this loose federal arrangement, a central meeting place for different elite groups to engage was a necessity. Where communities joined across distances to make a united group, a sanctuary cemented this ­relationship. De Polignac notes that this process can be identified in Laconia at the sanctuary of Apollo Hyacinthus and also in the sanctuary at Eleusis, Attica.102 He suggests that the process was controlled by a dominant aristocracy, with federal sanctuaries developing in areas where synoecism did not take place, such as Thermon in  95 

Crielaard 2006: 282. Crielaard 1998; Mee 2009: 43. Sommer has noted that the Phoenician diaspora was bound into a network by the movement of goods and people (2007).  97  Kistler 2010.  98  Morgan 2003: 108–9; see also J. M. Hall 2007: 85.  99  For the hearth as symbol of the political group, see Drerup 1969: 123–7; on the importance of the temple hearth to elite identity, see Mazarakis Ainian 1997. On local identities, see Morgan 2003: 114f on the sanctuary at Kalapodi. 100  J. M. Hall 2007: 86. 101  Morgan 1993: 21; 1990: 92, 57–105; Instone 2007: 73. 102  De Polignac 1994: 14.  96 

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Aetolia.103 Sanctuaries offered a point for meetings with outsiders, which may explain the masks in the sanctuary of Artemis Orthia and the wealth of coastal sanctuaries, such as the sanctuary of Hera at Samos and that of Artemis at Ephesus.104 External objects become important in early Greek communities as symbols of elite identity and membership of an elite, trans-­local group that existed above and beyond the local community. The creation of these trans-­local groups may have established a pattern for such relationships that continued into the Classical period.105 In light of this, it is unsurprising that we find evidence of meeting places outside of the sites of early Greek settlements. For Osborne, the pattern of dispersed feasting in pre-­700 bce Attica is evidence of cult behaviour and linked to territorial claims, but such spaces also offer neutral meeting places for groups to engage.106 The sites at Hyampolis in Phocis and Kombothekra in Elis have evidence from the eleventh and tenth centuries bce and sit on routes of ­communication; other sanctuaries, such as those of Artemis at Ephesus and Hera at Samos, lie on communication points at coasts or rivers.107 Morgan notes that in the eleventh century bce, there is an open-­air roadside shrine at Isthmia with evidence for dining and ‘little else’.108 At Athens, there is evidence of feasting at Mount Hymettus and on other mountains.109 There is also significant evidence for dining and drinking at sites some distance from communities, such as the Isthmian sanctuary outside Corinth. Feasts at such sites become an important locus for competitive display in which access to external artefacts is used to reflect and reinforce status.110 The dispersed feasting sites created a unique, elite landscape that was apart from the local community and offered symbolic authority to those with the knowledge of how to traverse it.111 Marginal sites provided neutral spaces for interaction and avoided the need to enter the territory of another group.112 They were also difficult to access, and the ability to make the journey acted as a further means of status differentiation. The journey to the top of 103 

De Polignac 1994: 15. For Artemis Orthia see Rose 1929; De Polignac 1994: 15–16. 105  Herman 1987; Mitchell 1997. 106  Osborne 1994: 160. 107  De Polignac 1994: 5–7; Morgan 1993: 33; on the Samian Heraion and wealth from trade, see Shipley 1987: 54–65. 108  Morgan 1993: 19. See also Morgan 1994: 113; Bookidis 2003: 247. 109  Osborne 1996a: 88; Langdon 1976: 100–6. 110  Dietler 1996. 111  On elite Scythian marking of the landscape, see Rolle 2011. 112  Morgan 1993: 31, 34. 104 

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Mount  Hymettus in Attica whilst carrying feasting paraphernalia was itself a form of conspicuous display.113 The smaller scale of evidence and central location of Olympia in the tenth century bce suggest that it was an ideal meeting place for local networks.114 The same observations can be made of the Amyclaeon in Laconia, the Poseidonian at Isthmia, the Kabirion at Boeotia and the Argive Heraion.115 Marginal sites are separated by their geographical location and can be separated further by their attachment to the supernatural. Mount Hymettus was protected by Zeus, the god of hospitality; Perachora was linked to his wife Hera.116 Sites that are owned by the gods rather than man offer an excellent and safe place for the negotiations of local and wider elites: they also cement the elite status of the group as those with access to gods. The visitors feast and include the gods in their feast by sacrificing to them; hence the first construction in most sanctuary sites is the altar, as we can see at Perachora, Eretria and the Samian Heraion.117 This illustrates the site’s importance as a place of communication between man and man and between man and gods. De Polignac concludes that the evidence from these early sites of shared meals and votives in the tenth century bce represents a ‘stabilization of contacts and exchanges following the instability of earlier periods’.118 We have here examples of glocalisation and globalisation as described by Vlassopoulos.119 The collection and use of external objects in the local community differentiates the user and reinforces his local status. The acquisition of the objects also reveals participation in wider networks between Greek-­speaking and non-­Greek communities. In light of this evidence, the initial concentration of external goods at Athens and Lefkandi is unsurprising. Both sites have easy access to the Aegean Sea, and the concentration reflects their early ability to engage with networks to the east.120 The smaller quantities of external objects present in communities outside Lefkandi and Athens suggest that the same process could be developing at these sites but at a slower rate. External artefacts were carried out from 113 

On drinking and dining pottery at Mount Hymettus, see Langdon 1976: 55–71. Morgan 1993: 21; Gebhard and Hermans make a similar observation about the use of sanctuaries by the ‘scattered population of Corinthia’ (1992: 51). 115  De Polignac 1994: 5. 116  Langdon 1976 (Mount Hymettus); Morgan 1994 (Perachora). For a study of Dark Age cult sites, see M. K. Langdon 1997. 117  Coldstream 2003: 321; Simon 1997: 128. 118  De Polignac 1994: 10. 119  Vlassopoulos 2013: esp. 11–32. 120  Fantalkin links the increased quantities here to Euboean expansion in the Levant and the political advantage accrued by that contact (2006: 200). 114 

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their initial locations and into trans-­local networks, where they were used to establish and cement relations with elites in wider mainland networks. This could reflect secondary acquisition via connections with Lefkandi and Athens rather than contacts with the original ­producers.121 Such patterns of contact and exchange are not exclusive to ancient Greece. The listed attributes of the Mesopotamian hero Gilgamesh include building, travelling and acquiring precious foreign goods.122 We find goods from the Near East in Etruscan graves and Greek goods in Black Sea communities.123 External artefacts are ‘a cultural text’ that can be used to reflect and reinforce elite status but do not create it.124 The shape, style and decoration of external artefacts differentiated them from domestic material and allowed them to act as a sign that the holder had participated in elite exchanges. As they filtered through into trans-­local networks, the acquisition of external objects became a shared language of communication between elites from different communities. As the forms, styles and shapes were external, they were independent; they did not prioritise the local culture of one group above another but remained apart from both. As such, external and transformed objects facilitated trans-­local engagements in the ninth and eighth centuries bce. F RO M G O D ’ S H O U S E TO W H I T E H O U S E I N T H E E I G H T H T O S I X T H C E N T U R I E S bce In the second half of the eighth century bce, new types of external objects begin to appear and the context of deposition changes from graves to sanctuary sites.125 Metal bowls and fibulae from Ionia and Phrygia appear at Samos, Ephesus, Smyrna and Emporio.126 In the sanctuary of Poseidon at Isthmia, tripods, similar to the example shown in Figure 1.6, first appear in the eighth century bce.127 Protomic cauldrons appear at sanctuary sites with handles that have distinctly ‘eastern’ motifs, such as the sphinx.128 Bronzes are also 121 

Wiessner notes the social value of objects amongst knowledgeable players (1989: 58–9). Helms 1993: 5. On Etruscan ‘orientalising’ see Naso 2000; Rathje 1990. On Black Sea communities, see Tsetskhladze 2010. 124  Shanks 1999: 14; Osborne 2007: 91. 125  Strøm 1992. 126  Birmingham 1961: 186 and fig. 11; Young 1964: 55. 127  Morgan 2001b: 46. 128  Muscarella 1992. On borrowings of eastern composite figures in Greek art, see Childs 2003: 49–70. 122  123 

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Fig. 1.6. Replica miniature tripod (photograph by author).

found at sites over a wider area in the Near East and Mediterranean, such as Urartu, Gordion and Salamis in Cyprus and in Italian graves, suggesting the existence of wider networks in this period.129 Hurwit 129  Coldstream 2003: 363, although pottery remains the only type of Greek object found in the Near East up to the sixth century bce (Waldbaum 1994: 60).

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notes Egyptian influences in the monumental figures of young men (kouroi) and young women (korai), while Reede points to the Near Eastern origins of drinking rituals.130 In order to understand why patterns of deposition and use alter and the implications of these changes, we will look more closely at the eighth-­and seventh-­century evidence. Networking with the gods One of the more common functions of external artefacts found in the period up to and including the eighth century bce is feasting. There are bowls or cups for drinking, jugs for pouring and kraters for wine mixing in graves from Lefkandi and Athens.131 Evidence of feasting is not confined to these locations but can be found by the graveside of rich burials and also in settlement sites.132 The Toumba building contained a large amount of pottery in various shapes and styles associated with cooking, eating and drinking.133 Evidence of feasting is also present at settlement sites. At Nichoria in Unit IV-­4, Room 3 contained the remains of drinking cups and a range of animal bones, including sheep, goat and bovid; small finds here included part of an iron knife, a fragment of an iron axe head and a bronze shield boss or phaleron.134 Room 3 in Nichoria also contained a paved circle, with charcoal and sheep and goat bones at its western edge, which Coulson suggested were the remains of sacrifices.135 The shared consumption of food and drink can create and bind groups on local, trans-­local and global levels. It can reinforce links between discrete groups, whether they are family groups, wider elite groups or even elites and gods through shared sacrifices. The feast is a display of largesse and power, which reinforces the status of the ‘Big Man’ and his control of resources in his locality, or impresses a 130  Coulton 1977: 32; Hurwit 1985: 190–1; Reade 1995. For evidence from Near Eastern texts, see Isaiah 28.1, 3–4 and Amos 6.4–6. On drinking equipment in the Near East, see Moorey 1980 and Reade 1995. Rathje notes that the vessels in Etruscan scenes are similar to Near Eastern rather than Greek models (1994: 96), suggesting a social fluidity that transcends modern geographical boundaries (Purcell 1990). 131  Popham 1994 (Lefkandi); Coldstream 2003: 58–60 (Athens). For a list of Near Eastern items in Protogeometric Aegean contexts, see Lemos 2002: 226–7, and for Protogeometric pottery in the wider Mediterranean, see Lemos 2002: 228–9. 132  See Athenian Agora grave (D16.2); Coldstream 2003: 30. 133  Catling and Lemos estimate that there were 26,000 sherds weighing around half a ton within the building (1990: 3). Details of the pottery are listed in the catalogue (Catling and Lemos 1990: 87–135). 134  Coulson 1983: 37. 135  Coulson 1983: 38–9.

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visitor. It is a means of inclusion or exclusion that reflects status.136 Similarly, the control or withholding of wine can also be an act of power that reflects the ability to control resources and, through wine’s hallucinatory effects, shows the power to control men by transforming the user.137 Within the context of the feast, artefacts are not mere vessels but offer insights into the exclusive behaviour of elite groups.138 The use of special vessels can play a key role in reinforcing status at feasts not only because they show skills in acquisition but also because they reveal special, exclusive knowledge of how such items should be used.139 An aryballos might not be hugely valuable in its own right but the symbolism of its decoration, and its role in carrying precious oil to clean the athlete or anoint the corpse, carry a message to the holders or users of engagement with external ideas and aristocratic lifestyles.140 Figure 1.7 shows a model of a drinking cup from the seventh century bce. The cup is clearly for the purpose of drinking but its shape, with the large belly and high, rounded handles, emphasises this. This is a cup designed to draw the eye of any onlooker and their attention is further captured by the scenes painted on the vase. From the eighth century onwards, scenes of elite occasions begin to appear on a range of vases associated with feasting or visible display.141 There are funerals, battles and, as shown in Figure 1.7, chariot racing. In using a krater or cup at a feast, the holder displayed knowledge of drinking rituals, whether these related to the type of occasion, to the history of the artefact and its contents or to the correct way to behave when using it, such as reclining, holding the artefact in a particular way or participating in certain types of conversation.142 In holding the vessel and moving it to study the images or in passing it around the drinking group, the users interacted with the scenes on the artefacts and were presented with an opportunity to share knowledge and information about them, whether real or imagined. Morris notes that from the eighth century onwards, drinking activities increasingly begin to take ‘eastern’ shapes, with specific spaces, equipment and behaviour.143 This suggests an increasing need for 136 

Tandy 1997; Dietler 1996. Dietler 2006. 138  Luke 1994: 26. 139  Dietler 1990: 377; Miller 2011. 140  Riva 2005: 205, 206; Rasmussen 1991: 66. 141  For examples, see Hurwit 1985: 93–124. 142  On drinking rituals, see Murray 1990b; 1994. On wine drinking and status, see Dietler 1996: 113. 143  I. Morris 1997, 13. 137 

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Fig. 1.7. Replica of Geometric-­style kantharos cup from the seventh century bce with chariot scene (photograph by author).

specialised knowledge as a means to facilitate engagements between elites and to differentiate their status. As we have already seen, the acquisition and maintenance of status are dynamic processes. In order to differentiate themselves within their peer group, it appears that elites began to compete in the use of external artefacts. This need for differentiation may be reflected in changes to the types of external artefacts found in the eighth century bce. Tripods, human and horse figurines and monumental vases have little use in daily life; they are designed to be seen and admired.144 There are also artefacts associated with drinking and feasting at sanctuaries, such as cauldrons, which show no signs of use, and there are horse bronzes which are deliberately and visibly 144 

M. K. Langdon 1997: 116; Morgan 1993: 24–6; I. Morris 1997: 24.

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Fig. 1.8. Bronze figurine showing man and centaur, mid-­eighth century bce. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Accession Number: 17.190.2072. Gift of J. Pierpont Morgan, 1917. www.metmuseum.org.

not local or used.145 Rather than gifts to men, external objects have become gifts to the gods. The small bronze figurine in Figure 1.8 shows an encounter between a man and a centaur. Although it is small, the figurine is composed of metal, making it a suitable gift for a deity, and its scene shows knowledge of a world beyond the world of men, where gods and fantastic creatures roam. It may illustrate a scene from a story or participation in occasions where such stories were told. Within one small figurine, we can see a complex network 145 

Strøm 1992.

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of statements about membership in elite circles and communication with gods. Objects given to the gods also begin to increase significantly in size and are clearly designed for display. Indeed, it should come as no surprise that as links between groups are forged and cemented at sanctuaries, so these begin to acquire a role as places of display. Men compete in races and athletic competitions for prizes, and elite visitors jostle to outdo the gifts of others.146 Overseas communities build treasuries at Pan-­Hellenic sites, such as Olympia, to reinforce their place in the network and allow them to join in the game of competitive display.147 Whilst the grave and the ceremony of the burial offered a degree of kudos within the local community, far more status could be acquired by a public dedication amongst peers. This increase in dedication led to the construction of a place to display the gifts before the god and fellow man, and so a more permanent house was built to contain them. Thus, while secure evidence for pre-­eighth-­century cult buildings is scarce, the eighth century sees a large increase in the development of cult sites and a new link begins between sanctuary sites and the deposition of external artefacts.148 Riva links the deposition of external goods in sanctuaries to the development of a civic identity, but this is simply a shift in the context of display, and it does not automatically follow that the shift was due to a citizen revolution.149 External objects remain a signifier of elite status and membership of the elite community.150 Tripods, horses and games are symbols of aristocratic life.151 In exchanging them with the gods and with each other at sanctuary sites, elites are forging shared bonds of identity and reinforcing their status through competing for the hands of the gods.152 For Langdon, the votives from early Pan-­Hellenic sanctuaries are indicative of the elite force behind their selection and development.153 The ability to acquire such items and leave them at a sanctuary site shows wealth and knowledge of elite patterns of behaviour and so makes a clear statement about the power and status of the donor.154 There is also a 146 

Morgan 1990. Antonaccio 2007a: 219; Lawrence 1983: 143. 148  Morgan 2003: 108. 149  Riva 2005: 208; Forsdyke 2005: 22. Strøm argues that sanctuary evidence should be separated from the search for the polis (1992). 150  Niemeyer 2004: 249. 151  Langdon 1987: 113. 152  On gift exchange between elites at these sites, see Morris 1992b; Langdon 1987. 153  Langdon 1987: 112–13. 154  Bohen calls the donors ‘upper class’ (1997: 54); see Scott 2010 for a spatial study of competitive display in Delphi and Olympia. 147 

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competitive element to the gifts. Hall links extra-­urban sanctuaries to competition between local elite groups.155 De Polignac suggests that the armour offered at the eighth-­century Heraion reveals the ‘ritualisation’ of aristocratic conflict, which focuses more on gift giving and less on warfare.156 He further notes the prestige attached to distance: to give at Olympia is the preserve of those with the resources and power to transport gifts and themselves across long distances.157 The act of commissioning and carrying a monumental dedication to a sanctuary involved an element of performance that potentially brought the donors kudos in their local community as well as status amongst their peers once the gift was transported and placed. White houses of the gods: the birth of stone temples Once a genie is let out of a bottle, it is difficult to force it back in. Competition between elites began to accelerate at sanctuary sites as elites sought new ways to enhance their status amongst their peers. In the seventh and sixth centuries bce, stone temples began to appear at sanctuary sites and spread across the mainland Greek landscape with astonishing speed. They represent a new direction in the use of external ideas. We travel from mobile gestures to fixed gestures and from smaller-­scale to monumental transformation. In much the same vein, competition between elites in the sanctuary and the city led to the use of external ideas and forms to illustrate and authorise the exercise of power. The origins of the temple can be traced to the eighth century bce.158 Early temples were constructed from simple materials with little to distinguish them from other buildings.159 The apsidal temple of Hera Akraia at Perachora could have been built as early as 800 bce; it was replaced in around 725 bce.160 The site of Hera at Samos was also in use in the ninth century bce, although the dating of the buildings is less certain.161 For many scholars, temples are a sign of political change and a stage in the development of the polis.162 Shipley sees the construction of the Hekatompedon 155  156  157  158  159  160  161  162 

J. M. Hall 2007: 87. De Polignac 1994: 13. De Polignac 1994: 11. Coldstream 2003: 317. Hurwit 1985: 74; Coldstream 2003: 322–7. Snodgrass 1971: 409; Coldstream, 2003: 322. Snodgrass 1971: 410–12; Coldstream 2003: 327; Coulton 1977: 31–2. Morris 1987: 189–92; Osborne 1996a: 83–4; Riva 2005: 213–16.

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at Samos as a sign of civic consciousness, revealing the ability to mobilise large amounts of labour and materials.163 For Snodgrass, the rise in sanctuary deposition and corresponding decrease at graves show constraints placed on elites by the community.164 We have already noted the importance of sanctuary sites in elite identity and should be cautious about jettisoning elite links to the temple too quickly. In the seventh century the development of temples is often piecemeal, with a stone building and wooden columns, as can be seen at Samos, Ano Mazaraki, Tegea, Thermon, Argos, Eretria and Gonnus in Thessaly.165 The stone temples reproduced the shape of the earlier mud-­brick and wood structures.166 Lawrence suggests that this is deliberate: at the temple of Hera, Olympia, the wooden columns were replaced by stone in a piecemeal manner, suggesting that the original form retained a meaning.167 At Athens, while dedications begin on the Acropolis at around 750 bce, the earliest stone temple on the Acropolis was not set up until 610 bce.168 Glowacki links these dedications directly to elite competition, pointing to the presence of horse images.169 On Delos, the Oikos of the Naxians, a three-­aisled hall, was also set up in the seventh century bce.170 In the sixth century, a stone temple was set up to Aphaia of Aegina, at around 570 bce. Other sixth-­century temples appear at Naxos, Paros, Calauria and Hermione.171 Stone temples also appear at east Greek sites in the mid-­sixth century, at Samos and Ephesus, and in the later sixth century at Didyma.172 Shanks calls the early temple designs ‘innovatory’, in their use of squared masonry colonnades, tiled roofs and painted decorations.173 Burkert sees the early temples of the eighth century as inspired by engagement with the east.174 Coulton, on the other hand, notes that these buildings reveal Egyptian influence in their architectural 163 

Shipley 1987: 28. Snodgrass 1980: 52–4; Osborne 1996a: 101. See also de Polignac 1995; Whitley 2001: 146–50. 165  Lawrence 1983: 119–20 (Samos); for the remainder, see Spawforth 2006: 13, 150–74; Lawrence 1983: 117. 166  Lawrence 1983: 124. 167  Lawrence 1983: 125. 168  On early Acropolis dedications, see Touloupa 1972. 169  Glowacki 1998: 81. 170  Spawforth 2006: 195; Coulton 1976: 233. 171  Lawrence 1983: 166, 174, 178. 172  Lawrence 1983: 166. 173  Shanks 1999: 62; Coulton notes that monumental architecture appeared first in the Peloponnese (1977: 35). 174  Burkert 1992: 19–20. 164 

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shape.175 Many of the sixth-­century bce temples have evidence of decoration. At Didyma these include human figures and sphinxes, reflecting eastern motifs.176 The decorations may also reflect elite lifestyles. Ridgway points to a clear link between travel myths and decoration on temples at overseas settlements.177 These are places constructed by elite travellers for the purposes of display and e­ ngagement. Tales of travelling heroes and gods reflect and reinforce the elite lifestyle and networking.178 At Delphi, the Alcmaeonid family constructed a new temple for Apollo whose pediment showed Apollo in his chariot.179 The god of overseas travel was thus displayed to all onlookers as an elite male. The role of the sanctuary as a place of display and engagement was further emphasised in the construction of monumental treasuries, especially at Pan-­Hellenic sites. At Delphi, the treasury of Cypselus was set up in the seventh century bce to hold and display his gifts from Gyges and Croesus.180 At Olympia, the treasury of the Sybarites was set up at around 600–575 bce, with many more treasuries from colonies in Sicily and Magna Graecia following in the sixth century.181 Like that of temples, the appearance of treasuries at sanctuaries is a statement of power in an elite, public context: it reflects and reinforces membership of a trans-­local elite group that transcends the individual poleis.182 Scholars offer a range of reasons for the emergence of temples. For Georges, there is a simple economic explanation: it was a time of increasing prosperity.183 Morgan suggests that the emergence and spread of monumental temples were due to inter-­regional emulation, but acknowledges that variations make this emulation ‘superficial’.184 As we have observed, there is a strong element of display in the form of the temple: Lawrence calls the first temple the ‘oldest type of building designed to be seen externally more than internally’.185 Hall suggests that temples were set up as individual projects.186 It is more than possible that early temples were a paean to the power of elite 175  Coulton 1977: 32–50. Tomlinson disagrees, noting that the models for Greek s­ anctuaries imitated those of the Levant (1976: 22). 176  Lawrence 1983: 166; Guralnick 1997. 177  Ridgway 1991. 178  On myth and settlement, see Malkin 1987; 1994. 179  Ridgway 1991: 107. 180  See Scott 2010: 42. 181  Mallwitz 1972: 170–3 (treasury of the Sybarites). On treasury buildings, see Neer 2001. 182  Stein-­Hölkeskamp 2009: 103; Kaplan 2006: 147; Whitley 2013: 408. 183  Georges 2001: 3. 184  Morgan 2003: 108. 185  Lawrence 1983: 137. 186  J. M. Hall 2007: 86. See also Morgan 1990: 203–4, 217; Snodgrass 1980: 7.

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families.187 Stone temples offered a neutral space for elite display but also revealed the power of the constructor through his ability to mobilise resources across great distances. It may be no coincidence that the first stone temple, that of Artemis on Corfu, was set up in an overseas settlement created by the Corinthians. It marked the landscape in a permanent and visible manner and expressed the power of those who had marshalled human and physical resources to create it.188 Other temples followed at overseas sites in Sicily and Magna Graecia, such as the temple of Hera at Poseidonia at around 550 bce, Temple BII at Metapontion in 550 bce and the temple of Apollo at Syracuse in 565 bce.189 The temple may also be seen as a transformation of the power structures of the Near East. We know that Greeks were in contact with the communities in Lydia and Egypt: Stronach notes that Alyattes, king of Lydia, was using ‘fine stone architecture’ at the end of the seventh century.190 Yet we do not find ‘palaces’ for rulers or elites in the material record of the Greek world.191 The construction of such buildings in the small, competitive environment of individual communities would be an incendiary act: it would disrupt the harmony of local elite networks. Instead, monumental display and status enhancement could be attained by building palaces for the gods who supported the elites. The benefactors gained kudos from their display of wealth and gift to the gods, and the local elites gained a site for displays of status. Morris argues that in the absence of a palace society with large residences to display gifts, these were placed at the grave and in sanctuaries.192 Muscarella too suggests that donations in Greek temples by eastern rulers show a desire to negotiate relationships with Greek gods in the absence of single rulers and as a prelude to approaching local elites.193 Alyattes gave gifts to Delphi and Dodona before approaching Greek communities.194 According to Strabo, there were two Lydian treasuries at Delphi, which overseas rulers used as a context to engage with Greek elites.195 Pan-­Hellenic sanctuaries and Pan-­Hellenic festivals provided key 187  J. M. Hall notes the link of temples and tyrants (2007: 86). The Alcmaeonid family built a new temple for Apollo at Delphi whilst in exile (Hdt. 6.62). 188  See Lawrence 1983: 139; Spawforth 2006: 177. 189  For details of stone temples in Magna Graecia and Sicily, see Spawforth 2006: 112–130. 190  Stronach 2008: 153. 191  Hansen and Fischer-­Hansen dismiss scholars’ identification of tyrants’ palaces in Greece as ‘a myth of modern historians’ (1994: 26). 192  Morris 2009: 78; Niemeyer 2004: 249. 193  Muscarella 1989. 194  Hdt. 1.14, 25, 50–51, 169; Paus. 3.10.8; Morris 1992b; Scott 2010: 45; Kaplan 2006. 195  Strabo 4.26.

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places for elite engagement.196 At festivals the sanctuary mimicked the functions of the eastern courts. They were places for renewing links, competing, displaying status and making alliances under the watchful eye of the ruling deity.197 Festivals were attended by poets and sculptors as well as elites.198 These activities clearly reflect the investment of elites in sanctuary building and activities performed at sanctuaries.199 Attendance was a sign of membership, which is why treasuries were set up at mainland sites by Greek overseas communities. These treasuries were a strong statement of belonging as well as an opportunity to reflect and reinforce status through returning resources to the mainland across huge distances.200 Competitions at Pan-­Hellenic sites were attended by elite families and acted as a safety valve for competitive instincts that ensured the survival of trans-­local accords. The young men honed their military skills, while the older men entered and sponsored teams.201 The festivals and competitions created a circuit of events that were exclusive to those with the means to participate, although it is important to note that local non-­elites were not precluded from attending.202 As Shanks so succinctly puts it, sacred games ‘define a community of those who are able to take part’.203 Participation in competitive events segued naturally into dining at the end of the day and led to the re-­forging and renewing of bonds of alliance.204 It resulted in an ‘interstate community’ of elites who shared knowledge and practised patterns of behaviour in dining, competing and gift giving that differentiated their status and bonded them as a unique, discrete group.205 The appearance of external items, such as bronze cauldrons with sirens, griffins and bull’s-­ head attachments, eastern phialai, and marble perrirhanteria showing women with lions in seventh-­century bce ­sanctuary contexts, is a testament to this.206

196 

Stein-­Hölkeskamp 2009: 106. Murray 1980: 202–3. See also Stahl 1987: 50–1; Stein-­Hölkeskamp 1989: 117–19 and Anderson 2005 on marriage alliances. On dining and sanctuaries in the Near East, see Burkert 1991: 18. 198  Antonaccio 2007b: 268. 199  Foxhall 2005: 246. 200  Antonaccio 2007b: 272. 201  Golden 2008. 202  Morgan 1990: 39, 212–13. On non-­elites, see S. P. Morris 1997: 65; Kyrieleis 1988. 203  Shanks 1999: 145. 204  Morgan 1990: 20, 218–20. 205  Shanks 1999: 145. 206  On these objects, see Boardman 1999: 65–6, 68, 74. 197 

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Competing for power The geo-­ political composition of early Greece meant that there were many small, independent communities within a comparatively small space. While this structure allowed the natural resources to be exploited to their fullest advantage, it also created an impossibly competitive society, with more and more groups fighting to control resources and to assert status over others in their locality. Sanctuaries offered a controlled context for elite display but could not maintain an absolute control. In the seventh and sixth century bce, there are signs that elite competition spilt over within certain, specific communities, such as Athens, and led to in-­fighting between elites.207 In the Archaic period, we find evidence for monumental building in settlements, which we read alongside later stories of tyrants seizing sole power and exercising it unfairly.208 Scholars have noted that word ‘tyrant’ is not Greek but ‘borrowed from an eastern language’.209 Both the word ‘tyrant’ and the idea of sole rule may have been inspired by contact with the absolute monarchies of the Near East.210 Having observed the absolute power of eastern rulers, it is possible that individuals in Greek communities sought to emulate them, including their building programmes.211 Hall suggests that tyrants were aristocrats who refused to share power with other elites.212 The tyrant, the exercise of sole power and civic monumentality can be seen as transformations of external practices. Most scholars agree that changes in the Archaic period are due to stasis in the relevant communities, but they disagree as to its cause. Raaflaub argues that elite in-­fighting and its destabilisation of the community brought about egalitarianism.213 He suggests that the differences between elite and farmer were small, requiring elites to ‘recognise and respect’ the views of the masses.214 For Morris too, political reform and democracy sprang from the resistance of the many to the behaviour of the elite few, stemming from attempts by the elite to differentiate themselves.215 In support of 207 

We will look at evidence for sixth-­century Athens in Chapter 2. For an overview of the evidence for tyrants seizing power, see Stein-­Hölkeskamp 2009. Austin 1990: 289; see also J. M. Hall 2007: 139. 210  J. M. Hall 2007: 139. 211  Sherratt 1990; Drews 1981. See also Bernal 1993. 212  J. M. Hall 2007: 140. For Aristotle, while later tyrannies arose from the people, earlier tyrants were basileis who exceeded their ancestral privileges (Arist. Pol. 1310b.15–20). 213  Raaflaub 1997: 57. 214  Raaflaub 2000: 59. 215  I. Morris 1989: 514; 1996. On class conflict, see Ober 1989; Rose 2012. 208  209 

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his argument Morris points to two attitudes in Archaic poets: there are ‘middling’ poets (Hesiod and Solon) who reject elite society, and ‘elite’ poets who rejoice in a love of luxury, such as Sappho and Alcaeus.216 Luxury is firmly associated with Lydia.217 Osborne draws material change into this model, noting that while early Greek use of the east was essentially a private concern, after 700 bce eastern motifs increasingly appear in public.218 He suggests that communities began to seek the benefits that the external connections previously conferred exclusively on the elite, so the polis took over elite symbols and made them community symbols.219 Yet the picture is not so simple; while Archaic poetry is littered with terms that denote status, such as kaloi, agathoi and kakoi, the desire to remove power from elite groups appears to come from other members of the elite.220 Solon does not condemn the rich but places himself between rich and poor, without giving in to either.221 For Forsdyke, intra-­elite competition was the driving force behind changes in this period, with the polis as an ‘unintended outcome’.222 For Eder too, the polis emerged from the abilities, actions and effects of aristocrats.223 Archaic evidence remains dominated by elite needs and elite behaviour.224 Archaic poetry was written by those with the time to write and the time to attend either symposia or festivals to perform it. Ulf suggests that Hesiod’s poetry reflects criticism of elite behaviour rather than the existence of an elite group.225 Even Solon, who is normally given a role in Athenian history as a reformer, is represented by Demosthenes as a man capable of holding the people in contempt.226 Archaic poets who criticise luxury-­lovers and demand political change do so within an elite framework: they are arguing not for social reform 216  I. Morris 1997; 2000: ch. 5. His view is shared by Kurke (1999: 23–32) and J. M. Hall (2007: 130) but criticised by Hammer (2004) and Kistler (2004), who suggests that argument has been allowed to shape the evidence here. 217  I. Morris 1997: 12–13. 218  Osborne 1996a: 167. 219  Osborne 1996a: 187–97. 220  For example Theognis 28, 31–5, 39–42, 847–5, 183–92 (Edmonds 1931); J. M. Hall 2007: 130. 221  Solon fr. 5.5–6 (West 1992). J. M. Hall notes that Solon ‘mediates’ (2007: 130). 222  Forsdyke 2005: 16. 223  Eder 1998: 123. 224  It is important to acknowledge that acquisition can also reflect aspiration, although evidence for social mobility is easier to observe in later periods. See Connor 1994; Forsdyke 2005: 12; Rosenbloom 2002. 225  Ulf 2009: 98. 226  Solon (Dem. 19.254–6). Pomeroy, Burstein, Donlan and Roberts note that he defends the right of the elite to land and government (1999: 166). For a discussion of Solon, political change and external artefacts, see Chapter 3.

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but for power to be directed towards their faction.227 External ideas are employed in an intellectual battle for the authority to exercise power, leading to the development of narratives of ‘high culture’ and ‘counter culture’.228 As Foxhall succinctly suggests, the Archaic poleis were little more than a ‘stand-­off between the members of the elite who ran them’.229 We can see evidence for competition and display in the acquisition of external goods. Archaic trade is related not to need but to desire, with goods acquiring a premium from their links to distant places.230 Acquisition brings status.231 Wine was imported into Egypt from Greece and Phoenicia.232 Craftsmen were sought after by elites to fuel the demand for status objects: Solon allegedly encouraged craftsmen to settle, while the tyrants of Corinth sought out craftsmen too.233 Solon observed that a man was happy ‘with a foreign xenos’, which offered a means to acquire external goods and enhance status.234 This is no social revolution but a ‘process of complicity’ whereby the tyrant brings order and justice in exchange for power.235 It is redolent of the ‘Big Man’ structure that we saw earlier in this chapter. Power centres on the figure of a charismatic individual, but the individual is vulnerable to attack by others who would rule and can be overthrown by another putative tyrant. Tyrants have political power but can also act as Near Eastern rulers do in controlling the movement of people and resources around them.236 The tyrants of Corinth, as we will see later in the chapter, moved populations and founded cities. Indeed, Cook notes that the birth of the city may stem from military rather than social needs.237 Hall observes that tyrants maintain power by conspicuous display, self-­publicity, intermarriage and maintaining the support of the demos.238 Many of these features can be found in the story of the wedding of Agariste of Sicyon.239 Although this story was written in 227  Xenophanes is critical of luxuries learnt from the Lydians (fr. 3 Lesher 1992 = Ath. 12.526a), while Sappho opposes this with her statement ‘I love luxury’ (fr. 58.25–6 Lobel and Page 1955). On luxury and Colophon, see Mac Sweeney 2013: 123–9. 228  I. Morris 1997: 16. 229  Foxhall 1997: 119. 230  Foxhall 2005: 1998. 231  Niemeyer 2004: 249. 232  Hdt. 3.6. 233  Solon (Plut. Sol. 24.4); tyrants of Corinth (Hdt. 2.167.2). 234  Solon in Plato, Lysis 212e. 235  McGlew 1993: 5. For tales of tyrants ruling for and with the people, see Arist. Pol. 1315b; Pl. Resp. 8.565c–d. 236  On the power of tyrants (and monarchs) over people, see Arist. Pol. 1311a–b, 1314b. 237  Antonaccio 2007a: 220; Cook 1991. 238  J. M. Hall 2007: 141–2. 239  Hdt. 6.126–30.

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the Classical era, the link between public display and tyrants can be seen in the behaviour of Cleisthenes of Sicyon and also in the emergence of public buildings in the seventh and sixth centuries bce.240 There are civic buildings at Athens and Pallantion in Arcadia; Delphi and Olympia have bouleuteria in the sixth century bce.241 There is also evidence for urban construction projects, especially those related to temples and water supplies.242 Sixth-­century building is most frequently financed by the wealthy or by tyrants: the benefit to the community may be part of the pay-­off for the people’s support.243 As Morgan points out, decisions about the nature and location of inscriptions and public building and the issue of coinage were in the hands of the Archaic elite.244 The desire to construct monumental stone buildings illustrates and authorises the exercise of power in the community. It shows a command of resources, knowledge and power that sets the builder apart from other elites within the c­ ommunity and at the sanctuary. CORINTH Burkert links the changes of the eighth century bce directly to contacts with the east, arguing for an ‘orientalising revolution’ at this time, but ‘orientalising’ features were not unilaterally adopted and, as Morris notes, the earlier Geometric styles continued to be used in some areas of the Greek mainland.245 This offers persuasive evidence that the adoption or adaptation of eastern motifs was stimulated by internal socio-­political needs. In order to see how this worked in practice, we turn now to Corinth and a more specific study of ­reactions to external artefacts and ideas there. Early settlement and exchanges at Corinth There is no clear evidence for settlement or any sequence of burials at Corinth before the early Geometric period.246 Morgan notes that 240  On Archaic building, see Morgan 2003: 63; Hurwit 1985: 181; J. M. Hall 2007: 141; Camp 1986: 40. On the link between early polis architecture and rich families, see Thomas 2007: 147–8. 241  Morgan 2003: 74. 242  Camp 1986: 40. 243  Thomas 2007: 148; Shear 1978. 244  Morgan 2003: 76. 245  Burkert 1992; S. P. Morris 1997: 67–8. For cautions on the use of ‘orientalising’ as a category, see Gunter 2012. 246  Coldstream 2003: 38.

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the Early Iron Age population was ‘highly dispersed’ and remained loose-­knit even into the eighth century bce.247 Roebuck suggests that early settlement took the form of an ethnos organisation, consisting of a collection of villages.248 There is little evidence for external items or ideas at this time. While Athens is forging overseas links and beginning to use external artefacts in local dialogues of power, Corinth is not. However, there is evidence of engagements at a more local level and for contacts with wider groups on the Greek mainland. There are contacts with Argos but not with Athens. Corinthian potters from 830–770 bce learn to use the multiple brush from Argive potters but do not adopt the Geometric style from Attica.249 This is not an unusual pattern. Trends that developed in some regions did not automatically spread to others, as regions retained their own tastes in pottery. By the ninth century Corinth is exchanging pottery with groups outside its locality. Snodgrass notes that regions around the Gulf of Corinth and further west to Ithaca have similarities in their pottery styles that suggest contact with each other, though not with the rest of Greece.250 Corinthian pottery can be found distributed around Megara, Aegina, Mycenae and Medon, with larger quantities in the Gulf region, especially at Ithaca and Vitsa in Epirus.251 There is mid-­Geometric Corinthian pottery present at Delphi in the early eighth century bce.252 External objects do not play a role in these exchanges. The sites around Corinth at Perachora, Kenchreai and the sanctuary to Zeus on Mount Apesantios all become visible in the eighth century bce and are situated on routes of communication.253 Early evidence from Isthmia fits the patterns that we have already observed in other sites. There are signs of dining, with deposits of ash, bone and unburnt pottery, but no temples until c. 690–650 bce.254 Morgan suggests that the site was a meeting place for ‘scattered households’, which fits with the dispersed pattern of Corinthian settlement.255 Isthmia is also a marginal site, away from any community, and is situated next to a road, offering opportunities for display.256 It ­contains 247 

Morgan 1994: 115, 122. Roebuck 1972; Whitley 2001: 169. 249  Coldstream 2003: 36, 84. 250  Snodgrass 1971: 339. 251  Coldstream 2003: 85; Eder 2006: 563; Morgan 1988: 313. Sites include Phokis, Ithaca and Epirus (Morgan 1988: 314). 252  Coldstream 1968: ch. 3. 253  Bookidis 2003: 250–1. 254  Morgan 1994: 110, 113; see also Gebhard 1994. 255  Morgan 1994: 115. 256  Morgan 1994: 123. 248 

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status artefacts, such as tripods and other artefacts from wider communities such as Attica, including model boots.257 Perachora also follows the pattern of marginality, dining debris and later temple.258 Amongst the dedications at Perachora were model temples, reinforcing the idea that the whole temple building could be a gift to the god.259 At around this time, dedicatory patterns alter, matching the patterns that we observed in our more general study.260 Connections between Corinth and the east are now attested, with images of Astarte in the early temples in Corinth and Perachora.261 While external dedications at the temple of Hera Perachora are scarce before 725 bce, with only three scarabs, a few glass beads and an amber pendant, these increase substantially in the seventh century to reveal a wide range of links between Corinth and overseas communities.262 It is possible that these items were brought to Corinth by third parties, yet they still show engagements with outsiders in the city.263 The objects at Perachora are valuable but small, with 87 per cent of early metal offerings coming from the Levant.264 Indeed, so great is the number of dedications that Shanks suggests Perachora outstripped Delphi in importance at this time.265 Morgan calls it the richest shrine in Greece.266 In the eighth century Corinth began to create settlements overseas, founding Syracuse on Sicily in 734 bce and creating a settlement on Kerkyra (Corfu).267 Corinth also made major monumental dedications at the temple of Apollo at Delphi in the seventh century bce and set up a treasury there to display its external artefacts.268 Patterns of change Corinth began as peripheral to the early networks of Athens, but in the eighth century it began to set the pace with innovations of its own 257  Morgan links the boots to wedding ceremonies but, like gifts of carts and chariots, they may reflect a mode of transport (1994: 117–21). 258  Morgan 1994: 129–31. 259  Shanks 1999: 61; Morgan 1994: 132–3. 260  Osborne 1996a: 101. 261  Williams 1986; seventh-­century figure from Corinth = Davidson 1952: 29, no. 85, pl. 6; plaque from Perachora = Payne 1940: 231–2, no. 183, pl. 102. 262  Riva 2005: 214; Morgan 1988; 1994: 129–35; Snodgrass 1971: 345. 263  Phoenicians bring perfume (Aubet 1993: 246). 264  J. M. Hall 2007: 87; Riva 2005: 214. 265  Shanks 1999: 1. 266  Morgan 2001b: 49. 267  Boardman notes that Corinth sets the pace in this period (1999: 14). 268  Scott 2010: 42.

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making. It is at Corinth that ‘orientalising’ vases and experimentation with transformations of ‘eastern’ art began in earnest.269 Craftsmen in the late eighth and seventh centuries began to produce their own versions of external artefacts, experimenting with design and shape, which may have been inspired by eastern incised ­metalwork.270 From the late eighth century bce Corinthian metalworkers were producing bronze figures for cauldron attachments.271 By 700 bce Corinthian Geometric pottery was present at many Greek sites in graves and sanctuaries.272 Davis suggests that mercenaries, craftsmen and merchants brought back information about the institutions in Assyria, Phoenicia and Egypt, but this contact alone cannot have stimulated the burst of changes at Corinth.273 We can see evidence of changes in Corinth itself at this time: amenities were provided in Corinth in the late eighth and seventh centuries at the Sacred Spring and the Cyclopean Spring.274 It seems more likely that the transformations of external objects reflect changes in lifestyles or ideologies.275 The emergence of sanctuaries and transformed vases take place at around the same time and reveals a new focus in engagements from local to global. The relationship between these vases and an export market can also be seen in the written labels on the vases. Hurwit notes that the labels on the Chigi vase were not in the Corinthian dialect.276 Either it was made by a non-­Corinthian artisan, or it was deliberately made for a non-­Corinthian owner. The vase in Figure 1.9 is an early Corinthian tripod pyxis, which carries a complex mix of Greek and external information. It is a container vessel and due to its small size can be easily held or carried. It would be suitable for use by a man or a woman. Its imagery melds Greek and eastern ideas, with Greek Geometric patterns and women alongside eastern-­style sphinxes and rosette patterns.277 It is a mixing of ideas to create a new form that indicates both the specialised knowledge of the creator or patron and their ability to transform the cultures of others as they wish. It reflects knowledge, mobility and status. In his study of the provenance of Corinthian pots, Shanks found that of those with a clear provenance 58 per cent came from more 269  270  271  272  273  274  275  276  277 

Shanks 1999: 2; Hurwit 1985: 153 Osborne 1996a: 167–8; Boardman 1999: 14. I. Morris 1997: 22. Shanks 1999: 65. Davies 1997: 33–4. Williams and Fisher 1971. Shanks 1999: 4. Hurwit 1985: 159–64. Osborne 1996a: 163–4.

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Fig. 1.9. Early Corinthian tripod pyxis showing woman between sphinxes on leg and woman among animals on lid, c. 620–590 bce. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Accession Number: 22.139.4a, b. www.metmuseum.org.

than ninety sites in Greece, the Aegean and Italy; some 78 per cent of provenance pots were exported.278 The products most associated with Corinth and found in the widest distribution are the aryballos and drinking cup, whose links to elite patterns of behaviour are clear.279 The decoration enhances rather than proves the connection. As Shanks has noted, ‘the pots were designed for travel’.280 Early figured iconography on Corinthian vases shows a degree of preoccupation with mobility. There is competitive mobility in the form of chariot races, family mobility in the funeral procession and bellicose mobility in the form of war chariots.281 Rather than seeing these as 278  Shanks 1999; 121; Osborne suggests that roughly half of all seventh-­century Corinthian pottery was found overseas (2007: 87). 279  For a study of the distribution of aryballoi, see Shanks 1999: ch. 6; S. P. Morris criticises linking orientalising pottery exclusively to elites (1997: 64). 280  Shanks 1999: 209. 281  Shanks (1999: 143) notes a preoccupation with speed, yet this quality may not be as applicable for the many images of funeral processions.

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‘trade’, we can perhaps follow the view of Tsetskhladze and see them as part of a desire to engage with non-­Greek communities to create wider networks.282 Corinthian elites may have recognised the value of providing something unique and desirable, yet with an emphasis on shared lifestyles, as a means to facilitate engagement in the areas to which they were travelling. Corinth was not only at the forefront of developing transformations of artefacts but in the sixth and seventh centuries bce was also a prime mover in the birth of stone temples.283 Archaeology and literary tradition agree in noting that the first monumental buildings were set up in the north Peloponnese, at Corinth and the Argolid.284 Morgan notes that there are no securely identifiable cult places inside Corinth until the sixth century, although there are possibly a few small urban shrines from the seventh century bce.285 Before the end of the sixth century bce, Corinth had developed at least two temples: the forerunner to the temple of Apollo and a temple of Poseidon at the Isthmus site.286 The temple on Temple Hill was constructed in the first quarter of the seventh century, possibly on the site of earlier cult, while the Sacred Spring was functioning by the sixth century and built on top of late Geometric evidence.287 It was a monumental structure with stone columns, as shown in Figure 1.10. The earliest stone temple, that of Artemis at Corfu, was situated in a Corinthian colony and its sculpture was Corinthian in style.288 This reflects Corinthian involvement in the creation of overseas settlements.289 According to Parker, twenty Corinthian colonies were founded in the reign of Cypselus.290 These were managed by his sons, who took the role of oikist in their respective places.291 Although we cannot ‘prove’ these later tales, the appearance of a stone temple on Corfu makes a powerful statement about the new rulers of the island. They can utilise resources to change the landscape by the 282  Tsetskhladze 2010. Niemeyer notes that exchanges are part of a koinē of ‘common life, habits and paradigms’ (2004: 249). 283  Hurwit 1985: 181. 284  Coulton 1977: 35; Shanks 1999: 1. 285  Morgan 2001b: 50; she dates the temple on Temple Hill to c. 680 bce (1994: 138). 286  Lawrence 1983: 123. Lawrence dates the temple of Apollo to 540 bce (1983: 143), as does Spawforth (2006: 162). 287  Bookidis 2003: 248–50. 288  Lawrence 1983: 139–40. 289  Corinth founded a colony at Kerkyra (Corfu) in 734 bce and at Syracuse in 733 bce (Morgan 1994: 139). 290  Parker 2009: 20, 18. 291  Nicholaus of Damascus (Ephorus, FGrH 90 F57.7, 59.1).

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Fig. 1.10. Monumental stone columns from the temple of Apollo, Corinth, c. 540 bce (photograph by author). Reproduced with permission of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Corinth. The copyright of the antiquities depicted herein belongs to the Hellenic Ministry of Culture & Sports (Law 3028/2002).

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Fig. 1.11. Medusa pediment on the temple of Artemis, Corfu, c. 590 bce (drawing by Alexander Morgan after Tataki 1990: 134–5).

imposition of a permanent building, and the use of the Gorgon imagery shown in Figure 1.11 reveals their engagement with external images and ideas.292 Guralnick suggests that the image contains clearly eastern references in the use of bearded snakes, drawn from Egyptian ­sculpture.293 The image of the Gorgon is also powerfully apotropaic and makes the temple a perfect place to engage with local elites and with elites from the Italian peninsula. It is at Corinth that we find the first evidence for formal dining places. In the mid-­eighth century bce, the East Terrace at Isthmia was constructed; its flat surface and random postholes suggest that the space was created to hold tents for dining.294 The earliest picture of a reclining symposium can be found on Corinthian vases from the end of the seventh century bce.295 Our earliest example of the ‘andron’ space, a room with borders constructed for reclining, comes from sanctuaries, including the Archaic sanctuaries of Hera at Perachora and Argos and the sanctuary of Demeter and Kore at Corinth.296 At Perachora, a rectangular structure to the west 292  293  294  295  296 

Langdon 2008: 110–14; Tsiafakis 2003: 83–90. Guralnick 1997: 135. Morgan 1994: 125–6. Fehr 1971: 26–38; on dining in the Near East, see Matthäus 1999. For a list of sanctuary dining rooms, see Bergquist 1990; Tomlinson 1990: 100. For

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end of the temple of Hera Akraia contained two rooms with an external vestibule. Within these two rooms were limestone couches, placed on a border around the edges of the rooms.297 Tomlinson noted that platforms and sockets in front of the couches were the fittings for tables, clearly indicating that the rooms had been set up for dining.298 He therefore named the rooms ‘hestiatoria’ or ‘dining rooms’, terms that are more apt than ‘andron’ since they allude to the use of the rooms rather than making assumptions about the users.299 We have insufficient information from the site to reach any clear conclusions about who dined here. The finds consisted of terracotta figurines and miniatures, which are no different from those found in domestic contexts.300 Tomlinson suggests that the rooms were used at festivals by prominent citizens, while the majority of participants camped in the upper plain at the site.301 He locates further dining rooms on this upper plain, although the archaeology is not clear. Transforming power Alongside the physical perspectives on the east, we find political perspectives in stories of stasis and the emergence of tyrants. Shanks links the appearance of the transformed vases directly to this internal competition.302 According to textual sources, Corinth had a ruling family, the Bacchiads, who controlled land and power at Corinth as a closed aristocracy.303 Strabo informs us that there was an economic base to their power, as the Bacchiads controlled foreign trade and did so despite the presence of other elite families in the region.304 Corinth was certainly viewed as wealthy in antiquity and had sufficient command of resources to set up new communities at Syracuse and Corfu.305 Demaratus the Bacchiad traded with Etruria

details of early dining rooms see Tomlinson 1969a; 1969b. Further sanctuary dining rooms are discussed in Goldstein 1978. 297  Tomlinson 1969a: 164–72. 298  Tomlinson 1969a: 169. 299  Tomlinson 1969a: 170. 300  Goldstein 1978: 230. 301  Tomlinson 1969a: 238–9. 302  Shanks 1999: 59–72. 303  Salmon 1984: 186–238. Shanks notes that there was a transition from monarch to the aristocratic oligarchy of the Bacchiads (1999: 52). Diodorus presents a tale of kings and inheritance before tyranny (7.9), but for Herodotus, it is a transition to tyranny from oligarchy (5.92b). 304  Strabo 8.6.20. Diodorus notes that the Bacchiadae numbered 200 (7.9). 305  Thuc. 6.3.2, Strabo 6.2.4. See Stein-­Hölkeskamp for a summary (2009: 102).

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and became the king of Rome.306 The family’s reign was unstable, which Stein-­Hölkeskamp links to a failure to legitimate their power through foreign policy, military success or fair distribution of wealth and opportunity.307 She suggests that this caused tension within the elite and led to the emergence of a new ruler, Cypselus.308 The birth of Cypselus is surrounded by myth but his taking of power was more prosaic. He is described by Ephorus as a polemarch who used his military power to take control with the backing of the elite.309 Texts suggest that Cypselus immediately began to create the contacts denied to him under the Bacchiads and joined the Pan-­Hellenic aristocratic circuit.310 He maintained a presence at Delphi and Olympia and engaged with rulers in Lydia and Phrygia.311 His reign stimulated art and building.312 Salmon suggests that the problems were caused by population pressure, with the Bacchiads unwilling to found further colonies and share wealth.313 There are also later tales of political reform in Corinth at the time of the tyranny.314 Pheidon of Argos was sent to legislate on the problem.315 Cypselus was followed by his son Periander, who is generally viewed by ancient sources in a negative light.316 Periander also played his role in the elite circles that transcended polis boundaries. He is even described as arbitrating at a dispute in Mytilene.317 Periander maintained a court that was visited by Arion, and married the daughter of Procles, tyrant of Epidauros.318 The presence of an Athenian archon called Cypselus in sixth-­century Athens indicates connections by marriage or friendship with wider elite groups.319 Periander is also linked to laws designed to control display and prohibit unauthorised ­meetings: he restricted access to the city centre as well.320 306 

Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 3.46–7. Stein-­Hölkeskamp 2009: 102. 308  Hdt. 5.92b–c; Parker calls Herodotus’ version ‘Cypselid propaganda’ (2009: 18). 309  Ephorus (FGrH 90 F57.1–7). Orthagoras and Cleisthenes of Sicyon are also linked to stories about military prowess (Orthagoras, FGrH 105 F2, Diod. Sic. 8.24; Cleisthenes: Arist. Pol. 1315b). 310  The treasure of Gyges was placed in the Corinthian treasury at Delphi (Hdt. 1.14). See Stein-­Hölkeskamp 2009: 103. 311  Paus. 5.17.5; Plut. Mor. 400d. 312  Hurwit calls him a ‘great patron’ (1985: 159). 313  Salmon 1984: 194. 314  Shanks 1999: 54; Salmon 1984: 206–7. 315  Arist. Pol. 1265b. 316  Hdt. 5.92e–g; Arist. Pol. 1313a. 317  Hdt. 5.95; Ephorus (FGrH 70 F178). 318  Hdt. 1.23–4, 3.50. 319  Fornara 1983: n.23 (grandson of tyrant). 320  Ephorus (FGrH 70 F179); Nicholaus of Damascus (FGrH 90 F58.1); Stein-­Hölkeskamp 2009: 104. 307 

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The early Corinthian tyrants seem to follow Herodotus’ model for the move from commoner to king: first become indispensable, then create a gulf between people and ruler, and then impose yourself on the physical landscape by building.321 Periander and Cypselus are both linked to building programmes and the donation of monumental gifts. Cypselus is accredited with the construction of the treasury at Delphi. Periander is linked to the construction of the temple, the springhouse, the harbour and diolkos at Corinth.322 According to the sources, Corinthian tyrants also forge and use connections with eastern rulers. The offerings of Midas and Gyges are reported by Herodotus as being in the treasury of the Corinthians, which he suggests was more a personal treasury of Cypselus than a state treasury.323 According to Herodotus, the treasury of Cypselus at Delphi also contained Phrygian and Lydian offerings.324 Kaplan suggests that these gifts may have been given as gifts to Cypselus by the Near Eastern rulers: Cypselus took the decision to display them at Delphi in order to reflect his ties with Phrygia and Lydia and to acquire kudos by advertising his special relationship with them.325 It is re-­gifting to enhance prestige.326 Periander’s brother was named Gordias and his nephew and successor Psammetichus.327 Periander sends word of the Delphic oracle’s message to Alyattes to Thrasybulus in Miletus, so that he can make use of it.328 Shanks notes that the court under Periander was a centre of patronage.329 The Lesbian poet Arion of Methymna was in the court of Periander at Corinth.330 His tale illustrates the role of courts in controlling resources, including the works of men. Periander sends Alyattes (Sardis) a gift of 300 Corcyrean boys to be eunuchised.331 More than any other city at this time, Corinth adopted and adapted external perspectives. The evidence suggests that changes in material culture at Corinth may have been driven by elite ­competition, which, in turn, re-­shaped the city itself. There is still much that we do not know about early Corinth, but we can see that external objects 321  Story of Deioces (Hdt. 1.96–101); as Waters notes, this mirrors tales of the rise of Greek tyrants (2014: 32). 322  Salmon 1984: 201–2. 323  Hdt. 1.14. 324  Hdt. 1.14. 325  Kaplan 2006: 148. 326  Kaplan 2006: 147. 327  Arist. Pol. 1315b. 328  Hdt. 1.20. 329  On the ‘pre-­ordering’ of the Françoise vase, see Shanks 1999: 54 and 54 n.14. 330  Hdt. 1.23–4. 331  Herodotus notes that they are taken by the Samians (3.48).

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appear at a time of expansion and play a role in creating and affirming networks, as well as authorising and expressing power within the city. O B S E RVAT I O N S In early Greece, political stability and political survival were achieved by creating networks at local, trans-­local and global levels. External ideas and artefacts played a key role in defining membership of these networks. At a global level, they appear as a part of engagements between Greek speakers and non-­Greek communities and may indicate the establishment of successful relationships between them. At local levels, they reflect local elite identity and differentiate elite from non-­elite. They could also be used here on a larger scale as a means to compete for and to authorise local power. At trans-­local level, their dual qualities of exclusivity and independence from local forms allowed them to remain outside of the control of any single group. They became a symbol of elite identity and played a key role in binding the trans-­local group through shared knowledge and patterns of behaviour. This explains why they appear first in ‘private’ contexts. Their size and personal nature reflected their elite users and the elite occasions at which they were exchanged. As competition intensified at certain localities, external artefacts come to play a more visible role in expressions of power and authority. They became more exaggerated in scale and decoration as a reflection of this competition. This explains why different communities used the external objects and ideas in different ways: it is a reflection of their unique internal social and political structures and the development of elite competition within those structures. As a result, perspectives on the east begin to operate independent of reality. The vases, bronzes and buildings were not intended to be faithful replicas but to show the knowledge and power of the individuals who transformed them. It was a perspective of the mind, an artificial east that reflected the socio-­political identity and power of early Greek elites.

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2 Journeys through the Looking Glass: Early Perspectives on the Achaemenid Empire In this chapter, I will look more closely at the sixth and early fifth centuries bce, at the period from the arrival of the Achaemenids to the end of the Graeco-­Persian Wars. I will re-­examine the idea that the arrival of the Achaemenids brought a significant change in relations between Greeks and the communities to the east. I will show that there was no rupture and that after the fall of the Lydian king Croesus, the Achaemenids simply slipped into the power vacuum, and patterns of elite behaviour continued as before. Having established this I will offer three case studies of elite behaviour in Anatolia, Ionia and Archaic Athens in order to illustrate that external ideas and artefacts continued to be used to reinforce elite society and to express power within local communities in the period before and after the Achaemenid arrival. The only difference was that Achaemenid forms began to be used in local dialogues alongside or in place of previous ‘eastern’ forms. O R I E N TA L R U P T U R E A N D O R I E N TA L P L AG I A R I S M The Achaemenid Empire stretched across enormous distances from north to south and east to west and contained a wide range of different ethnic groups.1 The Achaemenids themselves ‘appear’ in our sources with little warning and we are unsure of their precise origins. They seem to have been a mobile, tribal society, although the degree of mobility is difficult to ascertain.2 Written records from the Near  1   2 

Waters 2014: 6–7. Briant 2002a: 18–19 (on tribes); Waters 2014: 19–20.

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East suggest that there were at least two distinct groups within Achaemenid society. One group, the Paršu, appears in the written records of Shalmaneser III, and created the province of Paršua in the ninth century bce in the Zagros Mountains.3 Another group appears in Fars, in south-­west Iran, and connections between the two are unclear.4 There may also be evidence for contacts between the early Achaemenid rulers and the Assyrian court. An Assyrian record notes that Cyrus, king of Parsumash, sent his eldest son Arukku to Ashurbanipal with tribute in 640 bce, and scholars have speculated that the name ‘Parsumash’ is an early form of ‘Persian’.5 The name Pārsa appears in the later Bisitun inscription of Darius, but here it may indicate a region rather than an ethnic name. The ‘sudden’ appearance of the Achaemenids is not unusual and follows patterns of ebb and flow in the rise and fall of Near Eastern empires. One group comes in and takes over from another. The Medes defeated the Assyrians; the Achaemenids then defeat the Medes. It does not mean that the Achaemenids were not always there, only that they are not always visible in written sources at this time. In the sixth century bce, the Achaemenids become clearly visible in ancient texts. Cyrus, king of Anshan, appears in the dream omen of Nabonidus, king of Babylon from 556 to 539 bce.6 Babylonian texts record Cyrus’ occupation of Babylon, noting that he has come to save the land and defeat the Medes.7 Cyrus also appears in Archaic Greek poetry. In the sixth century bce, the poet Ibycus refers to ‘Cyaras’, the general of the Medes, while Xenophanes’ question ‘How old were you when the Medes came?’ is also taken to be a reference to the arrival of the Achaemenids in Asia Minor.8 Finally, the Achaemenids appear in the Hebrew Bible. Cyrus is presented as the saviour of the Jews, while life in the Achaemenid court is portrayed in the Book of Esther.9 In the fifth century bce, the volume of sources on the Achaemenids expands considerably. Indeed, our most detailed accounts for the arrival and expansion of the Achaemenid Empire  3 

For details of the texts see Waters 2014: 20. Waters 2014: 20–1. Summer notes evidence of settlement continuity rather than rupture in Fars (1994).  5  Waters 2014: 35–6.  6  Waters 2014: 38–9.  7  Lewis 1997b: 345.  8  Ibycus fr. 20 (Edmonds 1924); Xenophanes fr. 22 (Lesher 1992 = Ath. 2.54e). Waters suggests that this is a reference to Mazares or Harpagus, the Median generals left behind as rulers by Darius (2014: 123).  9  Examples can be found in 2 Chronicles 36.22–3; Ezra 1.1–8, 3.7, 4–6; Esther; Isaiah 44.27–8, 45.1; Daniel 1.21, 6.1–28; apocryphal 1 Esdras 2. For problems with using biblical sources, see Ackroyd 1988.  4 

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come from fifth-­and fourth-­century bce Greek historians.10 These trace through from the reign of Cyrus and his death in battle against the Massagetae, to the accession of his son Cambyses and the subsequent assumption of power by Darius, leaving the dynasty of the Achaemenids secured until c. 330 bce and the victory of Alexander.11 All of these sources share the fact that they were composed for non-­ Achaemenid audiences and reflect the audience’s views and politics rather than offering a detached analysis.12 We cannot escape the fact that from their arrival through to their demise, our view of the Achaemenids is constructed through the written perspectives of outsiders.13 Early academic studies of Greek and Achaemenid relations viewed the evidence through the lens of Greek sources.14 These painted the arrival of the Achaemenids as a key moment in Greek history.15 The defeat of Ionia broke the harmonious relations between east and west. Many scholars accepted without question the divisive account of Herodotus, who noted that before Marathon, Greeks looked with fear at men in Achaemenid dress and were afraid to go east, believing it to be overrun by the Great King’s soldiers.16 Austin notes the ‘friendly’ relations between the Greeks and Croesus before the arrival of the Achaemenids and points to Achaemenid expansion and the defeat of Ionia as reasons for this fear.17 In following Herodotus, scholars further suggested that with the arrival of the Achaemenids, Ionian culture declined.18 The implication was stark and clear: the arrival of the Achaemenids and their defeat of Croesus changed everything and brought tension into Greek relations with their eastern neighbours, leading scholars to view it as clear evidence of a rupture. It was not until the nineteenth century that Achaemenid architecture, art and inscriptions came to be investigated in their own right. As excavations began at Achaemenid sites in Iran and as travellers visited and wrote about the sites, so a new, even more damaging twist was given to the narrative of Achaemenid rupture, drawing the Achaemenids deeper into the role of imperial despots. Early scholars 10  11  12  13  14  15  16  17  18 

Drews 1973: 7. For a critique of Greek sources, see Kuhrt 2001: 97–8. Waters 2014: 8. On links between Cyrus and Darius, see Waters 2004. We will look in more detail at Greek historians of Persia in Chapter 4. Lewis 1977b: 345. Waters 2014: 10. Miller calls it the ‘crucial moment’ (2006a: 120). Hdt. 6.112.3. Austin 1990: 295. Murray 1980: 234; Cook 1961. For a more recent rebuttal of this view, see Balcer 1991.

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described Achaemenid art as the plagiarising art of a conquering empire.19 It was represented as an imperial construct, composed from a vignette of conquered cultures with a mix of themes, styles and techniques taken from defeated lands. While the Greeks were seen to have taken the ideas of others and created their own, new culture, the Achaemenids were cast in the role of imperial pirates.20 Even as late as 1964, Ghirshman condemned the imperial nature of the Persepolis friezes, noting that ‘Only the king and his Persian and Median grandees could take pleasure in this picture of a muster of the peoples of the empire, whose purpose was to magnify the monarch’s power in the eyes his subjects.’21 Unable to step away from his abhorrence of imperialism, Ghirshman ignored the ‘ingenious achievement’ of the Achaemenids in creating and establishing a new court culture.22 The size and scale of the Achaemenid achievement continued to be set aside in favour of interpretations that reflected the more negative or uncomprehending views of outsiders looking in.23 As we have already noted, for scholars in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries the Greeks had acquired the mantle of ­ancestors.24 In light of this, it was inevitable that scholars’ perspectives on Achaemenid evidence would accord with views expressed in Greek texts and create a narrative of Greek perspectives mixed with modern ideology.25 Yet the anti-­Achaemenid narrative was more than just a defence of Greek ‘ancestors’ and contained within its core an orientalist agenda. As the Greeks were assimilated with the modern west, so the Achaemenid Empire came to be cast as an Ottoman fantasy.26 As Hall notes, ‘The Enlightenment forged a fundamental Oriental archetype that fused inherited images of the ancient Achaemenid with the contemporary picture of the Islamic Ottoman Empire.’27 Once again, the Achaemenids were constructed according to the needs of the viewer and the moment. Narratives of ‘rupture’ and ‘plagiarism’ are simply perspectives 19 

For a critique, see Root 1994. Bengtson 1969: 18–19. 21  Ghirshman 1964: 346. Wheeler calls the Persepolis procession a ‘pageantry of death’ (1968: 58). 22  Brosius 2011a: 136. 23  Root 1991: 7; 1994. 24  For discussions, see Bernal 1987; S. P Morris 1989; Nippel 2002; on Athenian ­‘orientalism’, see Said 1978: 56–7. 25  On the impact of political and social ideologies on academic research, see Morris 1994; Morgan 2004; Laurence 2004. 26  On the interpretation of the Achaemenid Empire as Ottoman, see E. Hall 2007. 27  Hall 2006: 222. 20 

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viewed through the looking glass of contemporary political agenda. Both are concerned with demonising the Achaemenids and elevating the status of the Greeks, and both reflect the perspective and needs of the outsider, whether ancient Greek or modern European. The ‘Great Event’ required a great villain in order to justify the political authority that its inventors drew from it. Just as with the narratives of ‘renaissance’ and ‘orientalising’, so we need to put aside the looking glass and step away from tales of ‘rupture’ and ‘plagiarism’ to look again at the evidence, which shows contact and continuity at the time of the arrival of the Achaemenids and in subsequent relations between Greek city-­states and the Achaemenid Empire. G R E E C E A N D T H E G R E AT K I N G : F R O M C Y R U S TO X E R X E S The case for an Achaemenid rupture in relations is predicated on a belief that their military expansion brought fear and ended pre-­ existing friendly relations. This is patently untrue. Herodotus tells us that Croesus was the first to subdue and take control of the Ionians, Aeolians and Dorians of Asia and to take tribute from them.28 Archaic and later texts clearly place Greek speakers in amongst the courts and communities to the east of the Greek world at this time, and reveal a complex culture of contact and collaboration between Croesus and individual Greek communities on the mainland, irrespective of his relations with the east Greek cities.29 The pattern here is similar to the social structure that we have already observed on mainland Greece. We have tales of guest-­ friend relations and independent groups looking to make alliances that increase their own advantage, rather than community approaches. According to Herodotus, Greek visitors to the court of Croesus at Sardis included Bias of Priene or Pittacus of Mytilene and Solon, amongst unlisted others.30 It is from the court of Croesus that the Athenian Alcmaeonids receive their wealth.31 Croesus also made approaches to the Greeks. He asked questions of Delphi and other Greek oracles.32 Amongst the gifts he offered up to Delphic Apollo was elaborate symposium equipment, 28 

Hdt. 1.6.2–3. On the regularity of contact in the sixth and fifth centuries bce, see Miller 1997: 3–38; Shapiro 2009: 62. Schmitz further identifies Archaic Greek names on an Assyrian tablet (2009). 30  Hdt. 1.27.2, 1.30. 31  Hdt. 6.125. 32  Hdt. 1. 46–51, 56, 92. 29 

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including couches, phialai, coverings and kraters.33 Croesus paid for columns at the Ephesus temple and offered Pittacus funds to help overthrow his opponents in Lesbos.34 He also sought to make an alliance with the Lacedaemonians, and when he took on Cyrus, he called on the Lacedaemonians for help.35 All of this information comes from Herodotus. Although Herodotus is writing at a later time, the socio-­political structures that he sets out for Archaic interaction fit well with the patterns that we saw in Chapter 1, and reinforce the idea that we should be interpreting evidence through a Mediterranean rather than a national perspective for this period.36 A wider Mediterranean socio-­political structure transcends geographical boundaries, so that each community becomes a small component in a much larger machine, and moments of conflict between groups are locally damaging but do not interrupt or de-­rail the transcendent global apparatus. This means that Croesus could act at a local level to defeat individual Greek-­speaking communities in Asia Minor, without affecting the stability of his relations with mainland Greeks, and separate groups within the Greek cities of Asia Minor could maintain relations with Croesus, even as others in the same community fought against him. In light of this overarching structure, we have no reason to believe that the arrival and expansion of the Achaemenid Empire brought about a discontinuity, and we will now turn to the evidence to examine this in more detail. The king’s court Achaemenid art and architecture offer us a first lesson in continuity, although the remarkable achievements of the Achaemenids in these fields have tended to be viewed through the filters of monotony and plagiarism. Scholars accept that the ancestors of the Achaemenids were nomadic or semi-­nomadic but this visibly changed with Cyrus’ victory over the Medes. The new Achaemenid king began to build on a monumental scale. Cyrus began his campaign of building at the site of Pasargadae.37 His constructions included a monumental terrace, palace buildings and the Zendan Tower.38 Cyrus’ later ­successors, 33  Hdt. 1.50–51.Gifts were also given to Delphi by Gyges (Hdt. 1.14) and Alyattes (Hdt. 1.25). 34  Boardman 1999: 99. The tale of Croesus and Pittacus is discussed in Podlecki (1984: 78). 35  Hdt. 1.77.2–3. 36  Hordern and Purcell 2000; I. Morris 2003. 37  Boardman 2000: 45. 38  Porada 1985; Stronach 1997.

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Darius and Xerxes, produced and finished more buildings than any other Achaemenid kings. Darius completed Pasargadae and built Persepolis, shown in Figure 2.1, while Xerxes finished Persepolis and added to it.39 Building also took place at other major sites, such as Susa and Ecbatana (Hamadan). These sites already existed before the victories of Cyrus and the building works there supplemented pre-­existing structures.40 This Achaemenid pattern of building after victory followed the historical patterns of empires in the Near East and in itself represented continuity. Kings built on the work of their predecessors: so Darius finishes Cyrus’ works; Xerxes finishes Darius’ works; and so on.41 Notions of continuity were a key expression of Achaemenid power, as we can see in early inscriptions. Xerxes notes, ‘When I became king, much that (is) superior I built. What had been built by my father, that I took into my care and other work I added.’42 The style of the inscriptions aligns with those of earlier Near Eastern rulers.43 This is not ‘monotony’ but an assertion of control. The emphasis on ancestry and continuity in the inscriptions reinforces an image of stability and peace throughout the empire. Within the Achaemenid palaces, scholars have identified a range of influences on the architecture and sculpture, including Egyptian, Assyrian, Mesopotamian and Elamite as well as Lydian and Ionian.44 Boardman offers a succinct overview of ‘borrowed’ elements.45 The plan of the palaces is derived from Lydian use of Syrian models. The hypostyle halls of the palaces can be traced to Median architecture.46 Doors and windows are inspired by Egyptian ­ uardian figure at Pasargadae is a mix of Egyptian, models.47 The g Elamite and Assyrian motifs to make something ‘uniquely Persian’, as shown in Figure 2.2, even though there is no clear evidence of contact between the Achaemenids and Egypt at this stage.48 The Gate of All Nations at Persepolis follows the style of monumental gates from Nineveh and other Near Eastern cities of the eighth and 39 

Stronach 1978. Curtis 2005. 41  On continuity of building, see Waters 2014: 115–19, 148. 42  See inscription XPf, set up by Xerxes at Persepolis (Kuhrt 2007: 7.A.1; Lecoq 1997: 254–6). 43  Waters 2014: 137. On continuities between Achaemenid inscriptions and Near Eastern epic, see Balcer 1994. 44  See Boardman 2000: 102–22; Talebian 2008. 45  Boardman 2000: 124. 46  Boardman 2000: 61; Roaf 1995. 47  For a detailed list of architectural forms and their influences, see Boardman 2000: 77–84. 48  Waters 2014: 138; Boardman 2000: 102; 1999: 105. 40 

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Fig. 2.1. Plan of the Persepolis Terrace, c. 470–450 bce (Roaf 1983: fig. 155). Reproduced by kind permission of the British Institute of Persian Studies.

seventh centuries bce.49 There are tombs with tiers like the tomb of Cyrus in Fars, Lydia and western Anatolia.50 Boardman suggests that Darius began to build after the Scythian expedition, when unrest in the western satrapies required him to make an extended stay in Ionia.51 As a result, the decoration of Darius’ buildings could have been influenced by the decorated stonework of Ionian Greek buildings and the adapted Ionian-­Greek styles incorporated into the buildings of the Lydian king, Croesus. The use of ana49 

Waters 2014: 141. Boardman 2000: 53–60. Boardman notes Egyptian influences in the doors (2000: 59). Waters compares this style with that of ziggurats (2014: 140). 51  Boardman 2000: 125. 50 

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Fig. 2.2. Genius figure from Pasargadae, with Assyrian-­style wings, Elamite clothing and Egyptian-­style crown (photo: B. Grunewald, D-­DAI-­EUR-­THE-­ R-­1975–0200). © DAI Fotoarchiv Teheran. All rights reserved.

thyrosis and claw chisels places Greek masons at the heart of the ­sculptural programme at the palaces.52 For Starr this is ‘Greek art but Persian style’, a view criticised by Root for elevating the Greek contribution at the expense of Achaemenid involvement.53 Scholars explain the ‘borrowing’ as part of the need to develop a sculptural programme that defined the new empire. For Waters, Cyrus’ use of earlier art and architectural forms reveals a desire to locate his rule within ‘Mesopotamian norms’.54 Kuhrt too relates the use of Mesopotamian and Egyptian patterns of behaviour and practices to the desire of Achaemenid kings to ‘cast themselves in the role of legitimate rulers’, who take and use to reflect their ownership of the cultures of others.55 Boardman’s study of the relationship between Achaemenid art and architecture and the west offers a more balanced view of reciprocity, with ideas sweeping across the Near East into Greece, being re-­shaped and sent back out again into the 52  Boardman 2000: 21–2, 51; 1999: 104; Nylander 1970: 35–7, 58–62 on building courses and Greek treatment of walls above; Stronach 1978. 53  Starr 1977: 57; Root 1979: 4–15; 1991. 54  Waters 2014: 51, 80; Starr 1977: 54–8; Boardman 2000: 102. See Sinopoli 1994 for a general discussion on how empires represent themselves. 55  Kuhrt 2001: 102.

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east.56 The interplay between the art and architectural styles of different groups in the Near East is also acknowledged by Ratté, who notes that Assyrian, Greek and Phoenician forms influenced Lydian architecture, which in turn influenced Achaemenid art.57 Root’s seminal study of Achaemenid art illustrates its key role in defining and consolidating the authority of the king.58 Brosius calls it ‘court art’, noting that it drew on the art of conquered lands in conjunction with elements adopted and adapted over time from cultures encountered by the Achaemenids through their semi-­nomadic lifestyle.59 As Miller points out, the authority of the king is reflected in repeated symbols such as the throne and incense burner.60 It may also be seen in the form of Achaemenid coinage, with images of the ‘archer-­king’ distributed throughout Anatolia and east Greece.61 Symbols of king and court travelled out from the palaces to the empire’s furthest reaches on portable artefacts, showing us the wide spread of cultural interaction across the empire. Although there is room for some innovation – indeed, Stronach calls the tomb of Cyrus a ‘highly original structure’ – Achaemenid art evolved as a consistent style with repeated forms.62 It was part of a conscious plan, ‘designed rather than evolved’, using a variety of pre-­existing models.63 In the eyes of a nineteenth century aristocrat whose social and political identity was tied to the primacy of Greek forms, Achaemenid art might appear monotonous, but Curzon’s comments ultimately reflect the agenda of his own time. They reveal a deliberate decision to elevate Greek material above all else and to compare Achaemenid forms unfavourably with Greek ones, rather than engage with the Achaemenid evidence on its own terms.64 Achaemenid art is not monotonous but does show a concern for identity. This is not exceptional behaviour. We can see the use of architectural repetition in the buildings of other monarchies that ruled vast expanses of land across a wide span of time, such as the architecture of Chinese emperors in the Forbidden City.65 It reflected the need for a clear, consistent royal identity and offered 56 

Boardman 2000: ch. 2. Ratté 1993: 1–12. 58  Root 1979. See also Nylander 1970. 59  Brosius 2011a: 136. 60  Miller 2011: 102. The symbolism ‘captures the idea of kingship’ (Brosius 2011a: 141). 61  Root 1991: 10–11. 62  Stronach 2008: 157. 63  Boardman 2000: 19, 125. 64  Root is rightly critical of scholars who continue to emphasise the ‘Greek’ elements of Achaemenid-­inspired vessels in Asia Minor (1991). 65  Holdsworth and Courtauld 2008. 57 

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a means of identifying and affiliating elite status within empires.66 Boardman points out that Egyptian art is equally repetitive, which reveals once again that the Achaemenids are behaving in a manner that is consistent and either following pre-­existing patterns visible in the material remains of the empires that they had conquered, or using the workforce of those defeated empires to create their own art and architecture.67 Repetition reflects continuity rather than lack of imagination. As Root points out, Near Eastern artists trained by learning to replicate the shapes and patterns of earlier craftsmen, while Near Eastern kings reflected the legitimacy and continuity of their reign by emulating earlier kings.68 While modern studies move our focus away from narratives of rupture and copying, they could go further in affirming the vital importance of continuity. From a socio-­political perspective, new styles do not develop in isolation from society. Art and architecture must make sense to the group they are aimed at, whether subjects or visitors, and draw on models that are pre-­existing and understood.69 Just as temples in the Peloponnese reflected the needs of elites living there, so the architecture of Achaemenid Iranians and the use of external motifs sent particular messages to the viewers.70 As long as the message was received and relevant, there was no need to innovate further. Achaemenid art sets Achaemenid rule in a continuous historical perspective, reflecting knowledge of eastern precedents and reinforcing Achaemenid control over the past and the new present.71 The action of bringing tribute mirrors the role of Assyrian, north  Syrian, Aramaic and Israelite palaces and palace-­ temples in acquiring luxury objects.72 For Boardman, Darius has adjusted foreign forms to suit his needs, using an eastern-­style composition; but this is not ‘adjustment’, it is transformation.73 Achaemenid kings were not merely copying but were following the same pattern of behaviour, as we have already seen in the early communities of mainland Greece. They were taking external ideas and using them

66 

Sinopoli 1994. Boardman 2000: 125–8. See also Boardman 1999: 103; Nylander 1970: 91–102. 68  Root 1994: esp. 25, 31. 69  Winter 1993: 37. 70  Archaic kouroi and korai are equally stylised and continue to be made even after more lifelike styles are produced, suggesting that the unchanging image carried a meaning in its homogeneity. On kouros and kore figures, see Richter 1960a; 1960b. 71  On Assyrian processions, see Boardman 2000: 112. On foreign craftsmen in ­Achaemenid Iran, see Nylander 1972: 311–18. See also Balcer 1994. 72  Niemeyer 2004: 249; Nylander 1970: 12. 73  Boardman 2000: 125. 67 

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Fig. 2.3. Tribute delegations on the Apadana at Persepolis (photograph by Luigi Pesce, 1840s to 1860s). Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Accession Number: 1977.683.61. Gift of Charles K. and Irma B. Wilkinson, 1977. www.metmuseum.org.

to reflect status or transforming them to indicate power and control, just as Near Eastern rulers before them had done. Palaces such as Persepolis, with its integration of external forms and ideas, show the position of the king at the apex of society. Audience scenes reinforce court hierarchies and reflect the existence of the king as the representative of a god on earth.74 The king has the widest knowledge and greatest power to control the resources of his lands.75 In bringing gifts to the king, the people place him at the centre of the empire, at the centre of the palace and at the centre of the sculptural programme.76 In the gift procession at Persepolis, as Figure 2.3 shows, care has been taken in to show differences in the clothes and appearance of the people of the empire.77 The detail is 74  75  76  77 

For a study of audience scenes, see Allen 2005b. Winter 1993: 38. Boardman 2000: 142. Sancisi-­Weerdenburg 2001: 326.

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not simply an illustration of the sculptor’s awareness of ethnic differences but is designed to show the extent of the king’s knowledge of his people. In bringing their gifts to the king, the people acknowledge that they are tied to the king as a valuable resource and essential component of his empire. This integration of king and people can also be witnessed in the Foundation Tablets from Susa, which set out the contribution of the people and resources of the empire in constructing the palace, so that the people, products and building merge to become a visible symbol of the unified empire.78 For the Achaemenid people, the procession relief offers an affirmation of the king as an all-­powerful ruler; for visitors, recognition of the artistic and architectural elements from other, known societies, or even their own, reveals the knowledge, control and power of the Achaemenid king in a fast and effective lesson. Repetition of the same features and styles at centres of power throughout the empire are not mere imitation of the Great King but ensure that his centrality and the centrality of his rule are made clear throughout the lands.79 We can see this in a more personal manner in Darius’ Bisitun relief and its inscription. The message of power embedded in the relief is unambiguous, and conveyed by the comparative size of Darius and the conquered kings as well as his violence in crushing an opponent. This image and inscription were disseminated throughout the empire and reflected epic stories told by earlier Near Eastern cultures.80 The Achaemenids fit into the patterns of ancient Near Eastern and Mediterranean life in the sixth century bce by taking and using external ideas to reflect ancient past and new present. This is a flow, not a rupture. The king’s men In matters of organisation too, it appears that the Achaemenids behaved with continuity by using systems that were there before their arrival. As with Assyrian and other Near Eastern powers, the king displayed his power through the maintenance of a court speaking travellers followed and court society.81 As the Greek-­ 78  Tuplin 2011: 159. For translations of DSf, DSz and DSaa,created by Darius at Susa, see Lecoq 1997: 234–7; Kuhrt 2007: 492–7. 79  Tuplin 2011: 165; Root 1979. 80  Kuhrt 2007: 141–58; Balcer 1994. 81  Hdt. 3.66–9 (on the illegitimate harem of Smerdis); Hdt. 3.88 (marriages of Darius); Hdt. 3.77–8 (eunuchs); Hdt. 3.130.4–5 (Democedes is rewarded by the wives of Darius for saving him). On the structure of the Achaemenid court, see Briant 2002a: 255–301; Brosius 2007; Llewellyn-­Jones 2013.

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­ re-­existing routes to the Near East, so the Achaemenids made use p of roads already in existence from the Neo-­Assyrian conquests of the ninth to seventh centuries bce.82 The king secured his finances by setting up a system of tribute in the conquered provinces.83 Sources reveal that the Achaemenid king also moved and resettled groups of people, as the Assyrians had done before him.84 Darius moves the Paeonians to Asia and, according to Histiaeus, he was also planning to settle the Phoenicians in Ionia and the Ionians in Phoenicia.85 He deports Eretrians to Susa, Milesians to Ampe, Barcaeans to Bactria, and settles the men of Branchiadae in Sogdiana.86 Darius also threatens to send Ionian maidens to Bactria but sends them instead to his court.87 Although these moves appear autocratic, it is interesting to consider them through the perspective on the king as the owner of all resources. The movement of people may be a display of resource control, reflecting a need for security, but it may also reveal a desire to integrate people, to create a cohesive empire. The movements bring the Foundation Tablets to life. It is not just the palace that is unified by the contributions of the people; the empire is also unified by their placement and contributions within it.88 We have a wide range of evidence showing that many Greek speakers worked in the court of the Great King.89 Greek craftsmen were working in the construction and decoration of Achaemenid named workers was found at a palaces.90 The graffiti of Greek-­ quarry near the terrace of Persepolis.91 A scratched drawing of two male heads and animals was incised on the foot of a relief of Darius at Persepolis, in a style identified as Greek.92 A stone plaque from around 500 bce found in the treasury at Persepolis was incised with an image of Heracles, Apollo and Artemis.93 The Foundation 82 

Hdt. 5.52–4; Graf 1994: 171; Gezgin 2001; Briant 2012; Waters 2014: 6–7. Hdt. 3.90. 84  Miller 1997: 101. 85  Hdt. 5.12–14 (Paeonians), 6.3 (Histiaeus on Phoenicians, yet Herodotus is sceptical about this tale). 86  Hdt. 6.119 (Eretrians), 6.20 (Milesians), 4.204 (Barcaeans); Plut. Mor. 557b ­(Branchaidae). 87  Hdt. 6.9.4. 88  For the text of the Foundation Tablets, see the inscriptions DSf, DSz and DSaa (Lecoq 1997: 234–7; Kuhrt 2007: 492–7). 89  Hofstetter’s study of Greek names in the Achaemenid Empire before Alexander has six names under Cyrus, seven under Cambyses and forty under Darius (1978: 192–230). See also Balcer 1983: 260–2; Brosius 2011b. 90  Braun 1982: 5; Nylander 1970. 91  Pytharchou eimi (‘I am Pytharchos’) and Nikon egr[aphse (‘Nikon wrote me’): see ­Caratelli 1966: 31–6. 92  Boardman 2000: 132. 93  Boardman 2000: 132; Boardman and Roaf 1980: 204–6. 83 

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Deposit of the Apadana contained Lydian staters, Aiginetian coins and coins from Thrace and Cyprus.94 Foreign labourers and craftsmen are mentioned in the Persepolis Fortification Tablets; these include Ionian men, women and children and at least one official who could speak and write in Greek, as well as an interpreter.95 Lewis notes that Greeks were used by the Achaemenids in secretarial capacities.96 It is difficult to see the status of the workers here and it is likely that many came as slaves; however, it is also possible that the workers were included as part of the payment of tribute by local Ionian elites and satraps to the Great King.97 We can see this in the Foundation Deposit of Susa, which records the Great King’s pleasure in the work of the skilled stonemasons on his palace and suggests that skilled workers could be a prestige gift.98 Indeed, the tales of Greek doctors, such as Democedes of Croton in the court of Darius, illustrate the symbolic and practical value of acquiring skilled workers.99 A study of Democedes’ patrons and travels shows that doctors were valuable commodities and could move for financial gain. Democedes was previously at Aegina, then Athens; he was helped to escape by Aristophilides, king of the Tarentines.100 Later sources also record tales of Greek sculptors working for Darius, including Telephanes, who was originally from Thessaly.101 These relationships were mutually beneficial. The skilled worker gained remuneration and status; the potentate gained the kudos of ‘owning’ a prime human artefact, as well as the use of their skills.102 There are also tales of women of the empire sent to fill the harem and young boys sent to be e­ unuchised.103 This is no different from the human gifts offered to Alyattes in the court at Sardis.104 Gifts were an essential component of Achaemenid court life; they reinforced the central status of the king and revealed the status of those to whom gifts were given.105 Lewis calls the arrangement ‘a  94 

Boardman 1999: 54. Lewis 1990: 1–6; the Greek official is discussed in Lewis 1977: 12–15; 1997b: 341. See also Starr 1977: 52 n.5.  96  Lewis 1977: 12–15. See also Brosius 2007: 17–57; 2011b.  97  Tsetskhladze 2010: 53–4.  98  For a study of the role of specialists as ‘prestige goods’ in Bronze Age Europe, see Nørgaard 2014. See also Zaccagnini 1983; Peregrine 1991.  99  Hdt. 3.129 –138. On his escape see Hdt. 3.131, 136. For a sceptical view of the tale see Boardman 2000: 134. 100  For a study of the folklore elements in the tale of Democedes, see Griffiths 1987. 101  Telephanes (Plin. HN 34.19.68); Boardman 2000: 134. 102  Helms 1993. 103  Hdt. 6.9.4. On women, see Kuhrt 2001: 119; Brosius 2011b: 71. 104  Hdt. 3.48–9. 105  Mitchell 1997: 111–13; Sancisi-­Weerdenburg 1989: 139–41.  95 

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gift-­centred economy’.106 Pottery found its way to the Achaemenid court and may have been offered as a gift to the king. Different shapes and styles of Attic pottery from the fifth and fourth centuries bce have been found at Achaemenid sites.107 The earliest pottery dates to the sixth century bce. For Tuna-­Nörling its presence is indicative of a period of stability and economic prosperity following the Achaemenid assumption of power.108 We find Athenian decorated pottery at Susa, including rhyta and works by the Sotades Painter dating from the mid-­fifth century bce.109 De Vries points out that there is a limited range of Attic pottery types in wider Achaemenid contexts. The dominant shapes are oil flasks, such as lekythoi and alabastra, and wine-­drinking paraphernalia, such as kraters, drinking cups, rhyta and plastic vases.110 These are all shapes associated with rituals of drinking in Athens, although we cannot be certain that they served the same uses in the Achaemenid Empire. Indeed De Vries notes clear evidence of cultural difference in the use of perfume by Greek men and men in the eastern lands.111 In Lycia and at Persepolis, perfume was a part of everyday male life, while in Greek communities it was used for men in the symposium or when dead. In everyday life it was associated with women. Other material at Susa includes a griffin-­handled cauldron, a knucklebone dedication taken from the sanctuary at Didyma and fourth-­century ­ivories.112 At Persepolis, material includes an Archaic bronze cauldron and a shield.113 There are fragments of architectural sculpture and statues from Greek sites as well; according to Pausanias, Xerxes also held the iconic Athenian statue of the Tyrannicides, stolen after the sack of Athens.114 The volume of Greek objects found in Achaemenid palaces is small and cannot be used to argue for a huge Greek or Athenian presence alongside the Great King. Again, it illustrates the desirability of knowledge about faraway places and cultures and the status that acquiring and displaying or using external artefacts can bring. In this, the Great King is no different from Assyrian monarchs or Greek tyrants. 106  107  108  109  110  111  112  113  114 

Lewis 1997c: 369. On Attic pottery as a marker of trade, see Miller 1997: 65–72. Tuna-­Nörling 2001. On economic stability, see also Balcer 1991: 57–65; 1995: 79–86. De Vries 1977: 564. On Sotades see Boardman 2000: 137; 1999: 52–3. De Vries 1977: 544. De Vries 1977: 545. Boardman 2000: 137; 1999: 108, fig. 125; Greaves 2010: 78. Schmidt 1957: pl. 31.1, 38–9. Boardman 2000: 137–8; Paus. 1.8.5.

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Other Greeks worked for the king within the wider empire.115 In the period after his defeat of Croesus, Cyrus came to an accommodation with the city of Miletus and eventually came to terms with the other cities of Ionia.116 As a result, the rulers of these cities ruled on behalf of the Great King. Achaemenid kings were content to permit local rulers to retain power so long as their own suzerainty was recognised, and many rulers were rewarded by Achaemenid kings for faithful service. Austin suggests that kings made gifts of revenue from land, villages or cities to individual favourites. He cites the story of Pytharchus of Cyzicus, who attempted to set himself up as a tyrant in Cyzicus after receiving a grant from Cyrus.117 The city of Miletus received control of the strategically important Myrkinos from Darius.118 Darius also rewarded Coes of Mytilene with control of the city.119 On warnings that Histiaeus was becoming too powerful, Darius took him to Susa rather than disposing of him.120 The Achaemenids had an understanding of reciprocity and operated a similar system, as indicated in Herodotus’ statement that ‘among the Persians good deeds are held in the highest honour’.121 Many countries come to an accommodation with the Achaemenids whether in taking positions of rule or fighting for the king. Even centuries later, in the fourth century bce, a Greek man could hope to achieve a position of status under the Great King.122 Raaflaub identifies the majority of Greeks named with the king as men of elite status, noting that they must have been the ‘tip of the iceberg’.123 As Hall notes, relations between Greek elites and the courts of the king and his satraps could be ‘close and warm’.124 Greeks also served in the armies of early Achaemenid kings or came with them on expeditions. Miller notes that this reflects a ‘long-­standing tradition’ of east Greek men fighting for Near Eastern kings.125 For Georges, the east Greek rulers were a key part of the Persian expansion. They were encouraged to explore and organise 115 

For Greek sites in Asia Minor, see Map 2. Hdt. 1.141.3. Austin 1990: 296; Agathocles of Cyzicus (FGrH 472 F6; H 282). 118  Hdt. 5.11, 23. 119  Hdt. 5.11. 120  Hdt. 5.24. For Georges this is an indication that Histiaeus had acquired status under the king (2001: 14). 121  Hdt. 3.154.1. We can see a similar pattern on the Bisitun inscription: ‘the man who co-­ operated with my house, I rewarded him well’ (Lecoq 1997: 187–217; Kuhrt 2007: 141–57). On benefaction, see Austin 1990: 301. 122  For example, Xenophon (Georges 1994: 221–41). 123  Raaflaub 2004: 201. 124  Hall 2006: 194. 125  Miller 1997: 101. 116  117 

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on his behalf in return for relief from tribute.126 After Harpagus subdued Ionia, he was joined on campaign by Carians, Caunians and Lycians, as well as taking contingents from Ionia and Aeolia.127 Cambyses took Ionian and Aeolian Greeks with his expedition against Egypt.128 On the Scythian expedition, Darius’ bridge is built by a Greek, Mandroles of Samos.129 A large contingent of Greeks, principally Ionians and Aeolians and men of the Hellespont, man the fleet.130 This collaboration was not enforced labour. According to Herodotus, the Greeks with Cambyses travelled with different motives: some came to live or to trade but others came to see the land (τῆς χώρης θεηταί).131 Gillis notes that the Ionians remain loyal after the death of Cambyses and pay tribute to Darius.132 This may be due to the fact that Darius becomes more personally involved with specific Greeks than Cyrus or Cambyses did.133 Darius’ trust was not shared by his fellow Achaemenids. Gobryas clearly did not trust the Ionian tyrants on Darius’ Scythian expedition.134 When the Scythians asked the east Greek tyrants with Darius to cut the bridge, they did not and instead remained loyal, spurning a chance to see Darius defeated.135 The reason for this behaviour is given in a speech by Histiaeaus, who argues that they hold power with Darius’ support, a point also made by Gillis.136 This shows that Greeks could work well and be trusted within the empire.137 At the end of the Scythian expedition Darius sets up two pillars of white marble with the names of the nations of his army; to be placed in a royal i­nscription is a 126 

Georges 2001: 10–11. On the subjection of Ionia and east Greece, see Hdt. 1.141–77. It is at this point that Xenophanes was forced to leave Colophon, which may explain his view of the Persians (Llewellyn-­Jones 2010a: 46 n.123); on Harpagus, see Hdt. 1.171; Gillis 1979: 6; Boardman 1999: 105. 128  Hdt. 3.1.1. 129  Hdt. 4.87–89; see Gillis 1979: 8. There are also Greek and Carian mercenaries with the Egyptians against the Persians and Phoenicians, showing that Greeks were happy to serve any master as long as he paid (Hdt. 3.11, 19, 25, 26). On evidence for Archaic mercenaries, see Trundle 2004: 4–5. 130  Hdt. 4.89. 131  Hdt. 3.11.1. See also journeys for knowledge by Solon (Hdt. 1.29) and Anacharsis (Hdt. 4.76). 132  Gillis 1979: 7. 133  Austin 1990: 298. 134  Hdt. 4.134.3. 135  Hdt. 4.137–9. They are named as the Athenian Miltiades of the Thracian Chersonese, who argued for destroying the bridge, and Histiaeaus of Miletus, Daphnis of Abydos, Hippoelus of Lampsacus, Herophantus of Parium, Metrodorus of Proconnesus, Aristagoras of Cyzicus, Ariston of Byzantium, Strattis of Chios, Aiaces of Samos, Laodamus of Phocaea and Aristagoras of Cyme, Aeolia, who argued against. On Darius in Scythia, see Georges 1987. 136  Hdt. 4.137; Gillis 1979: 10. 137  Georges 2001: 13 on Histiaeus. 127 

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considerable honour. Darius is offering recognition of the value of the tyrants’ contribution, as well as making a statement about his control over the empire. Our picture of calm collaboration alters with Greek historians’ tales of the Ionian revolt, yet a re-­examination of the story suggests that there is no simple rupture in relations. Aristagoras was initially collaborating with Artaphrenes on the king’s behalf and it is only when his enterprise with Megabates at Naxos fails that the move towards revolt in Ionia begins. Georges suggests that the revolt was due to ‘rivalry for the Great King’s favour and patronage’.138 Indeed, while Greek historians might treat the Ionian revolt as a key moment, this reflects the nature of their narrative more than any historical reality.139 We have no evidence that the Achaemenid administration saw it the same way, as disloyalty and rebellions appear to have been endemic in the Achaemenid Empire.140 Any system based on the personal power of a king will produce a highly competitive society, as nominated local rulers compete for advantage, whether by attracting the goodwill of the king or by rejecting him and trying to gain more personal power. This mirrors the pattern in Greek city-­states, where factions rose and fell in and out of favour as they competed for power and it was not unusual for powerful families to be exiled and return within a generation.141 Although many of the east Greek city-­ states joined the Ionian revolt, the Achaemenid army, with their experience of quelling revolts throughout the empire, appears to have had little trouble in ending it. Despite the negative picture in Herodotus, Histiaeus remained loyal to Darius.142 Alliance with the Great King offered sanctuary and security. Once deposed, the Ionian tyrants headed for Darius’ court in the hope of ingratiating themselves with the king.143 The revolt ended with the siege of Miletus but not its annihilation. After his victory, Darius had captives brought to Susa and 138  Georges 2001: 12. Georges suggests that competition between Aristagoras and Megabates triggered revolt (2001: 13). For a study of the revolt, see Gillis 1979: 14–25. On economic reasons for the revolt, see Murray 1988: 477; Meiggs 1972: 24. 139  Herodotus’ aim of showing why the Greeks came to fight the Achaemenid Empire would certainly not be helped by observing that all Mediterranean and Near Eastern societies were riven by factions and continually fought each other for power at this time (Hdt. 1.1). 140  I am grateful to Sam Ellis for sharing with me his research on the endemic nature of disloyalty in the Achaemenid Empire. 141  The Athenian Alcmaeonid family offers an excellent example of this. Forsdyke 2005: 121–2, 176–7. 142  Hdt. 5.106. 143  Hdt. 6.9.2–4. See Gillis 1979: 21.

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r­e-­settled them in Ampe, near the Red Sea.144 The terms offered by Darius were fair and showed concern to re-­integrate in a more secure manner areas that rose against him.145 As we have already noted, Darius’ more extreme measures of creating eunuchs and taking children or women to work in his court could be read as a measure concerned with security and integration.146 Eunuchs could attain high positions of influence in the Achaemenid court and could be useful in future dealings with their homeland.147 The Great King’s desire to produce stability in his lands can be seen in the establishment of democratic governments in Ionian cities after the revolt. According to Herodotus, this kept the local populations happy.148 It also offers an interesting perspective on power, as ancient democracies tend to result in factions, which may have been easier to control. The Ionians were again called on when Darius and Xerxes planned their invasions of Greece. The Ionians supplied warships to Darius for his assault on Greece while Datis brought Aeolians and Ionians with him at Eretria.149 While it is possible that the Ionians had no choice and were compelled to fight for the empire, they were very active participants in the fighting and even offered information during the storm, which ‘saved’ the fleet.150 During the ­campaign, there were surprisingly few defections.151 Herodotus offers us a picture of the Ionians that differs little from the structure of Greek communities in Chapter 1. We see communities containing different groups who maintain different agendas and are not afraid to pursue these separate agendas at the expense of the wider community. Hence the cities in the Ionian revolt shift sides according to whichever group has the lead. Some are with the Achaemenids and others respond to Aristagoras’ call. At Artemisium, some Ionians are distraught at seeing Greeks ships surrounded while others cannot wait to seize the first Athenian ship in order to earn gifts from the king.152 Most Ionians remain loyal and are included in Darius’ p ­ roposals 144 

Hdt. 6.20. Hdt. 6.42.1–2. 146  The boys of Miletus are eunuchised while the girls are sent to Susa (Hdt. 6.32). 147  Llewellyn-­Jones 2013: 38–40. 148  On democracies in Ionia, see Hdt. 6.43.3; Briant 2002a: 496–7. 149  Hdt. 6.48, 98. 150  Hdt. 7.191. 151  One ship from Tenos defected (Hdt. 8.82) along with four ships from Naxos (Hdt. 8.46), and some individuals, such as Democritus and Scyllias, worked for different sides from their peers (Hdt. 8.8, 46). Gillis points out that there are also two ships from Seriphos and Siphnis with the Greeks at Salamis (1979: 31). 152  Hdt. 8.10.2–3; see Gillis 1979: 28. 145 

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for a second invasion, providing Xerxes with 100 ships.153 When Themistocles tries to detach them from the invasion force, only one ship comes over to the Greek side.154 In contrast, the men from Samos are rewarded by the Great King for their support.155 Gillis suggests Herodotus knew of more but refrains from including them.156 Even after his defeat, Greek cities such as Abdera allow Xerxes succour on his journey home.157 Scholars have suggested that Herodotus intentionally portrays the Ionians in a negative light, but his statements must have held some degree of accuracy as the events of the Ionian revolt were still within the recollection of his audiences.158 Achaemenid kings constantly sought to expand the empire and make alliances with self-­ interested groups. Achaemenid heralds visited certain of the Greek city-­states twice, in 491 and 481 bce.159 Earth and water were demanded by Darius as tokens of submission at cities and islands throughout the Greek mainland and islands.160 Herodotus reports that the Aeginetans gave Darius earth and water at his first request.161 He also lists those who gave in to Xerxes. The list is a sobering one, including Thessaly, the Dolopes, Aenianes, Perrhaebi, Locrians, Magnetes, Malians, Achaeans of Phthiotis, Thebans and all Boeotians except Plataea and Thespiae.162 Argos is on friendly terms already with the Great King and Medises once it is denied co-­leadership with Sparta.163 Towns in the north give support to Xerxes’ invading army, though Herodotus offers the charitable view that they are simply trying to ensure their safety.164 Abdera makes a treaty with Xerxes and rewards are given to Acanthus, while the northern towns provide Xerxes with ships.165 Some of the Arcadians desert after Thermopylae while Greek spies are turned into double agents.166 Ephialtes betrays Sparta at Thermopylae.167 The further Xerxes goes into Greece, the more follow him.168 As Cartledge has 153  154  155  156  157  158  159  160  161  162  163  164  165  166  167  168 

Hdt. 6.116, 7.94. Hdt. 8.22–3. Hdt. 8.85.3. Gillis 1979: 32. Hdt. 8.120. Evans 1976. Kuhrt 1988. Hdt. 6.48. Hdt. 6.49. Hdt. 7.132; see Diod. Sic. 11.3. Hdt. 7.149.3. Herodotus says this was due to the catastrophe at Sepeia (6.75–83). Hdt. 7.122, 123. Hdt. 8.120 (Abdera), 7.115–16 (Acanthus), 7.122–3 (ships and troops). Hdt. 8.26 (Arcadians), 7.146–7 (spies). Hdt. 7.213–14, 218. Hdt. 8.66.

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noted, there were more Greeks fighting for the Achaemenid army than fighting for the Greeks.169 This evidence suggests a network of associations that enveloped both Greeks and Achaemenids, with allegiances that shifted according to the needs and ambitions of the participants. It is no different to what had existed in the period before the Achaemenids rose to power. Courting the king Just as Greeks came as visitors and petitioners to the court of Croesus, so they continued to come to the courts of the Achaemenid kings throughout the Archaic and Classical period.170 This contact continued unabated throughout the Graeco-­Persian Wars and beyond into the Peloponnesian Wars and the fourth century bce. Greek petitioners sought the king’s assistance for reasons of political support and personal gain. There is some evidence for communities sending embassies to make requests of the king and receiving his ambassadors in turn. The Lacedaemonians go to Cyrus to try to warn him off invading Ionia.171 According to Herodotus, the Athenian envoys had already accepted Artaphrenes’ request for earth and water in exchange for Achaemenid assistance in the face of Cleomenes and a Spartan ­invasion.172 Historians of the period tell us that the Thebans and Argives were ‘friends’ of the king, suggesting some type of alliance, and that they welcomed the prospect of an Achaemenid invasion.173 We have more evidence for approaches to the Great King by smaller groups. Indeed Lewis notes that he could not find evidence of a single occasion when a Greek state outside the empire sent a gift to the king.174 This reflects the fact that early engagements are between Greek individuals or families and the king rather than at a state level. Indeed, Austin has suggested that we have paid too little attention to the role of self-­interested ‘upper class Greeks’ who sought a reciprocal arrangement with the Achaemenid king.175 He offers a list of ‘ambitious Greeks’ who fostered links with the king, including the rulers of Macedonia, Gillos of Tarentum, Skythes of Cos, Cadmus of Cos (on behalf of Gelon of Syracuse), Demaratus 169 

Cartledge 2013: 62. For contacts before the Ionian revolt, see Miller 1997: 3–4. 171  Hdt. 1.152. 172  Hdt. 5.73; Rung 2008: 29. 173  Hdt. 7.152 (Argos); Thuc. 3.62.1–3 (Boeotia). 174  Lewis 1997c: 372. 175  Austin 1990: 291. On familiarity in relations between Greeks and the Great King, see Herman 1987. 170 

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of Sparta and Gongylos of Eretria.176 Gillis has suggested that the Athenian withdrawal from the Ionian revolt could have been due to the actions of a pro-­Achaemenid faction in the city.177 The Aleuad family from Thessaly sent an embassy to Xerxes, offering alliance and inviting him to invade Greece.178 The Pisistratids end up in exile at the court of the Great King.179 Even in communities that fought against the Achaemenids, there is evidence of groups or families collaborating. Miltiades warns that there are some in Athens who wish for peace with the Great King, while Hippias directs the king’s fleet to Marathon.180 Even in the face of war, factions in the Greek city-­states still sought the king’s favour. Herodotus mentions the possibility of Alcmaeonid complicity in the form of a shield signal at Marathon, while Euphorbus and Philagrus betrayed Eretria to the king.181 For individual petitioners, the Great King could give support or funds, just as Croesus had. It was from the court of Croesus that Alcmaeon of the Alcmaeonid family received the gold that was the basis of their wealth.182 Visitors to the court of the Great King included Syloson, brother of Polycrates, who came to ask for reinstatement.183 Scythes, the king of Zancle, escaped Hippocrates when his town was taken and went to the court of Darius; trusted by the king, he returned to Sicily and then back to Darius, where he was rewarded with wealth.184 Kuhrt suggests that the king could ‘bestow the rank of “Persian”’ on those he chose.185 Demaratus, deposed as a king of Sparta by Cleomenes, is given lands and cities by Darius.186 Men come to the king and are also kept at court by him, as Cyrus keeps Croesus.187 As Boardman notes, Herodotus’ Cyrus has a propensity to spare the lives of the defeated and collect them, like living trophies.188 Cambyses also holds Psammenitus of Egypt.189 These are 176  Amyntas of Macedonia (Hdt. 5.18–21), Gillos of Tarentum (Hdt. 3.138), Skythes of Cos and Cadmus of Cos (Hdt. 6.23–4, 7.163), Demaratus (Hdt. 7.101) and Gongylos of Eretria (Thuc. 1.128); Austin 1990: 305. 177  Gillis 1979: 48. 178  Hdt. 7.6. 179  Hdt. 6.94. 180  Hdt. 6.109.6 (Miltiades), 6.107 (Hippias). 181  Hdt. 6.115, 124. On the guilt or otherwise of the Alcmaeonids, see Gillis 1979: 45–58. On Euphorbus and Philagrus, see Hdt. 6.101.2. 182  Hdt. 6.125. 183  Hdt. 3.139–40; Gillis 1979: 7; Austin 1990: 300. 184  Hdt. 6.24. 185  Kuhrt 2001: 119. 186  Hdt. 6.70. He also proves a friend to Xerxes (Hdt. 7.237), although Herodotus offers an alternative view that he warned the Spartans (Hdt. 7.239); Lewis 1997b: 349. 187  Hdt. 1.155, 207–8. 188  Boardman 2000: 18. 189  Hdt. 3.15.

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not simply hostages; again, there seems to be a hope that men can be persuaded to become the king’s men. When Phoenicians capture Miltiades’ son Metiochus and send him to Darius, Darius gives Metiochus property, wealth and an Achaemenid wife.190 This appears to have been a successful policy, as we can see from the many elites who throw themselves on the mercy of the Great King when rejected by their own communities. According to Thucydides, the Spartan general Pausanias returned captured family members to Xerxes and also wrote to offer his services and control over Sparta and Greece. Their agreement would be cemented by the marriage of Pausanias to the king’s daughter.191 Xerxes accepted, and Thucydides tells us that Pausanias then began to dress in Achaemenid clothing, eat Achaemenid food and use an Achaemenid and Egyptian bodyguard, and became inaccessible.192 Themistocles, hero of the Greeks, ends his days as an Achaemenid satrap, having learnt the language and customs.193 According to Herodotus, Themistocles wanted to win favour with Xerxes during the Graeco-­Persian Wars.194 Themistocles allegedly sends messages encouraging the Achaemenids to attack at Salamis and later tells Xerxes that he had stopped the Greeks from pursuing him and destroying the Hellespontine bridges.195 Studies of the Archaic evidence suggest that the arrival of the Achaemenids changed little. They pursued a policy of continuity in using existing political structures and agents where possible, and the court of the king became a centre for the people of the empire and petitioners from a wider area, as had the court of the Lydian kings. The Ionian revolt was just one more example of a self-­interested individual seeking an advantage. It resulted in a victory for the Great King and the re-­establishment of peace within his empire. R E F L E C T I N G T H E G R E AT K I N G : D I V E R G E N T R E A C T I O N S T O T H E E A R LY A C H A E M E N I D EMPIRE We will turn now from textual evidence to study examples of material practice and look for evidence of Achaemenid-­inspired artefacts, symbols and ideas in locations outside the Achaemenid heartlands. 190  191  192  193  194  195 

Hdt. 6.41. Thuc. 1.128. Herodotus confirms his betrothal to a daughter of Megabates (Hdt. 5.32). Thuc. 1.130. Thuc. 1.136–8; Charon fr. 11 (Plut. Them. 27). Hdt. 8.109–10. Hdt. 8.75, 8.110.

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In the period before the ‘Great Event’, Achaemenid-­inspired items can be found across a wide geographical range from the western reaches of Halstatt Europe through the tombs of the Bosphorus and into the east and Russia.196 Scholars frequently regard the presence of Achaemenid-­inspired forms as evidence of ‘acculturation’, that is, the integration of external elements into local forms as a means to reveal affiliation to the external regime or reflect status within it.197 While there may be elements of this in the choices made by local users, it is important to remember that there may be other, discrete reasons for the choices. We will focus on three areas: Anatolia, Ionia and Archaic Athens. The areas chosen for the study offer three different perspectives on engagement. Anatolian communities had always been under the control of empire, whether the centre was internal (Lydia) or external (Assyria). As Sinopoli has noted, the diffusion of status goods from the centre to the periphery under imperial rule is a key component of building alliances and consolidating political gains.198 Gift exchange becomes a symbolic message of approval that reinforces the status of the receiver.199 Acculturation here might be internally desired or externally encouraged as a means to bind elites to the centre and create a core identity. In contrast, the Greek cities in Ionia had dual identities. Placed between the power of the Great King and the Greek city-­states, Ionian elites were required to pay tribute and support the Achaemenid Empire, as they had under Croesus. Elites here might use Anatolian or Achaemenid forms to reflect power and identity but might also choose to use forms from mainland Greek cultures as an alternative.200 We will examine to what extent Achaemenid forms appeared in Ionia and in what contexts. Finally, we will look at Archaic Athens, an area that was outside the control of the Achaemenid Empire but received ideas and artefacts from the east as a result of its engagement with eastern networks. Again, I will be looking to see whether Achaemenid culture and artefacts fitted into pre-­existing patterns of engagement and dialogues of elite ­identity and status in Athens.

196  197  198  199  200 

Kistler 2010; Triester 2010; Yablonsky 2010: 133. Niemeyer 2004: 249. Sinopoli 1994: 164, 172. Sancisi-­Weerdenburg 1989: 135–9; Miller 2006a. Fantalkin 2006: 205; Akurgal 1962.

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Fig. 2.4. Relief from Khorsabad with gift-­giving scene showing lion-­headed situlae (drawing by Alexander Morgan after Botta and Flandin 1849: pl. 103).

Elite reactions: emulating the king and his court in Anatolia Evidence from Anatolian contexts shows considerable engagement with Achaemenid forms, shapes and images. As the Achaemenids themselves adopted these from earlier rulers, there appears to be a high degree of continuity, although we must remain aware that the same symbol might be used in different ways by different groups, even within the same culture, and we cannot assume that artefacts had homogeneous meanings across wide regions, or even within smaller territories.201 In the ninth and eighth centuries bce, there is clear evidence of contacts between Phrygian dynasts and the Assyrian empire and of engagement with Assyrian objects and ideas.202 A ruler called Mita appears in Assyrian documents and has been connected with Midas of Phrygia; in the period of his rule he changes from being an aggressor to being an ally of the Assyrian ruler.203 Figure  2.4 shows a relief from the palace of Khorsabad with tribute-­bearing dignitaries bringing gifts to Sargon. These delegations included Phrygians.204 Amongst the gifts brought by the embassies are lion-­headed situlae, vessels associated with 201  202  203  204 

Kistler 2010; Tuplin 2011. Muscarella 1998. Roller 1983; 2011. Ebbinghaus 2008: fig. 5.

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Fig. 2.5. Gold Achaemenid rhyta with lion terminal, fifth century bce. ­Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Accession Number: 54.3.3. Fletcher Fund, 1954. www.metmuseum.org.

court ceremonial banquets. The practice of exchanging animal-­ headed vessels as a reflection of status can be traced back further than Assyrian times, to exchanges between Hittite monarchs and Egypt and to elites in Mesopotamian and Syrian contexts.205 These ‘essential court furnishings’ are being used in the scenes to reflect participation in an elite lifestyle that draws its status from engagement with the Assyrian court.206 What we have here is an established way of communicating between elites, adopted and adapted by the Assyrians. It reveals an interesting longevity in patterns of elite exchange in the Near East that were also transformed and used by the new Achaemenid rulers. As the vessel in Figure 2.5 shows, the form of Achaemenid animal rhyta draws on these earlier Near Eastern models.207 The earlier shapes were adapted and adopted by the Achaemenids, who ‘bought in’ to pre-­existing symbols but amended the vocabulary to make it reveal their power and status at the top of the political pyramid. Artefacts and images act as signifiers of status and membership across wider swathes of territory in the Near East and Anatolia. In 205  206  207 

Ebbinghaus 2008: 187. Ebbinghaus 2008: 185–6. On toreutics, see Sideris 2008. Sideris 2008: 343.

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doing this, they perform the same type of semiotic function as we have already observed in Greek contexts.208 The forms are not direct copies of Achaemenid scenes but have variations that reflect local dialogues of identity and power.209 Scenes and symbols reflect ‘court repertoire’, revealing knowledge of the king and his court and the power to transform its shapes and decoration for local impact. This offers us a means to explore the engagement with Achaemenid culture and its continuity within the region.210 Hence we find artefacts with decorative symbols that derive their authority from Achaemenid images.211 Özgen and Öztürk offer a range of examples of silver phialai found in Lydia with Achaemenid images, including one phiale with addorsed bull protomes and a winged Ahura Mazda-­style disc, and another with the hero fighting the lion.212 Once again, the latter image of the hero is one adapted by the Achaemenids themselves, as it has antiquity within the repertoire of Near Eastern ruler images.213 There are also bracelets and torques with protomic terminals in the form of lion heads and griffin heads.214 Achaemenid-­style jewellery has been found spread from Cyprus to Takht-­i Kuwad and amongst the Akhalgori treasure in the Caucasus.215 Similar types of scenes and animals can be found on Achaemenid furniture from the fifth-­ century Dedetepe tumulus in the Troad, on fourth-­century Cilician coins, on the Pavaya sarcophagus from 370–350 bce and on the Saqqara relief.216 Acculturation may also be visible in the practices associated with artefacts. Images from Assyrian palaces show scenes of court life, with formal dining and hunting.217 Similar artefacts and the patterns of behaviour associated with them are reflected in the drinking sets produced at the Achaemenid court, such as deep bowls.218 Dusinberre highlights the adoption of Achaemenid-­style equipment in drinking, dining, gift exchange, mortuary structures and horse 208  209  210  211 

1993.

For details of Achaemenid forms in the western empire, see Miller 2007. Maffre notes the presence in Asia Minor of a ‘collaborationist ruling class’ (2007: 125). Paspalas 2000b: 353; Lintz 2008. Özgen and Öztürk 1996: 86 n.150 (ladle). On decorative scenes, see Melikian-­Chirvani

212 

Özgen and Öztürk 1996: 89, fig. 35 (bull protomes), 88, fig. 34 (hero and lion). Root 1979: 303–8. On reciprocal relationships of use and re-­use of forms, see Baughn 2013: 233–66. A scene of the Achaemenid king fighting a lion at Persepolis can be seen in Figures 2.6 and 2.7. 214  Özgen and Öztürk 1996: 178–9, fig. 13a and b (lion’s head). 215  Gjerstad 1937: 238, 278 (Cyprus); Curtis 2012 (Takht-­ i Kuwad); Smirnov 1934 ­(Akhalgori). For jewellery, see Treister 2010. 216  Paspalas 2000b: 538–40. 217  Reade 1998; van de Mieroop 2007: 259–61. 218  Moorey 1980; Root 2007: 184–5. 213 

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trappings.219 These were then re-­shaped by local elites. The artefacts retained the forms and composition but their style reveals their local origins and local meanings.220 The detailed hunting scenes that evoke Achaemenid art on artefacts from Hellespontine Phrygia are not paralleled on objects from Lycia.221 There are differences in the range and consistency of images used at Sardis and Gordion within the same period.222 In Egypt, the Saqqara stele shows a man seated on a throne and wearing Achaemenid dress. The mix of Egyptian stonework and Achaemenid imagery is further fused by the parentage of the man commemorated, whose father was Iranian and mother Egyptian.223 One key means to illustrate affiliation to the new regime or membership of the elite who engaged with the empire was in the bearing and using of seals.224 Seal stones are a common find at official Anatolian sites and in graves.225 The statement is made in two ways: first by the act of bearing a seal and second by the iconography.226 The act of bearing a seal showed that the individual was aware of the role of the artefact and was a person of importance, connected to the new regime.227 Dusinberre reports that only one seal of the pre-­ Achaemenid period was found at Sardis, which may illustrate that their adoption was stimulated by contact with the Achaemenids.228 Seals offered a personal indication of the importance of the holder and were worn visibly on the body: their personal nature is shown in their frequent presence in the graves of elites.229 The images reflect Achaemenid styles and Achaemenid scenes, but changed to suit local tastes.230 Again, this shows knowledge of the complex range of meanings that could be found in Achaemenid art and also knowledge of the forms of art. Llewellyn-­Jones suggested that the more rounded female form on the seals is a reflection of local ideas of beauty.231 219  Dusinberre 2013: 76–81. On horse trappings, see Miller 2011. On gift giving, see Briant 2002a: 304–7. 220  For examples of Achaemenid-­affiliated drinking practices in western Anatolia, see Miller 2011: esp. 97. 221  Lintz 2008: 261. Tuplin suggests that the court at Dascyleum had a taste for Greek wine that was absent in the court at Sardis (2011: 155). 222  Dusinberre 2010. 223  For a discussion, see Miller 2011: 105–9. 224  Paspalas 2000b: 545. 225  Baughn 2103: 236–7. 226  Garrison 2000. 227  On ‘Graeco-­Persian’ seals from Anatolia, see Boardman 2000; 2001. 228  Dusinberre 2013: 67 n.157. 229  Dusinberre 2013: 68. 230  Baughn 2013: 237; Dusinberre 2010: 326. 231  Llewellyn-­Jones 2010b.

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Fig. 2.6. Achaemenid seal showing king fighting lions, fifth to fourth century bce. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Accession Number: 1985.192.5. Gift of Martin and Sarah Cherkasky, 1985. www.metmuseum.org.

At Sardis, seal stones from the tombs show images that reflect elite status in Achaemenid circles, such as the battle of king and lion.232 We can see this clearly in the scenes in Figures 2.6 and 2.7. The seal impression shown in Figure 2.6 evokes the image of the king fighting the lion on reliefs at Persepolis, as shown in Figure 2.7. The battle of lion and king is an old motif that can also be found in plaques from Nimrud and seals from Mycenae.233 Overall, seals in Anatolia reflect and adapt Achaemenid court imagery.234 They offer ‘a citation of power and authority, an affirmation of connections between the elite across the empire expressed in a visual performance linked to the new regime and its supporters’.235 The extent and depth of engagement between local elites and the Achaemenid Empire can be witnessed further in mortuary ­evidence.236 Although there are regional variations in mortuary structures, there is consistency in the elite artefact assemblages within them, which contain drinking sets in precious metals, jewellery, horse trappings and gold-­foil clothing ornaments.237 For Dusinberre, the consistency of these assemblages suggests that it was more important to ‘be elite’ 232  Dusinberre 2013: 68. On tombs at Sardis, see Dusinberre 2003: 128–57, 239–63; ­Roosevelt 2009: 135–84. 233  Hurwit 1985: 106–24, esp. figs 53 and 54. 234  Dusinberre 2013: 70. 235  Dusinberre 2013: 70. The same argument can be made for Achaemenid-­style jewellery (Dusinberre 2013: 153–4). 236  For burials in Lydia, see Roosevelt 2009: 135–203. 237  Dusinberre 2013: 141–2.

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Fig. 2.7. Relief sculpture showing king fighting lion from the Hall of 100 Columns, Persepolis (photograph by Lloyd Llewellyn-­Jones).

than to ‘be Carian’ or any other local ethnicity at this time.238 The tumulus tombs at Bin Tepe contained large quantities of elite assemblage, as well as Achaemenid-­style images of winged, human-­headed bulls and lions.239 At Tatarli, the fifth-­century bce tomb mixed Greek, Anatolian and Achaemenid elements.240 Tombs contained klinai and were elaborately decorated with patterns. At Harta, the tomb had a dromos and porch, with paintings of life-­size humans on the walls of the chamber and carved marble sphinxes as klinē supports.241 The figures were walking in procession with a wheeled vehicle and their clothes reflected those worn by the Ionians in the Persepolis Apadana reliefs.242 At the Karaburun tomb in north-­west Lycia from c. 470 bce, the tomb paintings contained symbols of Achaemenid 238  239  240  241  242 

Dusinberre 2013: Dusinberre 2013: Summerer 2008. Dusinberre 2013: Dusinberre 2013:

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life and clothing for the dynast.243 Although funeral banquets and banquets as signs of status were not exclusive to Achaemenid elites, Achaemenid practices and artefacts filter into the images.244 The most common scene is of a male banqueter holding a drinking cup in his right hand whilst reclining on a klinē, with a veiled female figure sitting at the end of the klinē with her feet on a footstool: there may also be attendants.245 For Briant the existence of Achaemenid forms and adapted forms reflects the creation of ‘small Persias’, pockets of affiliation in the service of the king.246 Once a man was part of the Achaemenid political system, he needed to display his adherence and play the affiliation game.247 Yet there were limits to how far a local dynast could exercise power. Brosius notes that while emulation was encouraged, the allocation of positions of power remained the province of the king.248 It is important to remember that we cannot always see the owners or users of the goods: under Achaemenid rule, products might be owned by Achaemenid Iranians themselves, who had come into the area to take up positions of power, or as bureaucrats, or to exploit the resources on behalf of the empire. In spite of these cautions, the volume and spread of Achaemenid forms suggest that they became an important part of elite identity in Anatolia, just as royal art and artefacts from Assyria and other empires had before them. Elite reactions: Ionia and the Achaemenid Empire The geography of Ionia left it open to influences from Assyria, Phrygia, Lydia and the Achaemenid Empire. Indeed, Emlyn-­Jones calls the Ionians the ‘great middle men of Greek civilisation’ and ascribes to them a significant role in transferring artefacts and ideas to Greece.249 Influences from Near Eastern lands were adopted, adapted and rejected in Ionia as internal political and social dialogues required, with little evidence of any ‘rhetoric of “Greeks 243 

De Vries 2000: 350. Dusinberre 2013: 163. 245  Dusinberre 2013: 164; 2003; Baughn 2004; Roosevelt 2009: 157–8. 246  Briant 2002a: 88, 91, 94, 133, 345, 361–3, 498–9; Sideris notes the range of find spots from the Middle East to the eastern Mediterranean, south Russia and the Caucasus (2008: 339). 247  Brosius 2011a: 143. 248  Brosius cautions against the idea that wholesale adoption was permitted or encouraged, and suggests that different degrees of adoption would be used to reflect status (2011a). Tuplin too suggests that the instruction to copy in the Cyropaedia was aimed at satraps and the king’s elite entourage (2011: 153; Xen. Cyr. 8.6.10). 249  Emlyn-­Jones 1980: 7. 244 

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Fig. 2.8. East Greek trefoil oinochoe from Ionia showing waterbird and sphinx, c. 625–600 bce. J. Paul Getty Museum, Getty Villa. Object no. 82.AE.126. Gift of Vasek Polak. Digital image courtesy of the Getty’s Open Content Program.

versus Barbarians”’.250 Elite identity in the cities of Ionia was a complex issue. First Croesus and then Cyrus defeated the east Greek cities and took tribute from them.251 They were part of an empire, controlled by an external power.252 For east Greek cities, the adoption of Lydian or Achaemenid forms could show affiliation either to rulers or to mainland Greek communities. We can see this mix of ‘Greek’ and ‘east’ in material and textual evidence. Ionian communities transformed ‘eastern’ objects and developed their own orientalising pottery style after 700 bce.253 ‘Wild Goat’ pottery was decorated with sphinx heads and lotus blossoms, possibly in imitation of Near Eastern metalwork, as we see in the example in Figure 2.8.254 In this case, we may have a reverse perspective, as demand for the pottery could have been stimulated by a desire to identify with mainland and island Greek communities, rather than to show connections to groups in the east. 250  251  252  253  254 

Mac Sweeney 2013: 129. Hdt. 1.6 (Croesus), 1.162–76 (Cyrus). Balcer calls the Ionian–Achaemenid relationship ‘symbiotic’ (1983: 265). Morris 1997: 28. Greaves 2010: 204, 211.

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In Ionia, as on mainland Greece, sanctuaries were built and filled with rich ‘oriental and orientalising’ votives.255 These have been found in sanctuaries of the eighth and seventh centuries bce at Miletus, Didyma, Erythrae, Smyrna and Ephesus. In religion, Ionian temples followed the same general pattern as temples on the Greek mainland, with offerings and votives followed by built structures.256 They were also positioned outside settlements in more marginal areas. Simon suggests that their placement was linked to transitional moments in the life-­cycle.257 While this is a possibility, it may equally indicate the temples’ role as a neutral space of engagement, a function reflected in the presence of non-­native votives. Cult practices also show signs of the adoption of Anatolian and Achaemenid forms. The goddess Cybele was influenced by Anatolian mother goddesses.258 Rock-­cut niches found at the temple of Athena in Erythrae contained syncretised images of Athena/Cybele.259 The worship of Artemis at Ephesus was syncretised with Anatolian worship.260 The statue of Artemis with ‘many breasts’ appears to have incorporated Anatolian traditions in clothing: Artemis wears a polos, a high cylindrical hat common to goddesses in Anatolia and the Near East, and has animal friezes adorning her dress.261 The cult itself with its eunuch priests was distinctly Near Eastern in structure, and the cult title ‘megabyzoi’ is an Achaemenid word.262 An Achaemenid glass phiale and bridle attachments were found at Ephesus along with local versions of Achaemenid vessels.263 Paspalas has noted that the horses on the temple of Artemis are being handled in Achaemenid style.264 We may also see acculturation in the adoption of Achaemenid banqueting sets and in the integration of Achaemenid and Greek ideas in Ionian seals.265 The socio-­political structure of Ionian cities appears to be organised along the same lines as that of mainland Greek cities, with competitive elite factions seeking to gain purchase on the others. Tales 255 

I. Morris 1997: 27. Simon 1997: 129–30. 257  Simon 1997: 136–7. 258  Akurgal 1962: 374. 259  Greaves 2010: 99. 260  Burkert 2004: 99–124; Kerschner, Kowalleck and Steskal 2008. 261  Mac Sweeney 2013: 148; see Fleischer 1973: 311. 262  Mac Sweeney 2013: 148; Strabo 14.1.23; Simon 1997: 138; Burkert 1979: 123–5; Xen. An. 5.3.6. 263  Hansen 1962: 27–30; Ebbinghaus 1999: 401, 406. 264  Paspalas 2000a. 265  Moorey 1980 (drinking sets); Starr 1977: 67–75 (seals). On adaptations of Achaemenid toreutics from the wider empire, see Sideris 2008. 256 

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of factions within the Ionian cities begin at the time of Lydian rule and continue into the fourth century.266 These factions use affiliation to Greece and to the ‘east’ or to the Achaemenids to authorise their claims to authority. On the one hand, in the sixth century bce, Xenophanes, a poet from Colophon, criticises his fellow elites for wearing purple cloaks and perfumes, luxuries that they had learned from the Lydians.267 On the other hand, there is clear evidence at Colophon for interactions between Ionian elites and Achaemenids that continued the pattern of relations between Colophon and its previous Lydian rulers.268 The coins of Colophon from the sixth and fifth centuries were struck in denominations that allowed for direct exchange with the Achaemenid siglos, while the coins of Cyzikos presented Heracles as an Achaemenid archer.269 In the fifth century, relations with eastern powers continued. There was a faction within Colophon who wished to restore Achaemenid control and invited Itames, the Achaemenid general, to take the city and remove the pro-­Athenian faction.270 The dual identity of Ionian cities and their desire to affiliate to mainland Greeks may be read in the arrangements of their cities. In the period before the Achaemenids, Greaves identifies competitive emulation between Ionian cities and Anatolian counterparts, especially in the desire to construct monumental walls around settlements.271 The walls at Phocaea used similar material and techniques to walls at Kerkernes Dag˘ and Sardis.272 Greaves further suggests that the arrangement of the Archaic Ionian cities may have reflected Anatolian examples.273 Although he acknowledges eastern inspiration in the form of the Greek city, Owens suggests that the planning of Ionian cities reflected the style of Greek colonies.274 The construction of temples took place at many Ionian sites at around the same time as at sites on mainland Greece, suggesting either the same socio-­political needs and structures were present in Ionian communities or that there was a desire to emulate mainland practices.275 It is entirely possible that in the period after the 266  267  268  269  270  271  272  273  274  275 

On factions at Miletus, see Hdt. 5.28–9, 6.18–22; Mac Sweeney 2013: 62–3. Xenophanes fr. 3 (Lesher 1992). See Mac Sweeney 2013: 123–37. Milne 1941: 31; Mac Sweeney 2013: 130; Kaptan 2000: 219. Thuc. 3.34. Greaves 2010: 117. Greaves 2010: 117. Greaves 2010: 118. Owens 1991: 30–50. For examples, see Spawforth 2006.

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Tomb of Cyrus

Taş Kule

Fig. 2.9. Outline plans of the tomb of Cyrus and the tomb at Taş Kule, showing stepped bases (drawings by author after Cahill 1988: fig. 4 and Curtis 2000: fig. 41).

Graeco-­Persian Wars, Ionian cities began to incorporate building types from Athens or other mainland cities to reflect their political affiliation, but the evidence from the cities is difficult to read, as it has been obscured by destruction and later re-­building. The layout of fourth-­century bce Ionian cities such as Priene is clearer, but the plans here have been influenced by the politics of their time and cannot be used to extrapolate data about the presentation of earlier Archaic settlements. There is evidence of the adoption of Achaemenid and Anatolian forms in Ionian burial practices. The tomb at Taş Kule was about 7 km east from the Ionian city of Phocaea: it has been dated to the second half of the sixth century bce.276 The tomb is a unique type, reflecting Lydian elements.277 In particular, its structure echoes the Pyramid Tomb near the Pactolus River.278 The images above the door are similar to reliefs from Dascylium showing rites and sacrifices offered by people in Achaemenid dress.279 Again, we do not know the affiliation of the owner, but the tomb offers clear evidence for the use of external forms and symbols in this region. Interestingly, this tomb or ones like it appear to have influenced or been influenced by the tomb of Cyrus at Pasargadae, as we can see in the use of stepped bases, shown in the comparison in Figure 2.9.280 Other evidence is less clear. At Clazomenae, the distinctive sarcophagi first 276  277  278  279  280 

Dusinberre 2013: 166–7. Greaves 2010: 97; Cahill 1988. Dusinberre 2013: 167. Dusinberre 2013: 167. Greaves 2010: 97.

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Fig. 2.10. Clazomenian sarcophagus, c. 480–470 bce. Attributed to Albertinum Group. J. Paul Getty Museum, Getty Villa. Object no. 77.AD.88. Digital image courtesy of the Getty’s Open Content Program.

appear in 630 bce, with the majority dating from 550–450 bce.281 This places them firmly in the period of Achaemenid control over Ionia. They were designed with a flat foot, to enable them to stand vertically as well as horizontally, and their rims were painted with a range of patterns and also human and animal figures.282 The exterior images include ‘orientalising’ motifs as well as hunt scenes, heraldic animals and double-­winged deities holding lions in Near Eastern style.283 The example in Figure 2.10 has a battle scene with hoplites across the top, panthers at the base and goats and griffins decorating the sides. These are more general ‘eastern’ forms, following the patterns of previous generations rather than showing direct affiliation 281  Ulusoy 2010: 29; Dusinberre 2013: 168–70; Johansen 1942; Byvank 1948; Cook 1966; 1974; 1981: 148. 282  For a study, see Ulusoy 2010. 283  Dusinberre 2013: 169–70.

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to the Achaemenids. Although their name suggests a geographical ­specificity, Clazomenian sarcophagi have been found at other Ionian sites, including Smyrna, Teos, Lebedus, Erythrae, Larisa and Pitane. The interiors contained few grave goods: Dusinberre suggests that the decorated exteriors were sufficient to reflect status.284 They emphasise male status, reflected through the prism of Ionian identity.285 On Samos, the Heraion contained a plethora of objects from outside the island.286 These show links between Samos and Egypt in the pre-­Achaemenid and Achaemenid periods. The Rhoecus temple on the island has Egyptian influence in its shape and also in its votives.287 According to Herodotus, Samos was a major political player in the Archaic period. It was ruled by Polycrates, a tyrant who took power in Samos after a violent coup at a festival, assisted by local nobility. He then consolidated his power by killing the brothers who assisted him,288 and again used force to assert control by destroying the palaistrai and preventing gatherings of opposition groups.289 He also gained military power by conquering his neighbours after the Achaemenid withdrawal and creating a thalassocracy.290 Those who did not support his regime left.291 Shipley notes that there is a high intellectual and material quality to aristocratic life in Samos.292 Herodotus paints a picture of a court with poets and guest-friends, which echoes the court of Darius.293 For Carty the parallel is deliberate. Herodotus’ Samian tales mirror his Achaemenid tales to reflect moral points about both rulers, but this does not reduce the value of his more general pictures of interaction and elite behaviour.294 Polycrates emulates the Great King in maintaining a court. His court attracts men of skill; we are told that he

284 

Dusinberre 2013: 169; also Cook 1981: 153–4. Dusinberre 2013: 170; for details of Achaemenid forms in western Anatolia, see Miller 2010b. 286  Kyrieleis 1993; Simon 1997: 137; Carty 2015: 39–40. 287  Carty 2015: 45–6. 288  Hdt. 3.39; Polyaenus, Strat. 1.23. For a discussion see Carty 2015; Shipley 1987: chs 4 and 5; Stein-­Hölkeskamp 2009: 105–12. 289  Arist. Pol. 1313a39–b2. See Stein-­Hölkeskamp 2009: 109. 290  Hdt. 3.39, 122; Thuc. 1.13.6, 3.104.2. 291  Strabo 14.638. 292  Shipley 1987: 73. 293  Hdt. 3.121 (Anacreon), 3.39.2 (Amasis). Anacreon also travelled to the court of ­Hipparchus, Athens (Pl. Hipparch. 228b; Arist. [Ath. Pol.] 18.1). Simonides also travels, to Athens (Arist. [Ath. Pol.] 18.1) and Thessaly (Pl. Prt. 339a). For details of travelling poets, see Bacharova 2009; Bowie 2009; Pomeroy et al. 1999: 220–1. 294  Carty 2015: 109; Griffiths 2001: 167–76. 285 

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dines in his andron with Anacreon of Teos and employs the doctor Democedes of Croton.295 Polycrates of Samos is also linked to a massive building programme that saw the temple of Hera re-­built and a harbour and aqueduct set up.296 He may have built a huge residence with a decorated andron, although this has not been located by excavation.297 He had luxury furniture and artefacts such as couches and cups made and hired out to generate income: he was also reputed to have adorned Samos and imported craftsmen.298 In his construction and opening of luxury to the people, Polycrates acquired popularity to such an extent that the Spartan and Corinthian mission against him failed due to a lack of support on the island of Samos.299 According to Herodotus, Polycrates was linked into a web of connections amongst Greek city-­ states and satraps in the Achaemenid Empire. He had contacts with Sparta and a relationship of gift exchange (xenos) with Amasis of Egypt.300 Carty persuasively argues that Polycrates’ links to Egypt came from supplying bonded men to fight for the pharaohs there.301 It is in Polycrates’ desire to expand his contacts in the Achaemenid Empire that he visits Oroetes, hyparch at Sardis, who eventually kills him.302 The evidence from Ionia is complex and may reflect multiple identities. These appear to be more unstable than Anatolian identities, possibly because of the strong link to Greece as well as to the empire, and they shift as affiliations and circumstances change. In using Achaemenid symbols, an individual or group can reflect status in the local community as well as global affiliation to the empire. The use of Greek forms in temple building and the use of older, non-­ Achaemenid patterns on identical artefacts found across a range of sites, such as the Clazomenian sarcophagi, may indicate membership of local or trans-­local networks. Achaemenid forms certainly played a role in Ionian identity but precisely what this role was can be ­difficult to ascertain.

295 

Hdt. 7.121, 3.125. Hdt. 3.60; Lawrence 1983: 166; Stein-­Hölkeskamp 2009: 110. Polycrates also created a laura, an oriental-­style market filled with luxury goods for sale (Ath. 540e = Clearchus 22). 297  Stein-­Hölkeskamp 2009: 110; 1989: 104–22. 298  Ath. 12.540C–F; Shipley 1987: 82–3. 299  Hdt. 3.44, 54; Cartledge 1982; Stein-­Hölkeskamp 2009: 110. 300  Hdt. 1.70 (Sparta), 3.39–43 (Amasis). 301  Carty 2015: chs 6 and 7. 302  Hdt. 3.120–6. 296 

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Athenian reactions in the seventh and sixth century

bce

In the ninth century bce Athens was at the forefront of exchanges with external cultures, as we see in the diadems, bowls and jewellery in graves.303 Yet while external objects began to move into sanctuaries at Corinth and other communities, the same process does not appear to have taken place here. The eighth century and early seventh centuries bce show little change. Although votive deposition begins on the Athenian Acropolis at around 750 bce, there is no clear evidence of sanctuary development.304 Athens is not amongst the early communities that sent settlers overseas.305 It is not until the late seventh and sixth centuries bce that we find significant changes to the material landscape of Athens. It is at this time that Athenian potters begin to produce distinctive proto-­Attic pottery with Egyptian motifs and styles.306 Monumental human figures, the kouroi and korai, and monumental grave stelae with carved figures, decoration and sculptured finials appear in Athenian contexts in the seventh and sixth centuries bce, and both reveal influences from Egypt and the Near East.307 These changes accord with Fantalkin’s assessment of contact with the Levant.308 As a result of its position on the eastern seaboard, Athens has early contact with the Levant, which stops and then renews in the seventh century in the period of Egyptian dominance. The kouros and kore figures appear first in Paros, Samos and Naxos.309 These sites have access to quarries and are also in a position to be influenced by sculptural practices from outside the Greek mainland. The figures were brought into Attica from the islands where the marble was found to be used as votive offerings in sanctuaries, and also marked graves.310 Richter offers an important insight into the impact of the stelae and by association the kouros/kore statues in noting that few people could afford ‘costly tomb markers’ at Athens in this period.311 The cost of transportation and the ability to commission such a marker marks them out as aristocratic monu303 

See Chapter 1. Touloupa 1972. 305  Camp links this to a drought, while Morris argues for a more regional approach to the evidence (Camp 1979; I. Morris 1987: 160–7). 306  Cook 1997. According to S. P. Morris, the funeral scene on a hydria by the Analatos Painter is distinctively Egyptian in style (1997: 59). 307  Whitley 2001: 215–17; Richter 1988: 1–3. See also Boardman 1978a; Hurwit 1985. 308  Fantalkin 2006. 309  Richter 1960a; 1960b. 310  Whitley 2001: 218; Clairmont 1970; Kurtz and Boardman 1971. 311  Richter 1988: 1. 304 

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ments. Stewart links the general distribution pattern of the kouros figures to ‘aristocratic’ societies in the Aegean at their time of use, noting especially the absence of such figures in the Peloponnese.312 Within Attica, the figures and the stelae are more commonly found in the countryside.313 Forsdyke suggests that their appearance reflects new ways of trying to show status in burial and religious practice.314 The statues show two distinct types of reaction that we have met before. The first is a personal response and concerns the continued use of highly visible external objects to reflect and reinforce status; the second is a power-­play, a transformation of scale to authorise power. The grave stelae appear from c. 610 to c. 500 bce and display knowledge of eastern forms, as well as the ability to transform them and to access and mobilise resources. Their size, material and decoration offer a mix of aristocratic symbols alongside the externally inspired features.315 Shanks suggests that Egyptian sculpture provided inspiration for the style and posture.316At around 600 bce, stelae crowned with figures of sphinxes begin to appear.317 One base is decorated with the figure of a running Gorgon.318 The graves most frequently show young men: they have long hair and carry a range of items, including staffs, wreaths, cups, pomegranates and aryballoi (oil vessels marking their status as young men who are engaged in a culture of athletics and symposia).319 There are mourners carved onto the sides of some and a number have reliefs of horses, and in one case a chariot, carved onto the base.320 As grave markers they offer an idealistic view of aristocratic youth and are monuments to ‘aristocratic virtue’.321 The Anavysos Kouros was found in an area of Attica linked to the Alcmaeonids. Dated to around 530 bce, the kouros marked the grave of a young man named Croesus, who Hall suggests could have been a guest-friend of the family.322 The 312 

Stewart 1986; 1997: 63–70. For a contrary view, see Whitley 2001: 220. For the distribution of kouros and kore statues, see Whitley 2001: 221, map 9.7; Richter 1988: 4. 314  Forsdyke 2005: 24. 315  Richter 1988: 4. 316  Shanks 1999: 19. See also Hurwit 1985: 198–9. 317  Richter 1988: 6–7. 318  Richter 1988: 22(27). 319  Richter 1988: 22(27), 22–3(28), 27–9(37). 320  Richter 1988: 18–19(20), 32(45), 48(70). 321  Shanks 1999: 119; Whitley 2001: 219; on kouros figures and aristocratic ideology, see Stewart 1986. 322  J. M. Hall 2007: 168–9; Kaplan 2006: 149; Boardman 1999: 100; Hdt. 6.125. 313 

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Fig. 2.11. Marble stele (grave marker) of a youth and little girl, with capital and finial in the form of a sphinx, c. 530 bce. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Accession Number: 11.185a–d, f, g, x. Frederick C. Hewitt Fund, 1911; Rogers Fund, 1921; Munsey Funds, 1936, 1938; and Anonymous Gift, 1951. www. metmuseum.org.

stele in Figure 2.11 shows a young man carrying an aryballos. The inscription on the base records his name as ‘Megacles’, a name linked to the elite Alcmaenonid family in Athens. The statues emerge at a time when our sources indicate elite tensions and problems in the control of land.323 Seventh-­century changes at grave and temple may reveal signs of internal stasis and responses. Fragments of Solon’s poems contain complaints about land distribution, land use and debt bondage.324 Solon’s reforms sought to calm concerns about land holding and use.325 Camp notes that little architecture can be dated to the time of Solon, and no monumental

323  324  325 

J. M. Hall 2007: 191–6. Arist. [Ath. Pol.] 12.2–4; Powell 2001: ch. 2, esp. 283; Hurwit 1999: 99–102. Arist [Ath. Pol.] 9.1, 7.3; Osborne 1996a: 214–25; Rosivach 1992; Rihill 1991.

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architecture.326 Attention is instead focused on personal rather than community power. Forsdyke and Osborne point out that some of the richest graves are in the countryside and may reflect a desire to exploit country resources.327 While Osborne s­uggests that cult was used to mark territory before 700 bce in Attica, the relationship between monumental grave markers and land is interesting.328 For Morris, this pattern reflects the dominance of land control as a means to acquire and reflect social status.329 The statues may have been set out as symbols of the ancestral ownership of land. The graves are certainly statements of power and affiliation. They mark the land in a visible way and also in a religious way, as no one would risk disturbing the dead; however, there is also evidence for competitive behaviour in spheres other than land control at this time. In the sixth century, elite behaviour becomes visible on the Athenian Acropolis.330 The first temple to Athena appeared on the Acropolis at around 570–550 bce.331 From the same period, dedications on the Acropolis include bronze statuary, a marble relief of a four-­horse chariot, a perirrhanterion and life-­size statues in Naxian marble, a terracotta temple model, a marble sphinx and many black-­ figure vases. As we have already seen, these all have connections to the elite lifestyle.332 Hurwit suggests that Athenians were ‘beginning to compete with one another for the gods’ (and their fellow Athenians’) attention’.333 The appearance of the temple may reflect a time of accord between competing factions that allowed them to create a place for engagement. Boersma notes that the piecemeal development of the Acropolis suggests that it was undertaken by a wider group, rather than a single tyrant.334 As well as temples, there are many smaller buildings on the Acropolis whose function and placement are difficult to determine.335 Camp and Hurwit suggest that these might be small treasuries or dining halls and link them to competitive building and display by ­aristocrats.336 Their possible locations can be seen on 326  327  328  329  330  331  332  333  334  335  336 

Camp 2001: 27. Forsdyke 2005: 25; Osborne 1994. Osborne 1994. Morris 1997: 40. For an overview of the changes, see Hurwit 1999: 104–36. Camp 1986: 36; Hurwit 1999: 110–11; Hopper 1974: 117–18. For a fuller list, see Hurwit 1999: 102–5. Hurwit 1999: 105. Boersma 2000: 53. See Wiegand 1904: 148–71; Dinsmoor 1975: 71–2; Klein 2015. Camp 1986: 9, 36; 1994; 2001: 32; Hurwit 1999: 112–16; supported by Connelly 2014:

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Fig. 2.12. Plan of Archaic Acropolis showing the possible positions of ‘­treasury’ buildings C, D, E at 5 and Hekatompedon at 6 (Dinsmoor 1947: fig. 3). Courtesy of Archaeological Institute of America and American Journal of ­Archaeology.

Figure 2.12. Some of the pediments of these buildings portrayed scenes from the life of Heracles.337 Heracles was an elite hero; he was the great traveller whose life reflected the elite ideal of establishing new c­ ommunities and bringing home wealth.338 The Acropolis was a certainly a site of power, although how this worked is a matter of debate. Sancisi-­Weerdenburg finds it difficult to believe that holding the Acropolis could confer any real power on a tyrant, yet the presence of the treasuries fits well with a political pattern of elite equality and shared control as a means to balance power.339 If we accept that the ­‘treasuries’ and temple are the prime site of display for powerful families in this period, then any seizure of the site removes it from joint ownership and neuters the power of elite families by holding their wealth and breaking their exclusive access to the gods. The idea that the Acropolis was controlled by elites is reinforced by Hurwit’s observation that the votives of ‘ordinary’ Athenians only began to appear here after democracy was established in Athens.340 Contacts with eastern lands and the desire to display them for status effect may also be behind the creation of the first Athenian coinage, the Wappenmünzen or Heraldic coinage, which 59. See also Hopper 1974: 142–3, 145–50; Boersma 1970: 18; 2000, 52–3; Anderson 2003: 107. Shapiro dates them to around 566 bce (1989: 21). 337  Hurwit 1999: 112–13. 338  On travel myths, temples and elites, see Chapter 1. On the pediments of the small treasuries, see Camp 2001: 32; Francis 1990: 102; Boardman 1972; 1975; 1978b. 339  Sancisi-­Weerdenburg 2000: 5. 340  Hurwit 1999: 126–9.

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first appeared in Attica and Euboea in the sixth century bce.341 While scholars ­generally agree that the idea of coinage was taken from s­eventh-­ century Lydian practices, the Wappenmünzen are ­transformations, d ­ isplaying uniquely local styles.342 The obverse of the coins carries an image framed by a closed circle with motifs which van der Vin suggests may be the shield devices of aristocratic ­families.343 Lavelle and Dawson link the coins directly to the Pisistratids, suggesting that the different images record changes in the tenure of annual ­magistracies.344 The images themselves are clearly inspired by contacts with the east and by the aristocratic lifestyle. They include horses and wheels, bulls, lions and Gorgons.345 The coins were made of silver and while their economic value seems obvious, they may have also carried messages of identity and membership of elites in the manner of seal stones.346 In the sixth century bce, Herodotus tells us that Athens was dominated by the tyranny of the Pisistratids. Texts suggest that the Pisistratid family follow general patterns in the expression of power that we have already seen at Corinth in Chapter 1. The family engages with local elites and participates in elite events, as we see when Hippocrates, the father of Pisistratus, sacrifices in the festival at Olympia.347 They build up support amongst local people. On his third attempt, Pisistratus takes power in Athens by travelling there ‘accompanied’ by the goddess Athena.348 Sinos notes that the people were complicit in this ruse.349 Pisistratus created a heroic drama in which the people colluded. Blok suggests that his return in the procession with Phye/Athena reflects external knowledge and is a re-­ enactment of victorious entries into cities by kings of Egypt and Lydia.350 For Boardman, Pisistratus’ actions mimicked the entry of Heracles into Olympus, casting Pisistratus as a hero with the support of Athena.351 There is evidence that Pisistratus also had wider support 341 

Seltman 1924; van der Vin 2000: 148. Gates 2003: 206; Boardman 1999: 19, 101. 343  Van der Vin 2000: 148; also Vickers 1985a. 344  Lavelle 1992; Dawson 1999: 73. 345  Dawson 1999; Vickers 1985. 346  On Persian seals and coinage, see Boardman 2000: 152–78; Dawson notes that the silver in the Wappenmünzen is not wholly Attic (1999: 74). 347  Hdt. 1.59.1–3. 348  Hdt. 1.60.4–5. 349  Sinos 1993; see also Hammer 2005. 350  Blok 2000: 45. 351  Boardman 1972: 62–3. See also Connor 1987: 42–7; Cawkwell 1995: 77. For criticism of the link, see Gray 1997. 342 

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in Attica. He waited at Marathon in 546 bce and was supported by men from Athens as well as the country villages.352 Pisistratus maintains links with other powerful local families. He collaborates with local elites, especially the Alcmaeonids, and marries the daughter of the Alcmaeonid leader Megacles, a name we came across earlier on the grave stele in Figure 2.11.353 Pisistratus also engages trans-­locally by receiving support from elites in other Greek communities. After his expulsion from Athens, Pisistratus fled to Eretria to meet with his sons: they decided to collect the δωτίνας (gifts) from cities that owed a debt to them.354 The debts described here are not simple cases of funds loaned. Herodotus uses the word δωτίνας (gifts) on two more occasions in the Histories. In the tale of Croesus and Sparta, Croesus gives the Spartans gold as a gift to build their statue of Apollo.355 In the tale of the theft of Agetus’ wife, Ariston persuades Agetus to join in a mutual agreement to give as a gift anything that the other man should request; he promptly requests Agetus’ wife.356 In both cases, the gifts are not given freely but are intended to create obligations, and we can assume that the gifts being called in by Pisistratus and his sons are returned favours.357 These show that Pisistratus’ web reaches far in the Aegean. In seeking to return from exile for the third time, he is able to draw on allies in Thebes, Argive mercenaries and also the resources of Lygdamis, tyrant of Naxos, whom he had helped into power.358 Pisistratus is also good friends with Sparta and can send to Cineas of Condia in Thessaly for help.359 Pisistratus has connections in Macedonia with property at the River Strymon and at Sigeum on the River Scamander.360 Cole suggests that Pisistratus had helped Eretrians to colonise the region and that his instigation of Dionysus cults reflected agreements made with local tribes in the region.361 Finally, when they are exiled from Athens, the Pisistratid family reveal global engagements; they make their way to the court 352 

Hdt. 1.62. See Lewis 1997a: 78. Hdt. 1.61.1–2. For an overview of Pisistratus and his battles with the Alcmaeonids, see Parker 2009: 28–32. 354  Hdt. 1.61.3–4. 355  Hdt. 1.69. 356  Hdt. 6.62. 357  Wagnel-­Hasel notes that δωτίνας in Homeric epic can denote an escort, military aid and hospitality as well as an artefact (2006). 358  Hdt. 1.61.3–4, 1.64.2. 359  Hdt. 5.63.3; Hippias was offered help by the Macedonians and Thessalians (Hdt. 5.94), and the Thessalians engaged jointly with Pisistratids in military activities (Hdt. 5.63.3–4). 360  Hdt. 1.64, 5.91; Arist. [Ath. Pol.] 15.2; Cole 1975: 42. 361  Cole 1975: 43–4. 353 

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Fig. 2.13. The remains of the Hekatompedon pediment from the Athenian A­cropolis, c. 570 bce. Acr. 3+, 36+, 35+ (photograph by Socrates Mavromatis). Courtesy of the Acropolis Museum, Athens. The copyright of the antiquities depicted herein belongs to the Hellenic Ministry of Culture & Sports (Law 3028/2002).

of Darius and are later described by Herodotus as being at Susa with Xerxes.362 The period of Pisistratid rule is most famous for its buildings, which show influences from the Near East and Egypt.363 In the later sixth century, two limestone temples were built on the Acropolis.364 The earlier ‘old temple of Athena’ was built at around 530 bce.365 It was decorated with sphinx acroteria, metopes with lions, leopards and Gorgons in low relief. The pediment, shown in Figures  2.13 and 2.14, included a scene of two lions attacking a bull along with Heracles wrestling Triton/Nereus and a fantastical monster nicknamed the ‘Bluebeard’.366 Again, the motif of lion attacking bull draws on Near Eastern art and can also be found amongst the scenes of relief sculpture at Persepolis, as Figure 2.15 shows. Connelly and Boardman are united in seeing the eastern influences in these 362 

With Darius in Persia (Hdt. 6.94.1); with Xerxes in Susa (Hdt. 7.6.2). For details of the ‘Pisistratid’ buildings, see Boersma 1970: 11–27. Camp 1986: 36; on the Acropolis buildings, see Hurwit 1999. 365  Camp 2001: 30. Anderson suggests that the ‘Bluebeard’ temple was constructed by the Alcmaeonids rather than the Pisistratids (2003: 106–8). 366  Hurwit 1999: 107–9. 363  364 

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Fig. 2.14. Reconstruction of the central scene of lions attacking a bull on the pediment of the early temple of Athena, Athenian Acropolis (Howe 1955: pl. 83, fig. 14). Courtesy of Archaeological Institute of America and American Journal of Archaeology.

Fig. 2.15. Scene of lion attacking bull, from the Apadana staircase at Persepolis (photograph by Lloyd Llewellyn-­Jones).

images.367 Athena also appears wearing her Gorgon-­decorated aegis. Other structures linked to the Pisistratids include a rectangular enclosure of the sixth century bce, which is possibly the Heliaia, and 367 

Connelly 2014: 59; Boardman 1972: 70.

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Fig. 2.16. Remains of Building F, c. 550–525 bce, lying underneath the later Tholos building in the Athenian Agora (2002.01.0269). Courtesy of the American School of Classical Studies at Athens: Agora Excavations.

the Stoa Basileus built around 550 bce.368 Pisistratus is also linked to the ­construction of the south-­east Fountain House and the Altar of the Twelve Gods.369 A temple to the Mother of the Gods was also set up in the Agora at around this time; this was a cult imported from Phrygia.370 The Pisistratid era also saw the creation of two buildings with clear links to external ideas: Building F and the Telesterion. Building  F, shown in Figure 2.16, was constructed in the Agora at around 550 bce, with rooms around a central court and provision for cooking. The pottery shows that it was in use 550–525 bce and it was destroyed in the Achaemenid invasion of 480 bce.371 The role of the building is uncertain. It has much evidence of residential behaviour and some scholars argue that this, in conjunction with the monumental size of the building, indicates that it was a residence for rulers, perhaps for the Pisistratids.372 Others argue for a civic or 368  369  370  371  372 

Camp 1986: 100, 108; Lawrence 1983: 337. Lavelle 2005. Camp 1986: 93. Camp 1986: 44; Boersma 1970: 16–17 (cat. no. 144). Lavelle 2005: 231; Boersma 2000; Morris 1987: 68; Thompson 1940: 18–34; ­Thompson

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religious function or seek to place the residence of the tyrants on the Acropolis.373 The central court was clearly created for display but differs significantly from contemporary monumental temples in Athens and elsewhere, as its columns and porches are internal rather than external. This follows the pattern of Egyptian temples and palaces, as well as Achaemenid ones. Although we cannot use this as ‘proof’ of a residential purpose, it is interesting that a near-­identical building was set up in Rome at about the same time. The Regia was constructed in the seventh century bce and was almost identical in shape to Building F.374 Ancient authors link the building to the exercise of personal power; Festus describes it as the place of the king, where he performed his activities of rex sacrorum.375 Although the Regia was burned down at the end of the sixth century bce, it was reconstructed and turned into a public building, a temple, in the same way that Building F and its environs were replaced by the Tholos, the dining room of the city.376 Both the Regia and Building F were set up at a time of Egyptian dominance in the Levant.377 Pisistratus is also linked to the construction of our second building, the Telesterion at Eleusis (see Figure 2.17), which was set up at the end of the sixth century bce.378 The Eleusis cult involved a direct meeting with the goddess Persephone. Participants acted the part of Demeter, searching for her daughter, who was found at the end of the ritual performance.379 In the myth, Demeter comes to the home of the king at Eleusis.380 While the text of the Hymn to Demeter uses a generic house word, δῶμα, for the king’s residence, Herodotus describes the temple at Eleusis using the word ἀνάκτορον, which scholars translate as ‘palace’.381 This is not a common word in ancient Greek texts. It appears as an adjective in the Odyssey to denote the swine belonging to Odysseus but is not used for buildings.382 The reference by Herodotus appears to be its earliest use to describe a structure. The and Wycherley 1972: 27; Thompson 1962: 21; Anderson 2003: 88–91. 373  Holloway 1999. On the Acropolis as home of the tyrants, see Andrewes 1982: 415. 374  Claridge 2010. Drews comments on architectural similarities between the Regia and the building at Acquarossa (1981: 152). 375  Festus p.372L. Cornell also comments on similarities between the buildings at Acquarossa, Murlo and Rome (1995: 94). 376  Cornell 1995: 239. Cornell suggests that the building was destroyed in an oligarchic coup (1995: 238). 377  Fantalkin 2006. 378  Camp 2001: 38; Boersma 1970: 24–5 (cat. no. 53). Lawrence dates it to the end of the sixth century bce and as rebuilt in 480 bce (1983: 334). 379  Burkert 1985. 380  Hom. Hymn Dem. 96–7. 381  Hdt. 9.65. 382  Hom. Od. 15.397.

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Fig. 2.17. Plan of the Pisistratid Telesterion at Eleusis, c. 550–510 bce (drawing by author after Lawrence 1983: 335, fig. 328).

only other Classical author to use ἀνάκτορον is Euripides. He uses it to describe temples including those of Artemis at Tauris, Athena at Troy and Thetis in Thessaly.383 These are all the homes of Greek gods that are external to the realms of the city-­states. Even the one ‘Greek’ reference to the temple of Apollo may be viewed as consis383 

380).

Tauris (Eur. IT 41, 66, 636); Troy (Eur. Tro. 15, 85, 331); Thessaly (Eur. Andr. 43, 117,

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tent, as Apollo came to Delphi from the outside and took it from its native deity, according to the Homeric Hymn to Pythian Apollo. In each case we see a deity who has made a home in an external land. Boedecker ascribes Demeter’s involvement in the Graeco-­ Persian Wars to her anger and protection of boundaries and sovereignty, but Demeter is also a travelling deity.384 Ridgway notes her presence in temple sculpture in overseas settlements.385 The choice of ἀνάκτορον may be designed to reflect the link between Demeter and overseas settlements. It is also possible that Herodotus used ἀνάκτορον to reflect the unique shape of the cult building at Eleusis. The form of the Pisistratid Telesterion bears certain similarities to Achaemenid architectural forms, including the shape of the hypostyle hall at Palace P, Pasargadae, and the later Apadana at Persepolis (see Figure 2.1). According to Shear, the shape of the hypostyle hall was related to the cult of the Eleusinian Mysteries and the need to provide a space for a large group of people.386 This may be true but it does not explain why this shape remained unique and was not adopted elsewhere. It must have reinforced or reflected Athenian cult identities, but we cannot fully reject the possibility that the Achaemenid halls played some role in the shaping of the Telesterion. The shape and arrangement of space are an essential component of the cult experience, and there can be no more authoritative place to meet a goddess than in a royal building. This also fits with the narrative of Demeter’s presence in the palace of the king of Eleusis, after which a temple was built for her there.387 The aetiology of the Eleusis cult was linked to Heracles, a hero of great importance to the Pisistratid tyrants.388 It is the first major hypostyle hall constructed on the Greek mainland and, given that sources show the Pisistratids had contacts with the later court of Darius, and that Pisistratus’ own son was a ruler in the empire at Sigeum, it is not unreasonable to assume that they or their agents had also made contact with Cyrus, or seen Pasargadae or a satrapal adaptation of the Apadana.389 Other evidence of links to and adaptation of Achaemenid forms can be found in Athenian sculpture and vases of this period. Boardman suggests that the appearance of chariot scenes with 384  385  386  387  388  389 

Boedecker 2007: 77–9. Ridgway 1991: 104. Shear 1978: 9–10. Hom. Hymn Dem. 188–281 (in palace), 296–304 (temple). Diod. Sic. 4.14.3; Boardman 1975. Hdt. 5.94.1 (Pisistratus and Sigeum).

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Fig. 2.18. Parasol on sixth-­century bce Attic vase fragment (drawing by author after Athens National Museum, Acropolis Collection 682, in Graef and Langlotz 1925: pl. 46).

Heracles on Athenian vases may reflect the rule of Pisistratus.390 Heracles also appears as a ‘royal hero’, fighting lions and fitting in with eastern iconographic traditions.391 A procession on a red-­ figure skyphos of around 490 bce shows items carried in the style of the Achaemenid tribute bearers at Persepolis.392 There are also similarities in textile patterns and clothes, while objects such as the flywhisk, parasol and fan first appear in Athens in the late sixth century bce.393 As Figures  2.18 and 2.19 show, the parasol had clear links to the east and to the Achaemenid king. More direct evidence for the adoption and adaptation of Achaemenid forms can be found in changes to pottery shapes in the late sixth century bce at Athens. Miller categorises these forms into imitation, adaptation and derivation wares and links them to different types of vessels.394 Phialai are imitated, rhyta adapted and Rhenia cups derived from gloss ceramic phialai are Achaemenid forms.395 Athenian black-­

390  391  392  393  394  395 

Boardman 1972: 62–3, 71. Boardman 2000: 149. Miller 2008. Miller 1992: 96; 1997: 75–81, 193–215; for further examples, see Miller 2008. Miller 1997: 136–50. Miller 1997: 135–52; 2008; Hoffmann 1961.

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Fig. 2.19. Relief of King Xerxes (485–465 bce) in the doorway of his palace at Persepolis with parasol bearer (photograph by Luigi Pesce, 1840s to 1860s). Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Accession Number: 1977.683.63. Gift of Charles K. and Irma B. Wilkinson, 1977. www.metmuseum.org.

also made in imitation of Achaemenid toreutics.396 Miller speculates that the items and the desire to adapt them came as a result of gift exchange, but it is interesting that they are all associated with drinking.397 Again, we may see in these artefacts similar pat396  Miller 1997: 135–52; 2006a: 126, 2008. Deep bowls were used in Athens but were not common (Root 2007: 185). Shapiro notes the elite connections of the phiale, which was held by heroes on black-­figure and early red-­figure vases (2010: 19). 397  Miller 2006a: 127.

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terns of elite behaviour to those already discussed. Knowledge of Achaemenid forms is acquired and transformed and the end result is displayed in a context of elite engagement and competition: the symposium. More significantly, two images showing clear efforts to represent Achaemenid Iranians were produced in Athens at this time. Amongst the dedications on the Acropolis stood a life-­size sculpture in Parian marble of an Achaemenid horseman made at around 520 bce, shown in Figure 2.20.398 The dedicator is unknown and scholars have offered a number of theories about the rider the statue represents, ranging from Miltiades in Thracian dress to a Scythian official or an Achaemenid.399 While monumental korai and rider statues were common, the ‘Persian rider’ was unique.400 His clothes clearly mark him out as non-­Athenian. His trousers were decorated in a coloured pattern of tongues and vertical stripes, similar to those found on later vase images of Achaemenid men, while Eaverly notes that the shoes match those of Achaemenids on palace scale horse sculptures reliefs.401 Eaverly further notes that large-­ were peculiar to Athens and offer evidence of local aristocratic, competitive display.402 Although the dating of the statue has been queried, most scholars agree that it is pre-­war. If it was indeed set up set up during the period of Pisistratid rule and after the accession of Darius I, the Persian rider offers a clear display of detailed knowledge of the Achaemenid Empire and possibly affiliation. The Pisistratid connection would also support Herodotus’ tale that the family fled to the court of Darius on their expulsion from Athens.403 Although we do not know the dedicator, we cannot escape the fact that the statue offered a clear statement of exclusive knowledge, made at a time when the Acropolis was a site of elite competition and display. It is also at this time that we find the first image of an Achaemenid on an Athenian vase. The vase is an Attic black-­figure neck amphora of around 520 bce and shows a group of men, including one seated on a stool, wearing highly patterned trousers and a turban-­style hat,

398 

Acropolis Museum 606; Payne and Young 1936: 52; Eaverly 1995: 100–6, pls 15–16. Wade-­Gery 1951. Against, see Eaverly 1995: 19. For various identifications of the horseman as Persian or Scythian, see Skinner 2012: 78 n.87. 400  Kousser notes the presence of fifty korai on the Acropolis before the sack, as well as a series of riders (2009: 265). 401  Eaverly 1995: 105–6, cat. no. 9. 402  Eaverly 1995. 403  Hdt. 6.94. 399 

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Fig. 2.20. The ‘Persian or Scythian’ horseman, c. 520–510 bce. Found in 1886 near the Erechtheion but originally placed on the Athenian Acropolis (photograph by Socrates Mavromatis). Courtesy of Acropolis Museum, Athens. The copyright of the antiquities depicted herein belongs to the Hellenic Ministry of Culture & Sports (Law 3028/2002).

who has been identified as a satrap or even the Great King himself.404 The other figures portrayed in the scene are also dressed in visibly non-­Greek outfits.405 Shapiro notes that one of the standing figures is clearly Scythian. He sees no evidence of racism in the image and suggests it reflects Greek contacts with the Achaemenids through 404  Florence, Museo Archaeologico 3845, neck amphora c. 520 bce. Shapiro notes that pre-­ Marathon Persians are hard to identify with certainty (2009: 58). See Figure 3.6. 405  Shapiro 2009: 59.

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Scythia.406 It is, of course, an Athenian product, as are all of our early images of Achaemenids on vases. It is pre-­war and can be placed in the time of Pisistratus. This is a time when, as we have already seen, friendly contacts with Persia were prized by aristocratic families. Another vase dated to around the time of the Battle of Marathon bears an image of two young, armed Achaemenid warriors.407 Again, there is no disparagement in the image. Shapiro suggests that the images relate to the contents of the vases and act as a signifier of the exotic products contained within them.408 We will look more closely at images of Achaemenids on Athenian vases in the next chapter, but, more importantly for us, the evidence from the vases and from the horseman on the Acropolis shows that Athenians were taking and adapting ideas and forms from the Near East in the sixth century and did not stop this process with the arrival of the Achaemenids. Room was found for Achaemenid forms and styles in the repertoire of elite material behaviour. O B S E RVAT I O N S With their victory over the Medes, the Achaemenids moved into the vacuum that they had created. They inherited social and political networks in the Greek city-­states of Ionia and made decisions about which to keep and which to reject. They also expanded the empire further and created new links and networks within the societies that they conquered. This was a normal practice for Near Eastern rulers and did not represent a rupture. Some groups in the Ionian cities continued to work with the king, while others chose not to. Even the Ionian revolt is simply one more example of disloyalty that the king dealt with efficiently. Groups in Greek city-­states on the mainland remained in contact with the king throughout this time. It is the tales of Herodotus that emphasise the rupture caused by the Achaemenid arrival, and his reasons for telling them relate to the needs of his own narrative and to the views of his day. Greek society in the Archaic period was highly complex and involved networks within networks. The networks of the elites and the networks of the community have moments of overlap and moments of separation, and the roles played by external objects and ideas in the segments of the circles are likewise different and capable 406  407  408 

Shapiro 2009: 59. Louvre CA1682 c. 490–480 bce; Shapiro 2009: 63. Shapiro 2009: 63.

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of shifting as circumstances and affiliations change. In Anatolia, elites used Achaemenid-­style forms as an expression of power and status within their own community and as a wider expression of affiliation to the Achaemenid rulers. In Ionia too there is evidence for some elites taking and using Achaemenid shapes and styles. Within Athens, external ideas and artefacts were concerned with the taking, authorising and reflecting of power. The perspectives here show how the artefacts and ideas of an external culture are taken and distorted to express new, domestic identities, and, as our study of Athens shows, Achaemenid culture was just as good as the previous ‘eastern’ style had been. Our studies in the first two chapters have shown that there are consistent and continuous patterns in the appearance and use of external artefacts in both Greek and Near Eastern communities. On a superficial level, we can see that elite groups in the ninth to sixth centuries bce used external artefacts to self-­identify, engage, compete and assert power. What we cannot see is why. In order to understand why Greek communities produced particular perspectives at particular times, we will now turn to examine case studies and to explore the evidence for representations of the east and the Achaemenid Empire in their unique social and political contexts.

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3 Facing the Gorgon: Reactions to the Achaemenid Empire in Classical Athens In this chapter I will explore perspectives on the Achaemenid Empire from Athens in the fifth century bce. As we have already noted, scholars tend to explain the increased quantity and range of perspectives from this time as a consequence of ‘Greek’ victory in the ­Graeco-­Persian Wars. Yet this explanation obscures the fact that the images of Achaemenid Iranians came predominantly from Athens. They were drawn onto Athenian pots, carved onto Athenian buildings or played out on the Athenian stage. The explosion of perspectives in Athens at this time hints that there may be more behind this phenomenon than just a reaction to the ‘Great Event’. Even taking into account the fact that more ancient material survives from Classical Athens than any other community, no other city-­state reacted in a manner so extreme. I will re-­examine fifth-­century bce Athenian perspectives through the filter of elite behaviour and show how images of the Achaemenids and their empire replaced images of the ‘east’ and become swept into dialogues of Athenian socio-­political identity and power. I will show that the Athenian perspectives were reactions not to the ‘Great Event’ but to the ‘Great Change’, that is, to the birth of democracy in Athens, which created in the demos a rapacious monster far worse than any fictitious Achaemenid king. I will further show that while the needs of the Athenian demos lay behind the creation of the perspectives, the identification of so many ‘Persians’ in the art of Athens owes much to modern political and academic agendas, with their blinkered focus on the importance of the ‘Great Event’. We see ‘Persians’ as centaurs, Amazons, effeminate losers, chicken-­loving cross-­dressers and monsters, yet it is not the Achaemenids who are the monsters but Athenian democracy. Democracy hides within the shield of Athena, visible only tangentially like the Gorgon Medusa, 125

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so that we do not fully appreciate how far it was responsible for shaping ancient and modern perspectives on Achaemenid Persia. T H E R I S E O F T H E B A R B A R I A N ‘ OT H E R ’ One does not have to look far to find perspectives on Achaemenid Iran in Classical Athens. They can be categorised into roughly three groups. The first group of perspectives are direct views. Images of warriors begin to appear on Attic vases at around 500 bce, showing details of their clothes and weapons, while scenes of battles between Greeks and Achaemenid Iranians appear at around 490–480 bce, as we have already seen in Figure I.2. Achaemenid soldiers are also shown in a range of other poses, such as the male on the mule shown in Figure 3.1.1 War is not the only activity performed by Achaemenid men on vases. They can also be found in the symposium, in the household, and towards the end of the fifth century we find them in scenes of luxury and exotic revels.2 The Achaemenid court appeared on stage in Aeschylus’ play Persians in 472 bce, while its ambassadors and Athenian embassies appeared in Aristophanes Acharnians.3 The second group of perspectives offer more tangential perspectives. We have evidence for Athenians dressing in the style of Achaemenid Iranians and using vessels that imitated or reflected Achaemenid forms, while the shapes and decoration of certain Athenian buildings, such as the Tholos and Odeion, also drew on Achaemenid architecture.4 Our final group of perspectives consist of modern interpretations of non-­ Iranian figures. In these cases, scenes with giants, centaurs and Amazons are explained by scholars as metaphorical representations of the Achaemenids and references to victory in the Graeco-­Persian Wars. Athens offers us a wide range of perspectives on the Achaemenids and their empire, which modern scholarship has tended to view through looking glasses that focus on dialogues of alterity and imperialism. Many scholars suggest that the ‘Great Event’ stimulated an exploration of identity in Athens. For Du Bois, images of Amazons and centaurs represent oppositional analogies that enabled male  1  For example, the Louvre CA1682, c. 490–480 bce; Shapiro 2009: 63. There is also an Achaemenid shield device on a red-­figure cup by the Douris Painter (Baltimore, MD, Johns Hopkins University: B8; Miller 2010a: 307; 1997: fig. 22). Figure I.2 shows the interior of a kylix by the Triptolemos Painter, c. 460 bce (National Museum Scotland A.1887.213).  2  For examples, see Raeck 1981; Miller 2008; this chapter, Figure 3.11.  3  For a study of references to the Achaemenids in fifth-­century texts, see Tuplin 1996: 132–77.  4  See Miller 1997.

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Fig. 3.1. Line drawing of red-­figure oinochoe, c. 450 bce, showing Achaemenid male seated on a mule. Found in Tarquinia, Etruria. Berlin Antikensammlung, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin V.I.3156 (drawing by author after Shapiro 2009: 66).

citizens to explore their own identity against the barbarian ‘Other’.5 In her seminal study of Athenian tragedy, Edith Hall showed how the barbarian on stage was also presented as the opposite of the citizen male, stimulating the birth of an ‘orientalist’ dialogue that has continued from the ancient into the modern world.6 Further studies of Greek alterity and orientalism by scholars such as Castriota, Cartledge, Georges, Hölscher and Harrison have drawn on wider evidence from art and text to support and debate Hall’s arguments, extending the influence of alterity explanations still further.7 Other  5 

Du Bois 1982: 71. Hall 1989. See also Hall 1993.  7  Castriota 1992; Cartledge 1993; Georges 1994: 245; Hölscher 1998: 163–9; Harrison 2000: 105–8.  6 

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scholars have fused investigations of identity with studies of racism and explored the demeaning aspects of perspectives viewed through this filter. Francis notes that the Greeks ‘frequently attributed demeaning ethical stereotypes to those who lived beyond the Hellenic pale’, so that in the fifth century bce, the Achaemenids became the barbarian ‘par excellence’.8 For Evans, the Parthenon is a symbol of ‘Athens’ victories over chaos and foreigners’.9 Scholars such as Tuplin, Bérard and Isaac have explored elements of racism in the Athenian perspectives, looking not only at the influence of the war but also at increased contacts between Athenians and the Achaemenid Empire.10 Raaflaub too extends the dialogue of identity to suggest that the perspectives are not wholly a response to war but also show a need to explore identity in response to imperial expansion.11 They appear at a time when Athens was developing an ‘empire’ of its own and may reflect the new imperial world of the Athenian male citizen.12 These studies reflect and reveal our contemporary abhorrence of imperialism, ‘the devastating consequences of alterity in history’ and the damaging nature of ‘orientalist’ perceptions, as much as they widen our knowledge of Athenian perceptions of Achaemenid Iran.13 Not all of the perspectives are negative. Athenians also copied Achaemenid styles in dress and artefacts and may have used the Achaemenid Empire as a model for their own.14 There is a contradiction between the rhetoric of alterity and the copying of Achaemenid forms that supports the idea that the negative perspectives are more ideology than reality.15 In Athens and Persia in the Fifth Century bc, Margaret Miller suggested that alterity and empire were not the only messages in the images. They could also reflect the re-­positioning of social differentiation brought about by the post-­war development examination of tradiof democracy.16 Her work stimulated a re-­ tional approaches. Hölscher has also pointed out the importance of searching for broader meanings than war in the monuments of Athens.17 In ‘Recasting the barbarian’ Edith Hall revised her view  8 

Francis 1990: 3. Evans 2010: 90–1. 10  Tuplin 1999; Bérard 2000; Isaac 2004. 11  Raaflaub 2000: 53. 12  For a study on citizen identity, see Lape 2010. 13  Gruen 2011b: 1. On ‘orientalism’, see Said 1978: 56–7; Bernal 1987; S. P. Morris 1989; Nippel 2002. 14  On dress and artefacts, see Miller 1997; Allen 2011. On copying imperial organisation, see Raaflaub 2009. 15  Rhodes 2007. 16  Miller 1997: 248–58. 17  Hölscher 1998.  9 

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of the construction of the barbarian, taking into account the social complexity of the phenomenon of non-­Greek representations and the need to explore context more fully.18 She acknowledged the unique view of the Athenians and the tendency of drama to ‘revel in exoticism and spectacle’.19 Moving away from the rhetoric of alterity, Root has suggested that we can read some of the vases, such as the Eurymedon Vase, as humorous.20 Most recently, in Rethinking the Other in Antiquity, Erich Gruen gently raises the possibility that our readings have focused too much on aspects of alterity, at the expense of the complex symbolism apparent in these textual and visual ­representations of the Achaemenids.21 Despite these persuasive calls for change, we continue to view fifth-­century bce evidence through a looking glass of contemporary agendas where the ‘Great Event’ takes priority. The modern myth that western society owes its origins to the birth of Athenian democracy continues to shape our approach to and interpretation of the Athenian perspectives. In the discussions that follow I will begin by re-­examining the socio-­political background to the perspectives before offering alternative readings that illustrate the range of other roles that images of Achaemenids and their empire could have played. THE MONSTER IN THE SHIELD: D E M O S , T Y R A N T S A N D D E M AG O G U E S The Alcmaeonid revolution In order to understand the development of perspectives in Classical Athens, we need to look at how society was constructed and the roles that external artefacts played in this. As we noted at the end of Chapter 2, tensions between elite groups in Athens led to the employment of external images to reinforce authority. This was taken to extremes with the emergence of the Pisistratid tyrants, who used external ideas and artefacts to assert their dominant status. In Archaic Athens, our sources paint a picture of internal instability and elite battles for power. We lurch from the attempted tyranny of Cylon and his murder by the Alcmaeonid family to the reforms of 18 

Hall 2006: 184–224. Hall 2006: 186–7. 20  Root 2011: 91. See also Steiner 2007: 197. For the Eurymedon Vase, see Schauenberg 1975; Llewellyn-­Jones forthcoming; Figure I 3 above. 21  Gruen 2011b. 19 

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Solon, which fail, and plunge Athens into the tyranny of Pisistratus, whose family is removed by the returning Alcmaeonids, whose scion Cleisthenes battles with Isagoras and the Spartans.22 Across the sixth century bce, external artefacts and ideas played a role in elite displays of status in various arenas in Athens. As we saw in Chapter 2, personal power was expressed by display at the grave and in votives, while political power was displayed through monumental construction. The reforms of Cleisthenes changed the political landscape of Athens by beginning a process that saw decision-­making powers spread through Athenian society. This was the birth of democracy but the key questions we need to ask are, again: why here and why now? In his study of the relationship between democracy and war, David Pritchard gives the demos a proactive role in the birth of democracy. The demos ‘rose up’, as they were ‘unable to tolerate’ elite behaviour and ‘demanded an active role’ in decision making.23 In Pritchard’s Athens, the reforms of Cleisthenes were a people’s revolution; yet Cleisthenes was a member of the Alcmaeonid family, an elite family who had been battling for power in Athens for generations. It seems highly suspect that Cleisthenes and the Alcmaeonids would suddenly become altruistic reformers. In his important re-­ examination of the Cleisthenic reforms, Anderson notes that the impetus for reform was a ‘vision from above’, although he remains focused on the reforms as a political solution.24 Rather than looking at democracy through the filter of political reform, I would suggest that it is also important to look again at the role played by elite competition in the changes. All power is contingent upon the ability to control resources. This is why external artefacts became drawn into dialogues of elite competition; however, there is another resource of equal value to power seekers, and that is human energy. In a fascinating study of monumental building, Trigger noted that the ‘control of energy constitutes the most fundamental . . . measure of political power’.25 Trigger’s study was concerned with offering a thermodynamic explanation for monumental building. Kings and pharaohs build not just because they acquire status from monuments but because they achieve or maintain power by visibly controlling and consuming the energy of 22 

For an overview, see J. M. Hall 2007: 191–6.­ Pritchard 2010: 1. See also Ober 1998; 1996: 18–31; 1993. For counter views, see ­Raaflaub 1998; Anderson 2003. 24  Anderson 2003: 81. 25  Trigger 1990: 129. 23 

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their people. The relationship between rulers and energy consumption is easier to observe in a monarchy, but we should not exclude its existence or relevance in an oligarchic system, such as that of Archaic Athens. In a situation of political stalemate, where a small number of groups in a locality are competing for power, harnessing human energy to your cause can tip the balance significantly towards your group. Human energy is attracted by the distribution of benefits. In early Greece, as we saw in Chapter 1, ‘Big Men’ provided security in exchange for support. In giving gifts or power to those who are disenfranchised, the donor creates an obligation. A system that devolves limited power to actors outside the elite political circle draws in human resources, which can be displayed through support, actions or physical presence to enhance the status of the patron. I believe that Cleisthenes and the Alcmaeonids came to see the demos as a resource, capable of being tapped to give force to their bid for power.26 Democracy was the tool through which the Alcmaeonids sought to harness that energy. It is interesting to speculate about the inspiration for the ‘Alcmaeonid revolution’. Herodotus tells us that the Alcmaeonid family had extensive connections in the eastern lands and were known at the courts of kings. Alcmaeon, father of Megacles, visited the court of Croesus at Sardis and acquired his wealth after assisting Croesus’ Lydian delegation at Delphi.27 The Alcmaeonid family were also implicated in the effort to warn the Achaemenid army at Marathon, suggesting contact with and knowledge of Achaemenid Iranians.28 While the details of both tales are open to doubt, Alcmaeonid links to the east are not.29 We have already seen the Pisistratid connection to the east and to the Achaemenid Empire, and it would be unreasonable to assume that they were the only elite Athenian family with access to the king. The Alcmaeonid contacts in and possible journeys to the east presented them with an opportunity to observe and learn from different political systems. Just as the Pisistratids drew on the monumental architecture of the Achaemenids for inspiration, so the scenes of fealty and gift giving at Persepolis and the clear relationship between power and the visible consumption of human resources by the Achaemenid king may have inspired the Alcmaeonid desire to 26 

Ober calls the changes ‘innovatory’ (1998: 51). Hdt. 6.125. Hdt. 6.121–4. 29  On the Alcmaeonids and Croesus, see Thomas 1989: 265–72; Kurke 1999: 142–6. On the shield signal, see Gillis 1969; Hodge 2001. For a study of links between Greeks and the Achaemenid Empire in the fifth century bce, see Rollinger 2006. 27  28 

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harness the energy of the Athenian demos. Raaflaub has persuasively suggested that Athens used Achaemenid imperialism as a model for its own empire in the fifth century bce, but there is no reason why knowledge of Achaemenid administrative organisation could not have provided an earlier model for Cleisthenes’ reforms.30 It is possible that Cleisthenes took and transformed political ideas from the Achaemenid Empire, adapting them to suit an Athenian context, and he may not have been the first Athenian to try this. Most of the evidence that we have from the Archaic period comes through the filter of later writers, and even contemporary sources, such as the surviving fragments of the poems of Solon, have been deliberately selected by later authors to suit the needs of their narrative. Nevertheless, I believe that we can detect efforts to collect and conspicuously consume the energy of the people in earlier tales of Archaic power struggles. In the fragments of Solon’s poetry that remain to us, he emphasises his role as mediator between rich and demos, noting that he protected ‘both with a strong shield’.31 Yet there are some interesting discrepancies in his presentation as a balanced reformer. Solon did not seek to curb the power of the elite in any significant manner; indeed, Aristotle notes that some elite families became wealthy as a result of Solon’s reforms, while his introduction of jury-­courts meant that ‘men courted favour with the demos just as with a tyrant ’.32 Rather than balance, Solon may have been seeking to expand his influence by appealing to the elites whilst also offering himself as a patron to the disenfranchised, ultimately incurring the wrath of both and destabilising internal politics further.33 It is interesting that Solon may have sought to bring in reforms that enfranchised certain elements of Athenian society.34 However, his reforms failed, possibly because they did not make a sufficient break with old ways and old practices. What Solon’s reforms did achieve was to create an atmosphere where one man could collect and consume the energy of the demos as a tyrant. Pisistratus came to power after Solon’s reforms. We can see similar efforts to harness the energy of the people in his behaviour. Pisistratus came to power with the support of the demos and was seen by 30 

Raaflaub 2009. On Darius’ administrative reforms, see Hdt. 3.81–94; Tuplin 1987b. Arist. [Ath. Pol.] 12.1. 32  Arist. [Ath. Pol.] 6.2; Pol. 1274a6–8. On the contradictions in Solon’s reforms, see Wallace 2007: 69–72. On Solon’s lack of interest in empowering the demos, see Anderson 2003: 63–6. 33  Arist. [Ath. Pol.] 6.3; 11.2. In a later tale by Diodorus Siculus, Solon seems to recognise this and appeals to the Athenians to move back from tyranny (9.20). 34  Osborne 1996a: 214–25; Wallace 2007. 31 

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later writers as a ‘good’ tyrant for his treatment of the people.35 Sancisi-­Weerdenburg sees his ascent to power as a simple matter of exchange; as in the ‘Big Man’ model, the demos exchanged their freedom in return for law and order.36 Yet it is important to consider who the demos actually were. As Ober has pointed out, the word ‘democracy’ (demos kratos, ‘power of the demos’), comes from the late fifth century, at a time when enfranchisement was more widespread and the number of groups included in the definition of demos was wider.37 This does not mean that reform began as an all-­inclusive political movement and that the early ‘demos’ meant all people. Indeed, Solon’s reforms did not bring power to all, and we should perhaps better understand early efforts to reform as being focused on particular groups. Fleck and Hanssen point out that craftsmen, smallholders and traders can all flourish under the rule of tyrants and offer a ready and willing support base for efforts to disseminate political power more widely through society.38 These groups were ambitious for inclusion and are more likely to have been the original demos or, more accurately, the original enfranchised demos, used by Pisistratus to support his bids for power. Hammer sees this as, ‘plebiscitary politics’, an accord between an elite agent and those members of the demos that offer mutual advantage.39 Lavelle goes further in identifying Pisistratus as a ‘democratic’ tyrant, acting with the consent of the people.40 While I would not disagree that Pisistratus actively sought to keep the people on his side, I feel that his actions were stimulated by a desire to display his power over the people, to play the king in all but name, rather than an attempt to share power in a truly democratic sense. Pisistratus gained the visible support of the enfranchised demos and visibly consumed the energy of the people in his construction of monumental buildings, and, as we saw in Chapter 2, used eastern and Achaemenid-­style images in his structures. Yet he was ultimately unsuccessful. Although he left the institutions of the city in place, as a sop to the ambitions of the elites, it was clearly not enough of a concession and his earlier efforts to harness the power of the demos 35  Hdt. 1.59–64. He was supported by both ‘notables and those on the demos’ side’ (Arist. [Ath. Pol.] 16.9). 36  Sancisi-­Weerdenburg 2000. We can see similar processes in Achaemenid Iran and in the Hellenistic kingdoms: see Sancisi-­Weerdenburg 1989: 139; Kuhrt 1995 II: 678–82; Ma 2009: 125. 37  Ober 2007. 38  Fleck and Hanssen 2013. 39  Hammer 2005. 40  Hdt. 1.59.7; Lavell 2005.

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failed.41 The Pisistratid family were removed by the Alcmaeonid faction and took refuge in their properties to the east and at the court of the Achaemenid king.42 In contrast with Solon and Pisistratus, Clesithenes’ reforms brought significant structural changes. The land of Attica and its urban centre were re-­organised into separate administrative units, which were bound together into one unified territory.43 This allowed Cleisthenes and his supporters to make a clear display of the control and consumption of human resources by creating an army and a central organisation to run the new system.44 The pattern of central organisation with regional power devolved to local officials echoed Darius’ structural changes to the Achaemenid Empire, but also reflected the particular needs of Athenian society, especially the need of the hyper-­competitive Athenian elites to retain local control.45 At the centre of this web lay Cleisthenes and the Alcmaeonids, but they actively sought to dissociate themselves from the status of kings or tyrants and to rule by association. Just as Pisistratus linked his rule to Heracles, so Cleisthenes began to promote Theseus as the mythical founder of the unified Athens.46 Images of Theseus began to appear more prominently on pottery at this time, such as the example shown in Figure 3.2, showing Theseus wrestling fierce beasts, as had Heracles and the Achaemenid king before him. The promotion of Theseus created a tie between the hero, Cleisthenes and the political changes.47 Anderson further links the establishment of the Eleusinian festivals to Cleisthenes, suggesting that he indulged in massive re-­building in the relevant sites at Athens and Eleusis and set up the procession between the two.48 Again, Achaemenid symbolism is clearly visible here. The people of Athens gathered and marched to Eleusis, where they performed rituals in a building of similar shape to the Apadana, before marching back again. It is an astonishing display of power in collecting, directing and controlling the energy of the demos. It is behaviour worthy of the Achaemenid 41 

Hdt. 1.59; Thuc. 6.54; Arist. [Ath. Pol.] 14.3, 16.2, 16.8; Hammer 2005: 118. Hdt. 6.94, 7.6.2. 43  Anderson 2003: 31–2, 178–96. 44  On the army, see Anderson 2003: 147–57; Stanton 1984. 45  On Achaemenid administrative organisation, see Hdt. 3.89–95; Arist. [Oec.] 2.1.1–4; Tuplin 1987b. 46  Kearns 1989: 117–18. Steiner suggests that images of gods and heroes on vases offer a paradigm for elite life (2007: 257). 47  On images of Theseus, see Anderson 2003: 139–42. This act of substitution may help to explain why Theseus’ contribution continues to resonate in fifth-­century bce Athenian sources, while Cleisthenes disappears from the pages of Athenian history. 48  Anderson 2003: 186–7, 178–96. 42 

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Fig. 3.2. Black-­figure neck amphora, c. 500 bce, showing Theseus fighting the Minotaur. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Accession Number: 21.88.92. Rogers Fund, 1921. www.metmuseum.org.

king but performed Athenian-­style, on behalf of the state and at the behest of Cleisthenes and the Alcmaeonids. If we look again at the democratic aspect of Cleisthenes’ reforms, we can see clearly that their beneficiaries were those sections of the demos enfranchised by them.49 Anderson notes that there was no political participation by the demos prior to these reforms.50 The enfranchised men rose in status as a result of their ability to participate in a previously elite sphere and owed Cleisthenes a debt of obligation for this change.51 This may explain why Herodotus writes that 49 

According to Herodotus, the demos were ‘formerly held in contempt’ (5.69.2). Anderson 2003: 79. 51  Scholars agree that Cleisthenes’ reforms received broad support. See Raaflaub 1998; Anderson 2003: 52. 50 

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Cleisthenes ‘added the Athenian demos . . . to his hetaireia (faction)’ and Aristotle notes that Cleisthenes ‘promised to hand the state over to the demos . . . once the leader had control of affairs, Cleisthenes became their leader and champion of the demos’.52 Clesithenes had learnt from the failed reforms of Solon and, as Eder has pointed out, created a ‘constitutional tyranny’ through his ‘leaderless riot’.53 Ober finds Cleisthenes’ behaviour puzzling, noting that his actions fly ‘in the face of aristocratic ethos’.54 Yet if we consider that Cleisthenes’ motive is to harness and consume human energy visibly, then we can see that he is only refining a process that has already been used in Athens by Solon and, more successfully, by Pisistratus to gain an advantage over their rivals.55 Cleisthenes’ offer to the enfranchised demos bound them into the political process and attached them to his side.56 He created obligations by enfranchisement, harnessed the fear of the people and their anger at the Spartan invasion, and moulded it into a righteous anger on behalf of the city. In doing this he bound the demos to him and to the state. Democracy was a response to and weapon in elite in-­fighting.57 As a result of Cleisthenes’ changes, elite power became more dependent on the approval of the demos.58 This was not just a battle for votes in the Assembly but a battle to control reserves of human energy that could be displayed to promote or enhance the power of the individual. There were two consequences. First, in order to receive support, elites had to give further concessions. We thus find a shift at this time in Athens in the arenas of display. Rather than building to authorise their own power in the city, elites made conspicuous displays of largesse to harness human resources to their cause and to compete with other elites by showing that their ability to control and use the people was greater than that of others.59 Eder suggests that Athens, rather than Delphi or Olympia, became a focal point for elite display in this period.60 Visible display mattered more in local power struggles than the kudos of display in external elite 52  Hdt. 5.69.2; Arist. [Ath. Pol.] 20.1, 4. Aristagoras too recognises that democracy will preserve the power of his family, hence his conversion from tyranny to magistracy in the revolt (Hdt. 5.37.2). See Georges 2001: 19. 53  Eder 1998: 135, 105. 54  Ober 1993: 220. 55  Lewis 1997a: 96. 56  Lewis 1997a: 97. 57  Forsdyke 2005: 2. Eder notes that this was not a planned development (1998: 106, 121). Connor sees Cleisthenes’ acts as military reforms (1988). 58  Gribble 1999: 44–5. 59  Davies 1981: 96–9; Connor 1971: 18–22. 60  Eder 1998: 135; Ober 1996: 28.

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arenas. Stein-­Hölkeskamp suggests that in order to achieve power, elites competed to be the best in the eyes of the demos; they sought to become the best democrats.61 This gave birth to the liturgy system, where the elites began to pay for the needs of the city, ostensibly for the good of the community.62 They spent in order to achieve honour with their equals and influence with the masses, thus acquiring ‘symbolic capital’.63 Second, it is possible that the enfranchised members of the demos began to gain a ‘perception of themselves as political actors’, and in turn, competition for their conspicuous support intensified.64 Cleisthenes introduced the practice of ostracism, which gave the demos the ability to expel individuals who were gaining too much personal power.65 Although it was not used until the 480s, control over ostracism gave the demos a visible lever to use on elites. It was in their power to remove those who threatened their newly acquired rights.66 As more was given, more was demanded. The Alcmaeonid move to harness the energy of the people resulted in the yoking of the elites to the will of the demos. Just as elites had used external artefacts to display their ability to command resources across distances, so they now competed to control and use people and, in so doing, to reflect their exclusive knowledge of Achaemenid rulership and power to exercise an Athenian version. In light of these changes, we can review patterns in the use and distribution of external items. As we saw at the end of the last chapter, under the tyranny external items were still predominantly an elite means to reflect status. Monumental dedications, such as the Persian horseman (Figure 2.20), were still a means to compete with other elites to show exclusive elite knowledge and the ability to transform and use external forms. Their monumentality also showed the ability to command and use resources for self-­glorification. It was display for individual gain. Monumentality and external knowledge were politicised further with the advent of tyranny. The Pisistratids set up monumental buildings in Athens and Eleusis that reflected Achaemenid forms and also conspicuously consumed manpower. Alongside this ‘royal’ behaviour, they allowed certain types of citizen, such as craftsmen, to prosper, building a visible support base for 61 

Stein-­Hölkeskamp 1989. On philotimia, see Gribble 1999: 47–8; Powell 2001: 321. 63  Gribble 1999: 47. 64  Hammer 2005: esp. 124. On the constitution from Cleisthenes to Pericles, see Powell 2001: chs 2 and 3. 65  See Forsdyke 2005. 66  Forsdyke 2005: esp. 3; Eder 1998: 118–21; Rhodes 2010: 67. 62 

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themselves. At around the time of Cleisthenes’ reforms, Achaemenid-­ style shapes and decorative styles appear in Athenian black-­gloss pottery and in a wider range of contexts. This may well reflect an increase in the widening of the political base at Athens brought about by the advent of democracy and the consequent rise in status of the enfranchised men of the demos. It offers a small taste of the vast expansion in perspectives and the ‘Persianisation’ of Athens that followed in the fifth century. Elite battles and the birth of ‘Persia’ in Athens The process of political change was accelerated by the Graeco-­ Persian Wars. Again, we can see burgeoning political awareness and elite competition as the driving forces behind this change. While elites took the leading positions as generals and admirals, the contribution of the demos as soldiers and, in particular, as rowers in the navy could not be ignored. They had fought alongside elites and they had seen the benefits that accrued to those who were enfranchised as a result of Cleisthenes’ reforms.67 This awareness may be reflected in a passage by the Old Oligarch, a later fifth-­century author, who tells us: ‘Now first of all I shall say that at Athens the poor and the demos justly appear to have the advantage over the well-­born and the wealthy, for it is the demos who drive the ships and who have brought power to the state.’68 As a result of the Graeco-­Persian Wars, the demos had also met the Achaemenids for the first time and seen with their own eyes the riches that contacts with the Achaemenids could bring. Access to the rulers of the east and their riches had previously been the province of the elites; now it became either a payment demanded by the enfranchised demos or a gift offered by competitive elites in return for support. My comments here are speculative but offer a reasonable explanation for the increases in external items in Athens after the wars. Political power was originally reserved for elites, but political enfranchisement spread that power and bought enhanced status for groups within the demos. This stimulated a desire within the enfranchised members of the demos to display status by utilising symbols that had previously been an elite preserve.69 The more political enfranchisement widened, the more the demos demanded. 67  68  69 

Ober 1989: 83–4. Old Oligarch 1.2. On spoils, see Miller 1997: 29–62.

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Athenian elites now found that they needed to act as benefactors in two spheres in order to maintain their status and power: first in the public world of the Athenian citizen and second in the elite world as a means to maintain their own status. As a result of its sack and damage, post-­war Athens offered a canvas on which elites could visibly paint their largesse and seek to display their control over the people, as we see in the behaviour of Themistocles. Although Themistocles was reputed to come from a less well-­off family, his success in the war meant that he had gained wealth and, having attracted the support of the demos, he could flex his political ­muscles.70 Themistocles gained symbolic capital by re-­building to give Athens security and prestige. It also meant that he visibly controlled and consumed the energy of the demos. Among other projects, he is associated with the re-­building of the city walls and he also re-­built the Telesterion of the Lycomidae at Phyla, decorating it with paintings.71 Themistocles commissioned Simonides to write a poem for the re-­dedication of the Telesterion at Phyla, eulogising his role.72 He also set up a temple to Artemis Aristoboule, an act that raised concerns that he had gone too far and was building temples like a tyrant.73 His building used the demos, showing his control and also his support from the people. It attracted the ire of elites who also sought to display control of Athens’ human resources. This led to Themistocles’ exile and to his re-­settlement in the east as a vassal of the Achamenid king.74 Sources indicate that elite competition intensified in the post-­war period.75 This was not merely a battle for control in the Assembly but also a war of attrition to capture displays of affiliation and show the ability to control and command people. The need to display command over human resources visibly may explain Cimon’s participation in competitive euergetism, despite his absence of democratic credentials. Cimon favoured aristocratic control and had close connections with Sparta, yet he still needed to participate in elite power games.76 He seems to have reconciled the two by adopting a 70 

Plut. Them. 1–4 (he argues successfully for the public use of Laurion funds). Plut. Them. 19 (walls), 1.3 (Telesterion); Camp 2001: 59–60. For details of post-­war building, see Boersma 1970: 42–81. 72  Plut. Them. 1.3; Francis 1990: 69. 73  Plut. Them. 22; Camp 2001: 62. 74  Thuc. 1. 135–38; Plut. Them. 28.1–29.7. 75  Hammer notes that elites could gain glory through ‘political heroism’ (2005: 115). 76  On links to Sparta, see Paus. 4.24.6; on elite behaviour, see Andoc. 4.33 (Olympic victories in chariot racing). On his wealth and politics, see Plut. Cim. 10.5; Arist. [Ath. Pol.] 27.3; Powell 2001: 285; Camp 2001: 63–72.On connections with Sparta, see Pomeroy et al. 1999: 209–10. 71 

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more old-­fashioned approach based on patronage, which ­continued to maintain distinctions between elite and demos. Cimon beautified the Agora and planted the Academy, commanding the demos to embellish the city.77 According to Plutarch, the funds for this programme came from Cimon’s victory at Eion, and the programme thus served as monument to his success, much as elaborate hunting parks (paradeisoi) enhanced the status of the Achaemenid king.78 Cimon also sought to re-­forge Athenian identity, continuing to use Theseus as a heroic archetype.79 The use of Theseus showed Cimon’s authority to rule, through continuity of practices. In affiliating his actions to the figure of Theseus, Cimon effectively set himself up as the new Theseus and Cleisthenes’ heir. He recovered the bones of Theseus and built a shrine for them to the east of the Agora.80 This was powerful symbolism, as the burial of bones was the right of a legitimate heir.81 Cimon also built fortifications at the Acropolis.82 Pausanias attributes to him the construction of the Painted Stoa (Stoa Poikile).83 Camp links the construction of the aqueduct, the Tholos and the use of herm monuments to celebrate achievement to the time of Cimon.84 This represents a massive and very visible expenditure of wealth and also of human energy. Cimon clearly expressed his elite status in the city at a local level, yet did not withdraw from trans-­local elite competition, as he may have also set up monuments at Delphi.85 Cimon’s lack of support for democracy made him vulnerable to politicians who were willing to offer more to the enfranchised demos. Indeed, our sources present us with a vision of political division between Cimon as leader of the wealthy and Ephialtes as leader of the demos.86 When Cimon went to assist Sparta with a helot rebellion, Ephialtes struck.87 Aristotle tells us, ‘as the strength of the demos increased, Ephialtes, son of Sophonides, a man with a 77 

Plut. Cim. 13.8; Mor. 818d. Plut. Cim. 12–15; Raaflaub 2009: 92. On Cimon’s creation of an Achaemenid-­style paradeisos, see Raaflaub 2009: 111; Briant 2002a: 232–4, 442–4. 79  Francis 1990: 2, and ch. 3 for Cimon’s links to the Theseion. 80  Paus. 1.17.2–7; Plut. Thes. 36. This shrine has not been found (Camp 1986: 66). See also Pomeroy et al. 1999: 207. 81  Hence Lysias is denied the right to bury his father by the Thirty, who appropriate the property (Lys. 12.18). 82  Paus. 1.28.3. 83  See Map 4. Paus. 1.17.4, 1.15.3 (including an image of his father Miltiades as hero of Marathon); Kousser 2009: 273. 84  Camp 1986: 63, 77, 95. 85  Paus. 10.10.1–2 (to Miltiades); Miller 1997: 31–2, 39–40. 86  Arist. [Ath. Pol.] 28.2; Powell 2001: 285. 87  Plut. Cim. 15.2. On the fifth-­century constitution, see Ober 1989: 75–82. 78 

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reputation for incorruptibility and public virtue, who had become the leader of the demos, made an attack upon the Council [of the Areopagus]’.88 Ephialtes diminished the power of the Council of the Areopagus and transferred its power to the Assembly, Boule and law courts.89 Ephialtes also opened the selection of officials and juries to a wider range of citizens. This reduced elite control of appointments, widened the range of candidates and saw juries decide the outcome of trials.90 In combination with a young politician named Pericles, Ephialtes pushed the reforms further: ‘Ephialtes and Pericles curtailed the Council on the Areopagus, and Pericles established wages for serving in the law courts, and in this way each of the demagogues led them [the demos] increasingly onwards to the present democracy.’91 Eder suggests that Ephialtes ‘fully integrated the lower classes of the demos’ into Athenian institutions and politics.92 Yet while his reforms extended the participation of the demos, they also bound elite competition more tightly to the will of the demos. It was a high-­risk strategy, perhaps designed as much to break the power of elite competition as to promote the power of Ephialtes. His reforms made it hard for elites to place their men in magistracies, curtailing their power, and this may have led to his murder.93 He left behind an Athens where demos and elite were required to ‘act, react and . . . interact’ together in public spaces.94 What we see in our sources is an accelerating system, where the stakes are constantly raised by elite donors in a search for the power acquired in harnessing the visible support of the demos. While the system had high risks, the benefits could be great, as success gave a mandate for personal power and the power to silence opposition.95 Eder suggests that there was a consensus in this period, with elites consenting to the devolution of power to the demos, in exchange for the demos’ energy in expanding power in the Aegean and bringing wealth into Athens.96 Ober goes further in seeing the masses acting as a brake on elite behaviour.97 While the demos certainly benefited from competitive behaviour, Athenian democracy at this time was 88  89  90  91  92  93  94  95  96  97 

Arist. [Ath. Pol.] 25.1–2. For the full reforms, see Arist. [Ath. Pol.] 26.2–4, 27. Pomeroy et al. 1999: 211. Powell 2001: 285–6. Arist. Pol. 1274a.6–12; [Ath. Pol.] 27.4; Plut. Per. 9.2–4; Pl. Grg. 515e5–7. Eder 1998: 105. Ober 1989: 75. On the murder of Ephialtes, see Arist. [Ath. Pol.] 25.4. Hammer 2005: 124. Pericles’ enemy Thucydides was forced out by ostracism (Eder 1998: 118–21). Eder 1998: 136. Ober 1989.

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not an equal system and it is debatable how far the demos could control the process.98 For Ober, the masses were increasingly active participants in the political system and the Assembly was an arena for elite display and persuasion.99 Yet power still remained in the hands of the elite and all elite men chased the support of the demos, albeit in different ways. As Cimon lavished gifts on the people in the manner of a patron, so Pericles extended power to them, using their suspicion of elites to control elite behaviour and using state money to fund his ‘gifts’ to the demos.100 As the roles of traditional offices fell, power now concentrated in the office of the strategos rather than the archon, enabling Pericles to wield his formidable abilities to attract and control the people.101 Cimon gave to the people, but Ephialtes and Pericles extended gifts beyond what had gone before and upped the ante to harness the support of the people. Pericles continued with the reforms and began to attack directly the power of elites in Athens.102 His Citizenship Decree of 451/0 bce required men to have an Athenian mother as well as an Athenian father in order to be citizens. Rhodes suggests that it reflects concern at the numbers of Athenian men bringing back non-­Athenian wives after serving overseas. The requirement also cut ties between Athenian elites and elites in other city-­states by stopping dynastic marriages.103 Pericles also began to share the wealth of empire by settling up cleruchies, dependent overseas settlements, so that creating and profiting from settlements abroad was no longer wholly an elite endeavour.104 His building programme on the Acropolis created work and distributed wealth. Perhaps the most extraordinary of his settlements was Thurii, which drew settlers from a wide range of Greek communities and bound them together in a democratic community led by his friend Lampon.105 Perlman suggests that Pericles’ ostensibly Pan-­Hellenic policies, the Congress Decree, the Panathenaic Festival and the settlement at Thurii, were designed to weaken his opponents in Athens and expand the authority of Athens in the eyes of more widespread Greek communities. 98 

On equality in literature, see Raaflaub 1996; Ober 1996: 18. Ober 1989: 79. 100  On Pericles’ ‘buying’ power, see Rhodes 2010: 59. Pericles may have also bought support by distributing the grain from Psammetichus (Rhodes 2010: 61). See also Ober 1989: 84–6; Gribble 1999: 44. Eder notes the lack of any ethical obligation (1998: 109). 101  Arist. [Ath. Pol.] 44.4; Pomeroy et al. 1999: 190. On Pericles’ persuasion, see Thuc. 1.139–40; Pl. Phdr. 269e. 102  For an excellent overview of Periclean Athens, see Rhodes 2010: 59–76. 103  Arist. [Ath. Pol.] 26.4; Rhodes 2010: 60; Humphreys 1983: 24–5. 104  Plut. Per. 11.5; Powell 2001: 70. 105  Diod. Sic. 12.10; Pomeroy et al. 1999: 247. 99 

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These policies weakened opponents by making Pericles more and more popular and giving him more power to command the people of Athens.106 The re-­positioning of the demos changed the focus of elite competition from agonistic displays against each other to competition designed to benefit the city and attract the demos, but it did not stop aristocratic discontent. According to Kagan, the aristocrats saw democracy as ‘novel, unnatural, unjust, incompetent and vulgar’.107 Democracy did not prevent individuals from trying to take power; it simply changed the way that they did it. Sinopoli’s study of the archaeology of empires notes that they are often fragmented zones with local rulers.108 What prevents them from falling apart is a strong centre, often based on a charismatic individual.109 For Athens, Pericles performed this role.110 As Thucydides notes, Pericles urged the Athenians to become lovers of their city.111 He built a new city for them using Achaemenid forms and styles.112 He undertook a monumental building programme on the Acropolis, including a new temple to Athena Parthenos with a procession frieze that echoed the Persepolis frieze.113 A new Propylon was constructed for the Acropolis in 437–432 bce.114 A temple to Poseidon at Sunium and a temple to Ares were constructed at around 440 bce.115 The temple of Apollo Delphinious was built at around 450 bce and the Hephaistion was started in 449 bce and finished in 415 bce.116 Gribble notes that in art, in sculpture and in Pericles’ funeral oration, the elite values of birth, excellence and fine death had become the values of the whole community, and the customs of the elite became the customs of all.117 Miller puts Pericles’ behaviour into a more pragmatic context, noting that he ‘worked to elevate the whole of the demos to aristocratic standing’.118 The Panathenaic procession united aristocrats and masses into a celebration focused on Athena. It also played to their strengths, with the aristocrats competing with each other 106 

Perlman 1976. Kagan 2010: 40. Sinopoli 1994. 109  Hammer 2005: 114, 121. 110  For background on Periclean Athens, see Rhodes 2010: 59–75. Archidamus was ­Pericles’ guest-friend (Thuc. 2.13.1). 111  Thuc. 2.43.1. 112  Camp 2001: 72–4. 113  See Rhodes 2010: 67–70; Root 1985. 114  Lawrence 1983: 204; Camp 1986: 62; 2001: 82–90. 115  Lawrence 1983: 234; Spawforth 2006: 146, 136. 116  Spawforth 2006: 135; Camp 2001: 102–4. 117  Gribble 1999: 45–6; Luke 1994: 18. 118  Miller 2006a: 142. 107  108 

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whilst cheered by the watching masses. Aristocratic symbols such as the horse and cavalry were united on the frieze alongside the ordinary people of the city.119 Indeed, Thucydides tells us that Pericles boasted of the Athenian festivals and their importance.120 This was an extreme display of Pericles’ power to control and expend the energy of the people. The Old Oligarch offers a further, interesting insight into Pericles’ treatment of the demos. He says that that the allies of Athens were made to come to trial in the city, so that they would not have respect only for the Athenians who could go abroad.121 Pericles gave the demos a city full of elite symbols, and also opened up elite practices to them. As the demos could not travel in the manner of elite individuals, he brought the world into the city and gave it to them. Rise of the demagogues, 429/8–405/4

bce

In the period after the death of Pericles in 429/8 bce, the power of the demos continued to rise. For Ober, this is a time when persuasion became king at Athens and when we witness the rise of the demagogues, men who honed their natural abilities for speaking and hired themselves out to present law cases or debates in the Assembly.122 The demagogues were not wealthy or powerful enough to attract visible support on a long-­term basis, as Pericles had, but in conjunction with the wealthy, they could build a power base by swaying the popular vote for a patron. Rather than producing a free and fair system, the rise of the demagogues saw the wealthy hire the best speakers to argue their case in the law courts at the expense of the poor.123 Elites were kept under control by the fear of litigation from other elites and the law of hubris acted as a brake on elite mistreatment of the weaker members of the demos.124 Success in court was more likely where the defendant could point to his record of ‘good service to the community’.125 Some orators spoke on their own behalf: Cleon used his skills in the Assembly as a means to acquire power and status.126 His sudden rise to the position of strategos when he tweaked the tail 119 

Powell calls the horse the ‘symbol of Greek wealth’ (2001: 324). Thuc. 2.38.1. 121  Old Oligarch 1.18. 122  Ober 1989: 86–9; Pomeroy et al. 1999: 249; Rhodes 2010: 125–8. 123  Powell calls it ‘bribery’ (2001: 290). 124  Ober 1996: 18; 1989: 104–27; Powell 2001: 325–6. 125  Powell 2001: 319–20. 126  For examples, see Thuc. 3.36.6–7.1 (Mytilinean debate); for Aristophanes Cleon is a ‘bawler, who roars like a torrent’ (Ar. Eq. 136–8). 120 

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of the masses showed that the powers of the demos in the Assembly could be exercised in a contrary manner.127 As Powell put it, ‘the ecclesia’s sense of drama, fun and sheer enjoyment of its own power might cause a certain irresponsibility’.128 The Old Oligarch offers an interesting study of elite reactions to the expansion of elite symbols into the enfranchised demos in the later fifth century.129 He presents us with an image of mob rule, noting that democracy favours the rabble who are taking from the wealthy and from the state to feed themselves: ‘the demos has discovered how to have sacrifices, shrines, banquets, and temples. The city sacrifices many victims at public expense, but it is the demos who enjoy the feasts and to whom the victims are allotted’.130 The Old Oligarch’s Athens was a topsy-­turvy world where normal rules were suspended; slaves were wanton and well-­dressed and the demos had set up wrestling rooms and baths, normally the preserve of the elite, for themselves.131 The Athenian demos had become a voracious consumer of non-­Greek products. As the rise of the Athenian Empire opened up opportunities, so the people ‘mixed with various peoples and discovered types of luxury foods . . . [in] diet and dress . . . the Athenians employ a mixture’.132 This echoes the later comments in Xenophon’s Symposium by Charmides, who notes that by losing his wealth and becoming a member of the demos, he went from slave to tyrant.133 The speech of the Old Oligarch is an exercise in rhetoric, and Marr and Rhodes suggest that its purpose is to explain democracy in a critical sense to a hypothetical Spartan audience.134 As such, the speech is likely to be exaggerated for effect, although its core presentation of the structures and benefits of democracy may hold some truths. The Old Oligarch, and those he speaks to, clearly did not approve of a system that extended access to luxury goods to the demos and eroded status differentials.135 Despite the death of Pericles, the Athenian building programme continued, and went on through the period of the Peloponnesian Wars.136 The Stoa of Zeus Eleutherios was constructed in 127  128  129  130  131  132  133  134  135  136 

Thuc. 4.28.1–3. Powell 2001: 297. For an introduction to the Old Oligarch, see Marr and Rhodes 2008: 13–28. Old Oligarch 2.9. Old Oligarch 1.10, 2.10. Old Oligarch 2.7–8. See also Thuc. 2.38.2. Xen. Symp. 4.30–2. Marr and Rhodes 2008: 14. Braund 1994: 46–7. For details of building in the Peloponnesian Wars, see Boersma 1970: 82–96.

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430–420  bce.137 By 420 bce the monument to the Eponymous Heroes had been set up.138 A new Bouleuterion was built in 415–406 bce.139 The temple of Athena Nike and the Erechtheion with its caryatid porch were constructed within the period of the Peloponnesian War.140 The South Stoa and the Brauronian stoa were constructed at the end of the fifth century.141 The South Stoa contained 240 bronze coins, possibly indicating a commercial role, although it may have also been used for dining.142 A complex of three buildings with ‘irregular shape’ was set up in the north-­east corner at the end of the fifth century bce.143 Outside of the city in the Attic communities, temples were also being built.144 A temple to Demeter was set up at Thorikos in 425–420 bce.145 Perhaps propitiously, the temple of Nemesis at Rhamnous was finished in 431 bce, just in time for the start of the Second Peloponnesian War.146 It is difficult to understand how or why such a programme could continue in wartime. It is possible that the need of elites to display status was greater than their fear of the war, or, conversely, that their fear of the poor and the demos led them to provide endless projects that re-­directed the energy of the poor and the demos away from protests and rebellion against elite control and mismanagement of the war. With the loss of power in the Assembly to demagogues, visible displays of control over the demos seem to have become more important. At the Arginousae trial, the demos went too far; the case suggests that an imbalance in power had resulted between demos and elites.147 In the aftermath of the Athenian victory at Arginousae, a storm arose and led the ships to abandon the search for survivors.148 As the majority of those in the water were men of the Athenian demos, the situation was ripe for exploitation by politicians. There were debates in the Assembly about how to proceed, and those who opposed the right of the Assembly to try the generals 137 

Camp 1986: 106; Lawrence 1983: 338. Camp 1986: 97. 139  Camp 1986: 90. 140  Athena Nike in 435 bce and the Erechtheion in 421–405 (Lawrence 1983: 212); an inscription on the Erechtheion dates its completion to 409–406/5 bce (Spawforth 2006: 144); Camp 2001: 93–100. 141  Lawrence 1983: 337. 142  Camp 1986: 122–3. 143  Camp 1986: 108. 144  Camp lists Sounion, Rhamnous, Eleusis, Acharnai, Thorikos and Brauron (1986: 63). 145  Spawforth 2006: 146. 146  Lawrence 1983: 234. 147  See Xen. Hell. 1.6.29–35, 1.7.12, 1.7.16–33; Diod. Sic. 13.101–2. 148  For the full story, see Xen. Hell. 1.7.1–35; Diod. Sic. 13.101; Hornblower 2011: 151; Kagan 2005: 461–6. 138 

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were threatened with penalties themselves.149 They put on trial six of the eight generals who had been at Arginousae and gave them the death penalty. Xenophon’s account offers a view of mob rule in the Assembly, while Aristotle offers a simple and succinct view of events in noting that ‘the demos was completely deceived by the persons who provoked their anger’.150 The flames of suspicion against elites, which were fanned by Pericles as a means to control elite behaviour, turned into a conflagration under the incendiary speeches of demagogues and burnt out the heart of Athenian democracy. On the issue of elite behaviour at Arginousae, the people acted as a corporate body to record their discontent, with the result that they destroyed Athens’ chance of fighting back against the Spartan–Achaemenid alliance. Thucydides’ prediction came true: the demos became paralysed, caring more about watching the squabbles of leaders.151 As Isocrates later noted, democratic power destroyed stability; this was ­dictatorship by the demos.152 B U I L D I N G ‘ P E R S I A’ I N AT H E N S : T H E G I F T O F K N OW L E D G E A study of thermodynamic power offers an interesting perspective on Athenian politics and the birth of democracy. External ideas and artefacts had always been tied in to battles for elite supremacy, but in fifth-­century Athens they began to play an important role as a means to attract and then display the visible support of the demos. In order to show more directly how Achaemenid symbols could work in this system, I will now turn to the evidence and offer a number of case studies. Persian forms in classical Athens: Aeschylus’ Persians, the Tholos and the Odeion In 472 bce Pericles acted as chorēgos for the staging of Aeschylus’ play Persians.153 The play, set in the Achaemenid palace at Susa, showed the reactions of Queen Atossa and the officials of her court to the news that they had been defeated. It also placed Xerxes on stage, wailing at the devastation that his behaviour had caused. 149  150  151  152  153 

Xen. Hell. 1.7.11–13. Arist. [Ath. Pol.] 34.1. Thuc. 2.65.11. Isoc. 7.50–2. IG II2 2318.10 (mid-­fourth-­century decree recording victors in dramatic contests).

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Athenian plays were normally set in the mythic past, allowing the audience to examine contemporary issues and actions from a safe distance.154 Aeschylus’ Persians was set in the historic past, with a known enemy. To put Achaemenids on the Athenian stage, before the Athenian people, appears to be an incendiary act. The enemy who had ravaged Athenian lands and burnt Athens now stood in full view of the Athenian audience and wept for their own losses. This was not the first time that contemporary non-­Greeks had been placed on the Athenian stage, but it was the first time that the Achaemenids had appeared.155 Unsurprisingly, scholars have offered many interpretations of the play and the reason for its performance. For Hall, Persians is a ‘prolonged crescendo of ritual mourning’ that reveals the Athenians’ own battle trauma.156 It also creates an oriental ‘Other’ on stage and feminises King Xerxes in an exploration of Athenian identity.157 For Powell, it has a historical element, showing the ‘downfall of an arrogant enemy of Athens’.158 In contrast, Raaflaub suggests that Persians shows respect to the defeated Persians, while Tuplin suggests that the Achaemenid Empire is being used on stage as a paradigm for the nascent Athenian Empire.159 For Pomeroy et al., it is a paean to heroism, reminding the Athenians of their roles in the victory and the values that they fought for.160 In reminding the people of the victory, the play may also reflect contemporary politics. As Hornblower notes, Pericles ‘cannot have been indifferent to its pro-­Themistoclean content’.161 Interestingly, Plutarch tells us that Themistocles, political ally of Pericles, had been the chorēgos for Phoenician Women.162 The connection between the two men and the two plays is intriguing and hints that the plays may have been deliberately designed to present or reinforce a particular purpose. This purpose cannot have been a simple re-­ telling of events. Persians is neither an accurate representation of events nor an accurate portrayal of the Achaemenids.163 Indeed, Tuplin notes that Classical Athenian tragedies show no real knowledge of the Achaemenid Empire and present only clichés about Achaemenid 154 

Kousser 2009: 277. In 476 bce Phrynichus’ Phoenician Women was presented on the Athenian stage, with its chorus of wives of the enemy Phoenician sailors. 156  Hall 2006: 208, 210. 157  Hall 1989; 1993; 1996. 158  Powell 2001: 323. 159  Raaflaub 2009: 112; Tuplin 1996: 143, 145. See also Rosenbloom 2006. 160  Pomeroy et al. 1999: 197. 161  Hornblower 2011: 21. 162  Drews 1973: 32. 163  Goldhill 1988; Pelling 1997. 155 

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culture.164 Drews suggests that the exploration of the Graeco-­Persian Wars on the Athenian tragic stage was inspired by the ‘Great Event’, by the wars themselves.165 He believes that the play explores themes, common to mythical stories, of reverses of fortune. It shows how an empire as great as the Achaemenids’ could have over-­reached and fallen so spectacularly.166 While the idea has a certain romance about it, the Achaemenids had not fallen. They had simply failed to take Greece, and this must have been apparent to any individual with knowledge of the empire. As Balcer points out, the Achaemenids never lost control of the eastern Aegean or its river deltas and even retained a significant foothold in Ionia.167 Indeed, while the Delian League fought the Achaemenids in the Aegean, the heartlands of the empire remained untouched.168 Persians is thus an artificial construct. It presents the Athenian audience with a view of ‘Persia’, a mythical place that acts as a foil for Athenian needs and Athenian politics.169 When thinking about the purpose of the play and its possible messages, it is useful to consider the social composition of the audience. Griffiths notes that tragedy invites its audience to look at life through the lens of elite ruling families.170 However, this does not mean that the audience was wholly elite. For Hall, the size of the Theatre of Dionysus indicates that it held about 15,000 people: from this she suggests that the audience was likely to be male and consist of free Athenians and allies.171 ‘Free Athenians’ means that both elite and demos were present. As the members of an audience do not necessarily respond in a unified manner, this raises the possibility that elites and members of the demos might read different political messages in the performance.172 While the presentation of elites on stage might be seen as a vindication of their status, it can also be seen to play to the needs and envy of the demos. It shows the wealthy suffering and the fate of the hubristic, affirming the flaws and fates of elites and their powerlessness in the face of divine justice.173 It erodes the gap between elite and people by showing that all who 164  165  166  167  168 

8–17.

Tuplin 1996: 132–77. Drews 1973: 36. Drews 1973: 32–4. Balcer 1997. Cawkwell 2005: 126–38; for an overview of the Delian League, see Hornblower 2011:

169 

Tracey 2008; Hall 1989. Griffiths 1998: 20. Hall 2006: 25. 172  Hall 2006: 2; Ober and Strauss 1990. 173  Powell 2001: 323. Plato suggests that the fate of the hubristic awaits the demos (Pl. Resp. 563a–c). 170  171 

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transgress against the gods will pay. Similar themes exploring the power of the demos and relations between demos and elites can be read in the plays of Aeschylus. In Suppliant Maidens, performed at around 463 bce, it is the Assembly that permits the Maidens to enter Argos, not the king. Interestingly, this play coincided with the reforms of Ephialtes. In 458 bce in the Oresteia trilogy, the cycle of aristocratic violence is ended when Athena gives the decision to the Athenian courts, reflecting their primacy over elite behaviour. Again, this echoes political changes in Aeschylus’ time. Persians placed the Achaemenids on stage and gave information about them in a visual and open way to those in the audience who may never have met a member of the Achaemenid court. As Tracey notes, it is a world of gold and exotic place names with a wealth of detail.174 It transported the audience into Achaemenid Iran and set them down inside the palace of Susa, where they could see the queen, her courtiers and her husband and son. It is a pity that we have no idea how the play was designed and staged. It would be interesting to see how the Achaemenid court was costumed and what artefacts or textiles appeared on the set. Acropolis inventories record the presence of Achaemenid objects on the Acropolis, and these may have been used to inspire the style of the play.175 Tragic plays were a shop-­ window for disseminating information and ideas. Persians took what was previously exclusive, elite knowledge and made it available to all. It showed the great knowledge of the author but shared that knowledge for public benefit. In light of this we can perhaps reconsider the purpose of the Persians and its portrayal of Achaemenids on stage. It offers a powerful statement of authority in making information about the Achaemenid king and his court a matter of public knowledge. In the aftermath of the Graeco-­Persian Wars, Athens had been governed by the Council of the Areopagus, whose governorship was not universally welcomed.176 As we have already seen, factions become visible in Athens at this time, each seeking to wrest power from the other, with Cimon the unofficial leader of the wealthy and with Ephialtes and Pericles opposing him. Aeschylus’ Persians was performed at this time and its message of extending knowledge and elite forms to the demos fits well in this competitive milieu. At around the same time, a number of buildings were set up whose structure and/or decoration evoked ideas of Achaemenid forms. The Tholos or 174  175  176 

Tracey 2008. On the inventories, see Kosmetatou 2004: 161–4. Arist. [Ath. Pol.] 23.1–2.

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Fig. 3.3. Model of the Tholos building in the Athenian Agora, c. 470 bce (2008.20.0021 LCT14). Courtesy of American School of Classical Studies at Athens: Agora Excavations.

‘Skias’ was set up in the Agora for the Prytaneis, the governing executive council of Athens.177 As we can see in the reconstructed model shown in Figure 3.3, the building was round and had a polygonal or pyramid-­shaped roof.178 For Francis, the unusual roof and the name ‘Skias’ indicate that the model for the roof was a parasol.179 His view follows the observation of Dorothy Thompson, who suggested that the building was originally an Achaemenid tent, set up in the aftermath of the wars for the use of the Prytaneis and replaced in  more permanent materials when funding allowed.180 The construction date of the Tholos is unclear. Lawrence suggests that it was built in 470 bce.181 Thompson places it later and suggests that the enhanced role of the demos after the reforms of Ephialtes may have led to a new programme of construction in the Agora, including the Tholos and other administrative structures.182 Rhodes agrees that the Tholos may have been constructed after Ephialtes’ death to house the new presidents of the reformed council.183 Luke calls the Tholos the ‘hub of democracy’, arguing that its placement on top of Building F is a 177  178  179  180  181  182  183 

Paus. 1.5.1. Thompson 1940. For its position in the Agora, see Map 4. Francis 1990: 5. On parasols in Athens, see Miller 1992. Thompson 1956: 281–91. Miller agrees with this (1997: 53). Lawrence 1983: 239. Thompson 1981: 343–55, esp. 346. Rhodes 1972: 16–30, 203.

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clear statement of change, showing that the people have displaced the tyrants.184 Francis offers a persuasive interpretation of the intended message in the use of the parasol form, which moved from protecting the head of the Great King to protecting the head of the new Athenian rulers.185 Our second ‘Persianising’ building is the Odeion of Pericles, which dates to 440–430 bce.186 As Map 4 shows, it was built at the s­ outh-­east corner of the Acropolis, next to the Theatre of Dionysus. The building was 62 × 68 m in size and contained a forest of columns laid out in a regular pattern of nine rows of ten, as Figure 3.4 shows. It is not clear how the walls around it were constructed, and the building may have been open and covered with awnings.187 The design is not common; it has parallels with the Telesterion at Eleusis and the Hall of the Arcadians at Megalopolis.188 Plutarch tells us that the building was set up by Pericles and was linked to the Panathenaic festival, as a place for musical contests.189 Broneer links the Odeion and theatrical performances through the common application of the word σκηνη (skēnē) for ‘tent’ and ‘theatrical backdrop’.190 Many scholars have commented on the Odeion’s similarity to Achaemenid architecture. Miller suggests that it was modelled on the Apadana at Susa.191 The link between the Odeion and Achaemenid forms is made explicitly by Plutarch, who notes that it was an exact replica of the Great King’s tent.192 Camp suggests that the Odeion seen by Pausanias was a re-­build, with the original made with wood from the Persian ships in duplication of the tent of Xerxes.193 He suggests that the original Odeion was a Persian tent, used for theatrical performances and gradually built in a more permanent way over time.194 Francis offers the interesting possibility that it was used for the performance of Aeschylus’ Persians: he notes the impact of watching the Achaemenid court whilst seated in an Achaemenid replica building.195 In her study of the Odeion, Miller explores the implications of 184 

Luke 1994: 28. Francis 1990: 5. 186  Allen 1944; Lawrence 1983: 339; Camp 1986: 63. 187  Camp 2001: 101; Miller 2006a: 138. 188  Camp 2001: 101. 189  Plut. Per. 13.5–6. 190  Broneer 1944: 305–11. 191  Miller 2006a: 137–9; Francis 1990: 5 n. 17; von Gall 1977; 1979; Raaflaub calls it ‘conscious interaction’ with Achaemenid architecture (2009: 111). 192  Plut. Per. 13.5. See Broneer 1944: 305–11; 1952: 172. 193  Camp 2001: 100, following Paus. 1.20.4 and Vitr. 5.9.1; see also Allen 1944: 173–7. 194  Broneer 1944. 195  Francis 1990: 5. 185 

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Fig. 3.4. Plan of the Odeion of Pericles (2004.01.0092 HAT79–35 Travlos 1968/1971). Courtesy of American School of Classical Studies at Athens: Agora Excavations.

its presence in Athens.196 She suggests that the construction of the Odeion was a purely symbolic act, noting that the form itself was so impractical that uses had to be invented for the building.197 For 196  197 

Miller 1997: 218–42. Miller 1997: 240.

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Miller, the Odeion functions as a statement of empire and reflects the adoption of Achaemenid forms to dress the new Athenian Empire.198 It does not stand alone but should be read alongside other uses of Achaemenid forms in Athens, such as the Tholos and re-­planning of the Acropolis.199 Vickers includes the caryatid porch of the Erechtheion in this category, seeing the women as a warning against Medising.200 For Root, the processions of the Greater Panathenaia and City Dionysia also drew on Achaemenid court ceremonial.201 The procession of the City Dionysia carried the tribute of the members of the Delian League to the festival stage of the Theatre of Dionysus for display. It can be no coincidence that the procession walked past the Odeion.202 On the Acropolis, Aphrodite takes the position of the Achaemenid king and watches the Panathenaic procession.203 For Root and Raaflaub, the language of the Persepolis tribute procession is utilised to make a statement about Athenian wealth and power.204 Indeed for Raaflaub, the whole Athenian ideology and form of ­imperialism drew their shape from the Achaemenid model.205 From my own perspective, there is a common thread to the three examples in this section. Aeschylus’ Persians, the Tholos and the Odeion all weave recognisably Achaemenid shapes into the fabric of the city. They take knowledge about the Achaemenid court and Achaemenid forms that were traditionally the preserve of elites and put that information into the lives of the demos. It does not matter that the perspectives are not wholly accurate; it is only important that these actions hand ownership of ‘Persia’ to the demos and, in so doing, appear to dissolve status distinctions between elite and people. In order to attract the visible support of the people, and harness their energy, elite politicians clothe the city and the demos in the apparel of the elite. Dining like the king In fifth-­century Athens, the pattern of continual building and increase in access to offices suggests that elites needed to give the enfranchised 198 

Miller 1997: 241. Boardman 1999: 108–9. 200  Vickers 1985b. 201  Root 1985: 118. 202  Raaflaub 2009: 115; Miller 2006a: 138–9. 203  Root 2011a: 88–90. 204  Root 1985; Raaflaub 2009: 107. Briant notes that the inscribing of tribute lists also apes Near Eastern practices (2002a: 165–71). 205  Raaflaub 2009. 199 

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demos a constant stream of offerings in order for their support to be maintained. Material evidence indicates that the battle for support began to extend more directly into social as well as political spheres, in order to maintain the illusion that the demos could acquire an elite lifestyle. For Miller, the transformation of Achaemenid shapes was not ‘orientalising’ as in the eighth and seventh centuries bce but deliberate adoption to reflect status differentiation.206 In truth, there is little difference, as in both cases the purpose of use is the same. The ability to acquire status objects had always been open to those who had funds or sought social advancement, but Persianisation was an ethos as much as an object.207 Elite status was bound into patterns of display that used external artefacts to elevate their practices from the practices of the demos. Elite knowledge was reflected in the wearing of particular clothes and in practices such as the employment of bodyguards or supporters.208 These symbols were adapted for the demos. The Athenian juror’s ticket, symbol par excellence of the exercise of power by the people, carried an image of the Gorgon.209 While Kroll suggests that this is for apotropaic purposes, a figure of Athena or another deity would have been equally apt.210 The choice of the Gorgon, one of the earliest symbols of elite engagement with the east, offers another example of the deliberate choice of eastern motifs to define all citizens in Athens. Above all, elite status was reflected in the way that a man dined and in his behaviour at the symposium. As we have already seen, in the Archaic period elites dined and drank together at sanctuaries and at private occasions as a way to bond and to reflect status. This echoed drinking practices from the east.211 Greeks certainly had knowledge of the Achaemenid king’s dining practices, brought back by those who dined with the king or worked for him.212 The practices of elite commensality were now adapted and extended into Athenian life. The Prytaneis dined in the Tholos at the behest of the state. Pottery associated with the Tholos has been found in plain black glaze and inscribed ‘DE’ (‘demosion’), indicating that it was state property.213 Thompson notes that the assemblage consists mostly of black-­glaze 206 

Miller 1991: 171. Tuplin 2011: 154. 208  See earlier discussions in this chapter on Pisistratus and Cimon. 209  Vickers calls it a ‘seal denoting Athenian citizenship’ (1985a: 31). 210  Kroll 1970: 53 n.9, 54. 211  Burkert notes the existence of special halls for drinking at sanctuaries in the Near East (1991: 17). 212  Lewis 1987; 1977: 12–15. 213  Rotroff and Oakley 1992. 207 

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Fig. 3.5. Reconstruction of a dining room in the South Stoa, Athens, c. 430–420 bce (2008.20.0040 PD 791). Courtesy of American School of Classical Studies at Athens: Agora Excavations.

wares in dining shapes, including drinking cups, plates and saucers, showing the importance of dining in this building.214 Unlike the symposium with its hierarchy of couches, the circular Tholos ensured that no diner was placed above another, and required the diners to sit rather than recline.215 Luke notes that there are no kraters present in the Tholos assemblage and suggests that this is a conscious move away from aristocratic practices.216 Access to dining spaces was opened up in the fifth century. Over the period 437–400 bce dining rooms were constructed at five public sites within Athens and Attica: at the sanctuary of Artemis at Brauron, the sanctuary of Asklepios on the slopes of the Acropolis, the Pompeion, the Pinakotheke and in the South Stoa at the Athenian Agora.217 The location of the South Stoa can be seen on Map 4, while Figure 3.5 shows a reconstruction of one of the South Stoa dining rooms. If we accept the excavators’ reconstructions for couch numbers, this means that approximately 232 dining places 214  215  216  217 

Thompson 1940: 134; see also Rotroff and Oakley 1992. Luke 1994: 28; Cooper and Morris 1990. Luke 1994: 29. See the entries in Travlos 1971. On sympotic space, see Bergquist 1990.

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were ­provided at public and religious sites in Athens across thirty-­ seven years. There is also evidence for the provision of dining spaces amongst the smaller buildings of the city. These are often fragmentary and the buildings that contain them cannot be fully identified. Shapiro notes that oriental cults grew in popularity in the second half of the fifth century bce.218 It is possible that these rooms were used by cult groups or even hired out for use by different groups on different occasions.219 While a formal dining room and couches were useful for a symposium, they were not essential.220 Further evidence is provided from the debris recovered in the Agora and discussed by Rotroff and Oakley, which was designated as state dining ware by its markings.221 This material has not yet been linked to a specific architectural space, suggesting that more places than the 232 already mentioned may have been provided. There is also sympotic evidence in urban buildings at Athens more widely.222 In the south-­west corner of the Agora, the House of Simon was in use from the late sixth century to the early fourth century.223 The house was of a simple character, with finds suggesting that certain forms of industrial activity were carried out there. While there is no evidence for a formal dining room, finds of good glazed and painted pottery could suggest that some forms of entertaining took place.224 The pots discovered include a black-­figure kylix with banqueting scenes and other scenes of a male figure on a couch and a dancer reclining.225 This imagery is strongly associated with the symposium. It is possible that sympotic space at this time was created by the use of particular pots, couches and images.226 The over-­riding concern of the symposium may have been to follow certain rules of behaviour and presentation rather than indulge in ostentatious architectural display. This view is supported by Lissarrague, who emphasises the importance of the krater in defining the space of the symposium.227 None of the houses in the Street of the Marble Workers had evidence for formal dining rooms but many contained sympotic pottery.228 In House A there was a mid-­fifth-­century bce 218  219  220  221  222  223  224  225  226  227  228 

Shapiro 2009: 78. For cult associations with these spaces, see Morgan 2011a; 2011b. Morgan 2010: 129–31. Rotroff and Oakley 1992. For sympotic material in buildings identified as houses, see Lynch 2011. Thompson 1954: 50–5. Jones 1975: 70. Thompson 1954: 53. Morgan 2010: 139–40. Lissarague 1990a: 36; 1990b. Young 1951.

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red-­figure pot with a satyr, and in House L were fragments of one red-­figure bell krater with a satyr and maenad and another with Eros chasing a woman.229 These suggest a familiarity with the nature and ideals of the symposium.230 In increasing the number of dining spaces and encouraging the expansion of formal spaces in the buildings of the city, Pericles began to erode the value of the symposium as a symbol of status in Athens. P L AY I N G T H E P E R S I A N : E L I T E R E S P O N S E S In light of the dissemination of status symbols amongst the demos, elites in Athens needed to re-­define the boundaries that separated them from the people. As symbols of the east continued to play an important role in trans-­local networks, the elites could not jettison them. Instead they intensified their consumption and differentiated themselves from the demos by visibly increasing the authenticity of their consumption and display. Elites and embassies One area where the demos could not play a useful role was in creating or maintaining contacts for the city at a global level.231 Athens had long used elite contacts for foreign policy and needed to continue to do so.232 This was an exclusive sphere of elite influence and engagement. Contacts and guest-friendships took years to foster and Athenian elites had a considerable head start on the demos. The purpose of embassies was to obtain alliances and funds, but they also offered an unrivalled opportunity to spend time in the courts of the Achaemenid Empire and make a victorious return.233 While such journeys in the Archaic period had been made for the benefit of individual and family, these were now trips that brought advantage to the state. It was an opportunity to reveal adherence to the system as a ‘best democrat’ and also to make personal gains.234 Those who travelled could be feted for their success at home and also gain relationships of value through gifts and guest-friendships acquired at the 229 

Young 1951: 192, 248. Fisher 1988. 231  On contacts between Greece and the Achaemenid Empire in the Classical era, see Lewis 1977: 12–15; 1987; Root 1985: 116–17; Rollinger 2006. 232  Gribble 1999: 50. 233  Thuc. 2.7.1. 234  Stein-­Hölkeskamp 1989; Miller 1997: 109–33. 230 

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meetings.235 Relations between elites and the Achaemenid Empire could be encouraged when they were for the benefit of Athens. Indeed, Mitchell notes that Aeschylus’ Suppliants may have marked out an ‘ideological space’ for the re-­establishment of links between elites in Athens and the Achaemenid Empire at around 460 bce.236 The role of ambassador was desirable and exclusive. Vickers notes that opportunities to acquire booty were reduced by the Peace of Callias, making visits to the Great King a potential opportunity to acquire wealth as well as status.237 Rather than artefacts created in Athens, ambassadors could bring back ‘real’ objects with cultural biographies that linked them to the royal court or royal presence and increased the status of the holder.238 Acquisition through embassies also carried dangerous risks, as the envy of fellow elites could be ignited by too much success. As with all elite competition, the stakes became higher, and by the fourth century bce ambassadors had become more ‘opportunistic’.239 In 367 bce, the Athenian ambassador Timagoras was rewarded lavishly by Artaxerxes and honoured with a dinner by the king. He was condemned and executed for taking the gifts on his return.240 Timagoras was indicted by Leon, his fellow ambassador, who proved that Timagoras had worked with the Theban general Pelopidas rather than with his fellow Athenian.241 Timagoras was also accused of passing secrets.242 Leon had not been as successful in his relations with the king and obtained revenge on his return home. Fifth-­ century material does not offer us a clear view of how ambassadors were selected and how the embassy was managed.243 It would appear that the role of ambassador was a gift with political value, though it is not necessarily the case that there was a pre-­ existing private friendship.244 Miller notes that ‘embassies were the prerogative of the politically conspicuous’.245 Rung suggests a variety of reasons for selection, including experience and ties with the 235  For close relations with satraps and rewards, see Rung 2008: 47–50; Mitchell 1997: 114–30. 236  Mitchell 2006. 237  Vickers 1990a: 257. 238  Hodder 2012; Whitley 2013. 239  Miller 1997: 130. 240  Plut. Artax. 22.5–6; Pel. 30.6; Dem. 19.137. 241  Xen. Hell. 7.1.38. 242  Plut. Artax. 22.6. 243  See Miller 1997: 117–30 on the practicalities and Persian material; see also Mosley 1973. 244  Mitchell 1997: 76; for a contrary view, see Hermann 1990: esp. 94. 245  Miller 1997: 114.

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Achaemenid royal house.246 Callias, Epilycus, Pisander and Epicrates were selected as ambassadors and were leading politicians.247 They were also members of the elite and would know the right way to behave.248 Embassies had a certain protocol that required adherence; gifts were given and feasts attended.249 Callias was the brother-­in-­law of Cimon and the richest man in Athens. For Miller these qualities show that he was a good choice as ambassador.250 Pericles selected Callias for an embassy to Susa, which led to the signing of a treaty, the Peace of Callias, in 449/8.251 Kagan notes that Pericles’ choice was significant: as Callias was the brother-­in-­law of Cimon through his marriage to Cimon’s sister Elpinice, Pericles may have been trying to play to Cimon’s followers.252 According to Plutarch, Pyrilampes Antiphontos was a friend of Pericles.253 While this may have helped his chances of becoming an ambassador, he also displayed the necessary credentials of good looks and connections with courts in the Achaemenid Empire. Embassies appear to have been small in size, with no more than ten participants.254 Power was vested in the hands of the leader.255 The embassies took a route along the royal road or via the Hellespont, requiring them to spend time at the courts of satraps and local dignitaries and develop relationships there.256 Most met the king at Susa, where he spent three months of the year.257 An invitation to participate in an embassy clearly enhanced the status of those involved. It was an opportunity to behave as an aristocrat, with state backing. At a time when guest-friendships with Achaemenids could be seen as non-­democratic, the ambassadors were given carte blanche to develop relationships with them. The ambassadors had access to the court of the Great King, rather than simply looking at a stage version of it.  There was also a possibility that they would receive gifts. Plato notes that Epicrates and Phormisus received ‘gilt and silvered plates’.258 The gifts were not without problems in a 246 

Rung 2008: 44. Rung 2008: 44. Raaflaub points out the regularity of contacts between elites and the courts of satraps (2009: 51); see also Miller 1997: 27. 249  Thuc. 2.67, 2.97, 1.128. 250  Miller 1997: 16. 251  Diod. Sic. 12.4.4–6. See Rung 2008: 31–4; Powell 2001: 49–52; Badian 1993: 1–72. 252  Kagan 2010: 42. On the family of Callias, see Davies 1971: 254–71. 253  Plut. Per. 13.10; Pl. Chrm. 158a. 254  Miller 1997: 112; Rung 2008: 45. 255  Diod. Sic. 12.4.5 = presbeis autokratores; Andoc. 3.33–4; Pownall 1995: 140–9. 256  Thuc. 4.50.3; Rung 2008: 45–7. 257  Xen. Cyr. 8.6.22. In Aristophanes’ Acharnians they visit Ecbatana (Ar. Ach. 64). 258  Plato Com. (CAF 1 F.119). 247  248 

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city of competitive and envious elites. According to Demosthenes, Callias son of Hipponicus was fined fifty talents for taking gifts from Persians.259 Pyrilampes was rewarded with gifts by Artaxerxes, including peacocks.260 He cleverly evaded envy by allowing visitors to view his peacocks on the first day of every month.261 Evidence about ambassadors to Susa is littered throughout Classical and later sources.262 According to Strabo, Diotimus, son of Strombichus, went to Susa for Athens.263 Miller links this mission to the ambassadors scene found in Aristophanes’ Acharnians.264 The capture of Artaphernes led to an Athenian mission, which was forced to return on the death of Artaxerxes I.265 The fourth-­century orator Andocides mentions an embassy that his uncle Epilycus, son of Teisander, took part in.266 Alcibiades went with his ­protégés Euriptolemos and Mantitheus in 408 bce, while Epicrates and Cephalus sent Hagnias and Telesegores in 398/7.267 There is evidence of reward for Heraclides of Clazomenae, who acted as an interpreter, showing that non-­Athenians could also use these occasions to gain purchase in Athenian eyes.268 Access was mostly through the courts of satraps, though these could be as lavish as the court of the king.269 Although Sparta and Persia began to agree towards the end of the Peloponnesian War, this did not stop Athenian efforts to persuade the king to change his mind. In 411 bce Peisander and his colleagues were prevented by Alcibiades from gaining the king’s agreement, and in 409 bce efforts were made to gain access to the king through Pharnabazus.270 The Persians also sent various informal embassies to Greek city-­states in the fifth and fourth centuries, such as the visit of Arthmius of Zeleia, bringing Persian gold.271 In the days before hotels, embassies required accommodation, and to host an ambassador would have brought status to the host. Ambassadors 259 

Dem. 19.273–4. Plut. Per. 13.10. 261  Ath. 9.397c–e [Antiphon fr. 67 = Blass 1871] 262  For a list of embassies between Greece and Iran from 480 to 420 bce see Miller 1997: 110–11. A comprehensive study of Greek friendships with Iran for the period 435–323 bce can be found in Mitchell 1997: 110–33. 263  Strabo 1.3.1, quoting the fourth-­century historian Damastes (FGrH 5 F8). 264  Ar. Ach. 65–7; Miller 1997: 110. 265  Thuc. 4.50.1–3. 266  Andoc. 3.29. See Blamire 1975: 21–6; Lewis 1977: 76f. 267  Alcibiades (Xen. Hell. 1.3.12–13); Hagnias and Telesegores (Hell. Oxy. 7(2).1). 268  IGi3 227 = Fornara 1983: 138. 269  Kuhrt 2001: 114–16. 270  Peisander (Thuc. 8.56); treaty of Chalcedon (Xen. Hell. 1.3.8–9, Plut. Alc. 31.1–2). 271  Rung notes that sources for this post-­date the fifth century bce, although he does not doubt it happened (2008: 30). See Dem. 9.41–5, 19.271–2; Aeschin. 3.258–9; Din. 2.24–5. 260 

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from Persia were often east Greeks, but there are some references to Persians themselves: Megabazus visits in the period of the First Peloponnesian War in an effort to cause unrest and draw Attic forces away from Egypt and Cyprus.272 Peacocks, chickens and eunuchs: conspicuous consumption and authenticity Miller notes that democracy did little to alter the overall importance of external status symbols in Athens. The influx of booty and increased availability of previously elite symbols simply required shifts in elite behaviour.273 As travel became a more common feature of life in the urban centre and as traders brought in more goods, the elite were forced to re-­negotiate their status within the city. Some elites reacted by ‘Laconising’, turning to Sparta as a model rather than Persia.274 For others, as Appadurai notes, ‘the issue of exclusivity gives way to authenticity’.275 Their response was to increase consumption, increase display and move towards an authenticity in their engagements. From the mid-­fifth century onwards we find increasing numbers of Persianising images on vases: there is Persian influence in the clothes, in the textiles and in the accoutrements carried in scenes, such as flywhisks and fans.276 As elites made more visible use of Persia, they began to tread a fine line. Those who crossed it could be accused of Medism and face exile or even death.277 Medism as a charge continued to be levelled thoroughout the fifth ­century.278 It does not appear to have been an accusation of treachery but instead reflects the accusers’ envy of those who had too much success in enhancing their status through access to Achaemenid forms and ideas. This was the fate of Themistocles, who ‘proved’ the charge by escaping to the Achaemenid court, where he ended his days in the service of the Great King.279 Gribble sets out the requirements of an ‘aristocratic lifestyle’.280 These include attention to personal appearance, with long hair, long 272 

Thuc. 1.109.2–3. Miller 2006a: 142–3. Geddes 1987. 275  Appadurai 1986: 44. 276  Miller 1997: 75–81, 193–215; for further examples, see Miller 2008. 277  Waters 2014: 122–3; Graf 1984; Tuplin 1997; Sancisi-­Weerdenburg notes that the word ‘Medism’ is used with ‘clearly perjorative’ associations (2001: 323). 278  Rung 2008: 29–30. 279  Podlecki 1975: 72–3. 280  Gribble 1999: 51. 273  274 

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clothes of costly material and personal beauty; competitive display in symposium manners and of honour and status; and also the pursuit of love, particularly from young boys. Aristocrats mocked notions of euergetism and philotimia by spending money on themselves.281 Ober comments on the theatricality of the appearance of the rich before the demos: there is a distinct element of display in their dress and affectations.282 This display can be read as hubris. Their lifestyle revolved around conspicuous consumption, with ever more luxuries and long garments in rich materials that could be easily damaged.283 Elite pastimes such as cock-­fighting are not attested in pre-­war ­sources.284 According to Nepos, Thucydides, Theopompus and Timaeus all praised Alcibiades, who surpassed everyone and mastered Persian ways.285 In seeking to condemn Alcibiades, Andocides describes him being feasted at a festival in a large, Achaemenid-­style tent, erected especially for him.286 Luke notes that aristocratic drinking became the major means of self-­ identifying after 460 bce.287 Aristocrats gave the appearance of uselessness and collected items that were equally useless and luxurious.288 The peacocks of Pyrilampes were also useless. Loud and inedible, they ate and gave nothing in return, rather like the horse, but their ancestry as gifts that could only be acquired from Achaemenid Iran gave them a cachet that made them desirable to elites.289 While the demos undoubtedly dined and drank too, it is doubtful that they did so in the same style as elites. As Plato notes, no two symposia are the same.290 It is in the fifth century bce that we find the word ‘andron’ used to describe spaces of male commensality. In early studies of ancient Greek houses, scholars used the word ‘andron’ to describe the formal dining rooms found mostly in the houses of the northern city of Olynthus.291 A closer study of texts shows that the word is not a spatial label but a means to illustrate 281 

Gribble 1999: 53. Ober 1989: 153–5. See also Tuplin 2011: 154. 283  Gribble 1999: 72; hence the hubris of Agamemnon walking on textiles (Aesch. Ag. 918–22). 284  Vickers 1990b: 114. 285  Nep. Alc. 11; on Alcibiades’ lifestyle, see Plut. Alc. 233–6; Gribble 1999: 29–89; Evans 2010: 131–69. 286  Andoc. 4.30–1; Pausanias, the Spartan general, is also described as adopting Iranian dining habits (Thuc. 1.130.1). 287  Luke 1994: 29. 288  On luxury culture, see Miller 1997: 188–217. 289  On the peacocks, see Antiphon fr. 57–9 (Blass 1871); Miller 2006a: 142; Miller 1997: 189–93. 290  Pl. Leg. 639D. 291  Cahill 2002. For criticism of this, see Morgan 2006. 282 

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the elite affiliations of the group or individual who uses the space.292 The word offers a means to indicate that male and female space is divided within a household, in the style of eastern royalty. It is derived from eastern practices of gender division and represents a means to explain those practices to an Athenian audience. Palaces of the east provide a model for the homes of heroes on the Athenian stage, and so Agamemnon and Nissus have separate apartments in their palaces where men and women live apart.293 Croesus’ palace is divided along gender lines, with a male apartment where the men keep weapons and dine, and separate apartments for the women.294 The palace at Susa also contains a male apartment, called an ‘andron’ by Herodotus. This is a section of the palace used by the king and his close associates, his warriors and the eunuchs who protect him.295 Herodotus places an ‘andron’ in the ‘palace’ of Polycrates, the Persianising tyrant of Samos, and uses the word to describe the male cult mess hall of Salmoxis, the slave from Samos who travelled to Thrace and came to be worshipped there as a god.296 The only Athenian to ‘own’ an andron in this period is Callias.297 According to Plato, his door is answered by a eunuch doorkeeper in about 435 bce.298 Although it is likely that these portrayals are designed to denigrate Callias, they may also reflect the lengths to which some Athenians would go in order to differentiate their dining practices from those of the demos.299 This may help us to understand the joke in Aristophanes’ Ecclesiazusae where Praxagora advocates the re-­organisation of Athens into one house: Praxagora: . . . I declare that I intend to convert the whole town into one residence, breaking through all the walls of buildings and merging them into one . . . Blepyrus: Where will you serve dinner? Praxagora: I shall make all the law courts and the stoai into men’s rooms [τὰ δικαστήρια καὶ τὰς στοιὰς ἀνδρνῶνας πάνταποιήσω]. Blepyrus: And what use will you have for the speaker’s platform? Praxagora: To put the mixing bowls and water jars on.300 292 

Morgan 2011b. Aesch. Ag. 243–5; Cho. 712; Eur. HF 954–5. 294  Hdt. 1.34, 1.136, 3.68, 3.84, 3.118. 295  Hdt. 3.77.13–16, 3.78.16–18. 296  Hdt. 3.121.3–4, 3.123.5–7, 4.95; for similarities between male dining practices in Crete and eastern dining practices, see Carter 1997. 297  Xen. Symp. 1.4.3–7. 298  Pl. Prt. 314D. Miller sees eunuchs as an excessive form of conspicuous consumption, as they cannot reproduce and refill the household (2006a: 141). On Near Eastern slaves in Greece, see Lewis 2011. 299  On eunuchs in Athens, see Miller 1997: 213–15. 300  Ar. Eccl. 676–9. 293 

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The only house big enough to hold all of the people of Athens is a palace, which Praxagora will create, complete with its gender divisions. Praxagora takes the spreading of elite symbols through Athenian society to its furthest limit by turning Athens into a Persian palace. A C H A E M E N I D S I N T H E A R T O F AT H E N S Scholars have traditionally viewed much of the imagery on the Parthenon as a paean to the Athenian role in the Graeco-­Persian Wars, while images of Achaemenids on vases have been read as evidence of attitudes to the Achaemenids and their empire. These readings prioritise the ‘Great Event’ as explanation for the production and style of the images. In this section we will move away from these readings and, in light of my earlier discussions about the birth of Athenian democracy, we will re-­examine the perspectives that can be found in representations of Achaemenids in the art of Athens. We will first consider a direct image, the Achaemenid male on the Athenian vase, and then explore an image that is interpreted as a reference to the Achaemenids, the centaurs on the Parthenon. Achaemenid men and Athenian vases In a number of studies focusing on Athenian images of Achaemenid men, Miller looks to set the images into a socio-­political context and offers two explanations for their appearance and style. First, she views the change from scenes of heroic warfare to domesticity and luxury as a reflection of the political change from aristocracy to democracy in Athens.301 Second, she sees the changes as part of Athenian efforts to demystify the Achaemenid Empire in the face of their increasing power in Greece. The Persians were ‘domesticated, effeminised then eliminated’.302 While these explanations work for images from Classical Athens, they do not deal effectively with the fact that many of our images of Achaemenids come from non-­Greek contexts.303 Indeed, much of our knowledge of Attic black-­and red-­ figure pottery comes from examples found in Etruscan graves.304 301 

Miller 2006b. Miller 2008: 123, 119. Out of the twenty-­nine vases with provenance listed on the Beazley archive website under a search for ‘Persian’, only eight came from mainland Greece, while fifteen came from Italy and the remainder from Caria, Cyprus, Syria, Egypt and Russia. 304  Steiner 2007: 231. 302  303 

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Fig. 3.6. Line drawing of ‘Persian’ and ‘Scythian’ on Athenian black-­figure neck amphora, c. 520 bce. Found in Italy. Museo Archaeologico 3845 Side A (drawing by Rachel Harrison after Shapiro 2009: 59).

Steiner estimates that up to 70 per cent of extant Attic pottery with known provenance comes from Etruria.305 We cannot say with certainty that these vases were deliberately designed for the Etruscan market, but they were certainly accepted and used in the non-­Greek world, and it is interesting to consider what alternative meanings might have been seen by non-­Athenian, by non-­Greek users or even by Athenians.306 Our earliest image of a Persian is on a black-­figure neck amphora of c. 520 bce, found in Italy.307 Side A, shown in Figure 3.6, has a man seated on a stool and speaking to a Scythian. The seated figure is flanked by two hoplites. One stands behind him, while the other, walking away, turns back. The structure of the scene is simple but the seated figure emanates authority. He holds a thin battleaxe in his right hand while his left is raised towards the Scythian in a gesture of 305 

Steiner 2007: 234. For discussions, see Boardman 1979; Spivey 1991; Osborne 2001. On the importance of context, see Beard 1991: 13. 307  Florence, Museo Archaeologico 3845. 306 

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instruction. The scene appears to indicate an audience taking place and our Persian figure may be a satrap.308 The reverse side of the amphora carries a departure scene. Here a young hoplite takes leave of his mother while the Scythian from the court scene now stands watching.309 There is an interesting disjunction between the clothing of the ‘Persian’ on the vase and the clothes shown on self-­images of Achaemenids at Persepolis and other sites.310 The costume, with its elaborate decoration, has much in common with the lavish decoration on Corinthian orientalising vases and could reflect the desire of the owner or user to display a more detailed knowledge of the subject. We can never be certain that our reading of scenes corresponds to their reception in antiquity, but the two sides have symmetry in the departure of the hoplite and his appearance in the eastern court. It is tempting to view these scenes alongside the textual evidence for Greek soldiers working in Achaemenid lands and see the scenes as an attempt to reproduce information from within the court itself. Perhaps a mercenary described scenes from the court to the vase painter, authenticating the information for the scenes on the vase. As in Archaic Greece, acquiring and using the vessel may have allowed the Etruscan owner to display privileged information, which reflected and reinforced his own status at home. The vase presents a play on ideas of place and ethnicity. The satrap scene shows an elite court far away, made and painted by outsiders (Athenians) and then used at an event hosted by an Etruscan elite patron. Through its images and use, the vase encapsulates ideas of distance and also familiarity. As Miller has pointed out, elites often shared an affinity with other elites in the Classical world, irrespective of their e­ thnicity, and this affinity is reflected in the vase.311 The vase and its scenes echo the scenes we have already seen on orientalising and Geometric vases, in sharing information about elite interests in war, dining and engagement with other elites. By handling the vases, the users engage with the form and the ideas painted on to it.312 Indeed, Topper notes that more than two-­thirds of the Pithos Painter’s scenes of ‘barbarian symposia’ come from outside Greece.313 Knowledge of drinking practices can reflect status in non-­Greek as well as Greek communities.314 308  309  310  311  312  313  314 

Shapiro 2009: 59. Shapiro 2009: 60. Wilbur 1989: 72–103. Miller 2006a: 129. For Topper the foreign place is the past (2012: 86–104). Topper 2012: 104, on vases where provenance is known. Dietler 1996; Kistler 2010; Miller 2011.

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The vases and images of Persians could act as didactic paradigms, with the lessons differing as the viewer changes.315 While we cannot fully reconstruct the reception of the vases, we can see clearly that their ‘reality’ is less important than their detail.316 The exaggerated and detailed clothes of the Achaemenid and Scythians are designed to differentiate the users from the figures. This detail reinforces the possibility that the vases are designed to share knowledge. Just as Malkin has observed a ‘middle ground’ between Mediterranean communities, so Athenian vases could create a conceptual middle ground, a place where knowledge about external communities could be shared to facilitate engagement.317 The vase images and their inscriptions offered opportunities for elites to debate, to learn, to compete and to reinforce status within the confines of the drinking group.318 Kousser suggests that mythical war scenes on vases gave a distancing effect to war, similar to the use of myth to discuss contemporary issues on stage.319 In the period after the end of the Graeco-­Persian Wars, myth is cast aside in favour of ‘reality’, as Achaemenid men appear on Athenian vases as warriors battling Greek soldiers. While Miller’s focus on the Athenian needs behind the images works for vases in Athens, it does not explain the popularity of the battle scenes in the non-­Greek world.320 Again, I suggest that scenes of Achaemenid men were intended to promote dialogue, not division, even when the context was martial. The scene in Figure 3.7 shows an Achaemenid warrior in flight who has turned back in a last effort to face his Greek attacker. It appears on a Nolan amphora, a type commonly found at the site of Nola, Etruria, and it has been dated to 480–470 bce, which places it near to the time of the wars and makes it easy to read the image through this filter.321 The same could be said of the scene in the Edinburgh Cup (Introduction, Figure I.2), also found in Italy, which has also been attributed to the Triptolemos Painter. The battle scenes are small and focus entirely on the two soldiers, offering us no clear view of context or historical moment. I would suggest that the theme of the vases is not a celebration of war but a play on ideas of reality and unreality.322 315  316  317  318  319  320  321  322 

Steiner 2007: 245–7. On the importance of detail, see Miller 1991: 64; 2006a: 132. Malkin 1998: 5, 1.31. Steiner 2007: 258, 261. Kousser 2009: 277. Miller 2007: 248–50; 2008. For the site of Nola, see Map 1. On reality and unreality in Persian scenes, see Franks 2009.

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Fig. 3.7. Greek fighting an Achaemenid soldier on Athenian red-­figure Nolan amphora, c. 480–470 bce. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. ­Accession Number: 06.1021.117. Rogers Fund, 1906. www.metmuseum.org.

As Neer notes, vase scenes are an ‘allegory of the world rather than a reproduction of it’.323 On the Nolan amphora, the reality of the engagement on one side of the vase contrasts with the heroic nudity of the running warrior on the other (see Figure 3.8). While one viewer sees the heroic ideal, the other sees the fight. On the Edinburgh Cup, the  scene hides beneath the surface of the wine, so that it is only as the drinker drinks that the image of battle appears and he is moved from the present occasion to the battlefield. Beyond this, both vases show interesting concern for detail, with emphasis on clothing, weapons and behaviour; there appears to be no real intent to ridicule.324 The attention paid to detail in the clothes and armour of the fighting pair adds to the ‘reality’ and authenticity of the portrayal and enhances engagements between 323  Neer 1995: 119. For a similar view, see Beard 1991: 20; Stewart 1985: 83; ­Frontisi-­Ducroux 1996: 81. 324  An observation made by Gruen 2011a. Miller notes their ‘high degree of verism’ (2010: 310–12).

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Fig. 3.8. Nude Greek warrior running, on Athenian red-­figure Nolan amphora, c. 480–470 bce. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Accession Number: 06.1021.117. Rogers Fund, 1906. www.metmuseum.org.

Athenian and non-­Greek. It is possible that the scenes of soldiers offered more opportunity for vase painters to explore ethnic difference and to show their knowledge of subtle differences in appearance and dress. While slaves may have come from overseas, they were dressed in the clothes given to them by their masters, rather than any ethnic dress.325 A similar conflation of reality and unreality can be seen on a red-­ figure hydria from Capua, Italy, and made at around 470–460 bce. As Figure 3.9 shows, here we have a mixture of the mythological with the historical. At the centre of the scene, Kaineus, the Lapith hero, is being battered into the ground by centaurs. A warrior in Persian dress rushes in from the right side towards Kaineus, while a hoplite rushes away on the left side, chasing each other around 325 

Morris 1998b.

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Fig. 3.9. Athenian red-­figure hydria with centauromachy and Greek and Persian warriors, c. 470–460 bce. Found in Capua, Italy. London, British Museum BM1920,0315.3.

the vase. In this case, the images are on one side of the vase only; its reverse is simply black. This would suggest that the vessel was designed to be seen from one side and could suggest that the vase was created for display rather than use. Alternatively, it would fit its role as a water jug for adding water to wine in the cups of drinkers at a symposium. The scene and story can be manipulated by the user to suit their wishes. When the hydria is tilted towards the user, Kaineus is driven into the ground; as it is tilted back, he rises once again. Similarly, if the vase is poured towards the right, the centaur towers over Kaineus. If the vase is poured towards the left, the Persian warrior rushes downwards, while the Greek runs away. The Greek soldier’s raised arm suggests that he is no coward, and so we may also see here a game of hide-­and-­seek, as the Greek and Persian chase each other around the vase in a competition that neither will win. We enter the world of the absurd, where Greeks and Persians play chase and where Achaemenid men, renowned for their horsemanship, are shown sitting on mules (Figure 3.1 above). Figure 3.10 shows two views of a Persian Class relief vase of

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Fig. 3.10. Line drawings of front and side of an Attic ‘Persian Class’ plastic vase composed of the head of a Persian, with scene of mistress and Persian servant girl on cup, c. 410–400 bce. Found in Nola, Italy (drawing by author after British Museum BM1849,0620.12).

c. 410–400 bce, again from Nola, Italy.326 It is constructed as the head of a Persian, topped by a drinking cup on which an ‘oriental’ servant brings a box to her Athenian mistress.327 The Persian male head wears a kidaris, a soft hat made of skin, which is tied under his chin. His face is furrowed, suggesting concentration or discontent.328 The mistress sits adorned in jewels whilst gazing at herself in the mirror. The servant’s clothes are equally adorned but with elaborate patterns rather than jewellery. In using this vase, the drinker and companion will be seeing different views.329 One will see the profile of the Persian with an image of the ‘Persian’ slave; the other sees 326  327  328  329 

The head vases are transformations of Achaemenid rhyta (Miller 1991: 70). Raeck 1981: 160, 327, no. P571; Curtis and Tallis 2005: cat. 448. For a study of Persianising clothes, see Miller 1997: 153–87. On vases and viewers in sympotic drinking groups, see Steiner 2007: 239–40.

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the profile with an image of the mistress. It would be easy to read into the vase a dialogue between feminisation and the Persian male, but this would ignore the non-­Greek context of use. As the vase is 23.5  cm high, the user is forced to hold the handle and grasp the head to steady his drinking. This means that his hand grasps the Persian’s face in order to drink.330 The user is drawn into intimacy with the vase in the same way as the mistress is drawn into intimacy with those who serve her. Mistress and user are both touching Persians. The Etruscans had not gone to war with the Achaemenid Empire, but ‘orientalising’ art and artefacts from the eighth century bce onwards show evidence of contact and of the use of ‘eastern’ symbols in elite society here.331 For an Etruscan user who had never met a Persian, this must have been an intriguing experience. Miller notes that there is a clear change in the mid-­fifth century from scenes of warriors to fantastic scenes of ‘luxurious living’, with flywhisks, fan bearers and eunuchs.332 This style can be seen on the vase in Figure 3.11, which comes from the Basilicata region of Italy.333 It is a red-­figure lekythos, a vessel used to carry oil.334 The scene is complex and shows a Persian male figure of authority, riding a camel at the centre of a procession. The procession is redolent with Persianising images. The procession is led by a beardless male, perhaps a eunuch; there is a fan bearer and a dancer performing the oklasma, a dance associated with Persia, while all of the Persians wear highly elaborate clothes.335 Steiner suggests that vase scenes were designed to enable interaction within the sympotic group and exploration of their social roles and status.336 The procession on this vase runs around the whole of the vessel; in order for it to be seen, it must be held and turned, so that the viewer, intentionally or otherwise, finds themselves symbolically moving with the people on the vase. The scene offers an opportunity to join in with the ecstatic procession and contains a wealth of information about Persian dress and habits, even if it is more fantasy than reality. 330  On the importance of dimensionality in reading images, see Gell 1998: 32; Steiner 2007: 1–4; Llewellyn-­Jones forthcoming. 331  Rathje 1990; Naso 2000. 332  Miller 2006a: 132. On ‘Persians’ in the symposium, see Miller 1991; Topper 2012: 86–104. 333  Basilicata covers roughly the region of modern Lucania, Italy. See Map 1. 334  Sparkes 1991: 83. 335  On the oklasma, see Ar. Thesm. 1175; fr. 344b [Edmonds, FAC vol. 3]. On the adoption of Persian material culture in Athens, see Miller 1997: 188–217. 336  Steiner 2007: 255–7.

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Fig. 3.11. Attic red-­figure lekythos with Persian procession, c. 410–400 bce, from Basilicata, Italy. London, British Museum BM1882,0704.1

If we bear in mind that these vases were found far from Athens, we can begin to explore the ways in which the Athenian object itself becomes external. Shapiro’s assertion that the exaggeration of action and appearance in scenes of Persians on vases show them to be inventions, and Miller’s points about the role of the vases in elite identity, fit well here, but it is important to note that the vases are a part of dialogues of Etruscan or non-­Greek identity and power, not necessarily Athenian.337 In non-­Greek contexts, these vases were external items and their acquisition and display revealed the knowledge and power of the owner. If we follow Tsetskhladze’s lead here, we can see that alterity is a form of communication.338 It creates a 337  338 

Shapiro 2009; Miller 2006a. Tsetskhladze 2010.

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dialogue that allows the exchange of information by engaging with an imaginary world, shown in a fictitious scene. This may explain the wide popularity of the Amazons outside of the ‘Greek’ world. Amazons can be found riding like Scythians on the attachments of an Etrusco-­Campanian funerary urn of 510–490 bce and fighting Greeks on two bronze cista feet from Lazio.339 Scenes from stories about the Amazons were painted onto a Tarquinian sarcophagus of 325 bce.340 Ridgway notes that Amazon scenes on temples tend to face east, hinting at an association between the two.341 The Amazons may have been used as a metaphor for the people of the east and as a means for Greeks and non-­Greeks to discuss shared engagements with eastern communities.342 This possibility can be seen in another scene from a Nolan amphora in the Metropolitan Museum, shown in Figure 3.12. Here a Greek warrior fights an Amazon. The stance and appearance of the figures echo the appearance of the Persian on the Nolan amphora in Figure 3.7. The Persian and Amazon are interchangeable here as they are both distanced from the user and fantasy figures of the east.343 They are not direct representations of history, and the Amazons cannot be wholly assimilated with the losing Persians, as in battle scenes found in Etruria, such as Figure 3.13, Amazons often beat Greeks.344 They offer a space for communication between Athenians and non-­Greeks, as well as an opportunity for non-­Greek elites to display knowledge, power and status in their own localities.345 Centaurs and barbarians: re-­viewing metaphors In the period after the Graeco-­Persian Wars, scenes of centauromachies begin to appear on buildings within Athens. Following the victory at Marathon, the Athenians set up victory monuments in the city, including a monumental bronze statue of Athena Promachos on the Acropolis.346 It was paid for with a tithe of spoils from the battle and could be seen by those sailing in to the city. According to 339 

Attachments (BM1973,0301.1 and BM1964,1221); cista feet (BM1865,0712.26–27). Amazon sarcophagus (Florence, Museo Archaeologico 5811). Ridgway 1991: 107. 342  Miller too notes how images of Amazons and Persians begin to conflate (2008: 115). See also du Bois 1982; Hall 1993; Castriota 2005. 343  Kousser 2009: 277. 344  The Amazons are also winning in a scene on the Amazon sarcophagus (Florence, Museo Archaeologico 5811). 345  Kistler 2010. 346  Paus. 1.28.2. 340  341 

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Fig. 3.12. Amazon being attacked by a Greek, on red-­figure Nolan amphora attributed to the Dwarf Painter, c. 440–430 bce. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Accession Number: 56.171.42. Fletcher Fund, 1956. www.metmuseum. org.

Pausanias, Athena’s shield carried scenes of victory, but these were not scenes of Athenians defeating Achaemenids; they were scenes from mythology of Lapiths defeating centaurs. Centaurs appear again and again in fifth-­century Athenian art. They were carved on the shoes of the Athena Parthenos statue, painted in the Theseion and carved on the metopes of the Parthenon (see Figure 3.14).347 In each case, they are fighting the Lapiths. Every viewer knows that there will be only one outcome: the centaurs will lose and the Lapiths will win. For scholars, the centaurs and their loss act as a paradigm for the Graeco-­ Persian Wars. They represent the triumph of civilisation over disorder, of sophrosyne over hubris and of Greeks over 347 

Plin. HN 36.4 (Athena Parthenos); Paus. 1.17.2–3 (Theseion).

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Fig. 3.13. Amazon defeating a Greek, on red-­figure Nolan amphora attributed to the Alkimachos Painter, c. 470–460 bce. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Accession Number: 41.162.16. Rogers Fund, 1941. www.metmuseum.org.

Achaemenids.348 The centaurs are wild, hubristic monsters, tamed by the moderate Lapiths; they are the destructive invaders who were defeated by the civilised Greeks. Castriota reads the images as a symbol of the invading Achaemenids’ ‘uncontrollable desire and threat to moral and social order’.349 For Woodford, the Parthenon centaurs mirror the Persians’ raping and impiety in Greece.350 For du Bois, they are an allegory of the ‘Persian defeat’; they ‘represent barbarism and chaos’.351 For Evans, the Parthenon is a ‘striking image of Athenian superiority and transcendence’, while its art shows 348  The metopes show ‘the triumph of civilisation over barbarians’ (Hopper 1974: 125). See also Castriota 1992: 34–42; du Bois 1982: 54–7; Woodford 1974: 161. 349  Castriota 1992: 162, 152–65. 350  Woodford 1974: 162. 351  Du Bois 1982: 54, 55.

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Fig. 3.14. Metope showing the battle between a Lapith and a centaur, from the Parthenon, Athens, c. 447–432 bce. South Metope XXX. London, British Museum, BM1816,0610.14.

‘Athena’s victories over chaos and foreigners’.352 Miller suggests that it is a ‘new mythology’, designed to heroise the Athenian struggles against the Achaemenids that turned Achaemenids into Amazons.353 The Parthenon is read as a monument of victory and also a symbol of the new Athenian Empire. Morris notes that the statue of Athena Parthenos wore the gold of the Delian League, while the young men on horseback on the Parthenon Frieze offered a display of the integration of elite and demos in support of the empire.354 For Root, 352  353  354 

Evans 2010: 90–1. Miller 2006a: 136. On the sculptures of the Parthenon, see Hopper 1974: 150–78. S. P. Morris 2003: 16. See also du Bois 1982: 67.

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the Parthenon Frieze represented ‘a message of imperial aspiration articulated through a festival metaphor borrowed deliberately from the Persians’.355 In the post-­war period Cimon and Themistocles began to use poetry, painting and sculpture in a ‘propaganda battle’, linked to a bid for status and the authority to exercise power, in much the same way as Archaic tyrants did.356 According to Podlecki, competition between the two men was linked to a wider controversy about which battle was the more important: Marathon or Salamis.357 Cimon’s status was linked to Marathon, Themistocles’ to Salamis. When Themistocles left Athens, Ephialtes and Pericles took over and continued his side of the ‘battle’. Both sides used images of centaurs on their buildings: Cimon placed a centauromachy in his Theseion; Pericles placed scenes of centaurs fighting on the south metopes of the Parthenon and on the west frieze of the temple of Hephaestus; they were also carved on the sandals of the statue of Athena Parthenos and on the bronze shield of the statue of Athena Promachus.358 The differences between the Cimonian and Periclean building programmes and their use of centaurs offer us an interesting approach through which to re-­examine the perspective on ‘Persia’ as an artistic paradigm for Athenian victory over Achaemenid ­‘barbarians’. We will begin by looking at the building programme of Cimon. Cimon is the most visible Athenian politician in the early post-­ war period and, as we saw at the start of the chapter, he asserted his dominance and patronage by setting up buildings in Athens that were open to public use. According to Plutarch, he also opened his lands to the people, gave dinner nightly to any poor man that wished to eat at his house, and walked around Athens with an entourage of well-­dressed young men.359 These young men would give their cloak to any older citizen in need and gave money to those in need in the Agora. Although the picture seems exaggerated, Plutarch includes an interesting criticism that was levelled at Cimon: that those who slandered him and accused him of acting as demagogue for the mob could be refuted ‘by his political policy, which was aristocratic and Laconian’.360 The passage suggests that Cimon was using his wealth to gain the support of the people. He walked the city in his finery, 355  356  357  358  359  360 

Root 1985: 113. Podlecki 1966: 13. Podlecki 1966: 13. Padgett 2003: 17. Plut. Cim. 10.1–5. Plut. Cim. 10.7–8.

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making a display of his largesse. In this sense his approach is more akin to the plebiscite politics of Pisitratus; he was a patron rather than a democrat. Following his victory at Eion, Cimon participated in an expedition to colonise the island of Scyros.361 Whilst here, he discovered the bones of Theseus, the great Athenian founder, and shipped them back to Athens to be placed in a building created especially for them: the Theseion.362 Although the Theseion has not been identified amongst the remains at Athens, we have descriptions of it from Pausanias.363 It was a stoa and was decorated with friezes showing the exploits of Theseus. He was shown defeating centaurs at the wedding of Peirithoos, repelling the invading Amazons and recovering the ring of Minos.364 Cimon may also be linked to the construction of a second stoa, the Stoa Poikile, shown on Map 4, which was built at around 470–460 bce.365 Again, the walls of the stoa were painted with friezes, this time with a mix of real and mythic events. There was an Amazonomachy and the defeat of Troy alongside the Battle of Oenoe and the Battle of Marathon. Castriota suggests that this was the first building to use mythic themes as an analogy for the defeat of the Achaemenids.366 The Marathon scene showed Cimon’s father Miltiades, in his role as one of the heroic generals who produced a victory for Athens. Cimon’s buildings were a perfect marriage of patronage and self-­promotion. He set himself up as the hero who found the bones and the patron who paid for the stoa. The paintings included a scene of his father, Miltiades, reminding the viewer of Cimon’s own, heroic ancestor and ‘fostering’ connections between his father and Theseus.367 If we look at the subjects of Cimon’s two stoas, we can see a common theme of heroic protection. Cimon’s father protected the city at Marathon; Theseus, the new Athenian hero, protects the Lapiths from the centaurs; left unshown but perhaps implied is Cimon’s protection of the city through his military victories. The centaurs here are part of a display of prowess, placed in a stoa and designed to be seen by the demos as well as the elites. After the Congress Decree and the Peace of Callias in the mid-­fifth 361  362  363  364  365  366  367 

Thuc. 1.98; Diod. Sic. 11.60.2; Plut. Cim. 8.2–3. Plut. Thes. 36.1–2; Cim. 8.6; Podlecki 1966: 13. Paus. 1.17.2. Paus. 1.17.2–3. Paus. 1.15.1–4; Kousser 2009: 273. Castriota 2005: 90. See also Vickers 1990a: 256–7. Podlecki 1966: 14.

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century, Pericles began to re-­build on the Acropolis.368 While Cimon funded his own, generous gifts to the city, Pericles’ Parthenon was built with state funds. As Aristotle puts it, ‘Pericles was also the first to institute pay for service in the law courts, as a bid for popular favour to counterbalance the wealth of Cimon . . . as he was beaten in the matter of private possessions, [he made] gifts to the people from their own property.’369 Building on the Parthenon began in 447 bce, after the issue of using Delian funds was raised in 450/49 bce.370 The Parthenon was made of the finest Attic marble and displayed key events from the city’s mythical history.371 It had pediments that showed the birth of Athena and her victory over Poseidon. It carried a frieze of the people in procession to Athena whose similarity to the processions at Persepolis cannot be denied.372 According to Pausanias, there was a statue of Pericles and one of his father Xanthippos on the Acropolis, perhaps in response to Cimon’s painting of his father in the Stoa Poikile.373 The metopes of the Parthenon showed a series of battles from mythology. On the east side was a battle between gods and giants, on the north were Greeks and Trojans, to the west Greeks fought Amazons, and on the south side Lapiths fought centaurs. In each tale, the outcome of the individual fight was known to the viewer. Unlike Cimon’s centaurs, those of Pericles were shown not in a battle scene but in individual contests. In order to understand the Periclean centaurs, it is important to consider them in light of their wider associations. For the most part, scholars have interpreted the Parthenon as a symbol of victory and of empire but, as with Aeschylus’ Persae, it is possible to read the building programme, the buildings of Cimon and Pericles, and the appearance and treatment of centaurs in monumental Athenian art through the filter of thermodynamic power. Although centaurs can be seen as wild and hubristic, they are also an aristocratic symbol.374 The tale of their birth blends the mating of man (Ixion) and supernatural being (Nephele) to create a monster (Centaurus) who mated with horses. It allows man and horse to 368  On the Congress Decree, see Plut. Per. 17.1; Kagan 2010: 43–4. On the Peace of Callias, see Diod. Sic. 12.4–6. On Periclean Athens, see Rhodes 2010: 59–76. On the building programme, see Hurwit 1999: 169–88. 369  Arist. [Ath. Pol.] 27.3. 370  Spawforth 2006: 140–2; Camp 1986: 62; Hopper 1974: 118–26; Powell 2001: 60. Kallett-­Marx suggests that the buildings were paid for from state funds rather than tribute (1989). 371  Hurwit 1999; Ferrari suggests that they kept the old ruined temple as a feature (2002). 372  Root 1985; Osborne 1994. 373  Paus. 1.25.1, 28.2. 374  For a study of centaurs and centaur images, see Padgett 2003: 3–46.

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mate and become one being, which made the story an apt subject for Pindar’s poem in honour of Hieron of Syracuse’s victory in the chariot race, where the successful melding of male skill and equine power was essential.375 Padgett notes that centaurs symbolise the essence of aristocratic behaviour, as they are courageous and noble, have divine favour, are great hunters and are a mix of man and horse, the great symbol of wealth.376 They are also ‘hyper-­masculine’, with an ‘undiluted masculinity’.377 Scholars suggest that they are a Greek phenomenon, but it is equally possible that the centaurs drew on hybrid creatures from Egypt and Assyria.378 Centaurs behave as a discrete group who range across their territory rather than being tied to one settlement, evoking ideas of early elite groups. There are centaurs in Mycenaean art and, as we have already seen, a large figurine of a centaur was present in the elite Toumba graves at Lefkandi (Figure 1.5 above). There are small bronze centaurs amongst the votive offerings at Olympia from between 900 and 700 bce, such as that shown in Figure 1.8 above, while our earliest image of a centaur comes from Olympia and takes the form of a hammered bronze relief of their attack on the hero Kaineus.379 Their presence at Olympia, one of the most important sites of elite engagement, may also indicate their aristocratic connections. Painted centaurs appear on Corinthian and Attic vases from around 720–700 bce and they continue to appear as hunters on early Protoattic vases.380 Langdon comments on their ‘extraordinary popularity in Geometric art’.381 According to Pausanias, scenes of Heracles fighting centaurs appeared on the chest of Cypselus and on the Amyclae throne in Laconia.382 At around 570 bce, scenes of centaurs and Lapiths battling begin to appear on black-­figure Attic vases, and these remain the prime medium for the scenes.383 The functions of the vases have strong links to the symposium, an occasion firmly linked to aristocratic identity and engagements. The small size of the figurines and the vases makes them easy to transport and to dedicate, offering us a strong link between early images of centaurs and elite lifestyles. 375 

Pind. Pyth. 2.20–49. Padgett 2003: 4, 19. 377  Du Bois 1982: 31. 378  Langdon 2008: 95; Padgett 2003. On Near Eastern hybrid creatures, see Black and Green 1992. 379  Padgett 2003: 14. 380  Padgett 2003: 8, 22 n.132. They are also present on Boeotian, Eretrian and Laconian vases. 381  Langdon 2008: 95–110. 382  Paus. 5.19.9, 3.18.10, 16. 383  Shefton 1962: 31. 376 

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Centaurs begin to appear on temples from the sixth century bce onwards. They are present on a frieze of around 540 bce in the temple at Assos in Asia Minor, and on the temple of Hera at Foce del Sele from around 550 bce.384 They appear on the temple of Athena in Athens, constructed at around 520 bce, and on a metope from the treasury of the Athenians at Delphi from c. 500–490 bce. In all cases, they are shown as part of the Heracles myth, rather than being linked to Theseus.385 For du Bois, the Centaurs offer a route to explore male identity through ideas of polarity, analogy and behaviour that sits at the boundary of society.386 She sees the centaurs as uncivilised, rejecting the orderly exchanges of gifts and women that cement relations between men. They are wild creatures who live at and define social boundaries.387 In contrast, Tarbell notes that the complexity of the tale simply offers wider representational opportunities for artists, rather than presenting us with symbolic Persians.388 These two views are not incompatible, as the message behind the selection of centaurs may not be wholly related to the Graeco-­Persian Wars. Centaurs also hold up a mirror to aristocratic male society. While Hercules represents the best of male aristocratic society, in its members working together to create new settlements and expanding their influence, the centaurs may reflect its worst side.389 They are a mix of man and horse, which offers a symbol of nobility, but their wild, hubristic behaviour and untrammelled sexuality are triggered by over-­indulging in wine.390 They are aristocratic drunkenness, alcohol-­fuelled hubris, the destructive symposium and its damaging effects personified.391 They do not fight honourably but use branches and furniture to attack their Lapith hosts. Their defeat by the Lapiths illustrates the importance of self-­discipline and also acts as a warning to control hubris. On symposium vases, they reflect the sympotic group back to the viewer, offering a humorous analogy that is both joke and warning. Centaurs reflect aristocratic society and the problems of aristocratic disorder. Rather than simply substituting Achaemenids for centaurs, we can see their portrayal as offering a perspective on engagements 384 

Padgett 2003: 22. Dowden 1992: 10; Boardman 1982: 3. 386  Du Bois 1982: 50. 387  Du Bois 1982: 29. 388  Tarbell 1920. 389  On Heracles’ important role in overseas settlements, see Malkin 2005. 390  Castriota 1992: 35. 391  As Xenophon observes, ‘some people are like horses, the more they get, the more they want and the more liable to become hubristic’ (Xen. Hier. 10.2). 385 

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Fig. 3.15. Athenian treasury at Delphi (photograph by Matthew Evans). ­Reproduced with permission of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Phocis-­Delphi. The copyright of the antiquities depicted herein belongs to the Hellenic Ministry of Culture & Sports (Law 3028/2002).

between elites and demos in the new, democratic Athens. The earliest monumental centaurs appear on the Athenian treasury at Delphi, shown in Figure 3.15. The date of the building is debated. According to Pausanias, it was constructed with the spoils of Marathon, but the Archaic style has led some scholars to place it earlier.392 Dispute currently centres on the relationship between the Athenian treasury and the Marathon base, which could put the date either in the late sixth century bce or in the years after Marathon.393 For the perspective of this study, its range of possible dates, from late sixth century bce to post-­Marathon, places it close to the emergence of democracy or in its infancy and does not invalidate the principal arguments of Neer, who sees the treasury as marking the emergence of democracy.394 Yet it is Heracles who fights the centaurs here. Although Theseus appears,

392  393  394 

Paus. 10.11.5; Harrison dates to c. 500 (1965: 9–11). After Marathon (Neer 2004: 67); late sixth century bce (Von den Hoff 2009: 98). Neer 2004.

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he is battling against Attic villains.395 For du Bois, the metopes reflect the emergence of Theseus as a new hero for Athens.396 She contrasts the static, single combat scenes of fighting on the metopes of the treasury with the fluidity of the scene in the Theseion and suggests that it reflects a movement from aristocratic fighting to the group fighting of the polis.397 Neer takes this idea further, suggesting that the Athenian treasury actively invites comparison with previous aristocratic dedications while reflecting the appropriation of these rights by the demos. The treasury is a paean to democracy and makes a political statement about the melding of the interests of aristocrats and demos for the good of the whole community.398 Ridgway also sees a democratic message in the structure. She suggests that the Geryonomachy on the east metopes and the Amazons on the west reflect the world interests of the new democracy.399 If we accept these views, then the image of the centaur is firmly associated with aristocratic lifestyles by the art on this building. Why would the centaur suddenly lose this association when used on buildings in Athens? For Miller, Pericles’ behaviour is aimed at bringing equality by raising the demos to the status of the elites.400 However, I would suggest that in his presentation of the centaurs, Pericles is using aristocratic symbols to present a different message. This is a message of victory, but not necessarily that of Athens over the Achaemenids. It may also reflect the victory of the demos over the elites and present a warning to elites that aristocratic hubris will not be tolerated by the city. This interpretation offers us an alternative insight into the purpose of the enigmatic Parthenon Frieze. This is similar to the Persepolis frieze, but rather than showing the subservience of the people to a king, it shows them celebrating with the ultimate patron: their goddess Athena.401 As the people march in unity to Athena, the wildness of the centaur becomes the participation of the horses and young horsemen in the procession. They are a part of the city and tamed by association with the community. The Parthenon Frieze also included symbols of the Achaemenid Empire. Harpokration notes that the daughters of Athenian metics carried parasols in the Panatheniac procession for the kanephoroi, 395  396  397  398  399  400  401 

Neer 2004: 75. Du Bois 1982: 57; Neer 2002: 154–68. Du Bois 1982: 59–62. Neer 2004: esp. 71–82. Ridgway 1991: 117. Miller 2006a: 142. Root 1985.

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the Athenian girls carrying the baskets of sacrificial equipment.402 Miller notes a disjunction between the visibly ‘Oriental’ symbol and the context of the civic procession.403 There is only a disjunction if we are searching for ‘empire’ as a meaning. If we look instead at the centaurs and the frieze as a part of a statement of power and the authority to exercise power, then the symbols make perfect sense. Pericles’ centaurs and Lapiths are a symbol of aristocratic hubris controlled: the authority reflected in the Parthenon is the authority of the demos. The distribution of ‘Persian’ symbols reflects the wider process of disseminating symbols of elite status to the wider citizen body in an act of notional equality that ultimately brought support to Pericles and his followers. This is not the only message that can be read from the Parthenon art. While an ordinary member of the demos might not recognise the Achaemenid inspiration behind the frieze, the elite traveller or elite family would. For them, the message is clear: the exclusive knowledge and possessions that once defined them are now owned by all. The enfranchised demos has gained power and elite competition will not be tolerated; they must either become a part of the new Athens or, like the centaurs, they will be defeated. This reading helps to explain the reason for publicly displaying the building accounts associated with these projects: it is a matter of safety. Although Pericles gained kudos for his building programme, the building was paid for by public funds, not by an individual or family. The Acropolis was re-­built by the people, for the people, under the patronage of Athena. Rhodes notes that it was important to the people that the buildings were not paid for by one man, as this would have carried implications of tyranny.404 It also offers an explanation for the Spring House Decree, which records ‘thanks but no thanks’ to an offer by Pericles and his sons to pay for a new Spring House.405 Pericles’ building programme brought condemnation from fellow elites. Plutarch tells us that complaints were made about the appropriation of funds and Pericles was blamed: the Parthenon was compared to a deceitful woman, adorned with finery.406 Powell suggests that the wealthy were angered by the redistribution of funds to the demos, encouraging them to desire further successes overseas and to seek to divert funds away from the protection of Attica and 402  403  404  405  406 

Harpokration s.v. skaphephoroi. Miller 2006a: 140. Rhodes 2010: 69. IG I3 491. Plut. Per. 12.1–2, 14.1–2; Kagan 2010: 45–6.

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into overseas ventures.407 This reading may also explain the criticism levelled at Pericles by aristocrats in our sources. His gift of power to the demos was a disruption of the natural order. Traditionally elites built monumental structures; the demos did not. Their own language of communication had been re-­cast as a message to integrate or face extinction. The placement of the Athenian stoa at Delphi resonates with this message. It sits just to the side of the temple, a clearly visible celebration of Athenian naval victory and the prowess of the Athenian rowers, men of the demos, at the side of a temple constructed by the aristocratic Alcmaeonid family as a symbol of their own power. The demos had taken over the spaces of the elite. O B S E RVAT I O N S Democracy emerges against a background of elite competition and changes forever the nature of elite engagement with the demos in Athens. In the hyper-­competitive context that democracy creates, symbols of status and power become utilised to seduce the demos. Once political power had been extended to them, the search for gifts to entice their support turned to artefacts associated with social status, and drew external artefacts and ideas, areas previously dominated by elites, into the offering pot. Symbols of the ‘east’ and the Achaemenid Empire were originally used in an elite effort to give authority to the exercise of power, but this process warps in Classical Athens from simple competition between elites to elite competition for the hand of the demos. As the demos demands more, it is Persia, a fantasy of the Achaemenid Empire, that Pericles and his political rivals give to the people. In response, elites alter their patterns of consumption to differentiate their own status. They cannot jettison the ‘east’ or the Achaemenids as a source of symbolic capital since these remain the language of engagement between elites of different Greek communities. The elites therefore consume more or search for more authenticity in their engagement with external artefacts. These twin processes give us the rich vein of perceptions and plethora of meanings in Classical Athens. However, we should not look at the evidence for this period and see Persians everywhere, as our constant identification of Athenian images as Achaemenid perspectives obscures other possibilities. Democracy caused an enormous internal upheaval and the competition for votes led to the wide dissemination of previously elite symbols. These are not direct views of Persia; 407 

Powell 2001: 66.

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Fig. 3.16. Remains of the Athenian stoa at Delphi, with remains of the ­fourth-­century bce temple of Apollo behind (photograph by author). Reproduced with permission of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Phocis-­Delphi. The copyright of the antiquities depicted herein belongs to the Hellenic Ministry of Culture & Sports (Law 3028/2002).

they are visions of Athens. In its shape shifting and re-­forming, the Persia of Athens plays the same role as the east in the Archaic period. It becomes a means of communication, whether between elites, between demos and elites or between Athenians and non-­Greeks. The perspectives on Achaemenid Iran created in fifth-­century bce Athens were not simple responses to war and victory, but reactions to internal political and social change and efforts to appease the monster of the demos, which lay out of direct vision behind the shield of Athena.

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4 What the Butler Saw: Intimate Perspectives on King and Court in Classical Ionian Texts In this chapter we will explore the perspectives on the Achaemenids created by Ionian historians. As we have already seen in Chapter 2, Archaic Ionia was in a unique position in being open to influences from the Greek city-­states of the mainland as well as the cultures of the Near East. As a result, artefacts and ideas from both were drawn into dialogues of elite identity and status in Ionia. After defeat at the hands of Cyrus, Ionia became part of the Achaemenid Empire, and its elites maintained a closer relationship with Achaemenid administrators and rulers than their elite counterparts on the mainland did. While Athenian elites created their own, artificial ‘Persia’ and conspicuously consumed their own versions of Achaemenid-­style artefacts to reflect their status, Ionians also developed court-­inspired forms and styles that reflected their own affiliation with the Great King and his court. Amongst these, we find the development and presentation of a genre of texts known as the Persica. These were personal investigations into the culture and history of the Achaemenid Empire, written by individuals who claimed to have travelled in the empire or worked in the king’s court. Tales in the Persica were designed to inform and drew their authority from the personal knowledge of the author.1 They took the reader and audience behind closed doors to give them an intimate view of the Achaemenid court, with its weak kings, vengeful queens and scheming eunuchs. Although the Persica were literary sources, they also had a physical aspect. The texts were artefacts, capable of being handled, read aloud  1  In my use of the term ‘authority’ here I follow the definition of Marincola: authority means the competence to narrate and explain achieved by the construction of a believable persona (1997: 1).

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and exchanged. Their tales revealed detailed information to readers and audiences about the Achaemenids, which could only be accessed by those who could read or who were invited to join occasions where the Persica were read.2 As such, the texts were exclusive. Those who owned, read and shared in the reading of such texts were involved in an activity that was designed to reflect their status in much the same way as the Persianising artefacts that we have already studied at Athens. In this chapter, I will show that the Persica were elite responses to a changed world where opportunities for contact with the Achaemenids and their empire had widened. It was in response to this increased access that Ionian elites adjusted their behaviour and sought out new ways to engage with Achaemenid material in order to continue to reflect and reinforce their elite identity, as well as engage with each other and assert their elite status. They created an a­ rtificial, ­‘intellectual Persia’, drawing on Ionian philosophy and scientific studies, which was designed to disseminate exclusive k ­ nowledge, encourage dialogue between elites and exclude those who were not literate. UNVEILING THE HAREM: STUDIES IN PETITE HISTOIRE Although they are treated as a discrete body of work, the structure and narratives of individual Persica are very different. Earlier Persica focus more on history and culture; later Persica are more interested in tales of the court than historical events. Between the two lie the Persica of Ctesias of Cnidus. Ctesias worked as a doctor to Artaxerxes II in the late fifth and early fourth centuries bce and claimed to have personal knowledge of members of the Achaemenid court.3 His Persica brought the politics of the harem before the reader’s gaze. They took the audience into the heart of the court and provided titillation for them in much the same way that ‘what the butler saw’ machines and even Athenian vases sought to give a forbidden peek into the private lives of women.4 Ctesias’ Persica are difficult to categorise. They are personal investigations (historiē) and can be viewed as historiographic texts, yet they are also cultural histories in the sense that they do not simply list kings and events but look at how society worked. This brings them into the remit of ethnography. It is the conflation between these two perspectives  2 

These people exercised power through reading choices (Bowman and Woolf 1994). For an overview, see Llewellyn-­Jones 2010a.  4  See Lewis 2002.  3 

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that produces more intimate stories with tales of political relations and harem intrigues. In antiquity, Ctesias’ work was both esteemed and reviled. Plutarch criticises his stories as ‘incredible’, while Lucian places Ctesias on the Islands of the Wicked, where he is punished for writing lies in his lifetime.5 In contrast, Photius notes that the tales are told well and bring pleasure.6 As a result of the intimacy of Ctesias’ gaze and the apparently scandalous behaviour of the inner court set out by him, his Persica were categorised as Skandalgeschichte (‘scandalous report’) by the great German scholar Felix Jacoby.7 Although Ctesias’ Persica focused on cultural information and could be understood as ethnography, scholars labelled them as petite histoire, or ‘trivial history’.8 While ethnographic studies could be viewed as valuable cultural history, petite histoire was anecdotal history and unreliable.9 Amongst writers of the Persica, Ctesias was set up as the arch-­villain and his representation of the court came to be viewed as a fantasy by scholars.10 For Momigliano, Ctesias’ work was ‘disappointing’ and no more than ‘gossip about court intrigues’.11 For Braun, he was a ‘monumental liar’ who exaggerated his own role to impress his audience.12 Drews’ account of Ctesias’ writing is also highly critical; he calls Ctesias’ Persica ‘kitchen gossip’ and impugns his sources as ‘doctors . . . cooks, translators . . . and the functionaries of the royal court’.13 His Persica are a ‘tissue of lies and distortions’.14 For Heleen Sancisi-­Weerdenburg, Ctesias’ tales introduced a new and dangerous perspective to Persica narratives. She holds Ctesias responsible for creating the ‘orient’, an artificially constructed view of Achaemenid history that reflected ‘Greek’ identity, distanced Greeks from the Achaemenids and cast them in the role of ‘Other’.15 Through these  5 

Plut. Artax. 1.2; Luc. Ver. hist. 2.31. Stronk 2010: 44. Jacoby 1922.  8  Llewellyn-­Jones 2010a: 24. See also Cook 1983: 22; Dorati 1995; Asher-­Grieve 2007: 324.  9  Burn 1962; Cook 1983; Dorati 1995. 10  A study of the harem is noticeably absent in Brosius 1996, as well as in Briant 2002a and Sancisi-­Weerdenburg 1987a. For a contrasting view, see Llewellyn-­Jones 2010a: 82–7; Balcer 1993: 273–317; Spawforth 2007: 93, 97, 100. 11  Momigliano 1975: 134. For a study of approaches to Ctesias, see Llewellyn-­Jones 2010a: 22–31. 12  Braun 2004: 123. Further disparaging comments can be found in Allen 2005a: 97; Briant 2002a: 265; Sancisi-­Weerdenburg 1987a: 43; Wiesehöfer 1996: 81. 13  Drews 1973: 107, 103–16. 14  Drews 1973: 108. Drews also notes differences in their accounts of Cyrus’ birth and rise to power, conquest of Babylon and conquest of Egypt as well as Darius’ rise to power and Scythian expedition (1973: 113–14). 15  Sancisi-­Weerdenburg 1987b. Lenfant sees Ctesias as an influence but places the blame on  6   7 

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perspectives, scholars came to see the Achaemenid court as a place of ‘decadence’. It was a fantasy world of silk, sex and enslavement where cruel kings reclined in harems of women kept for their exclusive use and guarded by eunuchs.16 More recently, scholars have sought to re-­examine the work of Ctesias and focus on the historical value of his texts.17 Stevenson rejects the category of petite histoire, noting that the Persica’s importance lies in reflecting the subjects thought to matter in their day.18 She sees Ctesias as ‘potentially an accurate source’, if we take into account how his closeness to events would shape the text.19 For Llewellyn-­ Jones, Ctesias and the Persica performed the essential role of bringing knowledge of the Achaemenids and their empire to the Greeks and offering a perspective from which to develop their own identity.20 His keen observation that ‘each successive generation of Greeks had its own Persica’ reflects the importance of this much-­derided genre.21 Our view of Ctesias is distorted by the problems that we have in categorising his work; it is neither pure fiction, nor pure history. Lenfant notes that the text offers a mix of tradition, romance, inquiry and reality.22 In focusing on the mistakes in Ctesias’ Persica, scholars fail to consider how these might be a key component in his work.23 Divergence offers scope for dialogue and debate. Although Ctesias uses his proximity to the court to give his version authority, this does not mean that he is seeking to create a single, authoritative version. It is the expectations of contemporary historians that are disappointed by Ctesias’ work, not those of his original audience.24 It is interesting that Lucian places Herodotus in the Islands of the Wicked, suggesting that Roman historians and philosophers may have also viewed Greek cultural texts through a looking glass of their own, very different, standards.25 The Persica are not a homogeneous body of texts and Ctesias is Athenian philosophers (2004: CXXVII). See discussions in Briant 2002a: 265; Llewellyn-­Jones 2010a: 26–7. For discussions on the trope of ‘Other’ see Chapter 3. 16  For discussions of ‘decadence’, see Briant 1989; Sancisi-­Weerdenburg 1987a; Lenfant 2001; 2007b; Marincola 1997: 22. 17  Notable efforts include Bigwood 1995: 140; Cook 1985: 206; Lewis 1977: 21–2. 18  Stevenson 1997: 45–6. 19  Stevenson 1997: 80–1. 20  Llewellyn-­Jones 2010a: 55. 21  Llewellyn-­Jones 2010a: 55. See also Lenfant 2007a: 208. 22  Lenfant 2004: CXV–CXXVII; 2007a: 205. 23  Cawkwell 2005: 14–15. 24  See Llewellyn-­Jones 2010a: 31, 79–80, who also notes that the survival of the text in fragments means we are not seeing the whole picture, and it is possible that only the sensationalist parts survive (2010a: 35–6). See also Stronk 2007. 25  Luc. Ver. hist. 2.31.

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not the only author who is seeking to tell tales about the Persian court. As each ancient historian shapes his own authority to tell his tale according to the receptivity of his audience, this offers us an unparalleled opportunity to undertake our own historiē and to explore the audience behind the presentation of different perspectives on Persia in the Persica.26 Ctesias’ Persica thus acts as a pivot for the investigations of this chapter. He is writing at the end of the fifth century and before the fourth century; he is after the early Persica and Herodotus’ study but before the supposed lampooning of the genre in Dinon. He is also a pivot, as attitudes of scholars on the value of the Persica shift with the appearance of Ctesias’ work and scorn begins to pour onto the genre. For Drews, post-­ Herodotean Persian histories are a ‘sorry collection’ where writers ‘abandoned their pretensions as practitioners of historiē’.27 Given the popularity of intimate perspectives on Persia in the fourth and fifth centuries bce, it is time to move away from modern judgement and think about the role that these texts played within their own context and the purpose of these perspectives on the Achaemenids. T H E B I RT H O F T H E P E R S I CA Fifth-­century Persica: an Ionian response We will begin with an overview of evidence for the earliest Persica and then consider their purpose. Our earliest Persica are credited to Dionysius of Miletus, Hellanicus of Lesbos and Charon of Lampsacus.28 Their work survives in fragments and epitomes, and information about their backgrounds is given by much later ­writers.29 As well as other books about geography and myth, Dionysius of Miletus wrote a book entitled Affairs after Darius and a Persica.30 Drews suggests that these two Persian books, mentioned in the Suda, may have been one book, which focused on the reign of Xerxes.31 Evidence for the writing of Hellanicus of Lesbos is similarly scarce and fragmentary.32 His focus is on the names of cities and the mythological ancestry of founders. Drews suggests that the 26  27  28  29  30  31  32 

Marincola 1997: 20 notes the relationship between historian, audience and authority. Drews 1973: 99. Drews 1973: 20; Lenfant 2007a: 201–2; Llewellyn-­Jones 2010a: 48–9. For details see Drews 1973: 20–44. Lenfant 2007a: 201. Drews 1973: 22. FGrH 4 ff 59–60, 61–3, 177–83.

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content may have included histories of the Assyrians, Medes and Persians with detail about Cambyses and Darius.33 According to Jacoby, Hellanicus produced twenty-­eight works in his lifetime.34 For Drews, this indicates that he may have published a work on the Graeco-­Persian Wars before Herodotus did.35 Drews cites a criticism by Plutarch which places Herodotus between Hellanicus and Ephorus, as well as a note by Dionysius of Halicarnassus that places both Hellanicus and Charon before Herodotus.36 Our third writer, Charon of Lampsacus, is equally elusive. He is described in the Suda as a historian who wrote an Aethiopica, a Persica and a Hellenica, amongst other books whose titles, again, reflect discussions on the origins of cities and founders.37 Drews suggests that his Persica was pre-­Herodotean on the basis of Plutarch’s reference to him as ‘an older man’ than Herodotus.38 In his grand design for the evolution of historical writing, Jacoby placed the Persica after early studies of genealogy and mythical histories and before the production of the first true history, the Histories of Herodotus.39 Jacoby’s desire to find a developmental continuum in the emergence of history echoes and matches the approach of art historians who were eager to trace sequential stages in the development of sculpture, from Archaic to Classical, and in vases from black-­ figure to red-­figure.40 As I have already noted, it is a reflection of contemporary modes of thinking in an evolutionary vein that seek to move man seamlessly from ancient to modern through a Darwinian linear progression of smooth transitions.41 It does not help us to understand ‘why now’ and ‘why here’. The works of Dionysius, Hellanicus and Charon, like the later Persica, were all written by Ionian authors who lived under the Achaemenid Empire.42 Scholars have been quick to see this as a motive for the works’ production, but there are problems with this perspective. Jacoby linked the emergence of the genre to the Achaemenid invasion of Ionia. As Skinner notes, Jacoby felt that the need to know about these new invaders would have stimulated a demand for knowledge amongst the Greek 33  34  35  36  37  38  39  40  41  42 

Drews 1973: 22. Jacoby 1913a. Drews 1973: 23. See also Skinner 2012: 32–4. Plut. Mor. 869A; Dion. Hal. Pomp. 3.7. Suda s.v. Charon (FGrH 262 + 687b). Drews 1973: 25. Jacoby 1909 (= Jacoby 1956: 16–64); Marincola 2007: 4–7; Skinner 2012: 30–44. Morris 1994. Morgan 2004; Vlassopoulos 2007a. Llewellyn-­Jones 2010a: 55.

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inhabitants of Ionia.43 Fowler too suggests that the quantity and range of subjects covered by Hellanicus show that he was embarking on some type of ‘research programme’.44 However, the early Persica seem to consist of limited information about the early history of Persia alongside some information on Persian life and customs. Their value as authoritative guides to the Achaemenids and their culture is negligible.45 Jacoby identified them as descriptive ethnographies, but there is no clear evidence that our three early authors travelled in the Persian Empire. Their interest appears to be in presenting information, rather than engaging with Achaemenid material at first hand.46 Kuhrt moves the debate away from perspectives of pure ethnographic explanation and instead links the purpose of Dionysius’ work to the commemoration of Greek victory.47 Drews agrees, seeing the Persica as histories of the Graeco-­Persian Wars, rather than histories of Achaemenid Iran. In support, he cites later use of the term Persica to mean the wars specifically.48 For Drews, the theme of the Persica is the rise and fall of a great empire. As such, they reflect exploration of the ‘Great Event’ by contemporary dramatists and poets, rather than being histories in the sense that a modern audience might understand it.49 This categorisation could help to explain differences in the Persica tales. As interest in the Graeco-­Persian Wars altered with the passing of time, new elements relevant to contemporary audiences were added. Drews notes that Charon and Hellanicus ‘recast’ the works of Dionysius, Phrynichus and Aeschylus to make their versions, ‘adding what they had heard in the streets of Lampsacus, Mytilene or Athens’.50 This acknowledges a degree of fluidity in the composition of the Persica that aligns them with contemporary socio-­political change but it still does not explain why the Persica were created. The early writers of the Persica were not the first to write about non-­ Greek cultures. Fragments written by the sixth-­ century bce author Hecataeus of Miletus show an interest in investigating culture and the past through studies of aetiology and myths of foundation.51 Hecataeus also began to produce works that explored the origins of 43  44  45  46  47  48  49  50  51 

Skinner 2012: 33. Fowler 2001. Llewellyn-­Jones 2010a: 48–9. Jacoby 1922; Drews 1973: 30. For a criticism, see Marincola 1999. Kuhrt 2000: 57. Drews 1973: 31 and n.46; Isoc. 8.37, 7.75; Pl. Leg. 642D. Drews 1973: 35–6, 32. Drews 1973: 44, 78. Saïd 2007: 77–8. The fragments are listed in Pearson 1939: 106–8.

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non-­Greek peoples, but his focus tends to be on eponymous founding heroes and the myths associated with them rather than explanations of events and cultures.52 Herodotus notes that Hecataeus had knowledge of the Achaemenid satrapies.53 The sixth-­century writer Heraclitus also travelled extensively, and the fragments that remain of his works discuss Egypt, Phoenicia and Syria, Mesopotamia and the area to the south of the Caspian Sea.54 The writers of the Persica also wrote about other cultures. Hellanicus wrote an Aigyptia and Charon, as we have seen, wrote an Aethiopica and a Hellenica amongst other books.55 In the fifth century bce, alongside the writers of the Persica were writers of other ethnographic texts, such as Xanthus of Lydia who wrote a Lydiaka. There would appear to be a wide interest in non-­ Greek communities at this time, yet these are not simple tales of what other people do or do not do.56 The tales are historia, personal investigations of man in his environment.57 In order to create historia of men, writers travelled, observed, made inquiries and reported their finds to their audience. As Drews notes, the origins of historiē lay in the Greek verb ἰδεῖν (‘to see’), and hence to witness.58 They were reports on what was before the eyes of the beholder and, in their earliest form, offered studies of the present as well as the past. The act of historiē was not exclusive to ethnographic tales. All scientific studies required rational investigation, so that historiē was a manner of performing research rather than a genre.59 Indeed, Thomas points out that the word historiē is a scientific term, usually found in texts of natural history or medicine.60 The Persica were an Ionian phenomenon and reflect a debt to the emergent scientific thinking of the region. They did not simply ‘appear’ but were written into a developing genre that was linked to the rise of philosophical and scientific investigation in Ionia in the sixth and fifth centuries bce. While the writers of historiē offered information about non-­Greeks and their cultures, their purpose was not simply educational. The true value of the historiē lay beyond the text in the complex roles that 52 

Drews 1973: 8–10, 14; Llewellyn-­Jones 2010a: 45–6. Hdt. 5.36. Drews 1973: 15. 55  Suda s.v. Hellanicus (Jacoby 1913a.) 56  Skinner 2012: 3–4, 14–19. 57  Redfield sees historia as a particularly Greek phenomenon (1985: 97–8). 58  Drews 1973: 14. 59  On the origins of historiography and the role of historiē, see Darbo-­Peschanski 2007; Schepens 2007. 60  Thomas 2008b: xv. See also Thomas 2008a. 53  54 

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it could play within its contexts of use. First, the material was presented in written form, which made it accessible only to those who could read. As such, we are looking at artefacts that were exclusive and contained material that was beyond the reach or understanding of the ordinary citizen.61 This limitation suggests that the works of Hecataeus and the early Persica were designed to be read by the individual or in smaller, more intimate groups. They were not public documents. This may help to explain why the earlier Persica were considerably shorter than Herodotus’ work.62 Although it comes from much later, Diogenes Laertius’ tale that Heraclitus gave his great work On Nature to the temple of Artemis fits the patterns we have observed in other times and places of the manner of elite gifts left at sanctuaries. His work was exclusive and non-­local, making it an external artefact and suitable as a gift for a deity. Heraclitus may also have written it in an obscure style, which made it more inaccessible to ordinary people and thus even more exclusive.63 Second, the information presented in a historiē is complex. It is about people and places that are not fully known to the reader or listener, and where there is room for doubt, there is scope for debate. The Persica were designed not to give the reader authority but to stimulate a dialogue of debate. As Harris notes, writing encourages the ‘canonisation of discourse’.64 Just as the external images on a symposium vase could act as an aid to the telling of stories, so the text takes its readers outside of their ‘normal’ world and into an external landscape that could be dissected and discussed. In calling the Persica dialogues, we can begin to understand their relationship to philosophical and scientific writing. These were not grand stories but important additions to the sum of knowledge. They educated through debate and thought. Indeed, Heraclitus said that the philosopher Pythagoras ‘practised historiē more than did any other man’.65 For elites, early Persica were pure representations of knowledge. In the style of earlier genealogies, they were lists that acted as aides-­ memoires for those who already had a degree of knowledge, much in the same way as vase images in the symposium acted as a stimulant to discussion and engagement. 61  Harris points out that agrammatos (‘illiterate’) can also mean uncultured (1989: 5). On early literacy and status, see Stoddart and Whitley 1988. 62  Drews suggests that the Persica of Hellanicus were only two rolls, as were the Persica of Charon; he calls Charon’s work ‘bald’ (1973: 24–7, 30). 63  Diog. Laert. 9.1.6. 64  Harris 1989: 39. 65  Heraclitus (B129DK). Democritus makes a similar claim (B209DK).

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This idea is reinforced by a study of the backgrounds of our authors. Diogenes Laertius notes that Heraclitus came from an aristocratic family.66 Hecataeus is involved in politics, trying to stop Aristagoras from revolting at Miletus and, according to Diodorus Siculus, acting as ambassador to Artaphernes in the aftermath of the revolt.67 If we look closer, it is possible to identify a link between the practice of historiē and status. In his study of Croesus, Herodotus tells us the tale of Solon’s visit. He describes how the Athenian sage left Athens to travel and learn by seeing (καταθεωρίης).68 We have already noted a connection between mobility and travel (theōria) and status in Archaic Greece; for sixth-­and fifth-­century bce writers, historiē is the practice of those who go on theōria.69 While many may travel in the Classical world for various reasons, the act of creating a written dialogue about your travels must have been confined to the literate elite.70 These dialogues were read and discussed by fellow elites whose ability to participate in these debates of knowledge and investigation reflects and reinforces their elite status. Redfield points out that the tourist gains superiority in an external environment through his deliberate detachment and choice to observe rather than participate.71 This, in turn, brings increased status when the tales are related to a home audience, as the detachment becomes scientific observation and brings authority to the tale. This enhanced authority may explain why philosophers are keen to describe their work as theōria. Interest in the theōria of others is a reflection of involvement in an elite intellectual world. It reflects the role of knowledge in enhancing rather than showing pure ethnographic interest. Herodotus and a Persica for the demos We can explore this hypothesis by looking more closely at the work of another Ionian writer, Herodotus of Halicarnassus. Herodotus’ Histories were written at around 430–425 bce.72 Scholars initially searched for the inspiration of the Histories in early ethnographic 66 

Diog. Laert. 9.1.5. Hdt. 5.36, 125; Diod. Sic. 10.25.4. 68  Hdt. 1.29. Aristotle notes that Solon travelled for commerce and theōria (Arist. [Ath. Pol.] 11.1). See also Plut. Sol. 25.5. Solon also travels to Egypt and Cyprus (Hdt. ­2.177–8, 5.113). Other examples of travellers include Anacharsis (Hdt. 4.76.5–6) and Herodotus himself. See Ker 2000. 69  On travel/mobility and status, see Chapters 1 and 2. On theōria, see Rutherford 1995; 1998; Kowalzig 2005; Nightingale 2004. 70  Harris notes that literacy was ‘universal’ amongst elites (1989: 29–30). 71  Redfield 1985: 100. 72  Drews 1973: 20. 67 

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writing.73 Drews suggests that Herodotus ‘grafted history to ethnography’.74 The Histories is made up of a series of logoi, tales of the geography, politics and culture of regions, wound through a narrative of how Greek communities came to fight the Achaemenids.75 While the narrative moves towards its inevitable conclusion, it is broken by a range of stories and debates, both on great works and on small details, before the narrative resumes.76 As a result of this, the Histories can be seen both as history and as ethnography. On Achaemenid Iran, we are given a host of pieces of information, from insights into the court to the Persian system of measurement.77 For Drews, the rationale behind Herodotus’ inclusion of geographical and ethnographic material is that ‘Herodotus was simply attracted’ to them and elected to write about kings who ‘most fascinated the Greeks’.78 Boardman sees Herodotus’ work as more didactic, noting that ‘he takes pains to explain the character of the Persians’.79 Tuplin identifies four views of the Achaemenid Empire in Herodotus’ Histories: first he presents data on religious and social customs, second he gives administrative information, third he tells narratives of the growth of power, and fourth he discusses the character and institutions of the Achaemenid state.80 Scholars have noted the originality in Herodotus’ writing. For Jacoby he was a pioneer, whose style was copied by the historians who came after him. For Fowler, he was an innovator who introduced criticism into historical writing.81 For Drews, Herodotus’ work sought to expand on the material of earlier Persica and offer a ‘historical continuum’.82 Herodotus certainly drew on earlier works. He included material from the writing of Hecataeus and may have borrowed small amounts from the earlier Persica, particularly in his discussions on the origins of names.83 Similar explorations of the world and its climate, geography and peoples can be read in the works of Hippocrates and the Hippocratic School.84 Scholars have 73 

Bichler 2004. Drews 1973: 49. For details of early scholarship on Herodotus and ethnography, see Drews 1973: 47–9; Marincola 1997: 83 n.100. 75  For general studies of Herodotus’ methods, see Waters 1985; Thomas 2008a; Nagy 1987; and essays in Bakker, de Jong and van Wees 2002. 76  Flower 2006; Immerwahr 1960. 77  Hdt. 1.192. 78  Drews 1973: 50, 64. 79  Boardman 2000: 14. 80  Tuplin 2007: 792–5. 81  Jacoby 1913b; Fowler 1996: 78. 82  Drews 1973: 76–7. 83  Drews 1973: 17 n.62, 27–30. 84  Thomas 2008b: xx. 74 

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suggested that Hellanicus’ Persica was a redaction of Herodotus, as the two texts were contemporary, but it is possible that their differences simply reflect their different audiences.85 Llewellyn-­Jones argues that the Histories do not simply draw on the Persica but should be read as a part of this genre, as Herodotus’ use of history and ethnography fits into the framework of earlier Persica and offers ‘accurate details for facets of Persian life’.86 As well as ethnographic and historical information, the Histories contain stories along with religious and political discourses. There are elements of folklore and storytelling that reflect epic poetry and other contemporary sources.87 There are similarities between Herodotus’ tales of strong queens and the histories of other Near Eastern monarchies. The independent action of Candaules’ wife and the tales of Semiramis and Nitocris suggest a contemporary topos, rather than independent research.88 Myths and stories of strong women in the Histories echo their appearance on the Athenian stage, such as the husband-­killer Clytemnestra, and women in the Homeric epics.89 Homer’s tales are evoked by Herodotus’ use of phrases and speeches in Homeric style.90 In Herodotus’ tales of the non-­Greek world, scholars have identified a particular concern with the subject of Greek identity.91 His portraits use the same range of subjects, such as religion and geography, to describe the cultures of non-­ Greek communities, and he focuses on explaining difference by reference to a shared concept of Hellenic identity.92 When the Spartans are afraid that the Athenians will leave the alliance, Herodotus’ Athenians deny this will happen, due to ‘the common ties of all Greeks in blood and speech, and the shrines of gods and the sacrifices we have in common, and the shared customs’.93 Herodotus also presents a political dialogue, the Constitutional Debate, setting a discussion of political constitutions in the mouths of Darius and his advisers, and uses tales of Archaic tyrants to reflect on the exercise of contemporary power.94 In mapping the rise and fall of the early Achaemenid Empire, he offers a paradigm for the dangers facing the 85  86  87  88  89  90  91  92  93  94 

Lenfant 2007a: 202; Llewellyn-­Jones 2010a: 49. Llewellyn-­Jones 2010a: 50, 51. Murray 1987; Ford 2007: Thomas 2008: xviii–ix. Gray 1995; Hdt. 1.8–12 (Candaules’ wife), 1.184 (Semiramis), 1.185–7 (Nitocris). Thomas 2008b: xvi suggests that Herodotus rivals Homer in his tales of the Trojan War. Thomas 2008b: xviii–xx. Hartog 1988; Gray 1995. Bichler 2004. Hdt. 8.144.2. Hdt. 3.80–2.

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victorious Greeks of his own era; success can be a dangerous thing.95 Herodotus’ Histories is a multi-­faceted gem, which contains many different types of writing; scientific, intellectual and narrative as well as history. It is a text that gives its readers much to think about and much to discuss.96 The link between the text and discourse is made explicitly at the start. Herodotus’ aim was to display his inquiry (ἱστορίης ἀπόδεξις), to preserve human action and deeds and to explain why the Greeks fought the Persians.97 His erga include monuments and deeds, whether political, religious or personal. The appearance of the monuments offers him an opportunity to create a map of authority. He places himself at the centre of the narrative; he is the investigator, and the authority behind his narration comes from his direct engagement with the peoples, places and behaviour in question.98 Throughout the text, Herodotus cites sources in support of the things that he has seen for himself.99 With regard to Achaemenid Iran, he certainly presents the type of information that one might ascertain by contact, yet how far he travelled into Iran is a matter of conjecture. He may simply have spoken to Ionian sources or gained information from the courts of satraps.100 In an innovative study, Fehling suggested that Herodotus’ moments of authentification appear at times when the authenticity of his material is most dubious.101 This theory has been challenged by Pritchett, and the issue remains a polarising area of debate for ­scholars.102 From his own perspective, Herodotus firmly places himself in the contemporary intellectual milieu of rational and philosophical thought by continually emphasising his careful approach, reliance on knowledgeable sources, investigation and presentation of every tale, and selection of those that seem best to him.103 As Rollinger has noted, Herodotus aims his source quotations at ‘prevailing opinion and the cognitive association of information’.104 The Histories is a very personal tale. It is the historiē of Herodotus,  95 

Redfield 1985: 111–14. Marincola notes a similarity with medical writers (1997: 8 n.33).  97  Hdt. 1.1.  98  Marincola 1997: 7–8.  99  Hdt. 2.142 (‘the Egyptians and the priests told me . . . ’). He also notes things that he has seen, such as the pyramids (Hdt. 2.148.3); Marincola 1997: 6–7. 100  Drews 1973: 82–3. 101  Fehling 1989. 102  Pritchett 1993. Thomas defends Herodotus’ mistakes and points out the problem of describing cultures from an external perspective (2008b: xxvii). 103  Herodotus specifically notes that his comments on Egypt are the result of his own ­observation, judgement and research (Hdt. 2.99.1). 104  Rollinger 2006: 202.  96 

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it is his theōria, but he takes his readers with him by inviting them to be the final arbiter of what he has seen.105 If we are to understand the purpose of the Histories, it is important to consider who Herodotus’ readers were and in what contexts the text was heard. Marincola notes that we know little about Herodotus’ audience.106 He and, by default they, are ‘essentially pro-­ Greek’.107 It is difficult to estimate the number of Greeks who could read. In his study of Athens, Harvey suggests that literacy was widespread, although books were not common.108 References to reading in Athenian sources might reflect the desirability and status accorded to reading rather than widespread literacy.109 We might deduce from the focus on dialogue and from the written format that the Histories were designed to attract the attention of an elite, intellectual audience, but it is also possible that the text was designed to be more widely performed.110 Harris suggests that Herodotus wrote in prose and performed parts of the text.111 Thucydides’ criticism of ‘performance to be heard in the present’ may reflect a criticism of the Histories as performance text, rather than a didactic text.112 It is possible that the text was not designed to be treated as a whole book, as its modern arrangement was created by later Alexandrian scholars.113 Johnson sees the complexity of the text as a sign that it contained both written and oral elements.114 As with drama, the text may have carried multiple messages that were capable of being understood differently by different groups or in different contexts. Rather than seeing the text as a linear narrative, we should perhaps see it as a performance piece in the style of Homeric epic.115 As Thomas notes, Herodotus’ tales of the distant past are told in a stylised manner that reflects traditions of storytelling.116 The form of ring composition with narrative and narrative digressions makes its component sections easy to separate.117 This raises the possibility that parts were written for an intellectual audience and others 105  106  107  108  109  110  111  112  113  114  115  116  117 

Hdt. 1.1.1. Marincola 1997: 20. Llewellyn-­Jones 2010a: 51. Harvey 1966. For a view against widespread literacy, see Harris 1989: 8–18. On writing and social status in Athens, see Harris 1989: 55. Ober 1989: 113–52; Pritchard 2010: 5. Harris 1989: 80. Jacoby saw the Histories as a series of lectures (1913b). Marincola 1997: 21; Thuc. 1.22.4; see Thomas 1994. McNeal 1983: 125–7. Johnson 1995. Thomas 2008b: xvii. Thomas 2008b: xxxiv. See also Fehling 1989. On composition and performance, see Nagy 1987; Johnson 1994; Fowler 2001.

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for recitation.118 Johnson suggests that the readings took place in ‘private, intellectual groups’.119 The presence in the text of elements separately designed for public and for private occasions, presents us with the intriguing possibility that we might be looking at a narrative written to appeal to any and every audience. It is interesting that the practice of historiē attracts critique. Ancient writers are quick to criticise their peers, and in later authors, such as Thucydides, there appears to be a battle for authenticity. Herodotus criticises his predecessor Hecataeus and is careful to assert his greater authority as a witness.120 This may help to explain why Herodotus takes care to reveal his knowledge of the presence of different versions, and notes that he asked men of authority about the accuracy of the tales.121 This adds to the authenticity of his account as well as stimulating debate. Herodotus’ choice of presenting several versions of stories, and his desire to show his primacy over other writers, support the thesis of this chapter: that knowledge, authenticity and debate are key components of historiē and are related to status. In a world where status is reflected and reinforced by the acquisition of knowledge and display of exclusive information, it is easy to see how private readings of or ownership of Herodotus’ narrative would be desirable. As with the Persica and early ‘ethnographic’ studies, Herodotus’ work fits in with Ionian rationalism and the development of scientific thinking and argument.122 Rather than needing the Persica for information about the Achaemenid Empire, the Ionian audience desired them as symbols of their own exclusive engagement in intellectual debates and exchanges of knowledge.123 Owning and discussing Herodotus’ Histories might have conferred similar benefits. In his assertion that he travelled to the places of the Histories, Herodotus reveals the extent of his theōria. He is performing the life of an aristocrat but he does not claim to be an aristocrat. There is no indication in the text that he is trading or selling himself for military service. He is gathering and selling information, a valuable resource in a community where information brings status. Thomas notes that Herodotus spent time in Samos and Athens before ending his days at 118  Marincola 1997: 20–1. Johnson remains certain that the audience was intellectual (1994: 253–4). 119  Johnson 1995: 231, 243. 120  Hdt. 6.137. 121  For example, in Egypt (Hdt. 2.142). 122  Pearson 1939; Thomas 2008b: xvii–xxiv. 123  Munson suggests that the text reflects the views of contemporary Achaemenid elites (2009).

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Thurii in the 420s bce.124 Indeed, Jacoby’s study of the development of historiography highlights the importance of Herodotus’ sojourn in Athens as a stimulant to writing.125 Podlecki also places Herodotus in Athens and suggests that his idea of writing the Histories was formed whilst here.126 For Drews, Herodotus’ sojourn in Athens may have inspired the creation of local, Attic histories.127 Just as poets and doctors travelled, so did philosophers and now historians.128 As with philosophers, and doctors, and poets, there may also be an economic dimension to the practice of theōria. Owning information was highly desirable. Herodotus tells us that Darius sponsored Scylax of Cayanda to discover the source of the Indus and may have encouraged east Greek rulers to explore on his behalf.129 While this behaviour may be related to a desire for imperial expansion, the collection of doctors and intellectuals at court suggests that the acquisition of knowledge was equally valuable and a sign of power and status.130 In light of this, it is interesting to consider whether Herodotus’ time at Athens was sponsored by a patron. Herodotus is certainly lavish in his praise for Athens in the Histories.131 Gillis calls Herodotus the ‘house historian of the Alcmaeonids’ and suggests that his Histories exonerated the Alcmaeonids and proved politically useful to Pericles.132 Amongst the tales of the Histories we find our earliest reference to Pericles: ‘ Agariste married Xanthippus . . . during her pregnancy, she saw a vision in her sleep and dreamed that she saw herself giving birth to a lion. And a few days later she gave birth to Pericles.’133 Herodotus also lived at Thurii, the settlement in Magna Graecia founded by Pericles in 443 bce.134 The links between Herodotus, Athens and Pericles offer an interesting perspective from which to view the Histories and its possible appeal to a wider audience. Herodotus’ tales frequently offer an explanation of contemporary events through the filter of historical stories and a warning about the exercise of power.135 The tale of 124 

Thomas 2008b: ix–x (life of Herodotus), esp. x. Jacoby 1913b; Drews 1973: 37, 78. 126  Podlecki 1975: 67. 127  Drews 1973: 44. For a list of early local historians, see Dion. Hal. Thuc. 5. 128  Bowie 2009; Griffiths 1987. 129  Hdt. 4.44.2. On east Greek explorers, see Georges 2001: 10–11. 130  On the collection of poets, doctors and intellectuals in tyrants’ courts, see Chapter 1. On the Achaemenid court, see Chapter 2. 131  Hdt. 7.139; Marincola 1997: 173. 132  Gillis 1979: 58, 51–2 on Hdt. 6.131. 133  Hdt. 6.131. 134  Pomeroy et al. 1999: 247–8. 135  Redfield 1985: 113–15. 125 

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the rise of Deioces serves a number of purposes. Its more common interpretation illustrates how easily a tyrant can win people over with trickery, but it may also explain why the Achaemenid people are prepared to suffer a king.136 In return for their notional freedom, the Achaemenid people receive law and order and protection. It is a mutually beneficial relationship that offers a real-­world version of gift exchange.137 It also echoes the relationship between Pericles and the demos, as described by Thucydides: ‘He controlled the demos with a free hand, leading them rather than letting them lead him . . . What was happening was democracy in name, but in reality the domination of a leading man.’138 Podlecki suggests that sections on the war between Greece and Persia were not a part of Herodotus’ original logoi but were revised, if not added at around 430–420 bce.139 This might explain Thucydides’ barbed criticism of those who are always pushing forward stories of the wars.140 For Thucydides, the desire for theōria was a sign of weakness.141 In his tale of the Sicilian expedition, Thucydides notes that young men went for the sights and theōria; as his readers know, this expedition did not end well, and his comments offer a veiled criticism.142 Herodotus’ treatment of Themistocles is also interesting in light of his connections to Pericles. As we have already seen, Pericles was the chorēgos for the pro-­Themistoclean Persae.143 Podlecki calls Herodotus’ portrait ‘unflattering’ and ‘untrue’, and speculates that it was a revision of his earlier version caused by Themistocles’ later defection to the Achaemenid court.144 Alternatively the revisions of the 430s–420s suggested by Podlecki could also place the revised stories after the death of Pericles in 429 bce. Pericles’ experience in using drama could have persuaded him to use other media to disseminate political messages, such as the Histories. In his study of theōria, Rutherford notes that when it appeared as part of plays, they offered a ‘substitute’ to those who could not make a journey of pilgrimage themselves.145 Fifth-­century evidence s­ uggests 136 

Hdt. 1.96–98; Dewald 2003. On mutually beneficial relations between king and people in Persia, see Sancisi-­ Weerdenburg 1989: 139; Kuhrt 1995: 2.678–82. 138  Thuc. 2.65.8–10. 139  Podlecki 1975: 67; see also Fornara 1983: 43 n.13. Murray suggests that this reflects the aristocratic nature of Herodotus’ sources (1987). 140  Thuc. 1.73.2 (through the Athenian speaker at Sparta in 432 bce). 141  Redfield 1985: 97. 142  Thuc. 6.24. 143  IGII2 2318.10; Hornblower 2011: 21. 144  Podlecki 1975: 71. 145  Rutherford 1998: 135–53. 137 

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that theōria was no longer wholly an aristocratic preserve but could be used to assert the voice of the polis.146 Conversely, when presented in the polis, theōria brought the world into the city. In this respect, the Histories offered information in the same manner as Aeschylus’ Persae did. It tells the audience how the Achaemenids live and, correspondingly, how to live like an Achaemenid king. Herodotus’ description of the royal ‘andron’ and of spatial divisions between men and women in the palaces of eastern and Achaemenid rulers may have stimulated changes in domestic practices at this time, as well as introducing a new concept and term. This raises the interesting possibility that the Histories brought knowledge of theōria and the benefits acquired by travelling elites to those who could not or did not travel. I would suggest that the innovatory aspects of Herodotus’ tale reveal that he is using his material in this way. He is taking his audience on a theōria with him. As we have already seen, Herodotus’ Histories was constructed in a manner that allowed it to be used on a range of occasions, from the wider public reading of epic-­style stories to the smaller, more intimate discussions of an elite group. It contained a wealth of meanings that could alter according to audience and context. For the demos, tales from Herodotus offered them information about the wider world and the people in it, including the Achaemenids and their empire. As the opening of the cabinet of curiosities to the public brought world and ancient culture to those who could not afford to travel to see it, so Herodotus’ Histories performed a similar function.147 Herodotus democratised the practice of theōria; he gave Achaemenid Iran and its people to the demos as Pericles had through sponsoring plays and building projects.148 In contrast, the Histories offered elites an opportunity to engage with intellectual debates and scientific thought. It was material that they could use to reflect their knowledge, power and engagement with an elite intellectual world. In its ability to speak to all men, I would suggest that the Histories can claim to be the most innovative literary achievement of all time. Ctesias and the authenticity of mistakes We turn now to the ‘bad boy’ of the Persica historians, Ctesias of Cnidus, and begin with a more detailed exploration of his 146  147  148 

Rutherford 1995: 276. On the cabinet of curiosities, see Chapter 1. On Pericles and the demos, see Chapter 3.

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background. Ctesias was a Greek speaker from Cnidus in Caria, Asia Minor. He was the son of Ctesiarchus and came from a family of doctors.149 Ctesias was at Cunaxa with Artaxerxes II Mnemon and seems to have been there willingly.150 Diodorus tells us that Ctesias entered service after being captured, but given the rewards that could be obtained from the Great King’s court, it is possible that he offered his services or, having been captured, decided to stay.151 He worked in the Achaemenid court as a doctor and claims to have acted as a physician to Parysatis, mother of Cyrus, who may have been a source.152 His exit from the court forms a part of his very personal history; he was able to escape after working as an intermediary between King Evagoras of Cyprus, King Artaxerxes and Conon, the Athenian general, when asked to escort letters from the king to the Spartans.153 He returned to Cnidus afterwards. The length of time that he served at the court is uncertain. It is likely that he spoke Persian.154 As a result of Ctesias’ role within the Achaemenid court, his Persica offers great potential for studies of Achaemenid history. Unfortunately, as with our other Persica, his work survives in fragments. As Stronk points out, we possess only a few lines of his work; the remainder comes through the filter of third parties.155 The material in our surviving fragments appears to be in Attic Greek.156 Stronk, following on from the criticisms of Photius, notes that the sentence structure is simple and the style is ‘inelegant’ and ‘wordy’, though the tales are told well and bring pleasure.157 We have sufficient, material to see Ctesias’ themes and to read some of the stories, but we must remain aware that the fragments surviving in authors have been selected to fit with their narrative and may not offer a truly representative body. For Llewellyn-­Jones, Ctesias’ work has many similarities to Herodotus’ Histories in its emphasis on origins, succession, war and myth, but is not a replica.158 It reveals a different agenda, one that reflects an interior perspective: ‘he is the first Greek 149 

Lenfant 2004: VIII–IX; Stronk 2010: 3. See Plut. Artax. 11.3, 13.3–4, 14.1; Xen. An. 1.8.26. 151  Diod. Sic. 2.32.4. See discussions in Brown 1978; Eck 1990; Stronk 2010: 8–9. 152  Lenfant 2004: XI, XIII; Plut. Artax. 18.2. For an assessment of his sources, see Llewellyn-­ Jones 2010a: 55–65. 153  Lenfant 2004: XIII–XV, XVIII; Phot. Bibl. [72] 44b20–43; Plut. Artax. 21.1–3. Stronk notes that he may have left with Artaxerxes’ consent (2010: 15). 154  On speaking Persian, see Llewellyn-­Jones 2010a: 55; Stronk 2010: 21–2. 155  Stronk 2010: 3. See POxy. 2330. 156  Bengtson 1970: 297. 157  Stronk 2010: 44. 158  Llewellyn-­Jones 2010a: 51; see also Lenfant 2004: XXVIII–XXXII. 150 

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author to attempt to look at Persian history from the inside’.159 This could explain his focus on personal history and events at the heart of the court. It may also reflect a change in the battleground of elite identity, where proximity and authenticity come to mean more than simple knowledge. References to detail and to Achaemenid records, as well as his presence in the Achaemenid court, give Ctesias a unique perspective from which to assert his authority.160 As earlier Persica shaped their narrative to suit their audience, so does Ctesias, who does not simply repeat the same tales but looks to add drama and pathos to his stories. Marincola suggests that Ctesias’ audience ‘cared little for practical, political lessons’, and traces a change in the focus of fourth-­century bce histories towards tales of great men as a consequence of the political insecurity of the time.161 Sancisi-­Weerdenburg criticises these tales, seeing in them the origins of ‘orientalism’.162 Yet the tales may simply reflect the audience’s needs. As Stronk points out, this could be Achaemenid history but adapted for Greeks.163 Hence the ‘Great Event’ loses its centrality and becomes only one of many events affecting the Achaemenid Empire.164 As well as tales of origins and kings, there are tales of women in the court and there is a love story: the Zarinea romance, which may reveal the presence of women in the audience or as readers of Ctesias. The romance elements remove Ctesias’ narrative from the realms of early Persica and move it more towards literature or romantic history, as some scholars have dubbed it.165 In his work On Style, Demetrius states that Ctesias was a poet.166 For Stronk, this offers an insight into the creative elements of Ctesias’ work: it is both historical and philosophical and moves us from Persica as scientific philosophy to Persica as historical literature.167 For Llewellyn-­Jones, Ctesias is writing a ‘novella’, compiling a series of entertaining tales, drawn from real life and structured around a central plot.168 It follows patterns found in Hebrew texts, such as the Book of Esther, and is adopted within Greek histories from the fifth century onwards.169 Ctesias’ Persica mix history and novella 159  160  161  162  163  164  165  166  167  168  169 

Llewellyn-­Jones 2010a: 52; see also Stronk 2007. On archives, see Diod. Sic. 2.22.5. Marincola 1997: 22–3. Sancisi-­Weerdenburg 1987. Stronk 2010–11: 99. Almagor 2012: 10. Whitmarsh 2008: 2; Marincola 1997: 22. Demetr. Eloc. 215 (Roberts 1927). Stronk 2010: 36–43. Llewellyn-­Jones 2010a: 68–9. Gera 1993: 192.

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and suggest that the author was ‘aware’ of writing something different from ‘conventional’ history.170 For Stronk these elements show that Ctesias is our first tragic historian.171 In its central engagement with the Achaemenid Empire Ctesias’ work follows on from the earlier Persica and from Herodotus’ Histories, but Ctesias’s style and presentation are very different. The tales have a sense of humour: Cyrus is demoted to a chief wine pourer rather than the scion of a noble house and aided in his rise to power by a man who sells manure.172 Sardis falls by a trick in which life-­size wooden dummies with beards and Achaemenid clothes are used to scare the inhabitants into submission.173 These may reflect traditions of storytelling in their day. The tale of Cyrus’ simple origins has an echo in Ephorus’ tale of the rise of Orthagoras to be tyrant of Sicyon.174 Here the tyrant is originally the son of a cook and rises to power through his ability.175 The tales could also reflect Ctesias’ desire to differentiate his Persica from the tales of Herodotus. Herodotus offers us Cyrus, a prince raised by a herdsman, having informed the reader that he has selected the ‘least exaggerated’ of the tales of Cyrus’ birth.176 In contrast, Ctesias gives us Cyrus as the son of a bandit and a goat-­herder. In doing this he seems to poke fun at other writers of Achaemenid history. Drews identifies a competition between Ctesias and Herodotus, with the former’s frequent criticism of the latter as a means to establish his own authority.177 This is noted in Photius’ assessment of Ctesias. Photius accuses Ctesias of trying deliberately to discredit Herodotus, by calling him a liar, and notes that Ctesias’ account also contradicts Xenophon.178 ‘He [Ctesias] says that he was an eyewitness of most of the things he recounts . . . or . . . personally heard accounts from Persians themselves.’179 Jacoby suggests that the competition may be due to Ctesias’ reliance on Herodotus, but Lenfant notes that he shares only a third of his subject matter with Herodotus 170 

Llewellyn-­Jones 2010a: 70. Stronk 2010: 43. 172  FGrH 90 F66.3 (goats), 13 (Oebaras carries manure). Robson 2010: 161; Stronk 2010: 294–5, l. 14–17. 173  Phot. Bibl. F9a; Robson 2010: 174; Stronk 2010: 314–17, lines 5–9. 174  FGrH 105 F2 (Ephorus); Fornara 1983: 10. 175  Parker suggests that Orthagoras’ father was not a lowly cook but a sacrificer for the city (2009: 22). 176  Hdt. 1.95. Waters points to the similarities between this tale and other birth stories, such as the Sargon legend and the tale of Romulus and Remus (2014: 47–8). 177  Drews 1973: 105–6. 178  Phot. Bibl. 72 p.35b35–36a6. 179  Trans. Robson 2010: 100. 171 

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and does not offer the same view, but is opposed to Herodotus on ‘almost every matter’.180 For Marincola, mimesis and competition are essential components in ancient historical writing: each historian offers a ‘creative imitation’ of his predecessors and seeks to better them.181 Yet Ctesias is more competitor than mimic: he is at pains to distance his work from that of Herodotus. Despite his assertions of authority, there are mistakes in Ctesias’ tales. Cawkwell calls his account of Xerxes’ invasion ‘wild’.182 Ctesias transposes the battles of Salamis and Plataea, ignores the Ionian revolt and places Nineveh on the Euphrates.183 As a result, scholars have questioned the veracity of his work.184 Stronk offers the reasonable assessment that Ctesias’ account differs from Herodotus’ in areas where neither man had any personal knowledge.185 Bichler offers an interesting alternative, suggesting that Ctesias was not attempting to correct Herodotus but was a jester offering satire for the entertainment of his audience.186 For Bichler, Ctesias was the creator of a new genre of sensationalism and deconstruction; it was genre parody.187 Llewellyn-­ Jones disagrees with Bichler, feeling that the contrast with Herodotus is one of perspective rather than parody, but we should not ignore the effect of the battle for authenticity on the audience.188 As Stronk points out, ‘in the perception of the Greeks, [Ctesias] is writing things that are true’.189 The use of Achaemenid words in the text of the Persica offers authenticity and knowledge to the tales in much the same way that the use of ‘Scythian’ names adds authenticity to the portrayals of the Amazons on vases.190 The words themselves offer further insight: they are concerned with status and offer insights into the construction of court society.191 Hence we find references to the azabarites (‘head of the royal bodyguard’), the kriokranoi (‘balcony/roof of the palace’?) and the citaris (‘crown’?).192 Marincola suggests that Ctesias uses authenticity as a 180 

Jacoby 1922; Lenfant 2004: XXVIII. Marincola 1997: 12, 14. 182  Cawkwell 2005: 14. 183  See Cawkwell 2005; Bigwood 1978. 184  Cawkwell 2005: 14–15; Braun 2004: 123; Briant 2002a: 265; Sancisi-­Weerdenburg 1987a: 43; Wiesehöfer 1996: 81. 185  Stronk 2010–11: 93. 186  Bichler 2007: 232. 187  Bichler 2004b; 2007: 229–45. For disagreement, see Stronk 2010: 15–16. 188  Llewellyn-­Jones 2010a: 52. 189  Stronk 2010: 31. 190  Mayor, Colarusso and Saunders 2014. 191  Llewellyn-­Jones 2010a: 56. 192  azabarites (‘head of the royal bodyguard’ = Llewellyn-­Jones 2010a: 46); kriokranoi (‘balcony/roof of the palace’? = Llewellyn-­Jones 2010a: 2); citaris (‘crown’? = Llewellyn-­Jones 181 

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means to assert his close relations with those in power and thus his authority to write.193 Ctesias also mentions basilikai graphai (‘royal archives’) and basilikai diptherai (‘records’), but there is little evidence for these.194 If we accept that Ctesias is following on from other Persica, then we must also accept that his contexts of performance and audiences are likely to have been the same. We are looking at a text that creates a world where dialogue and debate are stimulated and encouraged. When the film Planet of the Apes was released in the 1960s, audiences knew that the world was unreal but recognised their world within it.195 This dissociation enabled the film-­makers to raise and discuss a wide range of topical issues. Just as tragedies on the Athenian stage took the audience to a fantasy past that offered comment on the vicissitudes of the present, so Ctesias’ Persica take his audience to an ‘external’ world. The audience are transported to a place beyond their experiences, where they are free to construct their own dialogues. In this intellectual ‘Persia’, it does not matter that there are mistakes so long as the structure of the world is believable and capable of engaging the audience. Ctesias’ constant reassertion of his central role in the court is designed to give authority to the world that he has constructed for the viewer. This is not a fictional world; it is based on Ctesias’ knowledge and observations of the court; but the characterisation and the situations that the characters are placed in are designed to provide material for debates on power, hubris, love and women. Like the early Persica, Ctesias’ are a philosophical tract for his generation. Interestingly, Ctesias is not the only one who makes mistakes. The Histories contains many mistakes too, especially in its representation of the Achaemenid Empire. Some of these mistakes could be read as those made by an external observer, without full comprehension of the culture that he is describing. Darius’ accession by horse selection offers one example.196 For Lewis, flaws in Herodotus’ evidence are a matter of the misinterpretation of information from intermediaries who have acted as sources.197 While Herodotus’ mistakes are excused, Ctesias is treated differently because of his proximity to the court and is strongly criticised for his mistakes. This seems unfair. 2010a: 47). 193  Marincola 1997: 87–9. 194  Diod. Sic. 2.32.4. On royal records, see Briant 2002a: 889; Cawkwell 2005: 14; Stronk 2007: 107–9; 2010: 15–21; Llewellyn-­Jones 2010a: 58–61. For Ctesias’ sources, see Cawkwell 2005: 13–15. 195  Planet of the Apes, 1968, APJAC Productions and 20th Century Fox. 196  Hdt. 3.84, 87. See Cawkwell 2005 for examples of misunderstandings. 197  Lewis 1997b: 346–7.

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Fig. 4.1. Tombs on the Appian Way in 1756, from Le antichità Romane. Tomo II, tav. II. Opere di Giovanni Battista Piranesi, Francesco Piranesi e d’altri. Firmin Didot Freres, Paris, 1835–9 (Giovanni Battista Piranesi [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons).

Drews points out that the mistakes might not be noticeable to the audience, who were not necessarily a group of seriously minded historians, but there may be another possibility.198 Were the mistakes a deliberate part of the dialogue and a means to enhance the status of the elite reader? In seeking to understand the value of Ctesias’ work as a symbol of status, it is useful to turn again to an analogy from eighteenth-­century uses of the Classical past and, in particular, to the work of Giovanni Battista Piranesi. Piranesi was an architect who began to draw views of the city of Rome, publishing them in two volumes Prima parte di Architettura e Prospettive in 1743 and Varie Vedute di Roma Antica e Moderna in 1745, and from 1748 to 1774 he created a series of further views of the city.199 Figure 4.1 shows a scene of the Via Appia drawn by Piranesi. His skill and subject matter, the ruined ancient buildings of Rome, accorded with the interests of those on the Grand Tour and also with intellectual interest in the romance of ruins.200 His drawings became desirable and adorned the walls of aristocratic houses in France, Italy, 198  Drews acknowledges of Ctesias’ description of Nineveh that it must have seemed like the report of an eyewitness to readers (1973: 109). 199  Ficacci 2000. 200  Cooper 2001; Donato 2010.

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Austria and Britain, filtering into narratives of acquisition, exclusivity and status that we have already observed in Chapter 1.201 Piranesi’s drawings were not simple reproductions of the ruined buildings before him but were embellished, leading to accusations that he had been ‘carried by his taste into romance’ and that his scenes were no more than ‘imagined’. 202 For Erasmo, Piranesi’s drawing of the Via Appia is a ‘fantasy recreation’, whose aim was to use ideas of grandeur and decay to give the viewer a moral message.203 Piranesi was also criticised for adding elements that were not there, for creating pictures with mistakes embedded within them and views which simply did not exist.204 Yet the embellishment was not a personal flight of fancy: it reflected the interests and intellectual milieu of elite society in his day.205 It reflected what patrons wanted to see and remember of the Grand Tour. It presented an aesthetic code that established status. Only a viewer with knowledge of the sites would be aware of the embellishment. Only those who had been on the Grand Tour and seen the buildings would have knowledge of the ‘mistakes’. Piranesi’s drawings were loved for the embellishment and mistakes, knowledge of which defined and reinforced the elite status of the viewing group. It is in light of this that we should perhaps re-­view Ctesias. His perspective on the Achaemenids and their empire draws on the dialogues of earlier Persica but adds real knowledge gained from close proximity to the Achaemenid court. This is Ctesias’ perspective, embellished with controversies and mistakes to create dialogue and stimulate debate. It is neither history nor ethnography but a document designed to reflect and reinforce the intellectual and social status of those who engage with it. THINKING WITH PERSIA: W R I T E R S I N T H E F O U R T H C E N T U RY bce Persica after Ctesias Persica did not stop with Ctesias but continued to be written and re-­written by historians in the fourth century bce.206 Heraclides of 201 

Middleton 1982: 337; Cooper 2001: 124; Black 1992: 148; Donato 2010: 511. Miller 1776: 166–7; Walpole 1786: 4.392. My thanks to Aron Williams for pointing this out to me. 203  Erasmo 2012: 96. 204  Donato 2010: 511; Cooper 2001: 107–23. 205  Cooper 2001; Robison 1986: 42; Zarucchi 2012: 359–77. 206  See Llewellyn-­Jones 2010a: 53–5. 202 

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Cyme published his Persica at the end of the fourth century, and an epitome of Herodotus’ Histories was written by Theopompus.207 Persia also played a part in the fourth century bce in the universal history of Ephorus, who chose to follow the historiē of Herodotus.208 The subject of Heraclides’ Persica is difficult to ascertain with certainty from the eight fragments that survive, but again there is a focus on court life. We are given tales of Themistocles’ meeting with Xerxes, of the incestuous marriages of Artaxerxes II, and of court life with feasts, palaces and the harem. Heraclides also offers personal information about the Great King’s dining activities, amongst other things.209 Lenfant notes that Heraclides’ tale of the royal banquet indicates a desire to ‘explain the logic of the system’.210 This may reflect a return to an earlier form of Persica and a change in the tastes of the audience. For Llewellyn-­Jones the tales reflect the ‘court propaganda of Artaxerxes II’, reinforcing the personal connection between Heraclides and the household of Tiribazus, satrap of Sardis.211 In the second half of the fourth century bce, Dinon of Colophon wrote a history of Assyria and Persia down to 343 bce and the re-­ conquest of Egypt by Artaxerxes III. Stevenson suggests that Dinon’s source material came from contacts in the household of Tiribazus, giving his work a political slant.212 Llewellyn-­Jones notes that the work of Dinon has ‘fared better’ than that of Ctesias.213 Dinon offers a range of views of the Achaemenids, including valuable insights into Achaemenid engagements with Greek communities. A fragment in Plutarch’s Life of Artaxerxes notes that Artaxerxes II disliked the Spartans and saw them as ‘most impudent’.214 There are also details of court life. Dinon mentions court minstrels composing political songs and, like Ctesias, chooses to present his audience with a love story: that of Odatis and Zariadres.215 For Drews, Dinon was following in the footsteps of Ctesias in producing romance histories, albeit with ‘deliberate falsification’.216 Dinon uses but does not copy Ctesias, and corrects Ctesias’ work, 207  208  209  210 

1987. 211  212  213  214  215  216 

Heraclides (FGrH 689); Theopompus (FGrH 115 F1.4). Drews 1973: 122. Heraclides (FGrH 689 F2) notes that the Great King reclines. Lenfant 2007a: 207. See also Lenfant 2009: 255–64; Sancisi-­Weerdenburg 1995; Lewis Llewellyn-­Jones 2010a: 54–5. Stevenson 1997: 13. Llewellyn-­Jones 2010a: 53. Plut. Artax. 22. Songs (Ath. 633 C–E); Odatis and Zariadres (Ath. 575A–F). Drews 1973: 116, 118.

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just as Ctesias had corrected Herodotus.217 Stevenson suggests that Dinon invented tales ‘not with the intention of misleading or amusing, but rather of filling in gaps’.218 She calls his mistakes ‘royal propaganda’ obtained from a court source, rather than deliberate lies.219 Llewellyn-­Jones suggests that the fragments surviving in Athenaeus show that Dinon was producing a court history rather than a ‘conventional’ history.220 Drews seems to appreciate the subtleties of Dinon’s portrayal of early Persian history, calling it an ‘entertaining pastiche of Ctesias’.221 In particular, Dinon corrected the view of both Ctesias and Xenophon on the death of Cyrus the Younger, despite the fact that both men had been there.222 This continued battle for authority shows the important role of mistake and persuasion in the genre. It indicates that while later writers of Persica continued to adapt the patterns of earlier writers for their audiences, the narratives still served the same function. They provided knowledge and created the opportunity to enter a fantasy world where debate could occur. Xenophon’s Spartan Persica: Cyrus the perfect king Our final author in this section is not Ionian but Athenian. Xenophon was born in Athens but spent much of his life on campaign and at Sparta. He was a member of Cyrus’ expedition against Artaxerxes and, on retiring, wrote a number of historical and philosophical works, including the text that we will consider here, the Cyropaedia.223 Xenophon was from an elite family and had personal knowledge of the Achaemenid Empire which he used in his narratives. The Cyropaedia was published after Ctesias and before Dinon.224 It tells the story of the life of Cyrus the Great and weaves the tale into a philosophical narrative that reflects on his actions.225 It is not clear whether we should read the portrayal of Cyrus as negative or positive or what lessons we should learn.226 This makes 217 

Lenfant 2004: 275 n.632; 2009: 51–74; Drews 1973: 117. Stevenson 1997: 35. 219  Stevenson 1987: 30–1. 220  Llewellyn-­Jones 2010a: 54. 221  Drews 1973: 118. 222  Drews 1973: 118. 223  Hirsch 1985. 224  Cawkwell places Oeconomicus in the 380s, the Hellenica in the 350s, Anabasis in the 370s and the Cyropaedia possibly in the 370s, with the Epilogue added later (2005: 15); Gera links the Battle of Thymbara in the Cyropaedia to Leuctra and argues for a later date for the work (1993: 23–5). 225  Due 1989: 25, 234. 226  For a discussion, see Gray 2011. 218 

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it difficult to see the ‘true’ purpose of the text.227 Although scholars continue to debate the ‘true’ purpose of the Cyropaedia, it is clearly a tract, like the Persica and the Histories, where the problems of the day and the political moment are played out on a dissociated stage, using a study of the Achaemenid king to inform and educate Xenophon’s audience.228 For Johnson and Tuplin, the Cyropaedia is a paradigm for studying the science of leadership; it develops discussions in Herodotus on ‘how to found an empire and why not to’.229 Hirsch suggests that it caters to the desire of a reading public to know more about the Achaemenids and their empire.230 It is certainly a ‘vehicle for Xenophon’s views’ and displays his knowledge of Achaemenid Iran, although it is debatable how much he knew of the subjects that he discusses.231 Cawkwell notes that Xenophon saw ‘far more’ than Herodotus but points out that the nature of his experiences as a mercenary would hardly have given him time to conduct research.232 In structure, Xenophon’s Cyropaedia foreshadows the later panegyric by viewing everything through a filter that maintains the image of Cyrus, even when truth or reality has to be bent to do so.233 It offers a lesson in leadership to a Greek audience and for Tuplin, this represents a ‘stunning display of acculturation’.234 For Gray, the text is innovatory, drawing on older genres and developing new ones.235 Yet Llewellyn-­Jones points out similarities in the structure of Ctesias’ Persica and Xenophon’s Cyropaedia, suggesting that both are woven around the four characteristics of episodic tales into an overall framework, reflecting moments of emotional intensity and interspersed with dialogue.236 The reader is made an ‘active participant’ through emotional engagement with events which add depth to the dialogue between author and reader.237 Xenophon’s Cyrus is thus a dramatic figure, a fictive figure who dies peacefully in his bed, rather than on campaign against the Massagetae. It is, as Due has pointed out, a work that is entertaining and dramatic, and in 227  For some scholars, for example Stadter, it is ‘utopian fiction’ (2010), while others, such as Due, see it as historiography (1989). 228  Higgins 1977; Tuplin 2013: 72. 229  Johnson 2005: 205; Tuplin 2013: 70–1. 230  Hirsch 1985: 61–97. 231  Drews 1973: 119. On Xenophon’s knowledge of Achaemenid Iran, see Stadter 2010: 369–70. 232  Cawkwell 2005: 12, 16. 233  See Drews 1973: 120. 234  Tuplin 2011: 151. 235  Gray 2010: 1. 236  Llewellyn-­Jones 2010a: 70–1, building on Gera (1993: 192ff) and Cawkwell (2005: 13). 237  Due 1989: 232, 234.

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this view it is hardly surprising that Xenophon adopts the dramatic approach of setting his action and debates in a land far away.238 For Due, the choice of Iran as a setting is a matter of entertainment: the details of Achaemenid life and customs draw in the audience and create an exciting framework in which to offer a didactic moral narrative.239 It is an intimate view in the same way as that offered by Aeschylus when he takes us into the palace of Agamemnon, and it is just as real. Where the Cyropaedia differs is in Xenophon’s experiences of Achaemenids and Achaemenid life. This has created a problem for historians who seek to use it as a source for Achaemenid history and culture. As with Ctesias, it was not Xenophon’s intention to offer an authoritative history and so we should not look for one. The text plays on his knowledge of Sparta and Achaemenid Iran to create a non-­state; a fictional Persia with a fictional Cyrus. Our perspective on this Persia is a narrative artifice with real and unreal mixed together in an echo of Ctesias’ Achaemenid court. Drews acknowledges that the audience must have been aware that the work showcased Xenophon’s views rather than Cyrus’ ­history.240 As with earlier Persica, we are given images of eunuchs and rich, complex dinners.241 Xenophon is our narrator but he keeps his distance from the text and de-­personalises the narrative.242 Although the audience must have known of Xenophon’s connections to the Achaemenids, he does not constantly remind them. Instead, he uses his knowledge of Iran and stories of Cyrus that were circulating at the time to create an authoritative investigation into the exercise of power.243 He stands outside the tale as narrator, but uses knowledge from his engagements with the Achaemenid world to add authority to his re-­construction of Cyrus’ life, and also to his didactic intentions. In this sense, his work not only reflects the Persica but is a form of historiē. It represents a return to the connections between historiē and philosophy. Good historiē questions, rather than just reporting, as we can see in Hecataeus’ presentation of the gods as ordinary mortals.244 Indeed, Gera has noted the use that the Cyropaedia makes of Herodotus’ Histories.245 The structure and content of the Cyropaedia indicate that we are, once again, looking at material 238  239  240  241  242  243  244  245 

Due 1989: 234. Due 1989: 234. Drews 1973: 120. Xen. Cyr. 7.5.59–65; on dinners, see Xen. Cyr. 1.3.5, 8.2.4. Marincola 1997: 10. Xen. Cyr. 1.2.1, 1.4.25. Hecataeus F21; on Hecataeus, see Drews 1973: 11–19. Gera 1993.

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composed for a knowledgeable audience: it again suggests that we are looking at discourses shared amongst the elite.246 Xenophon’s work is a Persica for its time and its audience. In Xenophon’s Prince: Republic and Empire in the Cyropaedia, Nadon puzzles as to why Xenophon used an historical figure for a fictional account.247 His answer focuses on the respect engendered by the size of the Achaemenid Empire at this time, but what we have here is the same use of dissociation that we saw from Ctesias. Xenophon has made his own Persia for his audience and he continues to use it in other dialogues, such as Oeconomicus.248 Xenophon’s description of Persia in the Cyropaedia is unique; it is not wholly based on his Achaemenid experiences but also carries at its heart an image of Sparta.249 Christensen suggests that the work is aimed at a Spartan audience and offers an outline of proposals for military reform there.250 Tuplin disagrees, noting that the similarities are superficial and that comparison between the two was a natural pairing in the eyes of an Athenian audience.251 For Georges, the resemblance is a reflection of Xenophon’s unconscious prejudices: Persia’s victory was due to virtue, virtue is a characteristic of Sparta and Spartans.252 Yet the similarities are more prosaic. As Nadon points out, Cyrus’ Persians worship Greek gods, sing paeans and use Spartan terms to describe their social distinctions and laws.253 Xenophon is not the first to link the two: Herodotus also compares Spartan and Persian practices, suggesting that this was a subject of interest in the fifth century.254 Ctesias takes the connection further by praising the Spartans on a number of occasions; this may reflect conflicting views on foreign policy in Sparta at this time.255 Lenfant offers a more practical solution: she points out that after leaving the king’s service, Ctesias spent time in his home city of Cnidus writing 246  Due suggests that the text contains ‘literary allusions’ to Herodotus and ‘presupposes a knowledge of literature’ (1989: 235). 247  Nadon 2001: 27, 28. 248  Nadon 2001: 28; Xen. Oec. 4.4–25. 249  Nadon 2001: 30; see also Gera 1993: 76, 155–6; Tuplin 1994: 134–61. Pomeroy et al. note that ‘both Sparta and Persia were stable hierarchical societies in which social mobility was virtually impossible’ (1999: 199). 250  Christensen 2006. 251  Tuplin 1994: 162, 137. Due notes that the biggest reading public was in Athens but feels the themes of the text indicate a wider readership (1989: 234). 252  Georges 1994: 229. 253  Nadon 2001: 31. On ‘Greek’ elements in banqueting and processions, see Tuplin 2013: 80. 254  For example, Hdt. 6.59.1; see Cartledge 1987: 333; Millender 2002: 6. Petropoulou 2011: 605 finds the divergences more striking. 255  Stronk 2010: 50; 1990–1; Plut. Artax. 13.4.

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the Persica before visiting Sparta, where he still had ties as a result of his assistance to Clearchus.256 Tuplin notes that ‘Persia’ here is not a disguise for Sparta but, nevertheless, the Cyropaedia places Cyrus in what is effectively a contemporary Greek state and its melding of the two, whilst offering a means to distance the audience, may also take us back to the issue of elite connections, interests and agendas.257 Like our earlier Persica, the Cyropaedia defies clear categorisation and includes elements of romantic, political and didactic writing. Tales of love sit alongside tales of war, evoking the novella structure of earlier Persica.258 There are strong female characters, such as Pantheia, and settings from everyday life; these may have been designed to appeal to a female readership or audience.259 This balancing of public and private helps to explain why scholars have such radically different views on the purpose of what is essentially a simple tale. For Due, Xenophon is creating an ideal ruler, held up as a model for imitation in the present.260 Due’s Cyrus was a ‘perfect leader’ and a model for an imperfect world; without him the empire crumbles.261 Tatum agrees that Cyrus is an ideal leader, but his Cyrus is the best because he is manipulative and will ‘bend the laws and customs of the Persians to his own interest’.262 Gera seeks to reconcile the two sides of Cyrus by reference to the aims of Xenophon: she suggests that Xenophon is indulging in regime analysis, using the two sides to Cyrus to explore the interrelationship between benevolence and despotism and their consequences.263 For Nadon, the Cyropaedia is a dramatic work about the transformation from republic to empire and the consequences and transformations that result.264 He suggests that we should read the Cyropaedia with ‘the kind of care one takes in interpreting a dialogue or play’.265 For Nadon and Tuplin, Xenophon is warning against the impulses towards imperialism that existed in the post-­Peloponnesian War period.266 Gray and Johnson suggest that the text is an effort to r­econcile elites to democracy 256 

Lenfant 2004: XXII–XXIII. Tuplin 1994: 162. Carlier suggests that our inability to identify the model for Cyrus’ Persia is a deliberate part of the distancing (2010). 258  Gera 1993: 192. Baragwanath points to Xenophon’s use of Homeric models in his presentation of women (2010: 45). 259  Due 1989: 234–5. 260  Due 1989: 25, 234. 261  Due 1989: 19. See also Higgins 1977: 57. 262  Tatum 1989: 71 (98, 218, 106, 86). 263  Gera 1993: ch. 6. 264  Nadon notes that there are two ‘Persias’; we begin with a republic and end with an empire (2001: 32 n.18). 265  Nadon 2001: 24. 266  Nadon 2001: 161. Tuplin 1993 also sees the Hellenica as anti-­imperialist. 257 

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and show how their virtues could remain relevant to society at this time.267 In my opinion, Xenophon the traveller has made a travelling narrative. Just as Homer could be performed before any audience of elites, so the Cyropaedia can appeal in different ways to different elite audiences. For a Spartan audience, Xenophon’s Persia and Cyrus act as a paradigm that explains Spartan power. In the reflection of Cyrus’ mistakes, Xenophon shows Spartan vulnerability. In this sense the Cyropaedia acts as a criticism.268 For an Athenian audience, grounded in the dramatic use of external worlds to reflect internal politics, the mixing of Cyrus and Sparta offers lessons on themselves. Cyrus’ Persia is a model of equality where all men can attain office and all men fight together in the army.269 Yet behind this utopia lies the reality that education cannot be completed without wealth.270 Nadon suggests that the Cyropaedia offers a warning of what will occur if the democratic life of the polis is allowed to fall: it shows ‘the “Persia” that Greece could and would once again become’ with the ‘re-­barbarisation of its citizens’.271 Persia is thus an effective paradigm rather than an historical study. We move from understanding its power to understanding the consequences of its power. For Carlier, the Cyropaedia offers a cautionary tale of what would happen if Greece defeated the Achaemenid Empire.272 Just as Herodotus used Achaemenid Iran as a paradigm for Athenian imperialism, so Xenophon uses it as a paradigm for the dangers of Greek military expansion. Like our earlier Persica, the Cyropaedia can be viewed as a multi-­ faceted gem capable of reflecting different meanings according to context and audience but ultimately aimed at creating dialogue. In this respect, the many opinions of contemporary scholars illustrate that Xenophon achieved his ultimate purpose of stimulating debate. O B S E RVAT I O N S This chapter has focused on the Persica and on texts by Herodotus and Xenophon. I have argued that the Histories and the Cyropaedia 267 

Gray 2010: 5; Johnson 2010: 141. Strauss argues Xenophon is critical towards Sparta (1939). On Spartan literacy, see Cartledge 1978. 269  Nadon 2001: 39. Cyrus even billets the men in shared tents (Xen. Cyr. 2.1.20–31). 270  Nadon 2001: 40. 271  Nadon 2001: 32, 163. 272  Carlier 2010. 268 

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should both be read, alongside the Persica, as examples of an intellectual genre that developed in Ionia as a response to Ionians’ closer relationship with the Achaemenid Empire. These texts are not histories in the sense that a modern historian would understand it, but narratives that use elements of reality to add authenticity to a fantasy world, created for the purpose of stimulating debate and enhancing status. As with Athenian vases and the visions of the Athenian stage, we are looking at an artificially constructed Persia, which was created to serve the needs of the elite ancient audience rather than the modern historian.

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5 The Mirror Crack’d: Spartan Responses to the ‘East’ and to the Achaemenid Empire In this chapter we will look at perspectives on the ‘east’ and the Achaemenid Empire from Sparta. The material will be divided into two sections: first, we will look at the relationship between Sparta and the east up to the sixth century bce, and then at the relationship between Sparta and the Achaemenids in the late fifth and fourth centuries bce. While Sparta played a key role in Greek politics across these periods, our ability to investigate and understand its relations with the east and the Achaemenids is limited by the absence of any surviving literary texts. In their absence, scholars have viewed Sparta through the filter of Athenian sources. This leads us into a world of uncertainty where perspectives on Sparta, the Achaemenids and their interaction fragment and distort according to the agendas of Classical Athenian and later writers. We will consider what a study of Spartan material evidence can add to our understanding of their perspectives on and interaction with the Achaemenid Empire in this period. S PA R TA N N A R R AT I V E S Like all ancient Greek communities, the Spartans have danced to the interpretative tune of ancient texts and modern ideologies. These have produced two clear perspectives that describe Spartan relations with the east and the Achaemenids. In the first, the Spartans are seen to have rejected all outside influence, including influences from the east. According to later written sources, Sparta was in turmoil at this early stage in its development. For Nafissi, this picture of 222

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disruption fits the material evidence for social and settlement instability at Sparta in the post-­Mycenaean period.1 It also echoes other tales of instability in early Greek communities that we considered in Chapter 1. The Spartans sought a solution and sent a delegation to ask the advice of the Delphic oracle. This delegation included the Spartan leader Lycurgus, who returned and introduced new laws.2 The laws took the form of a socio-­political re-­organisation, with the creation of political offices and common messes.3 Under these new laws, the amassing of wealth was discouraged by measures that distributed property, withdrew gold and silver to permit only iron money, and reduced luxury by banning unnecessary and superfluous arts, whether through trade, soothsaying or teaching rhetoric.4 According to Xenophon, in order to render wealth useless, Lycurgus made coinage large and undertook searches for gold and silver.5 Xenophon’s Constitution of the Lacedaemonians notes strong prohibitions on engagements with wealth at Sparta.6 Our sources paint a picture of the Spartans as obedient soldiers who were secretive and fearful of revolt by the helots, their slave population.7 It was partly in fear of possible helot uprisings that, sources tell us, the Spartans disliked expeditions on foreign soil and had to be compelled to participate.8 They also discouraged foreign visitors for fear that they would incite a helot revolt.9 Xenophon tells us that this regime was enforced by the widespread use of spies and the public nature of life.10 As a result, our first perspective paints a picture of Sparta as an isolated culture whose move towards austerity in the sixth century bce reflected its harsh way of life, communal politics and a rejection of outside influence, including that of the ‘east’.11 This picture of early Sparta continues to dominate textual  1 

Nafissi 2009: 117. Hdt. 1.65. Herodotus records an alternative tale told by the Spartans that the laws came from Crete. Hartog notes that Lycurgus travelled to Crete and Lydia before Delphi (2001: 8); following Plut. Lyc. 4.1–6.  3  On the common mess, see Hdt. 6.57.3.  4  Plut. Lyc. 9; Thuc. 1.6.4; J. M. Hall 2007: 203–9; although, as Hall points out, the failure to mint their own coinage does not mean that they did not use that of others (2007: 206).  5  Xen. Lac. 7.5 (large coins), 7.6 (searches).  6  Xen. Lac. 6.4, 7.1–3.  7  Thuc. 1.84.3, 2.40.3 (obedient soldiers), 2.39.1, 5.68.2 (secretive); Arist. Pol. 1269a.2 (fear of helot revolt).  8  Thuc. 1.118.2; Powell 2001: 101.  9  Famously, the Spartans turn down the help of the Athenians in the helot revolt of the 460s for fear they will bring political change (Thuc. 1.102). See also Hdt. 9.11; Thuc. 2.39.1; Hartog 2001: 7. 10  Xen. Lac. 1.5, 2.13, 4.4, 5.5. 11  On the appeal of Spartan austerity to Germany, see Cartledge 2009: 1.  2 

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sources until the end of the fifth century, when our second perspective begins. In order to defeat Athens, Sparta forms an alliance with the Great King, and the narrative shifts from rejection of the ‘east’ to acceptance, and from a consistent society to one vulnerable to new ideas and tempted down the path of ruin by exposure to Achaemenid riches.12 A fragment of Ephorus notes that the Spartans turned to luxury.13 Plutarch informs us that the victory of Lysander over Athens led to the removal of restrictions on gold and silver coinage.14 As Sparta takes control of cities in Asia Minor in the fourth century bce, Athenian orators offer tales of the greed of Spartan commanders abroad.15 As the gold of the Achaemenids seeps into Sparta, we find further tales of greed amongst the citizens in Sparta.16 The corruption even seeps into the lives of Spartan kings. According to Theopompus, Archidamus III wanted to leave Sparta and live abroad in luxury.17 Both Xenophon’s Constitution of the Lacedaemonians and Plutarch’s Life of Lycurgus end on the theme of Spartan decline.18 We need to be wary of these perspectives on Sparta. Our lack of Spartan texts and the agendas of our authors create a ‘Spartan mirage’, which warps all efforts to view Sparta, from tales of the rejection of outsiders to the tales of decline.19 Tales of greed and decline affect our ability to see how Sparta reacted to the east and to the Achaemenid Empire. In order to view these relationships from a wider perspective, we will re-­examine the evidence for the Spartan social and political structure and seek to integrate material evidence into the discussion. S PA R TA A N D T H E ‘ E A S T ’ Early Spartan archaeology As we have already seen in our studies of Corinth, Ionia and Athens, each Greek-­ speaking community had its own unique social and 12  David 1979–80: 38 n.24; Cartledge 1987: 168. For discussion, see Hodkinson 1994: 194–6. 13  In Diod. Sic. 7.12.8. 14  Plut. Lyc. 30.1 15  On the greed of commanders abroad, see Isoc. 8.95–100; Xen. Lac. 14.2–3; Flower 1991: 91. 16  On the greed of the citizen body, see Diod. Sic. 7.12.8; Plut. Lyc. 30.1; Lys. 17.1–6. 17  Theopompus (FGrH 115 F232). 18  J. M. Hall 2005: 205. 19  On the Spartan mirage and Spartan sources, see Ollier 1933–43; Nafissi 2009: 117; Flower 2002; J. M. Hall 2007: 203–9.

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political structures and produced a unique material culture. Sparta is no exception to this rule. Our greatest problem in seeking to use the material remains of Sparta is not secrecy but structure. Sparta was made up of five villages, but their remains are elusive. There was no culture of monumental public building as at Athens and graves remained simple and few. This lack of material is why scholars have found themselves unavoidably explaining the material culture of Sparta through texts. As sources indicate that early Spartan society was unified and homogeneous, Nafissi suggests that their regional culture was equally homogeneous.20 For Pavlides, simple patterns of representation and deposition indicate the growth of a sense of ‘collective consciousness’ in Sparta that parallels the socio-­political developments found in texts.21 She suggests that the simplicity of graves in the Archaic and Classical periods represents a continuity of this ideal and can also be witnessed in the popularity of hero cults at Sparta.22 Raaflaub points to a significant increase in the number of lead hoplite figures in Spartan sanctuaries of the seventh century as a sign of increasing militarisation and a time of Spartan military activity.23 It is at this time that the poems of Archilochus and Tyrtaeus, with their exploration of the military community, were written and performed at Sparta. For Cartledge, the requirement that hoplites should provide their own equipment illustrates the development of notions of civic membership.24 Nafissi argues that the aristocratic society of seventh-­century bce Sparta was transformed during the sixth century bce into the Classical Spartan polis.25 Other scholars have criticised the over-­ reliance on texts as a means to interpret Spartan material evidence.26 Material evidence from Sparta is not as plentiful as evidence from Athens as it has not been as thoroughly excavated.27 Our view is fragmentary and largely reliant on excavations from sanctuaries and material from rescue excavations in the city. It is too easy to use this to supplement textual views. Even despite these problems, the edifice of an isolated, austere and homogeneous Sparta begins to crumble on closer ­examination. 20 

Nafissi 2009: 118. Pavlides 2011: 552–4. 22  Pavlides 2011: esp. 554. 23  Raaflaub 1997: 54. For an overview of Spartan social and political structure, see J. M. Hall 2007: 129ff. 24  Cartledge 1977: 1–27. 25  Nafissi 1991: 338–41; Hodkinson places the changes before the sixth century (2000: 242). 26  Hodkinson 1998a; 1998b; Michell 1964: 298–303 (against prohibition on currency). 27  For discussions on problems, see Raftopoulou 1998; on bronzes, see Hodkinson 1998a: 56. 21 

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Instead, we can see objects indicating wealth and the importance of status differentials in Spartan sanctuary deposits. There are ­ninth-­century votives at the later sites of the sanctuary of Athena, at the Heroön, at the sanctuary of Artemis Orthia and at Amyclae.28 There is also some scattered evidence for rich Spartan burials before the eighth century bce.29 Protogeometric and Geometric tombs in the area of Sparta and Amyclae contain contemporary local vases connecting to wine drinking, including skyphoi and amphorae.30 One late Geometric male pithos burial contained iron weapons and bronze attachments, while a female burial had bronze cylinders and spiral rings.31 A further male Geometric burial at Limnae included a bronze finger-­ring and significant numbers of lakainai and kantharoi cups.32 This pattern of deposition begins to change in the seventh century bce and the number of grave goods declines.33 There are still drinking cups in burials but no metal goods.34 At this time, deposition begins to focus on the sanctuaries and the quantities of votive offerings at Spartan sanctuaries increase.35 Thucydides famously described the geo-­ political organisation of Sparta as a collection of villages, even in the Classical period.36 Buildings outside of the sanctuaries are harder to find and difficult to identify with certainty. Zavvou and Themos note that the early settlement pattern appears to consist of dispersed houses rather than the nucleated villages with more clustered walls of the later Archaic and Classical period.37 Shrines were also set up in the seventh century with votives, such as the Heroön by the Eurotas.38 In the sixth century bce tombs with two storeys were created. One such tomb at the Zaimis plot had an offering nearby of twenty-­two pierced Laconian vases in shapes associated with eating and drinking.39 The act of piercing was one of conspicuous consumption. It made the vases useless, thereby removing them from normal use and converting their status, and possibly that of the feast that they had been used for, into votive offering. Archaic and Classical pottery can 28  29  30  31  32  33  34  35  36  37  38  39 

Coldstream 2003: 329; J. M. Hall 2007: 207. Raftopoulou 1998: 133. Zavvou and Themos 2009: 111, 113; Raftopoulou 1998: 133. Raftopoulou 1998: 133. Pavlides 2011: 566–7. Pavlides 2011: 551. Pavlides 2011: 552. Pavlides 2011: 553; Snodgrass 1980: 52–4; Osborne 1996a: 92–5. Thuc. 1.10.2–3. See Waywell 1999: 1–26. Zavvou and Themos 2009: 112, 116. Wace 1905–6: 285–8. Raftopoulou 1998: 134–5.

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be found in many areas of Sparta in deposits from smaller sanctuaries or heroa within the inhabited area of the city, as well as burials.40 The popularity of the Limnae area for shrines in the Archaic and Classical periods may have been due to its association with Artemis Orthia but could also have reflected links between the builder and Geometric burials in the area.41 We may be looking at family cults built over family graves or at the use of past burials to authenticate power in the present. Grave monuments in Archaic and Classical Laconia are rare and, when found, tend to be undecorated stelae set up for men who died in battle.42 Indeed funerary monuments are rare in the Peloponnese as a whole and tend to cluster around Corinthia. Kokkorou-­Alevras suggests that this reflects contacts between Athens and Corinthia and peer-­polity emulation.43 The monument to the 300 at Thermopylae was set up in the fifth century, as well as a hero shrine for Leonidas. Unfortunately the remains of the monument are difficult to reconstruct from texts. Herodotus noted that there was a stone lion on top of it.44 Petropoulou suggests that an image of Leonidas was buried after his death in order to conform to Spartan custom on the death of a king.45 Waywell, Wilkes and Walker suggest that the monument was placed near the theatre and below the sanctuary of Athena Chalkioikos.46 While we cannot be certain of the monument’s form, the passages do suggest that Spartans in the Archaic and Classical periods were prepared to construct monuments in exceptional circumstances. Our initial observations appear to indicate that Sparta follows the same general patterns of behaviour as other mainland Greek communities in this period up to the sixth century bce. The context of displays moves from grave to sanctuary, although it is difficult to be certain about the extent of funerary deposition in the period before this, and the smaller quantity of graves excavated at Sparta can make wider extrapolations of social behaviour unreliable. It is true that from the sixth century onwards, the sanctuaries remain the main sites for deposition and display. Fragkopoulou criticises scholars who use references to Lycurgus and search for Laconian 40  41  42  43  44  45  46 

Zavvou and Themos 2009: 113, 116; Raftopoulou 1998: 134–5. Pavlides 2011: 564. Papapostoulou 2011: 496. Kokkorou-­Alevras 2011: 281. Hdt. 7.225.2–3. Petropoulou 2011: 598. Waywell et al. 1998: 97–111.

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‘uniqueness’ as a corollary to texts.47 Sparta is unique, as are the material cultures of all communities that developed in mainland Greece at this time, and so a degree of uniqueness in Sparta is not really unusual or unexpected; we should not assume that this is due to ‘austerity’. Early Sparta: the ‘east’ and other influences While our settlement evidence and grave evidence are unclear, the evidence from sanctuaries shows with absolute certainty that Spartan sanctuaries had contacts with eastern lands and influences. The sanctuary of Artemis Orthia offers a clear view of this. Dawkins dates this sanctuary to the tenth century.48 For Nafissi, the construction of the first temple here reflects a point of stability when ‘obedience’ was enforced on Messene and Laconia.49 This presumes that the structure was a community enterprise. As we have already seen in Chapters 1 and 2, early monumental religious sites were often linked to elites rather than communities and the emergence of the sanctuary may reflect the coalescence of elite identity at this time. We know from texts and archaeological investigation that Sparta was made up of five separate villages. The sanctuary and temple may well have facilitated communication between elites within these disparate villages. The earliest evidence of building at the sanctuary is a thick cobble pavement on which was placed a large Archaic altar.50 The dating of the first temple at the site is uncertain. Boardman’s re-­examination of the evidence dated the earliest temple to the eighth century bce.51 Lawrence mentions a building with a wooden framework and mud roof, which was tiled in the seventh century.52 The earliest temple may well date to this time, but the clearest temple remains are those of the sixth century bce, as the stone temple of Artemis Orthia was set up at around 600 bce.53 The construction of this building and its later replacement in stone reflect the wider patterns of sanctuary development in other Greek communities at the same time. The temple also provided a location for engagements between Spartans and non-­ Spartans. The seventh-­ century levels at the 47  48  49  50  51  52  53 

Fragkopoulou 2011: 85–8. Dawkins 1929a: 1–51. Nafissi 2009: 119. Rose 1929: 399. Boardman 1963: 4–5. Lawrence 1983: 122. Rose 1929: 399; Boardman suggests c. 570–560 bce (1963: 4–5).

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sanctuary contain many votives, including ivories.54 Ivory is not a material that is native to Sparta. It was clearly brought in, and the forms of the carving show that the decorations on the ivory were inspired by the east, even though scholars suggest they were made by local workshops.55 The scenes are intriguing. Two of the earliest pieces, from the seventh century bce, are ivory fibulae plaques with scenes from prosthesis, the ceremony to mourn a deceased ­individual.56 Fragkopoulou’s suggestion that the two ivory prosthesis plaques may have been brought in as a gift by a Spartan traveller or by a visitor fits patterns of guest-friendship or even the use of proxenoi.57 The sanctuary also contained large quantities of lead votive figurines from the seventh and sixth centuries bce, including figures of eastern-­style winged goddesses, as shown in Figure 5.1, and considerable quantities of votive masks at the temple.58 These are 18–21 cm high and portray either ‘grotesque’ or ‘heroic’ faces.59 For Carter, the masks of Orthia were copied from Phoenician originals in the seventh century bce, leading her to suggest that Orthia herself was a Phoenician goddess.60 Burkert too notes that forty-­nine of the masks are grotesque faces in the style of the Near Eastern deity Humbaba.61 Kopanias rejects the Phoenician link and points out that there are more affinities between the iconography of Crete and the ivory plaques than can be found between the plaques and Laconian iconography. These include the presence in one of the four earliest plaques of a wingless female who is wearing a Cretan emblem.62 Kopanias posits a scenario of apprentices training in Cretan workshops before coming to work in the Spartan ­sanctuary.63 The sanctuary also contained bronzes and metal figures. These included images of sphinxes, lions and other figures with eastern connections.64 Ivories and ‘orientalising’ bronzes are also present in other Spartan sanctuaries. Our earliest evidence at the Menelaion dates to the end of the eighth century bce.65 A monumental terrace was created here 54  55  56  57  58  59  60  61  62  63  64  65 

Dawkins 1929b: 203–48. Rose 1929: 401; I. Morris 1997: 30–1; Cartledge 2002: 357–61. Dawkins 1929b: 210, pl. cii 2–3. Fragkopoulou 2011: 91–3. On lead figurines, see Wace 1929; on the masks, see Dickins 1929. Carter notes there are at least 603 masks (1987a: 355, 356). Carter 1987a: esp. 378; 1988. Her identification is queried by de Polignac 1992. Burkert 1992: 49. Kopanias 2009: 124–6. Kopanias 2009: 130. See examples at Droop 1929b: 200–2. Catling 1976–7: 34–42.

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Fig. 5.1. Lead figure of winged goddess from the sanctuary of Artemis Orthia. Made in the seventh or sixth century bce. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Accession Number: 24.195.42. Gift of A. J. B. Wace, 1924. www.metmuseum.org.

at c. 650–625 bce.66 From the eighth into the sixth century bce, quantities of ivories, bronzes and votives increase here.67 The sanctuary of Athena Chalkioikos contained many bronzes, including a large Gorgon shield emblem from c. 520 bce, which is shown in Figure 5.2. At Amyclae, a unique sanctuary was constructed in the eighth century bce. There are few surviving remains, but according to Pausanias, its main focal point was an altar and a throne of Apollo, set into an enclosure.68 It has been reconstructed many times and in many different ways by scholars on the basis of the 66  67  68 

Kennell 2010: 39. Hodkinson 2000: 271–301; 1998. Lawrence 1983: 147; Nafissi 2009: 119; Paus. 3.18.6–19.5.

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Fig. 5.2. Line drawing of a Gorgon’s-­head shield attachment of the sixth century bce from the sanctuary of Athena Chalkioikos, Sparta. National Museum, Athens. NM15917 (drawing by Alexander Morgan).

­ escription in Pausanias, though no reconstruction is foolproof.69 d Burkert suggests that the form of Apollo at Amyclae was borrowed from Syro-­Hittite culture via contacts through Cyprus.70 Hodkinson notes that these ‘orientalising’ votives show that dedications in Spartan sanctuaries were being used to affirm the social importance of the donors.71 Spartan sanctuaries contained pottery, most of which was made locally in the sixth century bce but showed evidence of contacts with communities from outside Laconia. Exactly whom the contact was between and how it occurred remains a moot point. In light 69  70  71 

Delivorrias 2009. Burkert 1985: 228. Hodkinson 2000: ch. 9.

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Fig. 5.3. Laconian terracotta kylix with sphinx tondo, dated to the sixth century bce and excavated at Sardis. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Accession Number: 14.30.26. Gift of the American Society for the Exploration of Sardis, 1914. www.metmuseum.org.

of the supposed restrictions on Spartan elites undertaking craft activities, we may be looking at travelling craftsmen rather than travelling elites. Sixth-­century Spartan pottery was influenced by pottery styles from Corinth and Athens. For Pipili, Laconian Droop cups influenced Attic cup styles in the earlier sixth century before being influenced by later Attic styles themselves, while the Naucratis Painter shows strong Corinthian influence.72 Clay lakainai from the sanctuary of Artemis Orthia are decorated with running Gorgons.73 There are images of sphinxes on scenes painted by the Naucratis Painter, such as the example shown in Figure 5.3, as well as shapes that reflect eastern vessels.74 The range of decorative shapes on vases and other art forms, such as plaques, also reveal eastern links. There 72 

Pipili 2009: 139, 141; 1998: 84. Stibbe 2009: 153; there are also Gorgon ivories, masks and lead figurines (Dickins 1929: 169, 183; Dawkins 1929b: 210, 213; Wace 1929: 262, 271). 74  Pipili 1998: 84–85. 73 

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are Gorgons, Boreads and a male figure with horses drawn in the style of the Near Eastern Master of Animals.75 In her analysis of Laconian iconography, Pipili notes that the scenes tend to come from tales in the Boeotian–Thessalian epic cycle, rather than tales of the Trojan Wars, reflecting cult affinities between Sparta and Thessaly.76 Spartan society also reflects wider sixth-­century trends, such as the use of dining pottery and display of dining behaviour on vases.77 For Nafissi, athletics and banquets were activities that distinguished the Spartan elite.78 Pipili notes that the sixth-­century dining images are more likely to be cult meals than meals in the syssitia, the Spartan common mess hall.79 The appearance of the mitra on a cup suggests knowledge of Lydian clothing among vase painters.80 The presence of Droop cups in sanctuaries at Olympia, Bassae, Corinth, Halieis and Cyrene shows that Spartan pottery had a role to play in exchanges at sanctuaries connected to wider Greek commade bronzes were also deposited at major munities.81 Spartan-­ sanctuaries. Spartan elites were regular users of Olympia and may have influenced the form of the early temple of Hera.82 Sparta controlled the roads to Olympia and thus could manipulate the Eleans who managed the sanctuary.83 Spartan elites dedicated tripods from the seventh century.84 Spartan athletes comprise half of the entries on the inscribed victory lists up to 576 bce.85 The site at Olympia served the local communities and the Peloponnese and also enabled communications between the Peloponnese and the communities in Italy and Sicily.86 It contained spaces for athletics competitions, religious spaces and also craft areas for the casting of bronze dedications. Morgan notes that Laconian craftsmen were working at Olympia from the eighth century bce onwards.87 Their output includes bronze figurines of animals and charioteers, tripods and 75  Pipili 1987: 14–18 (Gorgon), 21–2 (Boreads and Harpies); 37 (Master of Animals). On the ‘Horse Leader’, see Langdon 1989. 76  Pipili 1987: 83. 77  Smith 1998 (on komos dancers); Pipili 1998. 78  Nafissi 2009: 130. 79  Pipili 1987: 73. 80  Pipili 1987: 74. 81  Pipili 2009: 144. 82  Lawrence 1983: 143, 184. 83  Morgan calls Spartan influence here ‘predatory’ (1990: 102); Scott 2010: 34. 84  Scott 2010: 146; Morgan 1990: 30–1. 85  Scott 2010: 146 n.2. 86  Scott 2010: 146; Morgan 1990: 22–3. 87  Morgan 1990: 31, 192–3; Scott 2010: 146.

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attachments, and figurines of warriors and young men.88 There is evidence of elite dedications in the form of orientalising pottery from Corinth, bronze vases from Sparta and ‘oriental imports’.89 From the eighth century bce, war trophies (tropaia) are dedicated.90 There was also a statue of Chionis, a Spartan victor of the seventh century bce.91 Evidence from ceramics and bronzes suggest that Sparta had links overseas in the sixth century bce.92 The cup shown in Figure 5.3 was found at Sardis, and Spartan pottery has also been found at Gordion, Samos and Naucratis.93 Pipili suggests that the cups of the Naucratis Painter were made specifically for a Samian market and reflect Samian tastes.94 Laconian vessels were dedicated locally and at Olympia, suggesting a local appetite for the scenes. Sixth-­century Spartan pottery was found in Etruria and Sicily to the west, Naucratis and Cyrene in North Africa, and Samos as well as Vix to the north.95 Spartan bronzes appear at Delphi and on the Athenian Acropolis.96 Perhaps most famously, the Vix krater, with its Gorgons and eastern-­ style scenes, was found in Gaul (modern France) and has been identified as the work of a Spartan workshop.97 As Stibbe notes, ‘Corinth was . . . the capital of vase painting and Sparta the capital of bronze working during the archaic period’ (around 625–525 bce).98 Spartan bronzes were exported throughout the Mediterranean and to non-­ Greek peoples, such as Scythians, Celts, Etruscans and Illyrians, as well as to the eastern lands; they are also a significant presence in deposits at Spartan sanctuaries.99 The mirror in Figure 5.4 was made in Sparta and found in south Italy. It shows the flow of external information and ideas into and out of Sparta. The female figure is flanked by sphinxes and stands on a lion. The design was influenced by contact with Egypt and sent from Sparta to a place where it would play a role in local dialogues of power, or facilitate engagement between Spartans and local communities, in the same way that Corinthian and Athenian 88  Mallwitz and Herrmann 1980: cat. 3.2 (bull), 5.1 (deer), 8.1 (charioteer), 80 (fragment of krater with lions), 88 (young man with wreath), 89 (striding warrior), 92 (reclining sphinx). 89  For Spartan and eastern contributions, see Scott 2010: 147–53. For imports see Mallwitz and Hermann 1980: 51–74. 90  Scott 2010: 169–70. 91  Scott 2010: 200. 92  Neer 2001: 285. 93  Holladay 1977: 112–13. 94  Pipili 1998: 86. 95  See the catalogue entries in Pipili 1987: 111–19. 96  Mattusch 1988: 62–3. 97  Joffroy 1954: 53f. 98  Stibbe 2000: 159. 99  Stibbe 2009: 148.

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Fig. 5.4. Laconian bronze mirror from the second half of the sixth century bce with Near Eastern decoration, found in southern Italy. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Accession Number: 38.11.3. Fletcher Fund, 1938. www.metmuseum.org.

vases did.100 The images indicate Spartan awareness of and engagement with the symposium and external images. The presence of these items in sanctuaries and outside Sparta suggests that Spartans used them to engage with fellow elites within and outside of Greece. Re-­viewing texts If we turn away from views of austerity and decline, we can see that our material picture of contact is also supported by texts. Music was said to have been directed at Sparta by Terpander of Lesbos, 100  Guralnick suggests that mirrors with nude female handles were inspired by Egyptian models (1997: 137).

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while the famous poet Alcman was originally from Lydia.101 Alcman identifies himself as a citizen of Sparta, rich in tripods.102 He certainly does not appear to think its lifestyle austere. Carter notes that Alcman’s Partheneia are aimed at elites and have a distinctly eastern flair.103 The presence of Alcman hints that Spartan elites could have maintained some form of court and acted as patrons in the same style as other contemporary Greek communities. These could have worked through the syssitia (the mess halls), in order to maintain equality of status amongst the different elite mess groups and avoid the disruptive effects of jealousy. Sparta also created settlements in the Peloponnese and overseas.104 The settlement at Taras (modern Taranto) was founded in 706 bce and can be seen on Map 1.105 The connections with Sparta can certainly be seen in material evidence. Taras has Spartan pottery of the late Geometric period and contained major deposits of sixth-­century bce Laconian vases.106 Ivories and bronzes were also found at the site. According to ancient sources, Taras was settled by the Parthenioi, a group expelled from Sparta.107 The sources are all much later and are concerned with speculating about the origins of the Parthenioi. Cartledge comments that the act of sending a colony was ‘not a natural choice for an inland state’.108 His suggestion that ‘a few enterprising families’ left. and their action was approved at Sparta in later times, fits comfortably with the possibility that this was an example of Spartan elites expanding their networks, and it is supported by evidence from concentrations of Spartan pottery at Naucratis and Samos. According to Herodotus, Spartans maintained guest-friendships with non-­Spartan elites in the same way as other Greek communities did in the Archaic period and participated in festivals at Olympia and Delphi. The Spartan king Cleomenes was a guest-friend of the Pisistratids, although he was willing to expel them from Athens at the request of the Delphic oracle.109 He also supported Isagoras in his battle for power against Cleisthenes.110 There are links between Sparta and Samos. Herodotus notes that the Samians helped the 101  102  103  104  105  106  107  108  109  110 

Hunter and Rutherford 2009: 10–14. Skinner 2012: 90. Carter 1988. On the choruses at Sparta, see Calame 2001: 141–206. Malkin 1994. Cartledge 2002: 106. Cartledge 2002: 107, 117–19, 135. Arist. Pol. 1306b.29–31; Strabo 6.3.2 (Antiochus of Syracuse), 6.3.3 (Ephorus). Cartledge 2002: 107. Hdt. 5.64, 75, 90–1. Hdt. 5.70.

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Spartans against Messenia.111 When the relationship deteriorates, Sparta is joined by Corinth against Samos.112 Herodotus also records links between Sparta and Croesus. The Spartans sought to buy gold from him to make a statue of Apollo, only for it to be freely given, and they later make an oath of alliance and xenos with him.113 In acknowledgement of the agreement, the Spartans send a huge bronze krater to Croesus, showing they were aware of the protocol of elite engagement and gift exchange.114 It is the Spartans that the Ionians ask for help after the fall of Lydia.115 It is Sparta that sends an embassy to Cyrus to warn him against attacking Greek cities.116 All of this evidence suggests that Sparta was not isolated but maintained relationships with fellow Greek elites and with eastern rulers. Herodotus gives us no indication that this pattern of behaviour altered with the arrival of the Achaemenids. Spartan embassies to the courts of satraps include Sperthias and Bulis, who travelled to Persia in 480 bce to offer their lives to the Persian king in atonement for the death of his envoys.117 Xerxes spared them and Mitchell suggests that they may have formed a xenia relationship with Hydarnes.118 Their own sons, Aneristus and Nicolaus, were sent on an embassy to Iran in 430 bce but were captured by the Thracians and handed over to the Athenians.119 Perhaps most interestingly, Herodotus tells us that when Demaratos is deposed and needs protection, it is to the court of Darius that he runs, where he becomes a favourite of the Great King.120 Spartan perspectives on the ‘east’ The material evidence suggests that Spartans were using external objects and ideas to self-­identify, affirm status and engage with other elites. Evidence from the presence of ivory workshops and from sixth-­century bce pottery shows us that they were also transforming materials. Although their general material patterns are similar to those of other Greek mainland communities, there are two significant differences. First, they selected when and how to participate in elite 111  112  113  114  115  116  117  118  119  120 

Hdt. 3.47; Carty 2015: 69–73, 175–96. Hdt. 3.48, 54–6. Hdt. 1.69. Hdt. 1.70. The krater is stolen by the Samians (Hdt. 3.47). Hdt. 1.141. Hdt. 1.153. Hdt. 7.133–6. Mitchell 1997: 76 n.23. Thuc. 2.67.1; Mitchell 1997: 76. Hdt. 6.72, 6.70.2, 7.104.2.

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manipulation of material culture. Across mainland Greece from the eighth century bce onwards, pottery groups developed and innovations in style using motifs and shapes influenced by the east became apparent. These changes did not take place in Sparta. Coldstream notes that while Athens experiments with Geometric styles and figures, Laconian pottery remains in a ‘retarded Protogeometric style’.121 Sparta and Messenia are clearly not isolated from developments at this time; there is evidence for the adoption of iron technology and apsidal building plans, which required contact with other Protogeometric communities.122 Yet Lemos points out that the region has an ‘unwillingness’ to adopt developments occurring in the eastern parts of Greece.123 It is not until the sixth century bce that we find the distinctive Spartan pottery with its eastern motifs. Spartan ‘unwillingness’ to adopt pottery changes simply reflects the fact that not all communities use the same artefacts to construct social and political identities in the same way. It is a reflection of cultural decisions rather than backward technology: Spartan elites reflected their status by means other than the adoption and adaptation of eastern-­inspired pottery styles from network members up until the sixth century bce. Second, there is no evidence of monumental display in early Sparta. The sanctuaries were created as the main contexts for display, and this pattern remained unchanged down into the fourth century bce. There are no monumental statues and there is no monumental art within the area of the Spartan villages. The only exception may be in a religious context. From the sixth century onwards, hero reliefs are found at shrine sites around Sparta. The earlier hero reliefs come from the mid-­sixth century bce and show a male and female couple seated side by side on a throne. In the example shown in Figure 5.5, the man holds a kantharos; the woman holds an item of fruit and lifts her veil.124 Guralnick suggests that the snake entwined around the edge of the scene has a beard in imitation of snakes found in religious scenes in Egypt.125 Hibler notes that there are Egyptian and Near Eastern elements in the earlier plaques, which in the fifth century bce develop a ‘character of their own’.126 Now the male sits alone, although an attendant may sometimes be present.127 Warrior 121  122  123  124  125  126  127 

Coldstream 2003: 84. Lemos 2002: 195. Lemos 2002: 195. Pavlides 2011: 555. Guralnick 1997: 135. Hibler 1993: 200. Pavlides 2011: 555.

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Fig. 5.5. Line drawing of hero relief from Chrysapha, c. 540 bce. Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, Pergamon Museum 731 (drawing by Alexander Morgan from Salapata 2006: 544, fig. 3).

reliefs also appear in the fifth century, and by the fourth century rider and banqueting images have joined the repertoire.128 The changes reflect an ability to transform and shape art to suit the changing needs of the moment. Salapata suggests that their appearance in the fifth century reflected the insecurity of the post-­war period in Sparta.129 The hero reliefs may reflect both piety and status; the two are not mutually exclusive. It is this absence of evidence in conjunction with what some scholars have seen as a decline in the quality of pottery that has led to the claims of Spartan austerity.130 This notion has been attacked with 128  129  130 

Pavlides 2011: 556. Salapata 2006. Droop 1929: 94; Halliday 1997: 117; Cartledge 2002: 159, 310.

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vigour by Stephen Hodkinson. His study of bronze dedications at Spartan sanctuaries showed ‘divergent trends’ rather than decline, in patterns that mirror wider Greek changes in dedications.131 There are patterns of deposition within Spartan sanctuaries that may show fluctuations in the popularity of different sanctuaries at different times. Droop noted how different types of pottery were deposited at different sanctuaries. More than 80 per cent of the pottery on the Spartan Acropolis was slipless ware, while no more than 7 per cent of pottery at the Artemis Orthia sanctuary was of this type.132 Droop also noticed that at the end of the Geometric period, offerings on the Acropolis dwindled, but increased at the sanctuary of Artemis Orthia. These changes are small in scale by comparison with the manipulation of the material record by Archaic Athenian elites, but they do suggest that fashion or competition may have played a role in Spartan dedicatory behaviour. The pattern and evidence for Spartan choices fit well with Brisart’s second model, where external objects are used as a means to define an elite citizen group, and exclude those perceived as outside the group.133 External objects and influences are kept in the sanctuaries or displayed in elite contexts such as Olympia. This means that they are separated from everyday life and access to them is controlled by the elite. I feel this model can be developed further. The absence of competitive monumental building or dedicating also reflects the different socio-­political structure of Sparta, which was highly centralised. A Spartan elite male is defined by his relationship to the city, and his status is expressed by the part he plays in maintaining the system. There is no need for displays of ‘external’ power in wider Spartan contexts. The Spartan ‘demos’ is irrelevant. Sparta achieved political stability by creating an elite group of homoioi, its citizen group, who rigidly enforced the separation between elite and non-­elite, to the extent that they reserved external items for themselves and made those they excluded their enemies.134 Neer has noted that the absence of Spartan treasuries at Pan-­ Hellenic sanctuaries is a sign that the dedications of Spartan elites remain personal. They are ‘super elitists’ who dedicate outside Sparta on their own behalf.135 As Hodkinson notes, they celebrated victory 131  132  133  134  135 

Hodkinson 1998a. Droop 1929: 60. Brisart 2011. Powell 2001: 271. Neer 2001: 281, 286.

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in Olympia, not in Sparta.136 The focus of Spartan elites on Olympia and Delphi reinforces our earlier study of the relationship between elite status and the conspicuous consumption of energy.137 Setting up a dedication at a Pan-­Hellenic site required access to human skill in the manufacture of the object and human energy in its movement or erection. This reinforces the notion that elite Spartan identity operated within two distinct spheres, each with different requirements. At home in Sparta, it is likely that Spartan elites did not visibly construct and manipulate their identity through ideas about external objects, but did so instead through participation in the Spartan system and by opposition to the helots. While other communities desired to spread their networks to the east, texts tell us that Spartan policy remained focused on internal needs. Spartan foreign policy was dominated by a need to maintain control of the helots. External items were part of this internal dialogue of identity but they were not the only or even central component. In contrast with this, outside of Sparta, elites could compete and display their knowledge and ability to access wider communities and control human energy in the form of monumental dedications and athletic victories. T H E AC H A E M E N I D E M P I R E A N D T H E ‘ FA L L’ O F S PA R TA We turn now to our second perspective: the view that collaboration with the Achaemenids brought about the decline of Spartan society in the fourth century bce. We will also look to see whether engagements with the Achaemenids led to the replacement of ‘east’ with ‘Persia’ as at Athens. Spartan contacts with the Achaemenids in the fifth and fourth century bce We begin with textual evidence for contact. Evidence for Spartan contacts with the Achaemenid Empire certainly increases in the period after the Graeco-­Persian Wars, but this may well be because more detailed sources survive from this period and because the interests of Athens and Sparta begin to cross more frequently.138 Sparta was not 136 

Hodkinson 2000: ch. 9. Trigger 1990. See Chapter 3 for a more detailed discussion in relation to Athenian evidence. 138  For an overview of Greek embassies in this period, see Mitchell 1997. 137 

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a signatory to the Peace of Callias and remained technically at war with the Great King until it signed treaties of alliance towards the end of the Peloponnesian War.139 In spite of this, relations between Sparta and the Achaemenids clearly existed.140 Artaxerxes sent both Megabazos and Artaphernes to Sparta to ask for assistance at various times in the fifth century.141 Thucydides presents us with a speech from 432 bce of the Spartan king Archidamus, who suggests contact in order to gain resources.142 In 431 bce the Spartans again considered asking for Achaemenid help and, as the intercepted embassy of 430 bce reveals, proceeded to do this.143 Included in the Peloponnesian mission were Corinthians, a Tegean, an Argive and Spartans.144 The efforts produced results, as the Persian king sent Artaphernes to Sparta in 425 bce.145 We know of this embassy only because of the capture of Artaphernes. It is possible that many more Spartan embassies slipped through that do not appear in our sources, as hinted at in the phrase ‘of the many ambassadors that they had sent to him . . . ’. In 413 bce, following the Athenian support for Amorges, Tissaphernes, satrap of Sardis, sent an embassy to Sparta at the request of the king in an effort to negotiate an alliance to prosecute jointly the war against Athens.146 A further, unofficial embassy came from Pharnabazus, satrap of Dascyleum, bringing funds in an effort to persuade the Spartans to send a force to the Hellespont.147 The Spartans eventually concluded three treaties with the Great King and, as a part of the terms, handed control of the east Greek cities to him.148 Lewis suggests that the Spartans found it hard, as they saw themselves as supporters of the Greek cities of Asia, but this contrasts with their behaviour after Sestos.149 Sparta could still put Sparta first.150 Our earlier view of Sparta showed that the ­temptations 139  Lewis 1977: 93; Miller 1997: 25–6; for an overview of fifth-­century Spartan history, see Powell 2001: 97–137. 140  For an overview of Spartan embassies to Achaemenid Iran, see Miller 1997: ch. 5. 141  Thuc. 1.109.1–4; Powell 2001: 43–4; Lewis 1977: 50. 142  Thuc. 1.79.3–4, 82.1. A Spartan embassy is also referred to in Ar. Ach. 646–51; Lewis 1977: 63. 143  Thuc. 2.7.1; for the intercepted embassy, see Thuc. 2.67.1–4. 144  Thuc. 2.67.1–5; Hdt. 7.137. 145  Thuc. 4.50.1–3; Rung 2008: 35. 146  Thuc. 8.5.4–6.2; Miller notes that support for Amorges stimulated the Spartan–Iranian agreement (1997: 28). 147  On Pharnabazus’ unofficial embassy, see Rung 2008: 36; Thuc. 8.6.1. 148  Thuc. 8.18.1–3, 37.1–5, 58.1–7; Westlake 1986: 405–26. 149  Lichias repudiates the early treaties with Persia as detrimental to the freedom of the Greeks of Asia (Thuc. 8.43.3); Lewis 1977: 62; the Spartans leave for home after Sestos (Hdt. 9.114). 150  Powell 2001: 97–137.

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of foreign contacts and foreign wealth were seen as things to be avoided. There is now much more evidence for movements of Spartans into Asia Minor and into contact with the Achaemenid Empire and its representatives. Symbouloi travel out to assess the performance of Sparta’s representatives in treaties.151 Spartans also travelled to the courts of the Achaemenid Empire, as we see in the embassy of Boeotius, which led to the instalment of Darius II’s son Cyrus in Asia Minor, and in the embassy of Nicolaus and Aneristos, mentioned earlier in the chapter.152 Patronage played an essential role in the selection of Spartans for overseas roles.153 Mitchell’s tables of Spartan ambassadors’ magisterial appointments shows that by 435 bce Spartan elites had a web of connections that spread across the lands to the north and east.154 Amongst these connections, a number of men appear to have been linked to Persia. Pasippidas acts as ambassador in 408 bce; Antalcidas, son of Leon, is ambassador on four occasions, in 393/2 bce, 387/6 bce, 375 bce and 367 bce; and Euthycles is also ambassador in 367.155 Similarly, Antalcidas becomes nauarch in 388/7 bce in the hope of pleasing Tissaphernes, though Mitchell notes that this was an isolated case.156 Antalcidas’ trip to Asia led to meetings with Tiribazus at Sardis and a secret offer of funding from the satrap.157 In 388/7 bce Antalcidas set out on an embassy to the Persian king.158 His negotiations with Artaxerxes II at Susa led to ‘eternal friendship’ between the king and the Spartans, and a proposal for a peace agreement. It was assisted by the presence of Tiribazus at the court and also Ariobarzanes, his hereditary xenos.159 The result was the King’s Peace of 386 bce, an agreement sworn by Sparta, Persia and envoys from the Greek city-­states at Sardis.160 According to Plutarch there was a xenos relationship between Antalcidas and Artaxerxes. This involved the presentation of a significant gift to Antalcidas, although the relationship was jettisoned by Artaxerxes once it had outlived its usefulness.161 The Greeks of Asia were left in the power of the 151 

Thuc. 8.17.4–18.3. For lists of Spartan officials see Mitchell 1997: appendix 1.1. Xen. Hell. 1.4.2, Hdt. 7.137. The existence of a treaty of Boeotius is debated; see Lewis 1977: 123ff; Tuplin 1987a; Cartledge 1987: 189–90; 2002: 266; Stronk 1990–1: 121. 153  See Xen. Hell. 3.4.27–9 (Agesilaus), 2.4.28 (Lysander). 154  See Mitchell 1997: ch. 4 and appendix 1.1, for a full list. 155  Mitchell 1997: 78. For Euthycles, see Xen. Hell. 7.1.33. 156  Xen. Hell. 5.1.6. 157  Xen. Hell. 4.8.12–16 (Tiribazus); Isoc. Paneg. 128; Mitchell 1997: 125. 158  Xen. Hell. 5.1.6; Diod. Sic. 14.110.2–3. 159  Xen. Hell. 5.1.6, 25–32; Mitchell 1997: 126–7. 160  Philochorus, FGrH 328F151. 161  Plut. Artax. 22.2, 6; Pel. 30.4; Mitchell 1997: 127. 152 

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king, and the king was to act as guarantor of peace in Greece. Sparta became the agent of the king in Greece. Appointments abroad could be influenced by relationships abroad.162 Dercylidas was replaced at Abydos by Anaxibius, who had guest-friendships with the ephors at Abydos.163 Agesilaus gave overseas posts to family and friends, appointing his wife’s brother and half-­brother, Peisandros and Teleutias, as nauarchs in 394 bce and 391 bce.164 Missiou points out their inexperience and suggests that Agesilaus was looking after his own interests.165 Not all of the appointees may have had Spartan interests at heart. There are questions asked about the behaviour of Astyochus in seeking to make friends with Tissaphernes.166 Callicratidas, the replacement for Lysander, proved unable to maintain Lysander’s contacts, which stayed loyal to him.167 As the power of Sparta waned in Greece, so it became harder for the king to enforce his will. Philiscus of Abydos’ efforts to broker a common peace in 369/8 bce fell on the altar of Theban ambition, and when Thebes won at Leuctra and became de facto hegemon in Greece, the king’s only recourse was to move to a war footing.168 When Ariobarzarnes revolted against the Great King, he switched his allegiance away from Athens and Sparta to the Thebans.169 There were Spartan representatives at the 367 bce peace conference at Susa.170 The satrap revolts of the 360s saw Spartans ally with Ariobarzarnes and rebels in Asia Minor and Egypt in response to the king’s shift to Thebes.171 There can be little doubt that this period of stasis weakened all sides. Pharnabazus, contrasted with Tissaphernes, plays the role of the ‘good’ Achaemenid, the man who keeps his promises, on most occasions.172 Connections appear primarily at state level; the representative speaks for Sparta rather than on a personal level. Yet the opportunity and temptation for personal enrichment or the enhancement of status were clearly there. Mitchell notes that the Spartan relationships with Achaemenids were ‘more personal’ than those of the 162 

Hodkinson 2000: 159. Xen. Hell. 4.8.32; Mitchell 1997: 86. 164  Plut. Ages. 10.5–6, 21.1; see also Xen. Ages. 11.3, 2.21. 165  Missiou 1998: 192–3; see also Cartledge 1987: chs 3 and 9. 166  Thuc. 8.38.4 and 8.50.2–4, 83.3; Mitchell 1997: 86–7; Lewis 1977: 96, 98–9. 167  Xen. Hell. 1.6.4. Callicratidas clearly failed to understand the importance of gift exchange in establishing relations with elite Persians; see Mitchell 1997: 112–13. 168  Diod. Sic. 15.70.2. 169  Xen. Hell. 7.1.40; Plut. Pel. 30.1–5; Artax. 22.3–4. 170  Xen. Hell. 7.1.33–40; Diod. Sic. 15.76.3. 171  Diod. Sic. 15.90.3; Xen. Ages. 2.26; Plut. Ages. 36–40. 172  Xen. Hell. 4.1.32; Hirsch 1985: 22. 163 

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Athenians.173 Lewis suggests that the Spartans had more in common with the Achaemenids than did other Greek communities.174 Some stories of Spartan–Achaemenid friendships are played out against a background of rivalry as Tissaphernes and Pharnabazus competed for the hand of Sparta.175 In the period after the Peloponnesian War, Spartan contacts with Achaemenids were maintained and led to the developments of personal relationships and guest-friendships.176 Paramount amongst these was the friendship of Cyrus, son of Artaxerxes II, and Lysander, general of Sparta.177 Lysander was a mothax, a man who was probably from a noble but poor family, and his rise to power came through the patronage of the Spartan kings.178 Lysander established a number of friendships with leaders across Asia Minor, as well as his friendship with Cyrus.179 Diodorus Siculus suggests that men competed for the friendship of Lysander.180 Although he cannot be directly linked to the actions of his close friends, it is interesting that Xenophon implicates Lysander’s friends in the troubles of Callicratidas and in organising Lysander’s restoration after Callicratidas’ death. Cyrus is also a party to this request.181 Callicratidas has not been treated kindly by the sources, who indicate that he had little love for foreigners and little idea of their value to Sparta.182 Plutarch notes that he returned gifts to Cyrus, failing to understand the patterns of exchange and guest-friendship.183 Lysander also received the tribute from Cyrus’ cities in Asia Minor when Cyrus was recalled by his father Darius II. According to Xenophon, this bequest reflected the friendship between Cyrus and Lysander, as well as the mutual accord between Sparta and the Achaemenid Empire.184 Cyrus’ return to court was supported by Sparta in the form of mercenaries, found thorough his Greek and Spartan connections.185 Cyrus maintained a 173 

Mitchell 1997: 131. Lewis 1977: 148–52. 175  Xen. Hell. 1.1.24–5, 4.1.32–4 (Pharnabazus helps); Thuc. 8.109.2 (Tissaphernes helps). 176  On Lysander and the ending of the Peloponnesian War, see Pomeroy et al. 1999: 316–19. 177  Mitchell 1997: 87. 178  On Lysander’s circumstances, see Plut. Lys. 2.1; Phylarchus, FGrH 81 F43; Ael. VH 12.43. Cartledge suggests that Lysander came initially under the patronage of Archidamus II, followed by Agis (1987: 79). 179  Xen. Hell. 2.1.6 includes Ephesus, Chios and other allied cities. 180  Diod. Sic. 13.70.4; see also Plut. Lys. 5.3–6. 181  Xen. Hell. 1.6.4. 182  Diod. Sic. 13.76.2 (no experience); Xen. Hell. 1.6.4 (unable to use Lysander’s contacts), 1.6.7 (failure to deal with Cyrus). 183  Plut. Mor. 222e; Mitchell 1997: ch. 6. 184  Xen. Hell. 2.1.13–14; Diod. Sic. 13.104.3–4. 185  Roy 1967. 174 

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standing army at the Chersonese under the command of the Spartan Clearchus.186 After the failure of Cyrus’ revolt against his brother Artaxerxes, Thibron and Dercylidas went to war against the Great King’s satraps.187 Agesilaus was sent to Asia in 396 bce in response to the news that the king and Tissaphernes were building a fleet, but his mission is one of military action, not friendship.188 However, just as dialogue between elite individuals or families and powerful Achaemenids continued throughout the Graeco-­Persian Wars, so it continued in the Spartan campaigns. Agesilaus and Pharnabazus were brought together by Apollophanes of Cyzicus, a joint friend.189 The outcome was a friendship between Agesilaus and the son of Pharnabazus.190 Xenophon also suggests that Artaxerxes sought the personal and political friendship of Agesilaus, who turned him down.191 Agesilaus’ friendships tended to be with rebels who could further his aim of military victory. He allied with the rebel Spithridates, seeking to detach Paphlagonia from the king’s control.192 He bound men to him through marriages and amity. Spithridates’ daughter is married to Otys, king of Paphlagonia, at Agesilaus’ behest.193 The concurrent tales of military action and guest-friendship suggest while personal enrichment was a possibility, military action remained the driving force behind Spartan engagements with the Achaemenid Empire in the east. We also have evidence of foreigners in Sparta at this time. As contacts and negotiations increased, so did the visits of ambassadors. Lichias is said to have entertained foreigners at his own expense when they came for festivals.194 Alcibiades spoke to the Spartan assembly and persuaded them to change their policy on Sicily.195 Though our sources vary in detail, relations between Spartans and Achaemenids continued on personal and political levels through the fourth century bce and only paused after Philip of Macedonia took control of mainland Greece. The key question for our study is, given the volume of contact and the volume of wealth that this would have 186 

Xen. An. 1.1.9. For a detailed account see Westlake 1986. 188  Xen. Hell. 3.4.1, 3, 5; Diod. Sic. 14.79.1–4. 189  Mitchell 1997: 122–4. 190  Xen. Hell. 4.1.39–40. 191  Xen. Ages. 8.3–5. 192  Xen. Hell. 4.1.2. 193  Xen. Hell. 4.1.4–15; although, as Mitchell points out, the relationship ended with a betrayal by Spithridates (1997: 122). 194  Plut. Cim. 10.5. 195  Thuc. 6.88.10–92. 187 

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created, what changes took place in the material culture of Sparta and do these show that Sparta created its own perspectives on the Achaemenids? Spartan display in the fourth century

bce

Although wealth was flowing towards Sparta and many Spartans had seen the Achaemenid court and its lifestyle for themselves, there is little sign of change in post-­war Sparta. Cartledge notes that archaeological evidence from Sparta declines in quality and quantity after 500 bce.196 There is some evidence for building at Sparta in the fifth century bce, but it is unreliable. Pausanias tells us that the Spartans put up a stoa to celebrate their role in the defeat of the Achaemenids in the Graeco-­Persians Wars, using their share of the spoils.197 The structure allegedly had caryatid statues of defeated Achaemenids holding up its roof.198 The structure known as the Leonidaion is also dated to this time. There is no evidence of monumental building in Sparta in the fourth century bce. Spartan burials remain scarce and undifferentiated.199 Although Pausanias mentions the graves of Eurypontid kings in Limnai and Agiads in Pitane, these cannot be identified or distinguished from others in the material record.200 Hodkinson notes the presence of cenotaph burials at Sparta, beginning in the fifth century bce, which are most likely to be related to the loss of Spartans overseas rather than to individual status.201 Laconian pottery declines in quantity and quality. Droop identifies ‘degeneration’ in fifth-­century Laconian V style pottery at this time.202 Hodkinson offers an interesting parallel between Laconian pottery and the fate of Corinthian ‘orientalising’ pottery. He suggests that the decline of both can be linked to their purpose as productions specifically for export.203 We may not necessarily be looking at Spartan decline here but at changes in the market for Spartan pottery. The quantity of bronze dedications made in Spartan sanctuaries also begins to decline after 450 bce and patterns of deposition shift between sanctuaries.204 If there is 196  197  198  199  200  201  202  203  204 

Cartledge 2002: 310. Paus. 3.11.3 (in the agora). The stoa has yet to be found. Vitr. De arch. 1.1.6. Hodkinson 2000: 262–3. Paus. 3.12.8, 3.14.2. Hodkinson 2000: 249–54. Droop 1929a: 94. Hodkinson 1997: 47. Hodkinson 1997: 50.

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wealth flowing into Sparta, there is no real evidence of it in the fabric of the city. While deposition in Spartan sanctuaries declines, the evidence for Spartan involvement in wider Greek sanctuaries increases. Spartan elites had been active at Olympia since the eighth century bce and, in the aftermath of the Graeco-­Persian Wars, were actively involved in building the monumental temple of Zeus there. This was a mammoth undertaking, visibly consuming materials and human energy at a site far from Sparta. Lawrence suggests that the style of the building was influenced by Spartan architecture and interests, while Tomlinson points out that the choice of the labours of Heracles as decoration on the temple of Zeus reveals Spartan interest and involvement in its construction. Heracles was the legendary ancestor of Spartan kings and also a key figure in the construction of a shared elite identity.205 More recently, Stewart has suggested that the sculpture of seers on the east pediment was a deliberate attempt to publicise links between Sparta and Elis.206 Following their victory at Tanagra in 456 bce, the Spartans placed a golden shield on the temple of Zeus, which remained there without removal.207 Scott notes that this was a political message of power and influence at the most important display location for elites in the Peloponnese and the west, if not in mainland Greece.208 Sparta also dedicated its tropaia here in the fifth century bce and set up four statues of chariot victories between 448 and 420 bce.209 Spartan interest continued in the fourth century bce. In 396 and 392 bce, Spartan equestrian victory statues for Cynisca, owner of the winning chariot and sister of King Agesilaus, were set up at Olympia.210 One was a lifesize bronze group of Cynisca, her chariot horses and charioteer; the other was a miniature bronze team.211 Portrait statues of prominent Spartans also begin to appear at Olympia. In the later fourth century, a statue of Lysander was dedicated at Olympia by the Samians.212 The Spartans set up a statue of their king, Archidamus III, who died on campaign in Italy in 338 bce.213 205  Lawrence 1983: 143, 184; Tomlinson 1976: 62. For a reading of the art and architecture of the temple, see Barringer 2005. On Heracles and elite identity, see Chapter 2. 206  Stewart 1997: 260. 207  Paus. 5.10.4. 208  Scott 2010: 192. 209  Paus. 6.1.7–6.2.3; Scott 2010: 191, 199. 210  Scott 2010: 204. On Spartan equestrian victors at Olympia in the fifth and fourth centuries bce, see Palagia 2009: 33–34; Hodkinson 2000: 307–28. 211  Paus. 5.12.5, 6.1.6. 212  Scott 2010: 107. 213  Paus. 6.4.9; Cartledge 1987: 342; Palagia 2009: 36.

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Spartan dedicatory practices had focused on Olympia but in the fourth century, after the victory over Athens, Spartan elites turned their attention to Delphi. For Scott, this behaviour signals a desire to achieve dominant status and reflects the wider battles between the two city-­states.214 Delphi was a monument to Greek elite engagement with the east. It was here that kings of Lydia and Phrygia sent gifts, and many of the buildings and dedications show strong elite and eastern influences. Athens had dominated Delphi and prior to 450 bce there is little evidence of Spartan dedications there, apart from evidence for one cauldron and involvement with the Serpent Column.215 The earliest Spartan dedication consists of a Laconian stone base for the placement of a statue on the temple terrace, a statue of Hermione at the temple, and a statue of a young man with an integral fountain on the temple terrace.216 In the aftermath of the Peloponnesian Wars, Lysander erected a monumental statue group of himself and his fellow victorious generals along with personifications of the cities that had sided with the Spartans.217 This was the first bronze monument of living commanders to be set up at Delphi.218 The monument consisted of two levels, with the commanders set up next to the cities’ personifications.219 Scott notes that this group gazumped the position of the monument to the Athenian eponymous heroes as first visible dedication at the sanctuary.220 The Spartans also constructed a stoa for their offerings and set it again at the entrance to the sanctuary, making a visual statement of their importance and the importance of their new role at the site.221 It is important to pause and look more closely at Lysander’s behaviour in establishing this victory monument: as we have already seen, previous Spartan dedications to Pan-­Hellenic sanctuaries were personal, but Lysander’s monument was on behalf of the state. While Neer has noted that Delphi was a place for the promotion of the state, the break with Spartan tradition is interesting.222 Lysander placed himself in the role of a patron of and for the state. Although this monument can be seen as an expression of collective identity, it 214 

Scott 2010: 97. Scott 2010: 96, 100; Thuc. 1.132.2–3. Low notes that there could have been lower-­key dedications (2006). On the Serpent Column, see Pomeroy et al. 1999: 203. 216  Paus. 10.16.4 (Hermione); Scott 2010: 100. 217  Paus. 10.9.7–8. 218  Palagia 2009: 36. 219  Palagia 2009: 26–38. 220  Scott 2010: 105–7. On the statues, see Plut. Mor. 18.1.1 221  Scott 2010: 107, 116. 222  Neer 2002. 215 

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places Lysander in a role as first citizen. This was not the only piece of self-­promotion by Lysander. He dedicated gold stars, either in the Spartan stoa or at the temple terrace, and also placed an ivory offering there that referenced a gift given to him by Cyrus.223 He gave a large sum of money from the spoils and a gold and ivory trireme to the treasury of Brasidas and the Acanthians, and may have sponsored the placement of a portrait statue of himself there too.224 Brasidas was a Spartan general who had died in action at Amphipolis: he had been adopted by the city as their founder (oikist) and given the honours of a hero after his death.225 Like Lysander, Brasidas was not royal and had achieved great military success. Thucydides reports concerns about the successes of Brasidas in Sparta, and it is interesting to speculate whether Lysander’s dedications are an effort to assert and to protect his status.226 Lysander also made dedications in a wide range of Greek sanctuaries, including tripods at Amycles and a crown on the Athenian Acropolis and at Delos.227 His actions may have stimulated corresponding dedications. King Agis made a dedication at Delphi at the start of the fourth century and the Spartan Landridas set up a column with an offering on it between 400 and 350 bce.228 Spartan society in the fourth century

bce

In the aftermath of his victories, Lysander sent spoils to Sparta and set up a Nike and booty on the Spartan Acropolis.229 According to Diodorus Siculus, money flowed in after Lysander’s conquests in the form of tribute.230 Wealth certainly came in to Sparta, but there is little evidence that it stimulated fundamental change. Patterns of dedication in Sparta follow previous trends and so we must search for the reasons for Spartan decline elsewhere. Scholars have noted that in the fifth century, the Spartan population began to decline.231 Hodkinson suggests that the population dipped so low that it brought defeat at Leuctra.232 This view 223  224  225  226  227  228  229  230  231  232 

Plut. Mor. 397E–F; Lys. 18.1.1 (gold stars and Cyrus’ offering); Scott 2010: 107, 117. Plut. Mor. 397F; Lys. 1.1, 18.1.1; Palagia 2009: 39; Scott 2010: 107. Thuc. 5.10–11. Thuc. 4.108.6–7, 132.3. Scott 2010: 107; Palagia 2009: 39. Plut. Mor. 467E; Scott 2010: 115 and n.239. Scott 2010: 107; Palagia 2009: 39. Diod. Sic. 14.10.2; J. M. Hall 2007: 206. Powell 2001: 100; Cartledge 2002: 263–72; Figueira 1986. Hodkinson 2000: 147.

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is based on the observation of ancient sources such as Aristotle and Xenophon.233 Population decline could cause considerable problems for Spartan security and the maintenance of a Spartan way of life. Powell estimates that there were seven non-­citizen Spartans ­(perioikoi) for every Spartan citizen fighting at Plataea; if this ratio were to increase, Sparta would begin to have problems in controlling helot rebellion.234 The earthquake showed their vulnerability and also the lower numbers of elite citizens and need for reform.235 The situation was exacerbated by a decline in land holdings. Those who could not contribute to the mess lost their place at the table and with this, their citizenship.236 Failure to control the helots and the Peloponnese displayed Spartan weakness to the wider Greek world.237 Refusal to engage could not provide a solution for long and other solutions needed to be found. One was the expansion of the Spartan franchise by handing out more citizen rights. Hodkinson notes that falling numbers led to an expansion of the military to include helots amongst the rowers.238 Agesilaus’ army contained a large number of neodamōdeis, new men who had been able to afford to pay mess contributions as a result of the Achaemenid subsidy of 470 talents in 405/4 bce.239 Achaemenid wealth aided Sparta in enabling it to create more citizens, but the effect of this was that social categories became more fluid. Status could be acquired financially, rather than through birth, as had been the case previously. The expansion of citizenship may have diluted the prestige of being a Spartan and caused a collapse in social distinctions, leading elite citizens to search for ways to re-­ define and re-­assert their status.240 This may help to explain the dedicatory patterns that we find. At Sparta, behaviour was still controlled by the need to distinguish between elite and non-­elite and display was controlled by sumptuary laws.241 In the Pan-­Hellenic sanctuaries where the elites had previously asserted status, they began to change their patterns of dedication, with more emphasis on the person of the dedicator in inscriptions and portrait statues.242 Following the 233  234  235  236  237  238  239  240  241  242 

Arist. Pol. 1270a; Xen. Lac. 1.1. Powell 2001: 99. Cartledge 2002: 185. Hodkinson 2000: 149. Cartledge 2002: 229. Hodkinson 2000: 152–3; Thuc. 8.5; Xen. Hell. 3.4.2, 15. Cartledge 2002: 236. Arist. Pol. 1270b. On sumptuary laws at Sparta, see Hodkinson 2000: 209–70. Palagia 2009.

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death of his son King Agesipolis in Macedonia in 381 bce, Pausanias set up a memorial at Delphi. It was inscribed, ‘I was erected as a memorial by Pausanias to his dear son Agesipolis. All of Greece agrees that he was brave.’243 The monument promotes the names, status and relationship of the two men and makes no mention of Sparta. It is possible that some elites may have tried to elevate their status too far. Xenophon tells us that Agesilaus sought to show that chariot victories were the result of wealth rather than excellence.244 Hodkinson notes that Agesilaus felt threatened by the behaviour of his peers.245 There are hints in Pausanias that some Spartans began to break the rules. According to Pausanias, Euryleonis, a female winner of the two-­horse chariot race, allegedly set up a victory statue on the Spartan Acropolis in 368 bce, while Lysander set up a statue of his seer in the Spartan Agora after the victory at Aegospotami.246 Spartan homoioi were only notionally equal and wealth was as much a differentiating factor in Sparta as in Athens.247 Success could breed jealousy, as tales of Brasidas show.248 Success in the Peloponnesian Wars had bred instability, and factions that may have been present but less relevant to our sources now become highly visible. According to Stronk, there were three clear groups with different views about engagements with the Achaemenid world: the traditional, more reluctant faction of King Pausanias; the open, more acquisitive faction of King Agis; and the imperial faction of Lysander.249 While the Spartan system, with its assembly and ephors, could act as a stabilising factor, it could not hold out when ephors themselves joined in the political battle.250 Pausanias was put on trial in 403 bce, and while the trial of kings was not an unusual event, it caused further destabilisation.251 Control of embassies and participation in them offered opportunities for contacts with members of the Achaemenid court and the acquisition of wealth. As Hodkinson notes, citizens wanted to become governors overseas (harmosts) rather than members of the council of elders (gerousia).252 Ambassadors also had a chance to gain influence, which could inspire further envy. 243  244  245  246  247  248  249  250  251  252 

Trans. Palagia 2009: 32. Xen. Ages. 9.6–7; Plut. Ages. 20.1. Hodkinson 2000: 327. Paus. 3.17.6, 3.11.5; Hodkinson 2000: 328. Lewis 1977: 32–3. Thuc. 5.16.1; Hodkinson 1983: 279; Stronk 1990–1: 119; Pomeroy et al. 1999: 299–303. Stronk 1990–1: 118–19; Arist. Pol. 1270b–1271a. Stronk 1990–1: 120. Paus. 3.5.2. Hodkinson 1983: 281.

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Antalcidas’ contribution to the peace conference saw him favoured by Tiribazus.253 According to Plutarch, Agesilaus and Antalcidas were rivals.254 When this is allied to internal instability, it exacerbates pre-­existing tensions and leads to plots, such as the Cinadon plot.255 Cartledge persuasively suggests that Pausanias’ refuge in the helot sanctuary of Poseidon at Tainaron may have reflected his involvement in a possible revolt.256 Sources inform us that Agesilaus faced internal opposition.257 Wealth offered a route to power. Lysander took the opportunity to seek advancement through building on his successes.258 This caused a reaction in the other factions, who focused on controlling his advancement.259 His policies were reversed by King Pausanias, who became wary of Lysander’s rising power.260 According to Diodorus Siculus, Lysander sought to be king and toured oracles seeking approval for the qualifying background of potential kings to be widened after the death of Agis.261 He used power as a gift to win control over the Ionian and Hellespontian cities by creating decharchies.262 Lysander’s friendship with Cyrus led the Spartans into war with the Achaemenid Empire and provoked disagreement between the three factions in Sparta.263 His friendship with Cyrus benefitted Sparta but also benefitted Lysander personally, allowing him to attain a position of power in Asia Minor.264 Lysander played kingmaker in the appointment of Agesilaus but found himself cast off once Agesilaus was in control.265 As Hodkinson notes, the wealth of the Achaemenid Empire exacerbated pre-­existing trends.266 O B S E RVAT I O N S Our study of Spartan engagements and Spartan perspectives on the Achaemenids acts as a counterpoint to the view from Athens. The looking glass cracks here and instead of creating a wealth of 253  254  255  256  257  258  259  260  261  262  263  264  265  266 

Xen. Hell. 4.8.12–16 (at the peace conference Tiribazus gives him money). Plut. Ages. 23.2. Plut. Ages. 32.6; Arist. Pol. 1306b; Xen. Hell. 3.3.4–11; Cartledge 2002: 234. Cartledge 2002: 184. Diod. Sic. 15.19.4; Xen. Hell. 5.3.16. Lewis 1977: 34–5. Plut. Lys. 18.18–23; Xen. Hell. 2.4.29. Xen. Hell. 2.4.29; Diod. Sic. 14.33.6; Plut. Lys. 21.3. Diod. Sic. 14.13.1–6. Plut. Lys. 5.3, 4.5; Stronk 1990–1: 124. Stronk 1990–1: 126–9. Cartledge 2002: 232 (on Lysander and Cyrus). Stronk 1990–1: 130–2. Hodkinson 2000: 152.

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Achaemenid images and ‘Persias’, Spartans studiously ignored the change. Early Sparta engaged with the east and used artefacts and transformations to assert the unity and power of the homoioi. The identity of the homoioi was formed by their allegiance and participation in the Spartan system and in opposition to outsiders and helots. The arrival of the Achaemenid Empire did not impact on Spartan identity. There are no large deposits of phialai in Spartan sanctuaries, no rhyta and no buildings in Achaemenid style. Even in Pan-­Hellenic sanctuaries, Spartan dedications follow the patterns already laid down to emulate, adapt and compete with the dedications of fellow Greeks. Spartan contexts and patterns of display remain fundamentally unchanged, despite the tales of money flowing into Sparta. The Achaemenids did not become the east for Sparta in the same way that they did for Athens, as Spartan identity was not as dependent on external artefacts to qualify and assert elite distinctions.

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6 Entering the Hall of Mirrors: Macedonia and the Achaemenid Empire In our final chapter we will turn to look at Macedonia, the third of the great power blocs of the late Classical era. In the Archaic and early Classical periods, Macedonia was intimately connected to the world of the Greek poleis and the Achaemenid Empire and, as a result of its position between mainland Greece and Persia, was of strategic importance to both. It provided access between the two countries and was at various times a pawn in their power games. It occupied a unique physical space between the city-­states of Greece and the Achaemenid Empire without truly being a part of either. This left Macedonia open to cultural influences from both Greece and Achaemenid Iran, as well as the Balkans. In the period after the Peloponnesian Wars, as the finances and power of Athens and Sparta waned, Macedonia began to emerge as a power in its own right. By the late fourth century bce, it dominates our view as a result of its hegemony, empire building and defeat of the Great King. This chapter will explore the material and textual evidence for engagements between Macedonia and the Achaemenid Empire, and consider the different ways and reasons why ideas from Achaemenid Iran and Greece were incorporated into the architecture and artefacts of this region. H E L L E N I S AT I O N , P E R S I A N I S AT I O N A N D T H E N E W H E L L E N I S T I C WO R L D Our ability to read Macedonian evidence is coloured by narratives of Hellenisation and modern politics. It is important to understand how these shape our view before we look at the evidence. With regard to contemporary politics, scholarship on Macedonian history 255

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has traditionally divided into two schools. The first maintains that early Macedonia was ‘archaic’ and outside the world of the Greek city-­states until it Hellenised in the reign of Philip II and began to expand its imperial ambitions.1 This view receives some support from text and archaeology. Arrian’s Alexander claims that until his father called them, the Macedonians were herders, at the mercy of invaders, while in Herodotus’ Histories, the Macedonian king Alexander I is described as a ‘tyrant’.2 Borza points out that there are no temples or other public monuments set up by the early Argead dynasty.3 He sees Macedonia as a society with a fluent culture, open to and influenced by contacts with the countries around it.4 In contrast, a second group of scholars suggest that Macedonian material culture reveals a style and shape common to other Greek communities and argues that we are too dependent on views, ‘based on classical Athens’, which push Macedonian evidence away from being identified as ‘Greek’.5 Both views are drawn from the ethnic politics of the region and the natural desire of Greek scholars to see Macedonia take its rightful place alongside other Greek communities in this period.6 Yet we cannot escape the fact that Macedonian evidence is unique, and this should not be a problem. Macedonia was not a city-­state. It was a vast expanse of land containing many groups of people with different political leaders, political structures and political affiliations. Indeed, Archibald cautions about seeking to define early Macedonian groups too specifically or viewing them though models based on Athens.7 While the city-­states and ethnos communities of Archaic and Classical Greece had certain similarities, it is important to remember that they also maintained fundamental differences. For example, while they worshipped the same gods and built similar-­ style temples, their political spaces and political buildings show great differences in shape and organisation.8 We should not expect to see consistency within Macedonia or between Macedonia and ‘Greece’ when we do not find it in other ‘Greek’ evidence. The death of Alexander, conqueror of the Achaemenid Empire, is used as a turning point in the measurement of history. The  1 

Views criticised in Mari 2011. Arr. Anab. 7.9.2–6; Hdt. 8.142; on Greek views of Macedonia, see Hall 2001.  3  Borza 1990: 269.  4  Borza 1990: 276.  5  Saatsoglou-­Paliadeli 1999: 361.  6  For a discussion of key issues, see Sourvinou-­Inwood 2002.  7  Archibald 2000: 214–15.  8  As we have already seen in this book, Athens had a built-­up urban centre (Chapter 3), while Sparta remained a collection of discrete villages (Chapter 5).  2 

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Classical period begins when the Graeco-­Persian Wars drew to a close in 480 bce and ends with the death of Alexander in 323 bce. Then begins the Hellenistic era, when the Successors of Alexander, the Diadochoi, took over his empire to create new monarchies and states. Alexander and his Successors spoke Greek and so the term ‘Hellenistic’ encapsulates the idea that the culture of the Hellenes (Greeks) spread out of Greece and into the east. Yet the notion of Hellenistic time and Hellenising cultures contains at its heart a Greek perspective. It perpetuates a tradition of scholarship that promotes a singular ideology of ‘the glory that was Greece’, at the expense of the unique achievements of the individual communities within the Greek-­speaking world. Just as the Achaemenids have suffered at the hands of later scholars, so have the Macedonians, whose empire has been subsumed under a banner of ‘Greek’ achievement. It is hard to understand how the waning power of the Greek city-­states could enhance the status of powerful Macedonian rulers. The ideology of ‘Hellenisation’ binds all Greek communities together and eradicates their unique differences and histories. It is not a useful filter through which to read evidence of Macedonian behaviour in the east or Macedonian perceptions of the Achaemenid Empire. It is important to look at the actions of Macedonian kings in their wider socio-­ political context rather than in relation to ‘Greek’ identity. In the following sections, I will argue that Macedonia offers a unique perspective on the Achaemenid Empire. For the first time we find reversals in the use of external cultures to create elite identity. First, I will show that the art, artefacts and ideas of Greek city-­ states become ‘external’ and are used by rulers from Macedonia to create dialogues of identity and power within Macedonia. It is this Macedonian creation of ‘Greek’ identity that is established within the new empire. Second, I will argue that ‘Persianising’ becomes apparent on a much larger scale only at the time of Alexander and intensifies after his death. This is a consequence of the establishment of his kingship and his death without a clear heir. In the power vacuum created by his death, Alexander came to be associated with the artefacts and culture of the Achaemenid Empire, and these were used to underscore the exercise of power by those who followed him in Macedonia as well as in the new Hellenistic kingdoms. In the late fourth century bce we descend into a hall of mirrors where the complex nature of elite identity leaves us with Greeks in Achaemenid Iran and Persians in Macedonia.

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T H E R I S E O F M AC E D O N Early Macedonia and the ‘east’ We know little of pre-­Hellenistic settlements in Macedonia, as evidence for them is scarce.9 The most visible settlements in the region are prehistoric tell sites, placed to exploit resources such as water, grazing land and arable land.10 The territory of Macedonia was large and offered a route of communication between lands to the north, south, east and west.11 Society appears to have been transhumant, with different groups moving around it.12 In this early period, there are no indications of geo-­political unity and the political organisation best matches an ethnos model, which offers the most efficient way of utilising its resources. Early evidence has been found during excavations at later sites. There is evidence of habitation at Vergina in the tenth century bce, but this was largely destroyed by later habitation.13 Most of our evidence for early Macedonia comes from graves.14 According to Gimatzidis, most of the ceramics in Sub-­ Protogeometric graves are of local manufacture, yet there are other items in the graves from the lands around Macedonia, including bronzes from central Europe.15 Prior to the eighth century bce, the material culture of the region is more Balkan than Greek or eastern.16 There is also evidence for contacts with Greek communities to the south, including Lefkandi.17 The Euboean pendent, semi-­circled skyphos is found at Vergina and Dion (Dium) in south Macedonia and in western Macedonia. It is also present at Thessaloniki, Thasos and Troy.18 Evidence from Torone in Chalcidice appears to confirm a Euboean origin for the colonies there.19 These settlements multiplied across the eighth and seventh centuries bce and provided places for interaction and cultural exchanges.20 These exchanges went both ways, as Macedonian products also flowed  9  Archibald 2000: 227. For discussions of the evidence, see Hatzopoulos and Loukopoulos 1981: 10–11; Hammond 1972; Hatzopoulos and Paschidis 2004; Hatzopoulos 2011: 43–9. 10  Archibald 2000: 224. 11  See Map 2. 12  Hatzopoulos 2011: 45; Del Socorro 2012: 59. 13  Saatsoglou-­Paliadeli 1999: 353. 14  Frazer 1982. 15  Gimatzidis 2010: 85. 16  Morris 1997: 31; Mari 2011: 80. 17  Osborne 1996a: 44. 18  Popham 1994: 30. 19  Popham 1994: 33. 20  Mari 2011: 84–5.

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into Greece. At Lefkandi there were imports from Macedonia in a late Protogeometric burial.21 Early Macedonian bronzes have been found in Peloponnesian sanctuaries.22 We can also see clear evidence for the transformation of external ideas and objects in Macedonian artefacts. Bouzek observes a Peloponnesian influence on Macedonian figural style in the eighth century bce pottery century bce.23 Boardman notes that eighth-­ reflects Greek Geometric style in its decoration but has a shape more similar to Phrygian vessels.24 Interestingly, there is little evidence for orientalising in pottery shapes or decoration. Morris suggests that ideas of orientalising were less relevant in the north, while aristocratic graves in Vergina and Pateli show no interest in anything ‘oriental’.25 This contrasts with the graves and sanctuaries at colonial sites, which do contain orientalising pottery.26 ‘Orientalising’ appears to be a language that spoke more loudly to settlers than to native Macedonians and reflects its use in their domestic communities. The material patterns are similar to those that we saw at Lefkandi and Athens in the tenth and ninth centuries bce, with a lack of settlement and rich graves. Macedonia and Persia from the late Archaic period to the end of the fifth century bce As we move into the Archaic period, textual and archaeological material increases and our view of Macedonia and its relations with Achaemenid Iran become clearer. Macedonia features strongly in the narratives of Herodotus, who may have journeyed there, although this does not mean that we can read his representations without caution.27 From approximately 512/11 bce Macedonia was under Achaemenid dominance.28 According to Herodotus, Darius’ general Megabazus sent demands for earth and water from Amyntas I in Macedonia.29 Amyntas’ acceptance acknowledged the hegemony of the Achaemenid Empire 21 

Popham 1994: 33. Bouzek 1986. 23  Bouzek 1986. 24  Boardman 1999: 228. 25  I. Morris 1997: 42. 26  I. Morris 1997: 31. 27  Herodotus writes that he knows for himself, suggesting personal knowledge (5.22). For tales of Macedonia, see Hdt. 5.17–22, 8.126, 8.36, 8.140–43, 9.44. 28  On Achaemenid conquests in the Balkans, see Hammond and Griffith 1979: 55–60; Borza 1990: 101–5; Briant 2002a: 141–6; Olbrycht 2010: 343–5. 29  Hdt. 5.17–18. 22 

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over his territory and obliged him to contribute to military ventures.30 Megabazus sent seven envoys with his request, all of whom were ‘esteemed men’.31 According to Herodotus, Amyntas’ son Alexander killed the envoys after they sought to molest the women of the Macedonian court. Before any retribution could be exacted for the missing Iranians, Alexander arranged a marriage between his sister and the Iranian Bubares, which ensured that the matter was hushed up.32 This story probably tells us more about views of Macedonia and Achaemenid Iran in fifth-­century Athens than it does about Archaic Macedonia.33 The story emphasises that the Macedonian royal family was unwilling to acquiesce fully to Iranian overlordship, an attitude that would earn them kudos in post-­war Athens. The tale is a weaving of truth and embellishment that shows the danger of relying on Herodotus. Amyntas I clearly recognised Darius’ claim to overlordship and married his daughter to an Iranian noblemen, while his son Alexander loyally served the Great King.34 Briant notes the close relationship of Iran and Macedonia.35 The Achaemenids appear to have left Macedonia its autonomy whilst under their control.36 Olbrycht notes that Alexander used the support of the Great King to expand his power by taking land from his neighbours at this time.37 As Justin notes, Alexander extended his kingdom though his own efforts and also as a result of gaining Xerxes’ favour.38 Indeed, Amyntas II was born from the marriage between Megabazus’ son Bubares and Gygae, daughter of Amyntas I.39 The co-­operation of the royal family is also suggested by the gift of Alabanda, a Phrygian city, to Amyntas II by Xerxes.40 Macedonians served in the Great King’s army and protected Medising cities in Boeotia for the Great King.41 They may appear as one of the groups named ‘Yaunā’ in the reliefs from the Hall of the 100 Columns.42 30  Kuhrt 1988: 887–99. For discussions on early kings in Herodotus, see Sprawski 2010: 127–44; Mari 2011: 79–92. 31  Hdt. 5.17; Gillis 1979: 40. 32  Hdt. 5.17–21. 33  Errington sees the tale as fiction (1981). 34  Badian 1982: 34. 35  Briant 2002a: 154–6. 36  Olbrycht 2010: 342; Borza 1990: 101–5; Briant 2002a: 141–6. 37  Olbrycht 2010: 344. 38  Just. Epit. 7.4.2. 39  Hdt. 8.136.1; Just. Epit. 7.3.9 (on family ties between the Great King and Macedonian kings). 40  Hdt. 8.136.1. 41  Hdt. 7.185, 9.3, 8.34. 42  Sancisi-­Weerdenburg 2001: 329.

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References to ‘Yaunā takabarā’ on an inscription of Darius I could also indicate Macedonians.43 Herodotus offers a similarly disingenuous picture of Macedonian behaviour in the period of the Graeco-­Persian Wars. Although he is on the side of the Great King, Alexander I gives advice to the Greeks on three occasions. First, as the Great King’s army approaches in 480 bce, he sends messengers to the Greek army telling them the number of troops and ships heading their way and advising them to depart from the pass between Mount Olympia and Mount Ossa that they are guarding.44 Second, Alexander appears again with a message for the Athenians from Mardonius in 479 bce. On this occasion, he advises them to accept Xerxes’ offer of peace.45 Finally, Alexander appears as an informer before Plataea. He tells the Greeks of Mardonius’ plan and how close the Greeks might be to victory.46 Alexander appears to have no clear loyalty to either side. Borza suggests that Macedonia had learnt to ‘play both ends off against the middle’ as a result of its central place between Iran and Greece.47 Badian more cynically suggests that Alexander supported the Greeks at Plataea when he knew they would win.48 Again, the tales may tell us more about Macedonia’s relations with Greece in the post-­war period. It is at this time that Macedonian kings first make claims to Greek ancestry.49 Alexander competed in the Olympic Games and dedicated a gold statue of himself at Delphi as a tithe of Macedonian booty after the end of the Graeco-­Persian Wars.50 Herodotus tells a tale of the royal family’s origins in Argos and puts into the mouth of Alexander a speech about his love for Hellas and his hope that it will remember him after it is victorious.51 Borza suggests what is most important about the tale is that Macedonian kings wanted to believe it. He calls it a ‘political device  . . . to suit a tactical need’.52 The Macedonian court also joined the cultural and intellectual elite Greek circuit in the post-­war period. Alexander was praised by Pindar and Bacchylides and may have invited them, 43 

Olbrycht 2010: 344. Hdt. 7.173. 45  Hdt. 8.140a–b. 46  Hdt. 9.44–5. 47  Borza 1990: 115; on Amyntas and Alexander’s relations with Greek states, see Mari 2011: 86. 48  Badian 1982: 34. 49  Badian 1982: 34. 50  Hdt. 8.121; Dem. 12.21. 51  Hdt. 8.137, 9.45. There was certainly a fourth-­century record of Alexander’s help in Athens; see Dem. 23.200 and 13.23–4 (Demosthenes confuses Alexander and Perdiccas). 52  Borza 1982: esp. 13. 44 

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along with Herodotus and Hellanicus, to his court.53 In the later fifth century Euripides was reputed to have written and presented four plays at Pella, where he died and was buried, while Zeuxis completed murals for the palace of Archelaus, and the poet Agathon visited.54 Again, this reflects a manner of engagement with external cultures that we have already seen in the Archaic Greek mainland. I would suggest that this behaviour is more than tactical. It reflects the fact that early Macedonian royal identity was intimately tied to the Greek mainland, rather than identifying with the east or the Achaemenids. Perspectives from archaeology increase in this period, although the users and uses of building remains are still difficult to view with ­certainty. Descriptions of sites by ancient authors are fragmentary and may obscure our ability to understand if imposed on the evidence without sufficient care.55 Some Macedonian settlements can be dated to the sixth to fifth centuries bce.56 At Vardarski Rid, for instance, there is settlement evidence from these centuries, including what may be the remains of monumental public building.57 This has been linked to the settlement of Gortyn, which appears in a number of ancient sources.58 At other sites, buildings of Archaic date have been excavated. At Pella, an Archaic megaron building was discovered with ashes and animal bones in two pits. Price suggests that these are the remains of sacrifices, giving the building a religious function.59 The religious function apparently continued into the Classical period with a monumental tholos complex built across the earlier megaron. The main tholos building also contained sacrificial material, and in a smaller tholos to the north-­west was a small altar.60 Two similar megaron-­style buildings were found at the site of Dion, which was a significant religious centre in Macedonia from this period.61 These temples have been linked to the cult of Demeter and dated to the sixth century.62 They were simple ­two-­roomed buildings made of 53 

Mari 2011: 87; Ginouvès 1994: 27. Andronikos 1988: 94; Sawada 2010: 394. 55  Archibald 2000: 215. 56  Hatzopoulos and Paschidis 2004: 795. For full list of pre-­Hellenistic settlements not attested as poleis, see Hatzopoulos and Paschidis 2004: 795–7. 57  Mitrevski 1996; Papazoglou 1988: 181–2; Hatzopoulos and Paschidis 2004: 796. 58  Thuc. 2.100.3. 59  Price 1973: 67. 60  Price 1973: 67–8. 61  Hatzopoulos and Paschidis 2004: 800–1; Touratsoglou 1997: 251–61; Pandermalis 1994; Dion appears in Thuc. 4.78.6; SEG 31 630, 48,785; Diod. Sic. 17.16.3; Paus. 9.30.8, 10.13.5; Ps.-­Scylax 66; Livy 44.7.2–3. 62  Pingiatoglou 1996 54 

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ashlar blocks and mortar and in form were like the later temple of Artemis Aristoboule at Athens.63 They contained wooden benches with dedications placed on them.64 Their importance within the site is reflected in the decision to replace them with larger buildings in the fourth century bce.65 These earlier buildings make little use of architectural techniques from elsewhere in Greece.66 Tomlinson attributes this to an absence of stone for building and to the possibility that Archaic Macedonian sites have been thoroughly destroyed, leaving only chance finds rather than consistent patterns of evidence.67 Vickers identifies an Archaic Ionic temple from Therme, later Thessaloniki, and suggests that ‘there was a settlement of some pretensions on the spot’.68 Andronikos notes that fifth-­century columns found at Neapolis and possibly Therme show clear influence from Ionic prototypes.69 We cannot see this as clear evidence of Macedonian building techniques as Therme may have been a Corinthian settlement.70 Scholars suggest that Greek colonies exerted a dominant influence in shaping Macedonian civic and political institutions and urban structure.71 Akamantis dates the regular layout of Pella to the Classical period.72 There is certainly evidence for concerted building by Macedonian kings in the fifth century.73 Archelaus built roads and forts.74 In 438 bce, Perdiccas encouraged local groups in Chalcidice to combine to create a new settlement on the North Hill at Olynthus, and may have assisted with its construction.75 Evidence from Olynthus shows a rich mix of images reflecting contacts with Greece and also the east. In House A vi 3, Room b consisted of a dining room of the same type found in Greek sanctuaries, with a marked border for couches.76 At the heart of the room was a mosaic of Bellerophon ­fighting the 63 

Paspalas 2011: 185. Pandermalis 1997: 17–18; 1999, 61–2. Pandermalis 1994: 96–101. 66  Tomlinson 1983: 285. 67  Tomlinson 1983: 285. 68  Vickers 1981: 330. Touratsoglou cautions that the location of the site of Therme remains uncertain (1997: 61). 69  Andronikos 1988: 93–4. See also Tiverios 2008: 28. 70  Vickers 1981: 330, 332. This is questioned by Tiverios, who notes that archaeology and inscriptions in the area indicate a range of different groups from Greece, east Greece and local, Thracian elements (2008: 26–8, 41 n.178). 71  Archibald 2000: 215. 72  Akamantis 2011: 394–5. 73  Archibald 2000: 229. 74  Thuc. 2.100.1–2 (Archelaeus); Hatzopoulos 1987. 75  Thuc. 1.58.2 (Perdiccas). 76  Robinson and Graham 1938: 101–2, pls 34, 97. On the dining rooms of Olynthus, see Morgan 2006; 2011b. 64  65 

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Fig. 6.1. Mosaic of Bellerophon fighting the chimera, from House A vi 3, Room b, Olynthus (photograph by author). Reproduced with permission of the ­Ephorate of Antiquities of Chalcidice and Mount Athos. The copyright of the ­antiquities depicted herein belongs to the Hellenic Ministry of Culture & Sports (Law 3028/2002).

Chimera, shown in Figure 6.1. Although Bellerophon was a Greek hero with particular links to Corinth, he also had Syrian associations and his myth places him in Lycia, making him a travelling hero like Heracles.77 The threshold of the room, shown in Figure 6.2, was filled by a mosaic scene of griffins attacking a stag, reflecting the elite sport of hunting and also knowledge of mythical creatures with links to Greece and to Anatolia, Egypt and Achaemenid Persia.78 Other mosaics at the site contained images of panthers, sphinxes and lions.79 The mosaics are likely to have been influenced by contacts with Anatolia, particularly Gordion, where they appeared from the eighth century bce onwards.80 This suggests that the community at Olynthus drew on many different influences, including southern Greek, Macedonian and eastern, and reflecting its position at a geographical crossroads. Hatzopoulos suggests that from the fifth century bce, Macedonia can be viewed as a partly urbanised society.81 77  78  79  80  81 

Kosmetatou 2004: 150; Miller 1997: 144–5; Raimond 2007: 145. On griffins as a symbol of the Near East, see MacDonald 1978; Paspalas 2008. Robinson 1933: pl. 2 (panther), pls 6, 15 (sphinx), pls 8, 17 (lion and griffins). Young 1965. Hatzopoulos 2011: 48.

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Fig. 6.2. Threshold mosaic showing griffins attacking a stag, from House A vi 3, Room b, Olynthus (photograph by author). Reproduced with permission of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Chalcidice and Mount Athos. The copyright of the antiquities depicted herein belongs to the Hellenic Ministry of Culture & Sports (Law 3028/2002).

During the period of Achaemenid rule it is inevitable that there were direct contact and opportunities for cultural exchanges between Macedonians and Iranians.82 For Balcer, contact and cultural change under the Achaemenid Empire can be witnessed in the minting of coins in Macedonian mints.83 Images on the coins of Alexander I reflect a mix of affiliations, including a Greek helmet on the reverse of some and a lion, as on the coins of Croesus, on others. Archelaus minted his coins on the Achaemenid standard.84 In the Archaic period there is evidence for rich burials containing objects from Athens, Corinth and east Greece with patterns similar to those that we have seen in Corinth, Ionia, Athens and Sparta, including patterns with lions, Gorgons and chariots.85 These reflect the general patterns of elite engagements and elite lifestyles elsewhere in the Mediterranean and Greek east. We can also see evidence of the adoption and adaptation of Achaemenid forms. The funeral couch (klinē) first appears in 82  83  84  85 

Paspalas 2000b: 531. Balcer 1985: 162–8. Seltman 1960: 139. Del Socorro 2012: 65.

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rich graves of the fifth century bce, reflecting contacts with Anatolia as much as Achaemenid culture.86 Paspalas suggests that Macedonia may not have been exposed to as much Achaemenid influence as Athens; however, it is equally possible that ideas about Achaemenid Iran worked differently in Macedonian society.87 Although graves contain Achaemenid drinking paraphernalia, Tomlinson suggests that miniature furniture in the graves shows Near Eastern reclining was not adopted by banqueters in Macedonia.88 As Miller has pointed out, drinking styles can reveal affiliation to or rejection of an external culture; they can also be adapted and incorporated into pre-­existing patterns of behaviour without any need for change.89 It is important to remember that as a looser political entity, communities in Macedonia were controlled and established by different dynasties, and their material forms reflect the needs and status requirements of those specific groups. We have clear evidence from Aiani in western Macedonia, which was the capital of the kings of Elemia from Archaic times into the fourth century bce.90 Karamitrou-­Mentesidi suggests that Aiani was a major urban settlement long before Macedonia was unified under Philip II.91 Here excavators found three monumental buildings on the top and slopes of its ­acropolis.92 Hatzopoulos and Paschidis suggest that some of the buildings formed an agora complex and that this and the residential area show that Aiani was a polis from the sixth century bce.93 Karamitrou-­ Mentesidi places most of the surviving architectural remains in the fifth century, including a stoa with Ionic capitals and a building with ashlar masonry.94 There are also ‘private ­dwellings’, which show a number of ‘eastern’ influences, such as sphinx stamps on roof tiles and figurines of Cybele.95 The graveyard had built tombs and cist graves of the sixth to early fourth centuries bce. These contained rich grave offerings of jewellery, phialai and in Tomb Ζ a Panatheniac amphora.96 86 

Baughn 2013: 267–72. Paspalas 2000b: 532. 88  Tomlinson 1993. 89  Miller 2011. 90  Karamitrou-­Mentesidi 2008; Hatzopoulos and Paschidis 2004: 797; Ginouvès 1994: 29–32. 91  Karamitrou-­Mentesidi 2011: 95. 92  Karamitrou-­Mentesidi 1993a; 1993b; 1996a; 1996b; Karamitrou-­Mentesidi and Vatali 1997. 93  Hatzopoulos and Paschidis 2004: 797. 94  Karamitrou-­Mentesidi 2008: 32, 34. 95  Karamitrou-­Mentesidi 2008: 35, 38. 96  Karamitrou-­Mentesidi 2008: 49–63; 2011: 100–7. 87 

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Tomb Ι was dated to the first half of the sixth century bce. It contained bone plaques with scenes of women, warriors and chariots. There was also an Ionic capital, which Karamitrou-­Mentesidi believes held a sphinx.97 Funeral sculptures in elite tombs of around 500 bce at Aiani include male figures, a kore, lions and palmette stelae.98 Andronikos notes influences from island, Attic and Ionian models in the sculptures.99 Terracotta figurines in the graves came from eastern Ionian, Attic and Boeotian workshops.100 Karamitrou-­Mentesidi calls Aiani ‘prosperous’ and notes that we should not see the people of the area as isolated or nomadic.101 As we have already seen in our Archaic evidence, the existence of a central place does not rule out a lifestyle that was more mobile, and the range of Greek and ‘eastern’ goods in the graves suggest that artefacts and ideas from both groups were used to construct elite identity here. Graves offer us the best evidence for external items in Macedonian settlements. Attic and Corinthian pottery appears in the seventh and sixth centuries bce.102 Paspalas notes that there were ‘local lords’ willing to adopt practices from the east and south at this time.103 Excavations at the cemetery in Sindos, near modern Thessaloniki, produced a range of rich graves from the second half of the sixth century bce.104 Items in these graves show a range of contacts to the north and south, including Illyrian-­style helmets with gold face masks and pottery from Athens and Corinth.105 They also contained elaborate jewellery with eastern influences, mesomphalic phialai and figurines in east Greek styles.106 Barr-­Sharrar notes that the style of the jewellery and the bronze mesomphalic phialai found at Sindos  97 

Karamitrou-­Mentesidi 2008: 66. Paspalas 2011: 180.  99  Andronikos 1988: 94. 100  Karamitrou-­Mentesidi 2008: 69; 2011: 107. 101  Karamitrou-­Mentesidi 2008: 82. 102  Andronikos 1988: 92–3. 103  Paspalas 2011: 181. 104  Vokotopoulou, Despinis, Michailidou and Tiverios 1985; Ginouvès 1994: 33–5. 105  For examples see, Vokotopoulou et al. 1985: 52–9 (Case 7, Male Grave 65, c. 530–520 bce, helmet, Corinthian vases), 120–7, 152–65 (Case 20, Male Grave 25, c. 540 bce, helmet, gold decorations; Case 25, Attic kylix, Corinthian aryballoi), 148–51 (Case 24, Male Grave 115, c. 520 bce, helmet, gold face mask), 258–63 (Case 51, Female Grave 28, c. 560 bce, Attic kylix, Corinthian alabastron). 106  For examples, see Vokotopoulou et al. 1985: 152–65 (Case 25, seated figurines of gods in east Greek style), 232–5 (Case 45, Male Grave 52, 510–500 bce, silver mesomphalic phiale), 242–5, 264–5 (Case 48, Female Grave 28, c. 560 bce, figurines of seated deities wearing the polos; Case 52, gold pendant). The authors note that the jewellery in Case 36 (Female Grave 67, c. 510 bce) is similar to jewellery found at Trebeniste (Vokotopoulou et al. 1985: 200–3).  98 

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were inspired by contacts with eastern craft workers, whether in Macedonia or in Achaemenid workshops in Asia Minor.107 A number of fifth-­century tombs from Sindos have symposium equipment of Achaemenid-­style assemblages.108 The grave of an adult male contained a bronze hand-­held strainer, a bronze cauldron and a bronze ladle with tripod stand, while the grave of a boy contained a jug, an oinochoe and an exaleptron along with four bronze mesomphalic phialai.109 Objects similar to those in the Sindos graves were found in Classical graves at Vergina.110 Two of the six Classical graves were undisturbed and contained Attic and Corinthian pottery, including a Panathenaic amphora, as well as bronze vases and miniature furniture. There were also external objects including a glass unguentarium of Phoenician type, amber and two ostrich eggs.111 There are lobed mesomphalic phialai in Vergina from around 540–530 bce.112 These suggest contacts with east Greece under Achaemenid rule.113 The volume of eastern-­inspired objects is not large and is counterbalanced, in quantity if not in value, by items from Greece. This could reflect Macedonia’s open location and the range of communities that crossed it and engaged with its peoples, although, as Paspalas has noted, the lobed mesomphalos phialai of the sixth and fifth century bce could have come from contact with the Greek world.114 Most fifth-­century sculpture is also from graves.115 Funeral sculpture was influenced by east Greek and also Attic traditions, although it is important to remain aware that east Greek traditions were themselves influenced by Achaemenid shapes and styles.116 We can see island or Ionian influences in the funeral relief of a girl from Thessaloniki, made at around 440 bce, and in the fifth-­century marble stele of a young and an old man from Acanthus.117 Other stelae show signs of Attic influence mixed in, such as the late fifth-­century bce stele from Pella of a boy named Xanthos, or the fourth-­century bce

107 

Barr-­Sharrar 1986: 74. Moorey 1980. 109  Graves 37, 59; Paspalas 2000b: 551. 110  Saatsoglou-­Paliadeli 1999: 355; Drogou 2011: 243–56. 111  Ginouvès 1994: 35–8. 112  Paspalas 2000b: 551; Sideris notes that there are also ribbed beakers similar to those on the Persepolis reliefs (2008: 344–5). 113  Paspalas 2000b: 550. 114  Paspalas 2000b: 551. 115  Paspalas 2011: 181. 116  Paspalas 2011: 180. On the dangers of writing about ‘east Greek’ art, see Root 1991. 117  Andronikos 1988: 93; Paspalas 2011: 185, 183. 108 

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stele of a boy in his mother’s embrace from Pydna.118 There is also a late kouros from Europas and two tomb markers of sphinxes at Archontike in Pella and Pentavrysos in Orestis.119 This brief study of the evidence for engagement with Achaemenid culture in the period before Philip does not indicate that there was a large-­ scale adoption of eastern styles, artefacts or ideas. The predominant early culture found is Balkan, and as time passes, material from the city-­ states to the south begins to dominate assemblages. Achaemenid material is not rejected but appears to be integrated into elite assemblages rather than dominating them. There are also unique regional assemblages. Del Socorro notes the presence of a burial assemblage unique to the region, consisting of miniatures of a cart, table, chair and spits.120 Again, this suggests engagement in the elite practices of feasting, dining and travel or chariot racing. P H I L I P, A L E X A N D E R A N D T H E A C H A E M E N I D EMPIRE Philip, Greece and Persia Our view of Macedonian history improves in the mid-­fourth century bce, although there is still uncertainty about Macedonian structure and institutions. Hammond and Griffith suggest that ‘There is a complete absence of any tribal nobility in the Macedonian state of the fourth century’, yet Billows disagrees, suggesting that in the early fourth century bce Macedonia was still ruled by a hereditary monarchy and landed elite.121 At the accession of Philip II of Macedonia, our perspective on relations between the Achaemenids and the Macedonians begins to change. Philip II unifies Macedonia and sets his sights on southern Greece.122 As a result of his engagement with the Greek city-­ states to the south, details of Philip’s behaviour and information about Macedonia begin to appear in contemporary Athenian sources. With the emergence of a strong Macedonia, Athenian rhetoric reveals the competition between factions in Athenian politics, which centres on whether the speaker 118 

Paspalas 2011: 184. Paspalas 2011: 180. Del Socorro 2012: 66; 2013. See also Vokotopoulou et al. 1985: 114–19, 138–41, 170–3, 240–1. 121  Billows 1995: 9; Hammond and Griffith 1979: 163. 122  Just. Epit. 8.6.1–2; Hatzopoulos 2011: 45. 119  120 

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supported Philip or the Great King. The orator Demosthenes, whilst acknowledging that the Great King is the common enemy of all Greeks, still argues for co-­operation with him rather than Philip.123 In contrast, Isocrates rails against the Achaemenid king and supports Philip.124 At about this time we learn that the Great King had become aware of Macedonian expansion and the problems that it could cause. Diodorus tells us: ‘Philip’s increased power had been reported in Asia, and the Persian king, who viewed this power with alarm, wrote to his satraps on the coast.’125 A new battle for hegemony between Macedonia, Greece and then Achaemenid Iran was the only possible outcome. First Philip defeated the Greeks, ending Athenian resistance at Chaeronea in 338 bce. Then in the aftermath of Chaeronea, he held a peace conference at Corinth, engineering himself into position to lead the Greeks against the Great King.126 Diodorus tells us that Philip wished to become leader of the Greeks and punish the Achaemenids for ‘profaning the [Greek] temples’.127 Philip had built up a store of knowledge of and contacts in the Achaemenid Empire through conflict and diplomacy.128 He engaged with satraps and local rulers, conspiring with Hermias, tyrant of Atarneus, in 342 bce and negotiating a proposed marriage between his own son Philip Arrhidaeus and Ada, daughter of Pixodarus, the satrap of Caria.129 Aware of the need to destabilise regimes in the Troad, Philip interfered in political disputes there, eventually attacking Perinthus and Byzantium in 341/40 bce, for which he was attacked by Arsites, satrap of Hellespontine Phrygia.130 Philip had direct contact with the Achaemenid court through diplomatic engagements and it is possible that in 351 bce he sent an embassy to the Great King.131 Arrian includes details of ‘friendship and alliance’ between Philip and Persia, mentioned in a letter from Darius  III to Alexander.132 Although the issue of an alliance is debated, there 123 

Dem. 14.3–6, 9.70–2, 10.31–4; Tuplin 1996: 154. Isoc. Paneg. 102–4, 4.120–2. 125  Diod. Sic. 16.75.1. 126  On the conference, see Tod 1948: 177; on Philip as head of the Greeks, see Dem. 18.201; Aeschin. 3.132; Just. Epit. 9.5. 127  Diod. Sic. 16.89.2. 128  For overviews of engagements between Philip and Persia, see Briant 2002a: 688–90; Hornblower 1994: 89–96. 129  Hermias (Theopompus, FGrH 115 F291; Diod. Sic. 16.52.5; Dem 10.31–4); Pixodarus (Plut. Alex. 10.1–2). 130  Dem. 11.5; Diod. Sic. 16.75.1–2; Arr. Anab. 2.14.5. 131  Olbrycht 2010: 350. Demosthenes mentions Philip’s ‘plots’ (10.49). 132  Arr. Anab. 2.14.1–2. 124 

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were certainly contacts between the courts of Philip and the Great King and opportunities to engage at cultural and political levels.133 Philip may have used a network of agents in courts and assemblies throughout Asia Minor and Greece, as Aristotle’s sojourn in Athens and involvement in Atarneus suggest.134 Further information came to Macedonia via exiles. Philip’s court was open as a safe haven to those who fled from the Great King.135 He first supported the Iranian noble Artabazus in his struggle to succeed his father Pharnabazus. When Artabazus rebelled against Artaxerxes III c. 356 bce and was defeated, he fled to Philip’s court in Macedonia, bringing with him his family and Artaxerxes’ Greek general Memnon.136 Other named exiles at Philip’s court include Sisines, a Persian nobleman, and Amminapes, a Parthian nobleman.137 The reception of exiles offered an opportunity to learn about the politics and culture of the Achaemenid Empire and the Achaemenid court.138 Some of the finds of Achaemenid and Persianising artefacts from this period may have been inspired by this contact with exiles and diplomats.139 As Paspalas has pointed out, Artabazus fled with his whole household and possessions, offering the Macedonian court a view of Achaemenid artefacts and a lesson in their use.140 Many scholars have suggested that Philip’s interest in Achaemenid Persia was more than political and that he used Achaemenid models to ‘create’ a new monarchic structure within Macedonia.141 A fragment by Aristotle set out in Philodemus’ Rhetorica certainly offers a warning from Aristotle to Philip about adopting Achaemenid monarchic styles and succession practices, but as this is a later piece of writing with a rhetorical purpose, we cannot rely upon its claim.142 Borza puts the case more clearly in arguing that Philip began to use Achaemenid-­style institutions, including the ‘taking of multiple wives and titles, the establishment of a Royal secretary and Archive, the creation of a Royal bodyguard and the elevation of the religious role of the king’.143 Paspalas too suggests that Philip was inspired by 133 

Hornblower 1994: 91. Olbrycht 2010: 347–9. 135  Olbrycht 2010: 347. 136  Diod. Sic. 16.52.3. 137  Sisines (Curt. 3.7.11); Amminapes (Curt. 6.4.25; Arr. Anab. 3.22.1). 138  Olbrycht 2010: 347. 139  Barr-­Sharrar 1986; Themelis and Touratsoglou 1997: 183–5. 140  Paspalas 2000b: 546; Diod. Sic. 16.52.3. 141  Spawforth 2007: 90–2. 142  Philodemus, Rhetorica 2.61; Olbrycht 2010: 346. 143  Borza 1992: 249–51, also 279. See also Kienast 1973: 15–32; Badian 1996: 11–26; Olbrycht 2010: 345–51. 134 

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Persian practices and drew his ideas of empire from them.144 Briant and Lane Fox are more cautious. Both point out that while the key features of Achaemenid monarchy, such as gift exchange, service relationships and support for local rulers, are features also found in Philip’s Macedonia, these may be natural features of monarchic socio-­political structures, rather than borrowings.145 Sawada and Brosius point out that both the Achaemenid and Macedonian courts contained inner circles of the king’s companions and pages, drawn from amongst the elite families.146 In Macedonia, the role of a companion was a position of honour and enshrined in a special festival called the Hetaerideia.147 It is certainly tempting to equate the Macedonian companions with the Achaemenid ‘kinsmen’.148 According to Arrian, Philip introduced the institution of pages, but this is not necessarily a reflection of the Achaemenid court. The role of royal page was an honorary post and may have involved training and initiation rituals similar to those undergone by Spartan boys.149 It may also reflect the lessons learnt by Philip as a hostage in Thebes about the benefits to be gained by separating young men from their families and binding their loyalty to the court.150 This may help us to understand the hints of intimate relations between pages and court elites. Sawada suggests that the origins of Alexander and Hephaistion’s relationship can be traced here.151 Women of the court also played roles in securing the centre through marriage alliances, just as women did in the Achaemenid harem. According to Satyrus, Philip took many wives.152 Many of these women arrived as a result of political agreements with the communities around and within Macedonia. This was a shrewd political manoeuvre by Philip, rather than a desire to emulate the Great King. The marriages gave Philip connections and influence in many elite households and courts, although they could also be de-­ stabilising as all the sons of his marriages were legitimate.153 Plutarch writes of jealousy between Philip’s wives and the problems 144 

Paspalas 2000b: 551–2. Briant 1994: 283–6, 301–2; Lane Fox 2007: 269–70. 146  Sawada 2010: 392; Brosius 2011a. 147  Hegesander (Ath. 13.572D). 148  Olbrycht 2010: 345. 149  Hammond 1990; Sawada 2010: 403–6. 150  Arr. Anab. 4.13.1. See also Curt. 8.6.2–6. On Philip as hostage, see Diod. Sic. 16.2. On the royal pages, see Spawforth 2007: 85. 151  Sawada 2010: 406. 152  Satyrus (Ath. 557b–e). 153  Just. Epit. 9.8.1–2, 11.2. 145 

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this caused.154 There were also marriages of family members to other powerful families. In 336 bce, as Pixodarus of Caria approached Philip to offer a marriage alliance, Philip was offering his daughter Cleopatra to Olympias’ brother Alexander of Epirus.155 These marriages created a court bound to the king and loyal to him. It was not a foolproof system. Sources indicate that there were tensions within the court, especially in relation to succession, and there was jealousy amongst the inner circle. The death of Philip came at the hands of a bodyguard who felt he had been treated with dishonour.156 It is vital for a king to be first amongst men and first in the eyes of gods. Sources show us that Philip sacrificed to the gods on behalf of the people. After the capture of Olynthus he gave sacrifice, held competitions and used the magnificent occasion as an opportunity to invite and impress foreign dignitaries.157 Perhaps most significantly, Philip placed himself alongside the gods in a figurative and literal sense. As Diodorus tells us, the lavish display that took place at the festival in honour of the wedding of Philip’s daughter included images of the twelve gods, and ‘along with these was conducted a thirteenth statue, suitable for a god, that of Philip himself, so that the king exhibited himself enthroned among the twelve gods’.158 There was also a sacred τέμενος of Philip at Philippi.159 Borza believes that Philip’s religious behaviour was an effort to change conceptions of Macedonian kingship by elevating the role beyond the traditions of Greece and Macedonia.160 However, his worship was not without precedent. Amyntas III had been granted a shrine at Pydna, but this may have been established after his death; Philip was still very much alive.161 This behaviour distances Philip from Achaemenid practices, as the Great King was the servant of Ahura Mazda, rather than his equal. Lane Fox suggests that Philip sought to emulate the glory and fortune of the Achaemenid king, rather than copy Achaemenid practices.162 It is essential to the maintenance of power that a court centres on the figure of the ruler, with his family, retainers and army dancing 154 

Plut. Alex. 9.5–8. Plut. Alex. 10.1–2 (Pixodarus); Diod. Sic. 16.91.4 (Cleopatra). Diod. Sic. 16.93.1–94.4. 157  Diod. Sic. 16.55.1–2. 158  Diod. Sic. 16.92.5–93.1. 159  Chaniotis 2003: 434; SEG 38.258; Lane Fox 2007: 270. 160  Borza 1992: 250. 161  On honours for Lysander and Amyntas III, see Chaniotis 2003: 434; Fredriksmeyer 2000; Badian 1981. 162  Lane Fox 2007: 270; see Theopompus, FGrH 115 F124. 155  156 

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attendance. This structure is original to neither Achaemenid Iran nor Macedonia, and so it is not surprising that we can find common features in the two.163 Livy’s much later description of Macedonian court hierarchy shows only that our basic model remains unchanged and understandable, irrespective of date and culture: ‘At the front . . . are . . . the suits of armour of all the kings of Macedonia . . . next follows  the king himself, with his children; then the royal  cohort and bodyguards, and at the rear the remaining body of the Macedonians.’164 If Philip was truly seeking to emulate Achaemenid practices, we would expect to see the adoption of special regalia or transformed artefacts used to heighten ideas of majesty.165 One key feature of Achaemenid rule was the inaccessibility of the Great King. Whether in court or at feasts, the Great King remained apart from the people as a statement of majesty.166 Philip retained Macedonian practices. Texts note that he spoke directly to the people and dined in sympotic style with elite Macedonians. So we find Diodorus describing Philip as ‘bringing together the Macedonians in a series of assemblies and training them in military skills while, exhorting them with eloquent speeches to be men’.167 He also appears to dine as an equal with his companions at feasts.168 Spawforth points to two possible examples of emulation. In the first, he notes that Philip makes use of a special throne before 336  bce and suggests that this was in emulation of Achaemenid practices.169 The papyrus with details of Philip’s throne comes from a romance tale of the second century ce.170 Its use of the phrase τούς τ]ε περὶ θρόν[ον does not necessarily indicate an artefact but may refer to the use of the throne as a symbol of monarchy. In his commentary Kapetanopoulos compares the phrase with Herodotus’ description of the court as ‘those around Xerxes’.171 This is not clear proof of the adoption or use of an Achaemenid throne. Spawforth’s second example concerns Arrian’s description of the duties of royal pages in helping to mount the king on his 163 

Briant 1994. Livy 40.6. Further passages naming a retinue of body guards can be found at POxy. 15.1798; Diod. Sic. 16.93.3–6, 94.3–4. 165  On artefacts and majesty in the Achaemenid court, see Brosius 2007; Llewellyn-­Jones 2013. 166  Brosius 2007; Llewellyn-­Jones 2013. 167  Diod. Sic. 16.3.1 168  On Philip at symposia, see Dem. 19.192–5; Diod. Sic. 16.55.1–2, 87.1–2; Theopompus (FGrH 115 F236); Plut. Alex. 9.4–5; Ath. 13.557d–e; Carney 2007. 169  Throne (FGrH 148 F1 = POxy. XV 1798 fr. 1); Spawforth 2007: 91. 170  Kapetanopoulos 1996: 81. 171  Kapetanopoulos 1996: 85; Hdt. 8.99.2. 164 

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horse ‘in Persian style’.172 With regard to the ‘Persian-­style’ mounting, the Achaemenids were renowned as riders, and horse bits from Achaemenid Iran and in Iranian style have been found throughout lands in the empire and on its periphery, including an example from Olynthus.173 This may not be a reflection of regal behaviour but may reflect the ‘Persianising’ practices of wider elites. In order to seek more clarification, we will turn now to look at material evidence from this period. Material evidence for fourth-­ century Macedonia presents us with a view of an aristocratic society which made great gestures of display, owned horses, hunted and was renowned for its wealth.174 Macedonian wealth is clearly visible in graves. Metal vessels in particular dominate elite fourth-­century burials, in contrast with their absence in the cemeteries of southern city-­ states.175 Barr-­Sharrar notes, however, that the principal influence on toureutic styles is south Greek and Athenian, while luxury toreutics showing signs of Achaemenid influence only begin to appear in Macedonian graves from the mid-­fourth century bce.176 The two small footless kalyx cups shown in Figures 6.3a and 6.3b are from graves of the second half of the fourth century bce at Sedes and Thessalonike and show clear signs of borrowing from Achaemenid Iran.177 As Figure 6.4 shows, there are similar vessels being carried by the Lydian delegation on the Persepolis gift-­giving reliefs. The exhibition ‘Treasures of Ancient Macedonia’ displayed many other objects with Achaemenid influences found in fourth-­century bce graves at different Macedonian settlements, including Achaemenid-­style drinking assemblages with ladles, strainers and phialai.178 There are also imported and transformed artefacts in the tombs at Derveni. Derveni Tomb B contained objects in Achaemenid style, including a pitcher, two phialai and a kalyx cup with a Gorgon mask, dated to the fourth century bce.179 The Derveni krater, dated to around 330 bce, reflects what Barr-­Sharrar identifies as the ‘style of the Macedonian court’.180 She suggests that Philip’s Hellenism ‘provided the atmosphere in which 172  ‘Persian style’ (Arr. Anab. 4.13.1); Spawforth 2007: 91. On the possibility of royal pages as an Achaemenid institution, see Briant 1994: 301. 173  Donder 1980: 161 n.103. See Diod. Sic. 17.77.5 for Alexander’s Persian horse trappings. 174  Archibald 2000: 212. On the horse as an elite symbol, see Langdon 2008: 11. 175  Barr-­Sharrar 1982: 123; Sawada 2010: 393. 176  Barr-­Sharrar 1986: 71; Pfommer 1987: 55–63; Zimmerman 1998: 36–42. 177  Barr-­Sharrar 1982: 131; Ninou 1979: nos 280, 317. 178  Examples in Ninou 1979 include ladle (185), strainer (185, 187) and phialai (41, 45, 107, 125, 129). 179  Barr-­Sharrar 1986: 76–9; Themelis and Touratsoglou 1997. 180  Barr-­Sharrar 1982: 133.

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Fig. 6.3. (a) Silver kalyx cup with central omphalos, dated to the second half of the fourth century bce, from Cist Grave 1974, Stavroupolis, Thessalonike, AW 7427 (Ninou 1979: cat. no. 280). Reproduced with permission of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Thessalonike Region. The copyright of the antiquities depicted herein belongs to the Hellenic Ministry of Culture & Sports (Law 3028/2002).

Fig. 6.3. (b) Silver kalyx cup with central omphalos, dated to the second half of the fourth century bce, from Grave Γ Sedes, Thessalonike, AW 5425 (Ninou 1979: cat. no. 317). Reproduced with permission of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Thessalonike Region. The copyright of the antiquities depicted herein belongs to the Hellenic Ministry of Culture & Sports (Law 3028/2002).

Fig. 6.4. Lydian tribute bearers bringing kalyx cups and bull-­handled amphorae as gifts for the Achaemenid king at Persepolis (photograph by Lloyd Llewellyn-­Jones).

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this high level of creativity flourished’.181 Tomb B at Derveni also contained a papyrus copy of Timotheus’ Persians.182 In his study of Achaemenid style in Macedonia, Paspalas suggests that objects found and copied in Macedonia at this time fit into a pattern of ‘court-­derived repertoire’.183 Although these examples of toreutic art offer us a valuable insight into Macedonian transformations of Achaemenid wares, they are not present in great numbers before Alexander’s conquests.184 As a part of his unification and control, Philip also began to build. We have already seen the importance of building as a symbol of power in Chapter 2, and so Philip’s productivity in construction should come as no surprise, any more than his choice of sites and buildings. He founded cities to pacify and maintain control of the regions he conquered. Diodorus notes that Philip ‘imposed on the conquered barbarians the payment of a tithe . . . and by founding strong cities at key places made it impossible for the Thracians to commit any offences in the future’.185 Philip enhanced pre-­existing royal sites and created new settlements. Strabo tells us of Pella that he ‘enlarged it from a small city, because he was reared in it’.186 Philip also created monumental buildings within Pella, as residences for himself and his court.187 The layout of Pella is regular and conforms to a grid pattern.188 Philip would have been familiar with grid-­plan cities. Most Greek settlements overseas appear to have been constructed using a grid plan, and the Greek settlements in Macedonia would have been no exception.189 The new development on the North Hill at Olynthus, constructed with the help of King Perdiccas in 438 bce, was also set out on a grid plan, as shown in Figure 6.5.190 The site was razed to the ground by Philip in 348 bce.191 Grid plans offer a fast and effective way to create an organised settlement; they also permit space to be equally divided amongst the groups who inhabit the settlement. This is especially important when the groups are from different communities, as was the case in early overseas ventures and 181  182  183  184  185  186  187  188  189 

2004. 190  191 

Barr-­Sharrar 1982: 134. Andronikos 1994: 147–90. Paspalas 2000b: 551–2. Paspalas 2000b: 550. Diod. Sic. 16.71.2. Strabo 7 fr20. On Pella, see Akamantis 2011: 393–408; Touratsoglou 1997: 137–49. Ginouvès 1994: 88–9. Akamantis notes that this grid existed ‘from earliest times’ (1994: 94). For examples of Greek grid-­plan cities, see the essays in Cherchiai, Jannelli and Longo Cahill 2002: fig. 6; Robinson and Graham 1938: 14; Thuc. 1.58.2 (Perdiccas). On sources for Olynthus, see Cawkwell 1962.

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Fig. 6.5. View of the archaeological site of Olynthus, showing regular patterns of construction in the streets and house blocks (photograph by author). Reproduced with permission of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Chalcidice and Mount Athos. The copyright of the antiquities depicted herein belongs to the Hellenic Ministry of Culture & Sports (Law 3028/2002).

also at Olynthus.192 Yet while the design may reflect equality within the community for settlers, for outsiders looking in, there may be another meaning altogether. For the inhabitants of Macedonia and especially for Philip, the grid plan was a Greek city. It may be that Philip’s desire to construct orderly, grid-­plan cities was tied to his desire to reflect his ‘Greek’ identity.193 Philip may also have been involved in building work at Vergina. Saatsoglou-­ Paliadeli and Kottaridi offer persuasive evidence for linking an earlier building to Philip.194 Although the visible remains are of a building set up in the late fourth century, both scholars note the presence of inscriptions preserving the name of Eurydice, Philip’s mother, in its vicinity. Saatsoglou-­ Paliadeli suggests that Philip’s 192 

On early ventures overseas, see Malkin 2003; Raaflaub 2004; Antonaccio 2007a. It is also possible that the grid plan reflected the structure of a Macedonian army camp; see Morgan forthcoming. 194  Saatsoglou-­Paliadeli 1999; Kottaridi 2011: 297–333; 2002. 193 

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Fig. 6.6. Reconstruction of the Philippeion at Olympia, from Herrmann 2003: 124 (K. Herrmann, Rekonstruction 1988, drawing by Eva-­Maria Czako, D-­DAI-­ATH-­ Olympia-­4907). Courtesy of the Deutsche Archaeologische Instituet Athens.

building must be below the visible remains.195 The presence of his mother Eurydice’s tomb, set up around 343 bce, enhances the dynastic and religious aspect of the site. It also echoes the role of Philip’s building at Olympia, the Philippeion, built at around 335 bce and shown in Figure 6.6.196 This building was a pure statement of power. The Philippeion was a tholos with a mix of Macedonian form and Greek style. While Townsend points out its similarities to choregic monuments in Athens, it also echoes the form of the Tholos in the Athenian Agora and the Tholos at Delphi.197 While the Tholos in the Agora may have been seen as a Persianising building by the residents of Athens, we should not presume that Philip read the same message in its shape and style. Its distinctive shape was the same as the early Classical tholos at Pella, and Philip’s choice of this shape may well have been designed to emphasise continuity between the two sites, as well as his Greekness. In placing it at Olympia, he showed his 195 

Saatsoglou-­Paliadeli 1999: 360. Lawrence 1983: 244. 197  Townsend 2003: 54. On the Tholos in the Athenian Agora, see Chapter 3; on Delphi, see Scott 2010. 196 

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ability to access and control resources, both human and material. He also showed his power to transform the elite landscape by placing a building of his own choice in one of the main contexts for elite display in mainland Greece. The building emphasised his Greek status but also distinguished him from other elites. While he was not from one of the elite families who had owned and used the site for centuries, his family were given an eternal presence. The statues in the Philippeion were of Philip, his parents Amyntas and Eurydice, his wife Olympias and his son Alexander.198 This placed Philip’s dynasty next to Zeus, just as Philip linked himself to the gods in his procession with the gods’ statues in Macedonia.199 The Macedonians were not the only fourth-­century rulers using external forms to reflect or enhance their status. The Nereid Monument, built in Xanthus at around 390–380 bce, mixed Greek and Achaemenid elements in its architecture and decoration. These included an Achaemenid-­style audience scene where the satrap sat on a throne with his feet off the floor, greeting emissaries and protected by hoplites.200 The Pavaya sarcophagus from Lycia also has a Greek-­style scene on one side and an Iranian-­style scene on the other, with the local satrap again shown seated on a Persian-­style diphros to receive visitors.201 In Lycia, the rock-­cut tombs of elite families mimicked the style of Greek temples and Achamenid royal tombs, as shown in Figures 6.7 and 6.8. More famously, Mausolus, satrap of Caria, indulged in a programme of Graeco-­Persian-­style building that integrated elements of the two cultures. Mausolus also created a Greek-­style sanctuary at Labraunda, but may have used it to host court events.202 Carstens suggests that his use of Achaemenid forms and activities shows Achaemenid approval of his exercise of power.203 The shapes from royal monuments also filtered into wider fourth-­century contexts. In Piraeus, the grave monument of Niceratus, shown in Figure 6.9, took a stepped form, echoing the tomb of Cyrus (see Figure 2.9 above), while using statuary and an Amazon frieze in the style of the Mausoleum.204 Niceratus was a metic from Istros on the Black Sea, and his choice of styles made

198  199  200  201  202  203  204 

Paus. 5.20.9–10; Ginouvès 1994: 194–221. Diod. Sic. 16.92.5. Fedak 1990. Fedak 1990; Paspalas 2000b: 546. Hellström 1989; 1994: 44–6; 1996: 194; Carstens 2011: 121, 124. Carstens 2011: 129. Allen 2011: 210–11; Vlassopoulos 2007a: 92.

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Fig. 6.7. Fifth-­century bce rock-­cut tombs from Myra, showing a mixture of Greek, Anatolian and Achaemenid architectural forms (photograph by Jake Taylor).

Fig. 6.8. Rock-­cut grave of Achaemenid king at Naqsh-­e Rustam (photograph by Lloyd Llewellyn-­Jones).

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Fig. 6.9. Grave monument of Niceratus and his son Polyxenus, metics from Istros on the Black Sea coast, found in Kallitheia. Piraeus Museum, 2413–1519 ­(photograph by author). Reproduced with permission of the Archaeological Museum of Piraeus. Copyright Hellenic Ministry of Culture, Education and Religious Affairs. The copyright of the antiquities depicted herein belongs to the Hellenic Ministry of Culture & Sports (Law 3028/2002).

a clear statement about his knowledge of external forms and his power to transform them and move them into Attica. Mausolus and Philip were taking external ideas and using them to make a statement about power in their own lands. Just as Pericles used the Achaemenid apadana, so Mausolus used the structure of the Greek city. Just as Cimon ‘Laconised’, so Philip ‘Hellenised’. Philip and Mausolus were not copying but were using a complex and symbolic language of power that was directed at elites and people alike. They were showing their knowledge and ability to control, command and transform the cultures of others. With regard to cities, what they created were not replicas but ‘Hellenising’ artefacts. Their cities were Greek in shape, showing their power to take and transform the cultures of other but operated according to Carian and Macedonian social and political requirements. The smaller quantities of

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Achaemenid-­style artefacts in Macedonian contexts match the vague nature of the evidence for Philip’s supposed use of Achaemenid court structures. Neither shows conclusively that he sought to emulate the Achaemenid court. In fact, there is clearer evidence for his using Greek forms to express his power. While Mausolus created a fusion of Carian, Hellenising and Persianising forms in the Mausoleum, the Philippeion was a fusion of Macedonian and Greek forms.205 Texts inform us that Philip identified strongly with the Greeks and dreamed of leading Hellas to victory against the Persians.206 He wished to impose his power on Achaemenid Iran, not to emulate it. Understanding Alexander As we will see in this section, ancient sources link Philip’s son Alexander III more clearly to the adoption of Achaemenid forms, as a means to create a spectacle of kingship, yet scholars disagree about his motives for this display. For Briant, he was the ‘last of the Achaemenids’ and the first Hellenistic king.207 Bosworth agrees, noting that ‘From the beginning he acted not merely as a conqueror but as the proper heir of the Achaemenids.’208 In contrast, Fraser disagrees, noting that Alexander remained a Macedonian who did not favour either Greeks or Macedonians but sought to create continuity in his rule.209 More recently Robin Lane Fox has revisited the issue and put forward the view that Alexander behaved as he needed to in order to make his rule effective.210 It is difficult to see Alexander’s motives clearly, as they are hidden behind the agendas of Roman authors.211 Alexander’s interest in defeating the Achaemenid Empire may have been real enough, but the presentation of his victory and subsequent behaviour by Plutarch, Arrian and others bears the mark of hindsight and the interests and mores of a much later, elite, Roman audience.212 Alexander is represented in the sources as a Greek hero. He reads Homer, fights alongside his men and honours the gods.213 In the pre-­ Persian-­ expedition symposium at Dion, Diodorus Siculus tells us that Alexander made sacrifices, held competitions and erected a tent 205  206  207  208  209  210  211  212  213 

Root notes that the Mausoleum reflects Persian ‘court society’ (1994: 19–20). Diod. Sic. 16.60.4–5. Briant 2002a: 876; 1979: 1414; 1982: 330. Bosworth 1988: 299. Fraser 1996: 153, 172–3. Lane Fox 2007; also Olbrycht 2010: 354. On Alexander’s interest in Persia, see Plut. Alex. 5.1; Mor. 342 b–c. For a study of Alexander’s adoption of Achaemenid symbols, see Collins 2012. Plut. Alex. 8.3 (Homer); Arr. Anab. 6.6–7 (Alexander in the vanguard).

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with 100 couches, where he held a massive banquet: ‘ he entertained great numbers in person and also distributed sacrificial animals to his entire army and everything else suitable for the festive occasion’.214 But sources also represent Alexander as a ‘Persianiser’. He is accused of rejecting Macedonian ways and bringing the army to the point of revolt by going too far in his adoption of Achaemenid culture.215 He is an ‘admirer of Persian ways’ who is actively involved in the ‘Persianisation’ of his court.216 Although we must remain aware of the politics behind our sources, the discrepancies between these ­pictures merit further investigation. It is possible that Alexander’s ‘Persianising’ was politically motivated. His behaviour on defeating the Achaemenids shows an ­awareness that protocols are necessary and a willingness to follow them. First, he behaved as the Great King: having taken power, he used the symbols of power. He sat upon the throne and wore the Achaemenid clothes of the king.217 However, he did not go to Pasargadae and follow the Achaemenid rituals of king-­ making. Lane Fox suggests that Alexander’s behaviour here was a deliberate attempt to distinguish his rule from that of the previous Achaemenid rulers.218 Similarly, on arrival in Babylon, Alexander was careful to re-­build the temple and also to publicise his actions.219 Lane Fox calls this an ‘ideological desideratum’ of Babylonian kingship, but it is a necessary act of power: a usurper manages, a true king transforms.220 Plutarch’s comments that Alexander’s acculturising behaviour began only in front of the Achaemenids and his companions may indicate Alexander’s awareness that it was a necessary act, but one which needed to be performed in a way that would not upset the Macedonians, rather than a furtive desire to Persianise.221 Alexander also took over the women of the court. First he took the queen mother as his own mother.222 While this is presented as an indication of his nobility by Diodorus Siculus, it also reveals a depth of knowledge about Achaemenid practices. The power of the queen mother was exceptional. In the fourth century, Queen Mother 214 

Diod. Sic. 17.16.3–4. Arr. Anab. 7.6.1–5; Curt. 6.6.9–12; Just. Epit. 12.4.1. Diod. Sic. 18.48.5; Olbrycht 2010: 355. 217  Plut. Alex. 37.4; Diod. Sic. 17.66.3 (throne), 17.77.5–6 (clothes and harem); Curt. 6.6.2–8 (regalia and symbols). 218  Lane Fox 2007: 273. 219  Arr. Anab. 3.16.4, 7.17.2. 220  Lane Fox 2007: 275–6. 221  Plut. Alex. 45.2–3. 222  Diod. Sic. 17.37.5–6. 215  216 

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Parysatis had promoted the right to accession of her favoured son Cyrus and murdered Stateira, the wife of her son King Artaxerxes.223 The queen mother was one of only three individuals allowed to dine with the Great King and she had power to pass judgement with the king’s permission.224 Her proximity to the king gave her a role as guardian of the royal line and a level of individual power that allowed her to make decisions independent of the king.225 Lane Fox disagrees with Brosius here, pointing out that Alexander was not actually adopted by the queen mother, but adoption was not ­necessary; Alexander needed only to become her favourite.226 Alexander also made marriages with women from the families of Darius III and Artaxerxes III.227 In doing this he tied himself into the royal family lines, as his father Philip had done to ensure peace with neighbouring rulers. It was a politically expedient act that had been performed by others before him, for example Darius I.228 Alexander also took control of the royal harem.229 Although Olbrycht suggests that the harem was ‘not a part of Macedonian tradition’, Alexander must have been aware of the problems caused by leaving many royal women and mothers without sufficient control.230 We do not know exactly what he chose to do with them, and, again, later, Roman sources are keen to place him in the role of chivalrous protector, but control of the harem was an essential component of Achaemenid rule. Herodotus tells us that when the impostor Smerdis took power, the harem was divided, presumably so that those closest to the king could not identify him and his illegal power-­grab.231 Alexander was placing himself in the succession line in a symbolic manner and taking charge of the king’s inner household. I do not believe that Alexander was trying to be the next Achaemenid king. He made no effort to follow the ceremony of investiture as had Achaemenid kings before him.232 Brosius suggests that he failed to comprehend ‘the ideological issues underlying Achaemenid

223 

Plut. Artax. 6.5–6, 17–19. Brosius 2007: 39–40. 225  Brosius 1996: 21–2. 226  Lane Fox 2007: 272. In the Safavid court, the queen mother cared for and promoted the interests of heirs who were not of her bloodline. My thanks to Rory McDaid for pointing this out to me. 227  Lane Fox 2007: 267; Arr. Anab. 7.4. 228  Darius married Atossa, Artystone and Parmys amongst others (Hdt. 3.88.2–3). 229  Diod. Sic. 17.77.6–7; Curt. 6.6.8; Just. Epit. 12.3.10. 230  Olbrycht 2010: 356. 231  Hdt. 3.68. 232  Plut. Artax. 3.1–2; Briant 2002a: 534, 959; Collins 2012. 224 

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kingship’.233 Lane Fox notes that it was only after Darius’ death in 330 bce that Alexander adopted Achaemenid regal practices.234 It is at this time that we find tales of his wearing the tiara and the purple cloak with white centrepiece, and of his restricting access to his person.235 It is also at this time that Alexander begins to assume control of the royal tent.236 Lane Fox suggests that he remained a Macedonian within it, offering different perspectives on himself and his rule for the different groups in his empire.237 Alexander did not have to assume the place of the Achaemenid king in a literal sense; as victor and as a Macedonian, his power was expressed in transformation, not copying.238 We can therefore understand his selection rather than wholesale adoption of Achaemenid practices. This is not an inability to understand but a statement of power. Alexander’s adoption of the lion hunt and its imagery spoke of his power as the chief hunter rather than as Achaemenid king.239 This is an image of power that must have resonated with Macedonians. Other images, such as those on the coins of Sardis, Memphis and Syria, show him wearing the upright tiara and diadem.240 These offer different messages for groups in the wider empire as necessary. Many examples of Alexander’s Persianising seem like good sense. The integration of conquered peoples into the army and the promotion of Achaemenids to roles as guards, managers and pages ensured continuity in rulership and a peaceful transition of power.241 The marriages of his men to Achaemenid women of status again offered an opportunity for integration at the highest levels.242 This was not an unusual practice. We have already seen it in Herodotus’ tale of the marriage of Alexander I’s sister to the Achaemenid general in the period before the Graeco-­Persian Wars, in Pausanias’ request to

233 

Brosius 2003: 173. Lane Fox 2007: 278. 235  Plut. Mor. 330A; Curt. 6.6.1–8; Diod. Sic. 17.77.5; Just. Epit. 12.3.9–10. 236  Polyaenus, Strat. 4.3.24; Chares, FGrH 125 F4 (Ath. 12.514e–f); Briant 2002a: 188–9, 199–203. 237  Lane Fox 2007: 278–9, 286–7. 238  Briant puts a more practical spin on this, suggesting that the victory over Persia made the Macedonians a ‘travelling kingdom’ that naturally adopted the successful practices of the empire it took (1994: 285–6). 239  On adoption of lion imagery, see Briant 1991; Sawada 2010: 401–2. 240  Olbrycht 2010: 356; 2011. 241  Diod. Sic. 17.77.4; Arr. Anab. 7.6 (Iranians amongst companions); Briant notes that Alexander brought Iranian and local elites onto his side by his behaviour (1999: 209–17) but still considers that this apes Persian practices (2002a: 1036–7); Lane Fox 2007: 283; Olbrycht 2010: 364–5. 242  Arr. Anab. 7.4–6; Olbrycht 2010: 362. 234 

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marry a daughter of Xerxes and also in the many political marriages of Alexander’s father Philip.243 The ‘request’ for proskynesis may also be seen in the same light. The two contrasting versions that we have shed light on Alexander’s intentions. In the first version, the idea of receiving proskynesis is raised in an intellectual debate and abandoned by Alexander when the reception is negative.244 In the second, the idea is raised in a symposium and leads to the rejection of Callisthenes.245 Lane Fox points out that the occasions where the issue is raised were social, not religious.246 More recently Bowden has suggested that the tale of the ‘experiment’ in proskynesis is an invention of later tradition.247 Again, we must be aware that we are viewing Alexander’s behaviour through Roman eyes. As a descendant of Heracles, Alexander was above ordinary men in the eyes of the Macedonians. He threw feasts at the religious centre of Dion, and Philip had brought his own statue into the theatre alongside those of the gods.248 While proskynesis was strange to mainland Greeks, it may not have been unusual in the eyes of Macedonians schooled to believe in the unique relationship between king and gods, and in this sense, it echoed the relationship between the Achaemenid king and Ahura Mazda.249 Alexander’s behaviour in using the symposium as a testing ground for what he should or should not do is consistent with other evidence. The symposium was the fundamental means of communication between the Macedonian king and his elite companions.250 Lane Fox suggests that Alexander offered himself as an alternative to the Achaemenids in Asia Minor.251 His rule was new: ‘kingship and court were transformed’.252 We can perhaps see this message of difference in his behaviour at Persepolis, which reflected a deep knowledge of Achaemenid custom and an ability to use it to his

243  Hdt. 5.18.21; Thuc. 1.128–30; on Philip, see Ath. 13.557B–E (Satyrus); Cawkwell 2005: 60 n.29; Lane Fox notes that this is a common practice to assure ‘partnership’ (2007: 286). 244  Arr. Anab. 4.10; Curt. 8.5.5–24. 245  Plut. Alex. 54.4–6; Just. Epit. 12.7.1–3; Arr. An. 4.12.2–5. 246  Lane Fox 2007: 282. 247  Bowden 2013. 248  Diod. Sic. 17.16.3–4 (Alexander), 16.92.5 (Philip). 249  On the creation of Alexander’s court, see Spawforth 2007. On Greek proskynesis, see Bowden 2013: 57–9. 250  For examples, see Plut. Alex. 70.1; Ath. 12.538b–539a; Arr. Anab. 7.11.8–9. On the role of the Macedonian symposium, see Carney 2007; Sawada 2010: 396; Vokotopoulou 2001. 251  Lane Fox 2007: 271. 252  Lane Fox 2007: 293. Yet there is also evidence of continuity in his treatment of the conquered peoples. For examples of continuity in political and religious practices, see Arr. Anab. 1.17.4, 18.2, 23.7–8; Curt. 4.7.1, 5.1.19–23.

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own ends.253 In the burning of Persepolis Brosius sees an act of ­‘hooliganism’, while Lane Fox sees the act as part of Alexander’s ‘punishment’ of Persia for attacking Greece, but the destruction of the palace was also a stark rejection of established regal behaviour.254 Achaemenid kings built on the deeds and buildings of their forefathers.255 Although Alexander had taken the symbols of power, his was a new rule, and the destruction of Persepolis was a message that he would create a new authority to suit the needs of his new empire. His behaviour was not unexpected or unacceptable: Vlassopoulos’ model of globalisation and glocalisation fits well here.256 Although Alexander had taken over the Achaemenid Empire, the lives of its people changed little. His destruction of Persepolis did not produce a riot amongst his Iranian troops, whose allegiance was now to him.257 His behaviour at Persepolis reflected his break with the past and his absolute control. Under Alexander, ‘Persia’ became a language of communication between elites in much the same way as the ‘east’ did in early Greece. However, wider Macedonian identity was also tied to ideas of Greekness, and so a corresponding exchange of culture began to take place. Alexander built cities as his father had. He built in Macedonian style, which was an adaptation of north Greek colonial style. A plethora of ‘Greek’ cities sprang up in the east, and in these cities Iranians began to join the polis culture.258 As Raimond perceptively observes, Lycian elites indulged in ‘selective philhellenism, not wholesale hellenisation’.259 This is not surprising and shows the remarkable resilience of elites: as a new hierarchy came into place, they adjusted their behaviour to maintain status distinctions within it. AFTER ALEXANDER In the period after Alexander’s death, finds of luxury toreutic and other Achaemenid-­influenced items, such as furniture fittings, continue to appear in Macedonian contexts.260 Indeed, Lane Fox notes 253  Arr. Anab. 3.18.11–12; Diod. Sic. 17.72; Ath. 13.576D–E (Cleitarchus); Plut. Alex. 38.1– 4; Curt. 5.7.3–8. 254  Brosius 2003: 183; Lane Fox 2007: 276. 255  See Chapter 2. 256  Vlassopoulos 2013. 257  Lane Fox 2007: 294–5. 258  Lane Fox 2007: 295. 259  Raimond 2007: 157. 260  For an overview, see Paspalas 2000b: 550; Kosmetatou 2004: 150.

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that most signs of Achaemenid influence in Macedonia belong to this time.261 Paspalas suggests that Alexander’s adoption of Achaemenid forms may have caused other Macedonians to follow suit.262 The increase in Achaemenid goods and adapted forms in Macedonia at the time of Alexander’s victories suggests that these styles and forms had become associated with him there.263 A Macedonian grave stele from Aiani shows the dead man seated with his feet raised from the ground in the manner of the Achaemenid king.264 Boardman identifies Achaemenid-­style textiles in the paintings on a late fourth-­century tomb at Dion.265 The tombs at Vergina have a host of toreutic forms that reflect Achaemenid shapes, including silver kalyx cups of the same types that we have already seen in Figure 6.3.266 Again, we should not see these objects as simple copies; they are transformations that also reflect Macedonian tastes and Macedonian power. For example, heads are added to the omphalos at the centre of p ­ hialai.267 Ribbed beakers of types similar but not identical to the beakers on the Persepolis reliefs are also made in Macedonia at this time.268 Paspalas explains the increase in the fourth-­century Achaemenid forms in Macedonia as a statement about the appropriation of the east’s riches following its defeat.269 I would argue instead that Iran became a cultural resource for elite Macedonians looking to show affiliation to Alexander and to authorise power. Alexander’s funeral cart offers a useful paradigm for the processes described in this chapter. The designer of the cart transformed forms from Macedonia and Iran to create an ‘emphatic statement’ of his power and control over both.270 The adoptions and adaptation of forms and the need to re-­shape elite identity did not stop with Alexander’s death, but continued as his Successors fought for the right to control his empire in the absence of an heir. Lane Fox notes that the Successors continued to develop Alexander’s royal style further.271 In doing so, they presented a clear 261 

Lane Fox 2007: 270. Paspalas 2000b: 553; for examples of objects and a discussion of lion-­griffin images, see Paspalas 2008. See also Kosmetatou 2004: 150. 263  The Alexander sarcophagus suggests that the same associations between Alexander and Persia were being made elsewhere (Root 1994: 36). 264  Hatzopoulos and Loukopoulos 1981: 16–17. 265  Boardman 1970: 143–44. 266  An example can be seen in Andronikos 1984: 150 n.112. 267  Barr-­Sharrar 1982: 131–2; Themelis and Touratsoglou 1997: 217. 268  Sideris 2008: 344–5. 269  Paspalas 2000b: 553. 270  Miller 1986: 411. 271  Lane Fox 2007: 290. 262 

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Fig. 6.10. Plan of the palace at Vergina in the late fourth century bce, showing dining rooms with bordered edges for couches (drawing by Alexander Morgan from Andronikos 1984: 43).

statement of their authority as heirs, and the building at Vergina, shown in Figure 6.10, offers an excellent example of this. Kottaridi notes that the Vergina building was designed not to house the private

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life of a king but as somewhere to dine and to reflect his status.272 Ginouvès sees the building as a suite of ‘multi-­ purpose meeting rooms for the King’s seasonal receptions’.273 We have already seen the importance of the symposium in Macedonian elite society. As an occasion of display and status, it needed to include a large number of participants, in order to avoid giving offence.274 Alexander’s panegyris at Dion before leaving for Asia was hosted in a tent capable of holding 100 couches, as we have seen.275 The main function of the building at Vergina is clearly drinking and dining.276 Rooms in the Vergina building have a border around the edges for dining couches, leaving space at the front for a small table.277 These mimic the spaces for dining in Greek sanctuaries and later urban buildings, which are in emulation of earlier dining practices from the east.278 The large numbers may also reflect the arrangements of dining spaces in the Achaemenid palace. The plan of Persepolis in Figure 2.1 shows a range of small rooms situated in the south of the terrace. In size and form, these suggest a use as dining halls. Rather than being one single hall, they are separate rooms, allowing the king to participate but to choose when and by whom he was seen, if at all.279 Similar principles have been followed in the construction at Vergina. The rooms are spread around the court. As Kottaridi notes, the heart of the building is its rectangular peristyle, which offers a space that communicates between the rooms but keeps diners separate.280 This may reflect Achaemenid practices: a fragment by Chares notes that after the weddings at Susa, celebration took place ‘in the courtyard’.281 It shows Macedonian adaptation of ideas from Greece and Achaemenid Iran to make a unique Macedonian royal ­building. Links to royalty may be seen in the mosaic in Room E, which Kottaridi identifies as a repeat of the pattern on the gold and ivory shield in Tomb II at Vergina.282 The presence of a tholos containing inscriptions to Heracles Patroos, god of the dynasty, further 272 

Kottaridi 2011: 329. See also Borza 1990: 241–2; Tomlinson 1970. Ginouvès 1994: 87. Carney 2007; Vokotopoulou 2001; Tomlinson 1970. 275  Diod. Sic. 17.16.4; Alexander also hosts weddings for himself and his friends in a ­100-­couch pavilion (Ath. 12.538B–C (Chares)). 276  Tomlinson 1970: 315; although, as Tomlinson points out, we cannot tell if this is ­religious, social or both. 277  Tomlinson 1970; Saatsoglou-­ Paliadeli argues for nine dining rooms in the building rather than the sixteen of Andronikos (2001: 201). 278  On dining spaces, see Tomlinson 1970: 310; Morgan 2011b. 279  Allen 2005b. 280  Kottaridi 2011: 312. 281  Ath. 12.538c; also Esther 1.5–9. 282  Kottaridi 2011: 302. 273  274 

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links the building to regal display and power.283 Its circular shape echoes the form of the Philippeion at Olympia.284 It is no surprise that dining buildings continue to play a vital role in the architecture of the Successors. Tomlinson links later rooms at Perachora to the reign of Demetrius Poliorcetes while he was ‘king’ of Corinth, and further points to rooms at the Asklepieion of Lerna at Corinth and rooms at Epidaurus and Troizen as influenced by Macedonian style.285 Monumental dining halls did not replace Macedonian dining tents, which continued to be used as expressions of power and as contexts of display: Eumenes of Cardia uses a dream of the tent of Alexander to justify his right to assert power, while in later times Ptolemy II Philadelphus constructs a ‘pavilion’ at Alexandria and holds symposia in tents at the Ptolemaia.286 It reflects a key context where a Macedonian king exercised his power. Indeed, Tomlinson suggests the façades of Macedonian tombs derive their character from actual tents erected for feasting.287 O B S E RVAT I O N S Our search for perspectives on the Achaemenid Empire in Macedonian history and culture has taken us into a hall of mirrors. In early Macedonia, elites emulate the cultures of the Greek city-­ states. Achaemenid artefacts and ideas, even in the period of Achaemenid rule, are secondary to ‘Greek’ ideas, as Macedonian elites seek to assert their Greek identity. The defeat of the Achaemenids changes everything; ‘Persia’ comes to be associated with Alexander. An adapted version of Achaemenid culture now becomes the lingua franca of the Macedonian elite, and hence we find an increase in Persianising toreutics in Macedonian graves. At the same time as this is taking place, the east is ‘Macedonianised’, as an adapted version of a colonial city is spread through the Achaemenid Empire by Alexander and his Successors. We have Persianising in Macedonia and Macedonianising in Persia. In both cases, the external cultures are being used to reflect and reinforce the identity of the Macedonian elite.

283 

Saatsoglou-­Paliadeli 1999: 353; also Kottaridi 2011: 330. See Figure 6.6. Tomlinson 1970: 311–12. 286  Diod. Sic. 18.60.5–61.1 (Eumaeus); Ath. 5.196–7 (Callixenius on Ptolemy II). On the tent, see Studnickza 1914: pl. 1. 287  Tomlinson 1974. 284  285 

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Conclusion: Travelling with Eunuchs This book began with a palace, a eunuch and the perspective of an outsider. While Curzon may have found the figures of Persepolis monotonous, they had not been created for his eyes and they were not created for Greek eyes. For Achaemenid viewers, the eunuch on our front cover was a symbol of king and court. His presence illustrated the majesty of the king, the king’s ability to control the lives of his people and the stability of his rule. There are many figures such as this young man in the reliefs from Persepolis. They carry parasols and oil flasks or food and clothes. They appear alongside guards and officials and they stand and watch as the stone procession of the people of the Achaemenid Empire bring their gifts to the Great King. Yet our eunuch is more than a mere servant. He holds an oil container and a cloth, which shows that he was placed in a position of trust within the court. He saw the king at his most vulnerable, washed the royal body and assisted him with personal services. Our eunuch is a symbol of power, set in an eternal court of stone that remains clearly visible, even though centuries have passed. Whilst at Persepolis, then, he is a figure of power, but when taken away from the palace, he becomes a servant to the needs of others. Far away from his palace, in Classical Athens, the eunuch was a figure of derision or servility. For Athenians, a man without genitals was a woman, a man made to serve. As we have seen, eunuchs were lampooned in the plays of Aristophanes, danced on vases and were bought to be servants, as symbols of status in the homes of the wealthy, such as the household of Callias. Yet as the world changed and the Macedonians took over the Achaemenid Empire, our eunuch returned to his court. Bagoas became as essential to Alexander as our eunuch was to his king and, as Alexander’s Successors built their new empires, eunuchs returned to the side of kings and to positions of power. The Persepolis eunuch thus acts 293

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as a paradigm for the ideas in this book. When artefacts, ideas and people are taken out of their cultural context and transported into another, they become the servants of those who own or use them. Their identities become constructed through a looking glass that reflects and refracts the needs of the new viewer. Even though he remained unchanged, our eunuch travelled through the tales of outsiders, from power to servility to monotony, across the centuries. His identity warped and shifted in response to the needs of his new masters. In re-­ examining perspectives on the Achaemenid Empire, my aim was to move away from explanations that prioritised the ­Graeco-­Persian Wars and to explore the social, political and historical context of perspectives in order to understand why they were produced and how they spoke to the different Greek groups that produced and used them. I have shown that from the ‘east’ to ‘Persia’, external artefacts and ideas carried different symbolic meanings for groups in Ionia, Athens, Sparta and Macedonia. I deliberately focused on elite engagements with external culture, as elite behaviour offered the clearest view for such a wide study. This does not mean that external items had no relevance outside of elite circles. Indeed, as elite behaviour filtered down through the social system, new ideas and engagements would have developed. The purposes of elite engagement remained the same, irrespective of time or place. External artefacts and ideas were used consistently to self-­identity, compete for status and assert power from the tenth century bce into the Hellenistic world. While their purposes remained the same, uses did not. In this book I have sought to take up Gruen’s challenge and move away from ideas of war and identity created through the looking glass of opposition. Instead, I have looked at alterity as dialogue and have sought to emphasise the potential of alterity as a means to facilitate communication, whether in Ionian intellectual circles, in Spartan behaviour at sanctuaries, in the Athenian symposium or in engagements between Athenians and non-­Greeks, such as the Etruscans. In doing this, I have shown that perspectives are multi-­faceted. One perspective can have a range of different meanings that shift and warp as the contexts and users change. We should not assume that each perspective has only one meaning or that the meaning remains constant. In the late fourth century, scenes of ‘Persians’ disappear from Athenian vases. While Shapiro links this to the fading Athenian empire, it also reflects changing identities in the aftermath of Philip’s

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Fig. C.1. Monument of Lysicrates, from James Stuart and Nicolas Revett, The Antiquities of Athens, 1762 (By Twospoonfuls at en.wikipedia [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons).

victory over Athens.1 It is not the only change. Red-­figure pottery is no longer produced and instead West Slope ware and Megarian bowls appear. Athenian elites begin to use metal vessels again in a deliberate act of conspicuous consumption.2 Terracotta figures of Macedonian-­style ‘cloaked boys’ appear in cistern deposits and there are scenes from Macedonian myth on late fourth-­century vases.3 Choregic monuments, such as the monument of Lysicrates, shown in Figure C.1, ape the form of the Philippeion.4 These reflect the culture of the new Macedonian masters. Just as elites took and adapted Achaemenid culture, so Athenian elites began to acquire and use artefacts and ideas with links to the Macedonian court. Acquisition and transformation continue as a form of elite self-­ identity and statement of power; it is only the culture providing the forms that changes. As our eunuch travelled back to the courts of the Hellenistic east, so the identities created for the Achaemenids shifted to suit the needs of this new time. Persianising did disappear as a language of status, 1  2  3  4 

Shapiro 2009: 86. Rotroff 1996: 27. Rotroff 2003: 213–25; Korti-­Konti 2003: 236–42. Townsend 2003; and see Figure 6.6 above.

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but it still continued, especially in Macedonia and in areas previously under the Achaemenid Empire and now under the sway of the Macedonians. Displays of Alexander’s image and scenes of his exploits against the Achaemenid Empire became a tool to assert affiliation to the new regime or to reflect status. On the Alexander sarcophagus, we find Alexander defeating Achaemenids, but we also find decoration that echoes the Persepolis audience scenes.5 Hellenistic rulers use symbols of Alexander and of the Achaemenid Empire to reflect their right to rule, and this behaviour filters into dialogues of elite identity. The Achaemenid Empire is gone but not forgotten. In his Introduction to the conference volume Sparta and Laconia: From Prehistory to Premodern, Cartledge suggests that without Sparta ‘what we call the “glory that was Greece” would largely either not have happened at all, or would have been forgotten by posterity’.6 While I agree that the contributions of non-­Athenian Greek cultures tend to be overlooked when reconstructing ‘ancient Greece’, it is not the Spartans but the Achaemenids whose contribution has been hidden by posterity. Far from their being ‘monotonous’ or despotic kings and effeminate losers, the emulation and transformation of artefacts and ideas from the Achaemenid Empire were at the heart of ancient Greek culture, elite identities and even politics. Without the ‘east’ or the Achaemenid Empire, many of the features of Greek Classical culture would have been very different. Engagements between Greeks and Iranians fed into internal competition and provided models for elites to emulate and use in creating and asserting their own identities. Achaemenid culture was also at the heart of the Hellenistic court and the Hellenistic world. The ‘east’ and its successor ‘Persia’ bound elites together and made them distinctive. Achaemenid culture was a prize to be fought for, a jewel to aspire to and a goal to reach for. While Greek culture passed into contemporary political mythology and the Greeks became the ‘ancestors of modern Europe’, the Achaemenids passed from sight. They were cast in the role of eternal villains and chained to contemporary political narratives of authority that required them to be eternal losers. Their empire, their culture and their massive influence on the shape of the Classical and Hellenistic worlds faded out of sight. It is time to look again at Greek engagements with the Achaemenid 5  6 

Paspalas 2000: 542. Cartledge 2009: 3.

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Empire. It is time to put away the looking glasses and elevate the Achaemenid achievement to its rightful place in Mediterranean history. It is time to acknowledge the debt that the modern west owes to Achaemenid Iran.

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Index

Abdera, 87 Abydos, 244 Acanthus, 87, 268 acculturation, 91, 216, 284 in Anatolia, 92–8 in Ionia, 98–105 see also transformation Achaea, Achaean, 32, 36, 87 Achaemenid architecture, 3, 69, 72–5, 76–7, 78, 118, 123, 126, 137, 143, 150–4, 163, 206 Achaemenid army, 3, 69, 83–5, 86–7, 88, 131, 220, 260–1 on vases, 126, 168–71, 173 Achaemenid art, 1–2, 5, 69–70, 73–6, 78–9, 118–21, 123 Achaemenid court, 68, 70, 72–9, 80–2, 94, 96, 104, 126, 147–8, 150, 154, 190–2, 204, 214–15, 270–7, 283, 284–5 Greeks in, 80–3, 85, 88–90, 112–13, 121, 134, 158–62, 166–7, 205, 206–8, 211, 213, 214, 215, 237, 243–6, 252, 259–61, 270–1 Achaemenid Empire, 2–3, 5–6, 10, 85, 121, 126, 128, 131, 132, 134, 148–9, 165, 173, 185, 187, 189, 192, 194, 195, 199, 200–1, 203, 208, 211, 213, 215, 216, 218, 220, 224, 241, 253, 254, 265, 283, 288, 292 building programs, 72–3 continuity, 71–90 early empire, 67–8 expansion, 68–71, 72, 83–4, 87–8 Greeks in, 83–7 nomadism, 72 resettlement, 80, 85–6 tribes, 67–8 see also inscriptions

Achaemenid kings see individual entries Achilles, 32 adaptation see transformation Aegina, Aeginetian, 56, 81 Temple of Aphaia, 48 Aeolia, Aeolian, 71, 84, 86 Aeschines, 161n, 270n Aeschylus, 3n, 126, 147–50, 152, 154, 159, 163n, 164n, 181, 195, 206, 217 Aetolia, 32 sanctuary at Thermon, 37–8 Agariste of Sicyon, 54–5 Agency theory, 9–10 Agesilaus II of Sparta, 244, 246, 248, 251, 252, 253 Agesipolis I of Sparta, 252 Agis II of Sparta, 250, 252, 253 Ahura Mazda, 94, 273, 287 Aiani, 266–7, 289 Akhalgori, 94 Alabanda, 260 Alcaeus of Mytilene, 53 Alcibiades of Athens, 161, 163, 246; see also Alcmaeonid family Alcmaeonid family, 49, 71, 85n, 89, 107–8, 112, 113n, 129–32, 187, 204; see also Alcibiades of Athens Alcman of Sparta, 236 Alexander of Epirus, 273 Alexander I of Macedon, 256, 260–2, 265 Alexander III of Macedon (the Great), 69, 256, 257, 270, 272, 277, 280, 283–8, 289, 291, 292, 293, 296 Alexandria, Alexandrian, 202, 292 alliances, 51, 71–2, 85, 87–90, 91, 147, 158, 200, 224, 237, 242–3, 270–1; see also marriage alterity, 5, 69–71, 126–9, 174–5, 294

354

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Alyattes of Lydia, 50, 65, 81 Amazons, Amazonomachy, 125, 126–7, 175, 178, 180, 181, 185, 210, 280 ambassadors, 88–9, 126, 198 Athenian, 159–62 Spartan, 242, 243–4, 246, 252–3 Amminapes, 271 Amphipolis, 250 Amyntas I of Macedon, 259–60 Amyntas II of Macedon, 260 Amyntas III of Macedon, 273, 280 Anacreon of Teos, 104n, 105 Anatolia, 10, 36, 74, 76, 92–8, 100, 101, 102, 105, 124, 264, 266 Anaxibius, 224 Anderson, G., 130, 134, 135 Andocides, 4n, 139n, 160n, 161n, 163n andron, 62–3, 105, 163–5, 206 animal-head vessels, 10, 92–3 Ano Mazaraki, 48 Antalcidas, 243, 253 Antiphon, 161n, 163n Apadana, 3, 81, 97, 118, 134, 152, 282 Apollophanes of Cyzicus, 246 Arcadia, Arcadians, 55, 87, 152 sanctuary of Apollo at Bassae, 233 archaic poetry, 53–4, 68, 132 Archelaus I of Macedon, 262, 263, 265 Archidamus II of Sparta, 242 Archidamus III of Sparta, 224, 248 Archontike, 269 Arginousae, 146–7 Argos, Argolid, 9, 29, 36, 48, 56, 60, 62, 87, 261 Temple of Hera at Argos (Argive Heraion), 39, 47, 62 Ariobazarnes, 243 Arion of Methymna, 64, 65 Aristagoras of Miletus, 85, 86, 198 aristocrat, aristocracy, 1, 32, 34, 35, 37, 43, 46, 47, 52, 53, 63, 64, 104, 106–7, 109, 111, 121, 123, 136, 139, 143, 144, 150, 156, 160, 162–3, 165, 179, 181–2, 183, 185, 186, 187, 198, 203, 206, 212, 225, 259, 275 Aristophanes, 3n, 126, 144n, 160n, 161, 164–5, 173n, 242n, 293 Aristotle, 251, 271 Constitution of Athens, 104n, 108n, 112n, 132, 133n, 134n, 136, 139n, 140–1, 142n, 147, 150n, 181, 198n

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Oeconomicus, 134n Politics, 52n, 54n, 64n, 65n, 104n, 141n, 223n, 236n, 251n, 252n, 253n Arrian of Nicomedia, 256, 270, 271n, 272, 274–5, 283, 284n, 285n, 286n, 287n, 288n Arsites of Hellespontine Phrygia, 270 Artabazus, 271 Artaphernes, 161, 198, 242 Artaxerxes I, 161, 242 Artaxerxes II, 159, 190, 207, 214, 215, 243, 245, 246, 285 Artaxerxes III, 214, 271, 285 Artemisium, 86 aryballos, 43, 59, 108 Ashurbanipal, 68 Assos, temple, 183 Assyria, Assyrian, 10, 58, 68, 73, 76, 77, 79, 80, 82, 91, 92–3, 94, 98, 182, 194, 214 Astarte, 57 Astyochus, 244 Atarneus, 271 Athenaeus, 105n, 214n, 215, 274n, 287n, 291n Antiphon, 161n Callixenius, 292n Chares, 286n, 291n Clearchus, 105n Cleitarchus, 288n Hegesander, 272n Odatis and Zariadres, 214n Satyrus, 272n, 287n Xenophanes, 54n, 68n Athens (Athenian), 3, 9, 16, 20, 29–30, 34, 38, 39–40, 42, 52, 53, 55, 56, 57, 64, 71, 81, 82, 86, 88, 89, 101, 102, 106–23, 126–30, 188, 189, 190, 195, 198, 200, 202, 203, 204, 207, 211, 215, 218, 220, 221, 222, 224, 225, 227, 232, 234, 236, 237, 238, 240, 241, 242, 244, 245, 249, 252, 254, 256, 259, 260, 261, 265, 266, 267, 269, 270, 271, 275, 279, 293, 294, 295 Academy, 140 aqueduct, 140 Assembly, 136, 139, 141, 142, 144, 145, 146, 147, 150 Council of the Areopagus, 141, 150 elites, 106–11, 118–21, 129–32, 134–7, 138–44, 145, 149–50, 154, 155, 158–65

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Athens (Athenian) (cont.) festivals, 142, 143, 154 Kerameikos, 29 law, law courts, 133, 141, 144, 164, 181 literacy, 202 Long Walls, 3 Odeion of Pericles, 3, 126, 152–4 Panathenaic amphorae, 266, 268 Pompeion, 156 temple of Artemis Aristoboule, 139, 263 theatre of Dionysus, 149 vases, 34, 82, 106, 109, 118–23, 165–75, 182 see also Athens, Acropolis; Athens, Agora; Athenian democracy; Attica; grave; inscriptions; tyrants Athens, Acropolis, 48, 106, 109–10, 113–14, 140, 142, 154, 181, 186, 250, 179 Athena Parthenos statue, 178 Brauronian Stoa, 146 Erechtheion, 122, 146, 154 Parthenon, 128, 165, 176–8, 179, 181 Parthenon Frieze, 3, 143, 144, 178–9, 181, 185–6 ‘Persian Rider’ statue, 121, 137 Pinakotheke, 156 Propylon, 143 sanctuary of Asklepios, 156 temple of Athena Nike, 146 Athens, Agora, 140, 146 Altar of the Twelve Gods, 115 Bouleuterion, 146 Building F, 115–16, 151 Eponymous Heroes, 146 Heliaia, 114 Herm monuments, 140 House of Simon, 157 South East Fountain House, 115 South Stoa, 146, 156 Stoa Basileus, 115 Stoa Poikile, 140, 180 Stoa of Zeus Eleutherios, 145–6 Street of the Marble Workers, 157–8 temple of Hephaestus (Hephaestion), 143, 179 temple to the Mother of the Gods, 115 Theseion, 140, 176, 179, 180 Tholos, 140, 152, 154, 155–6, 279

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Athenian democracy, 5, 19–20, 24, 52, 110, 125, 128, 129, 130–1, 133, 136, 138, 140, 141, 143, 145, 147, 151, 162, 165, 184, 185, 187, 205, 219 demagogues, 141, 144, 146, 147, 179 demos, 54, 125, 130–8, 139, 140, 141, 142, 143, 144, 145, 146, 147, 149, 150, 151, 154, 155, 158, 163, 164, 178, 180, 184, 185, 186, 187, 188, 198, 205, 206, 240 athlete, athletics, 43, 107, 233, 253 Attica, 37, 38, 39, 56, 57, 106, 107, 109, 111, 112, 134, 156, 186, 282 Eleusis, 37, 116–18, 134, 137, 152 monument of Niceratus, Piraeus, 280, 281–2 Mount Hymettus, 38, 39 sanctuary of Artemis at Brauron, 156 Telesterion of the Lycomidae, Phyla, 139 temple of Apollo Delphinious, 143 temple of Ares, 143 temple of Demeter at Thorikos, 146 temple of Nemesis at Rhamnous, 146 temple of Poseidon at Sunium, 143 audience scene, 78, 167, 280, 296 audiences ancient, 69, 87, 145, 148, 149–50, 164, 189–90, 191, 192, 193, 195, 196, 198, 200, 202–3, 204–6, 208, 210, 211, 214, 215, 216, 217–18, 219–220 modern, 195 Austin, M. M., 69, 83, 88 Babylon, Babylonian, 26, 68, 284 Bacchiadae family, 63–4 Bacchylides of Ceos, 261 Bactria, 80 Bagoas, eunuch, 293 Bellerophon, 263–4 Bias of Priene, 71 Bible sources, 68 Bichler, R., 210 ‘Big Men’, 30–6, 131 Bin Tepe, 97 Bisitun relief, 68, 79 Black Sea, 10–11, 40, 280, 282 Boardman, Sir J., 73, 74, 75–6, 77, 89, 111, 113–14, 118–19, 199, 228, 259, 289

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Index

Boeotia, 36, 87, 233, 260, 267 Kabirion sanctuary, 39 Bohen, B., 34 borrowing see transformation Borza, E. N., 256, 261, 271, 273 Bosphorus, 91 Brasidas of Sparta, 250, 252 Briant, P., 98, 272, 283 Brisart, T., 9, 25, 240 British Museum, 23, 24, 25 bronze age material, 18, 30 Brosius, M., 76, 98, 272, 285–6, 288 Brunt, P., 5 Bubares, son of Megabazus, 260 bull, 26, 51, 94, 97, 111, 113, 114, 276 burial see grave Burkert, W., 48, 55, 229, 231 Byzantium, 84, 270 Cabinet of Curiosities, 21–3, 28, 30, 206 Calauria, 48 Callicratidas, 244, 245 Cambyses II, 69, 84, 89, 194 Campania, 175 Capitol Building, Washington DC, 24 Capua, 170, 171 Cardia, 292 Caria, Carians, 84, 97, 165, 207, 270, 273, 280, 282, 283 Cartledge, P., 87–8, 127, 225, 236, 247, 253, 296 caryatid, 146, 154, 247 Caspian Sea, 196 centaur, centauromachy, 32–4, 125, 126, 165, 170–1, 175–87 Chaeronia, 270 Chalcidice, 37, 258, 263, 264, 265, 278 Charon of Lampsacus, 193–6 Cheiron, 32 Chionis of Sparta, 234 Chios, 84, 245 Cilicia, 94 Cimon, 139–40, 142, 150, 160, 179–81, 282 Clazomenae, 102, 161 Clazomenian sarcophagi, 102–4, 105 Cleisthenes of Athens, 130, 131, 132, 134–8, 140, 236 Cleisthenes of Sicyon, 55 Cleomenes I of Sparta, 88, 89, 236 Cleon, 144–5 Cleopatra, daughter of Philip II, 273 Cnidus, 190, 206, 207, 218

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coin, coinage, 55, 76, 81, 94, 101, 110–11, 146, 223, 224, 265, 286 Coldstream, J. N., 29, 34, 238 Cook, R., 54 Corfu (Kerkyra), 57, 63 Temple of Artemis at Corfu (Kerkyra), 50, 60–2 Corinth, Corinthians, 36, 38, 50, 54, 55–66, 105, 106, 111, 167, 182, 227, 232, 233, 234, 237, 242, 247, 263, 264, 265, 267, 268, 270, 292 colonies, 60 Cyclopean Spring, 58 elites, 49, 63–6 Sacred Spring, 58, 60 sanctuary of Demeter and Kore, 62–3 temple of Apollo, 60 vases, 57–60 see grave; tyrants Cos, 36, 88, 89 Coulton, J. J., 48–9 craftsmen, 27, 29, 54, 58, 77, 80–1, 105, 133, 137, 232, 233 Crete, 9, 36, 229 Croesus, 49, 69, 71–2, 74, 83, 88, 89, 91, 99, 107, 112, 131, 164, 198, 237, 265 Ctesias of Cnidus, 190–3, 206–13, 214–15, 216, 217, 218 Curtius Rufus, Q., 271n, 272n, 284n, 285n, 286n, 287n, 288n Curzon, George Nathaniel, 1–5, 76, 293 Cycladic Islands, 36 Cyme, 84, 214 Cynisca of Sparta, 248 Cyprus, 26, 36, 81, 94, 162, 207, 231 Salamis, 41 Cypselus of Corinth, 49, 60, 64–5, 182 Cyrene, North Africa, 233, 234 Cyrus II (the Great), 6, 68, 69, 72, 73, 74, 75, 83, 84, 88, 89, 99, 118, 189, 209, 215–20, 237 tomb of Cyrus, 74, 76, 102, 280 Cyrus the Younger, 207, 215, 243, 245, 246, 250, 253, 285 Cyzicus, 83, 84, 246 Daphnis of Abydos, 84 Darius I, 68, 69, 73, 74, 77, 79, 80, 81, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 89, 90, 104, 113, 118, 121, 134, 193, 194, 200, 204, 211, 237, 259, 260, 261, 285

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Darius II, 243, 245 Darius III, 270, 285, 286 dark ages, 19 Dascyleum, 95, 242 de Polignac, Francois, 37, 39, 47 Dedetepe tumulus, Troad, 94 Delos, 250 Oikos of the Naxians, 48 Delphi, 49, 50, 56, 57, 64, 65, 118, 131, 136, 140, 234, 236, 241, 249, 250 Athenian dedications, 183–4, 187, 223, 236, 249 Macedonian dedications, 261 Oracle, 65, 71 Spartan dedications, 249–50, 252 Temple A, 55 Temple of Apollo, 49, 57, 187 Tholos, 279 treasuries, 49, 50, 65, 250 Demaratus of Corinth, 63, 88–9 Demeter, 116–18, 146, 262 Demetrius of Phaleron, 208 Democedes of Croton, 81, 105 Democritus of Abdera, 197 Demosthenes, 4n, 53, 159n, 161, 261n, 270, 274n Dercylidas, 244, 246 Derveni, 275, 277 despotism, 219 Diadochi (Successors), 257, 288–92 Didyma, temple of Apollo, 48, 49, 82, 100 diners, dining rooms, 24, 38, 51, 56–7, 62–3, 94, 109, 116, 145, 146, 150–2, 155–6, 156–8, 163–5, 167, 214, 233, 263–4, 269, 290–2 Dinon of Colophon, 193, 214–15 Diodorus Siculus, 3n, 63n, 64n, 87n, 118n, 132n, 142n, 146n, 160n, 180n, 181n, 198, 207, 208n, 211n, 224n, 243n, 244n, 245, 246n, 250, 253, 262n, 270, 271n, 272n, 273, 274, 275n, 277, 280n, 283, 284, 285n, 286n, 287n, 288n, 291n, 292n Diogenes Laertius, 197, 198 Dion (Dium), 258, 262–3, 283–4, 287, 289, 291 Dionysius of Halicarnassus, 64n, 194, 204n Dionysius of Miletus, 193, 194, 195 Dodona, 50

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Drews, R., 149, 191, 193, 194, 195, 196, 199, 201, 204, 209, 212, 214, 215, 217 drink, drinking assemblage, 13, 34, 38, 42, 43–4, 59, 82, 94, 95, 96, 97, 98, 120, 155–6, 163, 167–8, 169, 171, 172, 173, 226, 266, 268, 269, 275, 291 earth and water, 87, 88, 259 East Lokris, 32 Ebbinghaus, S., 10 Ecbatana (Hamadan), 73 Eder, W., 32, 36, 53, 136, 141 Edinburgh Cup, 4, 168, 169 Egypt, Egyptian, 3, 26, 41–2, 48–9, 50, 54, 58, 62, 73–4, 75, 77, 84, 89, 90, 93, 95, 104, 105, 106, 107, 111, 113, 116, 162, 182, 196, 214, 234, 238, 244, 264 Eion, 140, 180 Elam, 73, 75 Elemia, 266–7 Elis, 248 temple at Kombothekra, 38 Embassies see ambassadors Emporio, 40 emulation see transformation Ephesus, 40 temple of Artemis, 48, 72, 100 Ephialtes of Athens, 140–1, 142, 150, 151, 179 Ephorus of Cyme, 60n, 64, 194, 209, 214, 224, 236n Epic of Gilgamesh, Gilgamesh, 40 Epirus, 36, 56 Eretria, Eretrians, 39, 48, 80, 86, 89, 112 Erythrae, 104 temple of Athena, 100 Etruria, 63, 127, 166, 168, 175, 234 Euboea, Euboean, 26, 36, 111, 258 Eumenes of Cardia, 292 eunuch, 1, 3, 65, 81, 86, 100, 164, 173, 189, 192, 217, 293–5 Euripides, 117, 164n, 262 Europas, 269 Euryleonis, 252 Eurymedon Vase, 6, 129 Euthycles, 243 ‘external’ artefacts and ideas, 9, 10, 13, 14–15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 24–5, 26, 29–30, 32, 34–5, 37, 38, 39, 40, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47,

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Index 51, 52, 53, 54, 56, 57, 58, 62, 63, 65–6, 77–9, 82, 91, 99, 102, 106, 107, 111, 115, 116, 117, 118, 123, 124, 129–30, 136, 137, 138, 147, 155, 162, 168, 174, 187, 197–8, 211, 220, 234–5, 237, 240, 241, 254, 257, 259, 262, 266, 267, 268, 280, 282, 292, 294

fan, 119, 162, 173 Fantalkin, A., 8, 106 Fars, 68, 74 feast, feasting, 36, 38, 39, 42–3, 44, 145, 160, 163, 214, 226, 269, 274, 287, 292 Finley, M., 8 Fletcher, R., 7 flywhisk, 119, 162, 173 Foce del Sele, temple of Hera, 183 Forsdyke, S., 8, 53, 107, 109 Foxhall, L., 20, 54 Fragkopoulou, F., 227–8, 229 geometric style, 44, 55, 56, 58, 60, 167, 182, 226, 227, 236, 238, 240, 259 Georges, P. B., 49, 83, 85, 127, 218 Ghirshman, R., 70 gift-exchange, 10–11, 37, 46, 49, 50, 51, 65, 81–2, 91, 94, 105, 112, 120, 158, 183, 205, 237, 272 Ginouvès, R., 291 Gordias of Corinth, 65 Gordion, 41, 95, 234, 264 gorgon, 62, 107, 111, 113, 114, 125, 155, 230, 231, 232, 233, 234, 265, 275 Gortyn, Macedonia, 262 Graeco-Persian Wars, 3, 5, 6, 7, 13, 16, 18, 67, 88, 90, 102, 118, 125, 126, 138, 149, 150, 165, 168, 175, 176, 183, 194, 195, 241, 246, 247, 248, 257, 261, 280, 286, 294 Grand Tour, 23, 24, 212, 213 grave, 8, 19, 26–9, 32–4, 35, 40, 41, 42, 46, 48, 50, 55, 58, 74, 76, 95, 165, 182 Anatolia, 91, 96, 97, 102 Athens, Attica, 9, 29, 42, 106–9, 112, 130, 140, 280–1 Ionia, 9, 102, 103–4 Macedonia, 258–9, 265–7, 266–9, 275, 277, 279, 289, 291, 292 Sparta, 225, 226–7, 247

MORGAN PRINT (M3834) (G).indd 359

359

‘Great Event’, 5, 6, 7, 16, 71, 91, 125, 126, 129, 149, 165, 195, 208 ‘Great King’, 3, 69, 71, 79, 80, 81, 82, 83, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90, 91, 104, 122, 152, 159, 160, 162, 189, 207, 214, 224, 237, 242, 244, 246, 255, 260, 261, 270, 271, 272, 273, 274, 284, 285, 293 griffin, 51, 82, 94, 103, 264, 265 Gruen, E., 5, 129, 294 guest-friend (xenos), 54, 71, 104, 105, 107, 158, 160, 229, 236, 237, 243, 244, 245, 246 Gulf of Corinth, 56 Gyges of Lydia, 49, 65 Halicarnassus, 194, 198 Hall, E., 70, 127, 128–9, 148, 149 Hall, J. M., 47, 49, 52, 54, 83, 107 Halstatt Europe, 11, 12, 35, 91 Hamilton, Sir William, 24 harem, 81, 190, 191, 192, 214, 272, 285 Harta, Lydia, 97 Hecataeus of Miletus, 195–6, 197, 198, 199, 203, 217 Hellanicus of Lesbos, 193–4, 195, 196, 197, 200, 262 hellenisation, 255, 256–7, 288 Hellespont, 84, 90, 95, 160, 242, 253, 270 Helms, M. W., 10, 35 Hephaistion of Macedon, 272 Heracles, 80, 101, 110, 111, 113, 114–15, 118, 134, 182, 183, 184, 248, 264, 287, 291 Heraclides of Clazomenae, 161 Heraclides of Cyme, 213–14 Heraclitus of Ephesus, 196, 197, 198 Hermias of Atarneus, 270 Hermione, 48, 249 hero, heroes, 32, 34, 40, 49, 110, 111, 118, 134, 140, 148, 164, 165, 169, 170, 178, 180, 185, 194, 225, 229, 238, 239, 249, 250, 264, 283 hero burial, 32, 227 hero and lion, 94, 119, 121, 123, 131 Herodotus, 3n, 15n, 50n, 54n, 60, 63n, 64n, 65, 69, 71, 72, 79n, 80n, 81n, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90, 99n, 101n, 104, 105, 107n, 111, 112, 113, 116, 118, 121, 123, 131, 132n, 133n, 134n, 135, 136n, 164,

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Greek Perspectives on the Achaemenid Empire

Herodotus (cont.) 192, 193, 194, 196, 197, 198–206, 207, 209, 210, 211, 214, 215, 216, 217, 218, 220, 223n, 227, 236, 237, 242n, 243n, 256, 259, 260, 261, 262, 274, 285, 286, 287n Hesiod, 53 Higgins, R. A., 29 Hippocrates of Athens, 111 Hippocrates of Cos, 199 Hippocrates of Gela, 89 historieˉ, 190, 193, 196–8, 201, 203, 214, 217 Hodder, I., 13 Hodkinson, S., 231, 240, 247, 250, 251, 252, 253 Homer, 116, 200, 202, 219, 220, 283 Homeric Hymn to Demeter, 116, 118 to Pythian Apollo, 118 horse, 32–4, 44, 46, 48, 94, 96, 100, 107, 109, 111, 121, 122, 123, 137, 144, 163, 171, 178, 181, 182, 183, 185, 211, 233, 248, 252, 275 hunting, 36, 94, 95, 103, 140, 182, 264, 275, 286 Hurwit, J. M., 41–2, 58, 109, 110 hypostyle hall, 73, 118, Ibycus of Rhegium, 68 imperial, imperialism, 5, 6, 69, 70, 91, 126, 128, 132, 154, 179, 204, 219, 220, 252, 256 imperial architecture Achaemenid Iran, 2, 69–70, 76–7 China, 76 inscriptions, 55, 168 Achaemenid, 69, 73, 80 Athens, 107–8 Macedonian, 278, 291 Sparta, 251 Ionia, Ionian, 36, 40, 69, 71, 73, 74, 80, 81, 83, 84, 88, 91, 97, 124, 149, 237, 253, 265, 267, 268, 294 Achaemenid rule, 98–106 elites, 100–1, 190 Graeco-Persian Wars, 86–7 Ionian revolt, 85–6, 89, 90, 210 Persica, 193–8 see grave; tyrants Isis, 26 Isocrates, 147, 195n, 224n, 243n, 270 Isthmia, 38, 56, 62 temple of Poseidon, 39, 40, 60

MORGAN PRINT (M3834) (G).indd 360

Italy, 36, 59, 166, 168, 170, 171, 172, 173, 174, 212–13, 233, 234, 235, 248 Ithaca, 36, 56 Jacoby, F., 191, 194–5, 199, 204, 209–10 Justin, 260, 269n, 270n, 272n, 284n, 285n, 286n, 287n Kaineus, 170–1, 182 Kaplan, P., 65 Karaburun tomb, 97–8 Kenchreai, 56 Khorsabad, Assyria, 92 Kistler, E., 11–12 klineˉ (funeral couch), 97, 98, 265–6 Kopanias, K., 229 kouros/kore statues, 106–8 Anavysos kouros, 107–8 krater, 26, 42, 43, 72, 82, 156, 157, 158, 243, 237, 275 Kuhrt, A., 75, 89, 195 Laconia, Laconian, 36, 37, 39, 179, 182, 226, 227, 228, 229, 231, 232, 233, 234, 236, 238, 247, 249, 296; see also Sparta Laconising, 162, 179, 282 Landridas of Sparta, 250 Lane Fox, R., 272, 273, 283, 284, 285, 286, 287, 288, 289 Langdon, S., 20, 46, 182 Lapith, 170, 176–7, 178, 180, 181, 182, 183, 186 Larisa, 104 Lawrence, A. W., 48, 49, 117, 151, 228, 248 Lebedus, 104 Lefkandi, 26–9, 30, 32–3, 34, 35, 36, 39, 40, 42, 182, 258, 259 Toumba Building, 26–8, 32, 35, 42 Lemos, I. S., 28, 29, 34, 238 Lenfant, D., 192, 209, 214, 218 Leonidas I of Sparta, 227 Lerna, Asklepion, 292 Lesbos, 72, 193, 235 Leuctra, 215, 244, 250 Levant, 36, 57, 106, 116 Lichias, 246 lion, 26, 51, 92, 93, 94, 96, 97, 103, 111, 113, 114, 119, 204, 227, 229, 234, 264, 265, 267, 286 Livy, 262n, 274

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Index

Llewellyn-Jones, L., 95, 192, 200, 207, 208, 210, 214, 215, 216 Lucian of Samosata, 191, 192 luxury, 10, 27, 29, 32, 34, 53, 77, 105, 126, 145, 165, 223, 224, 275, 288 Lycia, Lycians, 82, 84, 95, 97–8, 264, 280, 288 Lycurgus of Sparta, 223, 227 Lydia, Lydian, 50, 53, 64, 65, 73, 74, 76, 81, 90, 91, 94, 98, 99, 101, 102, 111, 131, 196, 233, 236, 237, 249, 275 Lysander of Sparta, 224, 244, 245, 248, 249–50, 252, 253 Lysias, 140n Macedonia, Macedonian, 4, 14, 16, 36, 38, 112, 246, 252, 255–92 Achaemenid rule, 259–61 early evidence, 258–9 elites, 265, 269, 272, 274 Greek ancestry, 261 Greek colonies, 263 Heracles Patroos, 291 Hetaeridaeia festival, 272 interaction with Greece, 261–2 kings see individual entries royal pages, 272 see also grave; inscriptions; temples Magna Graecia, 49, 50, 204 Malafouris, L., 12–13 Malkin, I., 11, 168 Marathon, 69, 89, 112, 123, 131, 175, 179, 180, 184 marriage, 54, 64, 90, 142, 160, 214, 246, 260, 270, 272–3, 285, 286, 287 Mausoleum, Halicarnassus, 280, 283 Mausolus of Caria, 280, 282–3 Mede, Medes, 68, 72, 123, 194 medising, 154, 260 Mediterranean, 8, 11, 14, 36, 41, 42, 72, 79, 168, 234, 265, 297 Medon, 56 Megabazus (general of Darius I), 162, 259–60 Megalopolis, 152 Megara, 56 Memnon (Greek general), 271 Memphis, 286 mercenary, mercenaries, 58, 112, 167, 216, 245 merchant, merchants, 58, Meskell, L., 10

MORGAN PRINT (M3834) (G).indd 361

361

Mesopotamia, 40, 73, 75, 93, 196 Messene, Messenian, 36, 228 Metapontion, temple BII, 50 Midas of Phrygia, 65, 92 Miletus, 65, 83, 85, 100, 193, 195, 198 Miller, M., 76, 83, 119, 120, 128, 143, 152–4, 155, 159, 160, 161, 162, 165, 167, 168, 173, 174, 178, 185, 186, 266 Morgan, C., 36, 37, 38, 49, 55, 56, 57, 60 Morris, I., 5, 8, 11, 32, 43, 50, 52, 53, 109, 259 Morris, S., 20, 55, 178 mosaics, 263, 264, 265, 291 Mount Apesantios, sanctuary of Zeus, 56 Mount Olympus, 111 Muscarella, O. W., 50 Mycenaean evidence, 18–20, 30–1, 182, 223 Mytilene, 64, 71, 83, 195 Nafissi, M., 222–3, 225, 228, 233 Naucratis, 234, 236 Naxos, 48, 85, 86, 106, 112 Neapolis, 263 Neer, R., 169, 184, 185, 240, 249 Nichoria, 35, 42 Nineveh, 73, 210, 212 Nola, Italy, 168, 172 Nolan amphorae, 168, 169, 170, 172, 175, 176, 177 Ober, J., 133, 136, 141, 142, 144, 163 Old Oligarch, 138, 144, 145 Olympia, 37, 39, 46, 47, 64, 111, 136, 182, 233, 234, 236, 240–1, 248, 249, 261 bouleuterion, 55 Philippeion, 279–80, 292, 295 temple of Hera, 48, 233 temple of Zeus, 248 treasury of the Sybarites, 49 Olynthus, 163, 263–4, 265, 273, 275, 277–8 ‘Orient’, ‘orientalism’, 5, 9, 14n, 15–16, 29, 70, 127, 128, 148, 157, 172, 186, 191, 208 ‘orientalising’, 9, 18–20, 55, 58, 71, 99, 100, 103, 155, 167, 173, 229, 231, 234, 247, 259 Osborne, R., 38, 53, 109

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Greek Perspectives on the Achaemenid Empire

‘Other’, 6, 16, 127, 129, 148, 191, 192 Ottoman Empire, 70 Paeonia, Paeonians, 80 palace, 18, 30, 31, 50, 72–5, 76, 77, 78–9, 80–1, 82, 92, 94, 116, 118, 121, 147, 150, 164–5, 206, 210, 214, 217, 262, 288, 290, 291, 293 Pallantion, 55 Paphlagonia, 246 Otys, King, 246 parasol, 119, 120, 151, 152, 185, 293 Paros, 106 temple at Paros, 48 Parthia, Parthian, 271 Pasargadae, 72, 73, 102, 118, 284 Pasipidas, 243 Paspalas, S. A., 100, 266, 267, 268, 271, 277, 289 pastoralism, 30 Pateli, 259 patronage, 65, 85, 140, 179, 180, 186, 243, 245 Pausanias, 50n, 64n, 82, 139n, 140, 151n, 152, 175n, 176, 180, 181, 182, 184, 230, 231, 247, 248n, 249n, 252, 262n, 280n Pausanias, King of Sparta, 252, 253 Pausanias, Spartan general, 90, 163n, 286 Pavaya Sarcophagus, 94, 280 Pavlides, N., 225 Peisandros, 244 Pella, 262, 263, 268, 269, 277, 279 Peloponnese, 14, 35, 36, 60, 77, 107, 227, 233, 236, 248, 251 Peloponnesian Wars, 88, 145, 146, 161, 162, 219, 242, 245, 249, 252, 255, 259 Pentavrysos, 269 Perachora, 39, 56, 62, 292 temple of Hera Akraia, 47, 57, 63 Perdiccas II of Macedon, 263, 277 perfume, 82, 101 Periander of Corinth, 64–5 Pericles, 141–4, 145, 147, 148, 150, 152, 153, 158, 160, 179, 181, 185, 186, 187, 204, 205, 206, 282 Citizenship Decree, 142 Congress Decree, 142, 180 Perinthus, 270 perrirhanterrion, 109, Persepolis, 1–5, 12, 70, 73, 78–9, 80–1, 82, 96, 97, 113, 118, 119, 131,

MORGAN PRINT (M3834) (G).indd 362

143, 154, 167, 181, 185, 275, 287, 288, 289, 291, 293, 296 Persia, invention of, 14, 125–6, 137–8, 187–8, 213, 217, 221 ‘persianising’, 152, 162, 164, 173, 190, 257, 271, 275, 279, 283, 284, 286, 292, 295 petite histoire, 190–2 Pharnabazus, 161, 242, 244, 245, 246, 271 Pheidon of Argos, 64 phiale, phialai, 12, 51, 72, 94, 100, 119–20, 254, 266, 267, 268, 275, 289 Philip II of Macedon, 246, 256, 266, 269–83, 285, 287, 294–5 Philip III of Macedon (Arrhidaeus), 270 Philippi, 273 Philiscus of Abydos, 244 Philochorus of Athens, 243n Philodemus of Gadara, 271 Phocaea, 84, 101, 102 Phocis, temple at Hyampolis, 38 Phoenicia, Phoenician, 29, 37, 54, 58, 76, 80, 90, 196, 229, 268 Phrygia, Phrygian, 40, 64, 65, 92, 95, 98, 115, 249, 259, 260, 270 Phrynichus of Athens, 148, 195 Pindar, 182, 261 Piranesi, Giovanni Battista, 212–13 Pisistratus, Pisistratid family of Athens, 89, 111–23, 129–30, 131, 132–4, 136, 137, 236 Pitane, 104, 247 Pittacus of Mytilene, 71, 72 Pixodarus of Caria, 270, 273 Plataea, 87, 210, 251, 261 Plato, 3n, 54n, 104n, 141n, 142n, 149n, 160, 163, 164, 195n Plato Comicus, 160n ‘plebiscitary politics’, 133, 180 Plutarch, 148, 194 Agesilaus, 244n, 252n, 253n Alcibiades, 161n, 163n Alexander, 270n, 272–3, 274n, 283, 284, 287n, 288n Artaxerxes, 159n, 191, 207n, 214, 218n, 243n, 285n Cimon, 139n, 140, 179, 180n, 246n Lycurgus, 223n, 224 Lysander, 224, 245, 253 Moralia, 64n, 80n, 140, 194, 245, 249n, 250n, 286n Pelopidas, 159n, 243, 244n

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Index

Pericles, 141n, 142n, 152, 160, 161n, 181n, 186 Solon, 54n, 198n Themistocles, 90n, 139n Theseus, 140, 180n polis, 19–20, 31, 37, 47, 53, 64, 185, 206, 220, 225, 266, 288 Polyaenus, 104n, 286n Polycrates of Samos, 89, 104–5, 164 Pompeii, 24 Poseidonia, temple of Hera, 50 Procles of Epidaurus, 64 proskynesis, 287 protogeometric evidence, 34, 36, 37, 226, 238, 258, 259 protomic cauldron, 40, 94 Psammetichus of Corinth, 65 Ptolemy II Philadelphus, 292 Pydna, 269, 273 Pythagoras of Samos, 197 pyxis, 58, 59 Raaflaub, K. A., 52, 83, 128, 132, 148, 154, 225 Regia, Rome, 116 ‘renaissance’, 16, 18, 19, 20, 71 Ridgway, B. S., 49, 118, 175, 185 Riva, C., 46 Root, M.C., 75, 76, 77, 129, 154, 178–9 Russia, 91, 98, 165 Sahlins, M., 31 Salamis, battle, 90, 179, 210 Salmon, J. B., 64 Samos, 38, 40, 47, 48, 84, 87, 104, 105, 106, 164, 203, 234, 236, 237 temple of Hera (Samian Heraion), 38, 39, 104–5 Sancisi-Weerdenburg, H., 110, 133, 191, 208 sanctuary see temple Sappho of Lesbos, 53, 54 Saqqara stele, 94, 95 Sardis, 65, 71, 81, 95, 96, 101, 105, 131, 209, 214, 232, 234, 242, 243, 286 satrap, satrapies, 74, 81, 83, 90, 105, 118, 121–2, 159n, 160, 161, 167, 196, 201, 214, 237, 242, 243, 244, 246, 270, 280 Scamander, 112 Scylax of Caryanda, 204, 262n Scyros, 180

MORGAN PRINT (M3834) (G).indd 363

363

Scythia, Scythians, 121, 122–3, 166–8, 175, 210, 234 Scythian Expedition, 74, 84 seals, 29, 95–6, 100, 111 Sedes, 275 Sestos, 242 Shanks, M., 48, 51, 57, 58–9, 63, 65, 107 Shapiro, A., 122–3, 157, 174, 294–5 Shipley, G., 17, 47–8, 104 Sicilian Expedition, 205 Sicily, 49, 50, 57, 89, 233, 234, 246 Sigeum, 112, 118 Simonides of Ceos, 104, 139 Sindos, 267–8 Sisines, 271 Sloane, Sir Hans, 23 Smyrna, temple of Athena, 40, 100, 104 Snodgrass, A. M., 30, 34, 48, 56 Soane, Sir John, 21, 23, 24, Society of the Dilettanti, 23–4 Sogdiana, 80 Solon of Athens, 53, 54, 71, 84, 108, 129–30, 132, 133, 134, 136, 198 Sotades Painter, 82 Sparta, Spartan, 36, 87, 88–9, 90, 105, 112, 130, 136, 139, 140, 145, 147, 161, 162, 200, 207, 214, 215, 217, 218–19, 220, 222–254, 265, 272, 294, 296 acropolis, 240, 250, 252 austerity, 223, 239–40 bronzes, 229, 233–5 decline, 224, 247 elites, 225, 228, 233–4, 235–6, 237–8, 240–1, 248, 249, 251–2, 252–3 hero cults, 225, 227, 238–9 Heroön, 226 kings see individual entries law, 223 Menelaion, 229–30 mirage, 224 Naucratis Painter, 232 Parthenioi, 236 population decline, 250–1 sanctuary of Apollo at Amyclae (Amyclaeon) 39, 182, 226, 230–1 sanctuary of Apollo Hyacinthus, 37 sanctuary of Artemis Orthia, 38, 226, 227, 228–9, 232, 240 sanctuary of Athena Chalkioikos, 226, 227, 230, 231

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Greek Perspectives on the Achaemenid Empire

Sparta, Spartan (cont.) sanctuary of Poseidon at Tainaron, 253 Spartan Stoa, 247 statues, 234, 247, 248, 249, 252 vases, 231–3, 234 villages, 225 see also grave; inscriptions Spawforth, A. J. S., 274–5 sphinx, 26, 40, 49, 58, 97, 99, 107, 109, 113, 229, 232, 234, 264, 266, 267, 269 Spithridates, 246 Stein-Hölkeskamp, E., 64, 137 Stevenson, R. B., 192, 214, 215 Strabo, 50, 63, 100n, 104n, 161, 236n, 277 Stronach, D., 50, 76 Stronk, J. P., 207, 208, 209, 210, 252 Strymon, 112 Sumerian, 26 Susa, 73, 79, 80, 81, 82, 83, 85, 113, 147, 150, 152, 160, 161, 164, 243, 244, 291 symposium, 62, 71, 82, 121, 126, 155, 156, 157, 158, 163, 171, 173, 182, 183, 197, 235, 268, 283, 287, 291, 294 Syracuse, Sicily, 50, 57, 60, 63, 88, 182, 236 temple of Apollo, 50 Syria, 26, 73, 77, 93, 165, 196, 264, 286 Takht-i Kuwad, 94 Tanagra, 248 Tas Kule, 102 Tegea, Tegean, 48, 242 Teleutias of Sparta, 244 temples, 37–9, 40, 47–51, 56–7, 60–3, 72, 100, 104–5, 117, 183, 233, 258, 262–3, 283–4, 287, 289, 291; see also Athens; Athens, Acropolis; Athens, Agora; Attica; Corinth; Macedon; Sparta tent, 62, 151, 152, 163, 220n, 283–4, 286, 291, 292 Teos, 104, 105 Terpander of Lesbos, 235 Thasos, 258 Theatre, 227, 287; see also Athens Thebes, 112, 244, 272 Themistocles, 87, 90, 139, 148, 162, 179, 205, 214

MORGAN PRINT (M3834) (G).indd 364

Theognis of Megara, 53 Theopompus of Chios, 163, 214, 224, 270, 273, 274 theoˉria, 198, 202, 203, 204, 205, 206 Therme, temple at, 263 Thermopylae, 87, 227 Theseus, 134–5, 140, 180, 183, 184–5 Thespiae, 87 Thessaloniki, 258, 263, 267, 268, 275 Thessaly, 14, 81, 87, 89, 112, 117, 233 Mount Ossa, 261 temple at Gonnus, 48 Thibron, 246 Thomas, R., 196, 202, 203–4 Thracian Chersonese, 84, 246 Thrasybulus of Miletus, 65 throne, 76, 95, 182, 230, 238, 273, 274, 280, 284 Thucydides, 63n, 88n, 89n, 90, 101n, 104n, 134n, 139n, 142n, 143, 144, 145n, 147, 158n, 160n, 161n, 162n, 163, 180n, 202, 203, 204n, 205, 223n, 226, 237n, 242, 243n, 244n, 245n, 246n, 249n, 250, 251n, 252n, 262n, 263n, 277n Thurii, 142, 204 Timaeus of Tauromenium, 163 Timotheus of Miletus, 277 Tiribazus, 214, 243, 253 Tissaphernes, 242, 243, 244, 245, 246 tomb see grave Tomlinson, R., 63, 248, 263, 266, 292 Torone, Chalcidice, 258 transformation, 3, 19, 23–5, 29, 34–5, 40, 47, 50, 52, 55, 58, 60, 63, 65, 66, 73–5, 77–8, 91, 92–3, 98–105, 106, 107, 111, 113–21, 132, 134–5, 137, 150–4, 155, 173, 179, 229–35, 237–8, 239, 254, 259, 263–9, 271, 272, 274–7, 280–3, 284, 286–8, 289, 291, 292, 295, 296 transhumant societies, 31, 258 treasury, treasuries, 46, 49, 50, 51, 57, 65, 240, 250; see also Athens, Acropolis; Delphi; Olympia tribute, 10, 68, 71, 77, 78, 80, 81, 84, 91, 92, 99, 119, 154, 245, 250, 276 Trigger, B. G., 10, 22, 130–1 tripod, 40–1, 44, 46, 57, 58, 59, 233, 236, 250, 268 Troizen, 292 Troy, 117, 180, 258

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Index

Tsetskhladze, G. R., 10–11, 40, 60, 174 Tuplin, C., 128, 148, 199, 216, 218, 219, 243 tyrants, 52, 54–5, 63, 82, 137, 145, 179, 200, 205, 256 Argos, 64 Atarneus, 270 Athens, 109, 110, 111, 116, 118, 129, 130, 132–3, 134, 136, 139, 152, 186 Corinth, 54, 64–5 Ionia, 83–5, 104, 164 Naxos, 112 Sicyon, 55, 209 Thessaly, 89, 112. see also individual entries Tyrtaeus of Sparta, 225 Ulf, C., 53 Urartu, 41 Vardarski Rid, Macedonia, 262 Vergina (Aigai), 258, 259, 268, 278–9, 289, 290–1 Vitsa, Epirus, 56 Vlassopoulos, K., 11, 39, 288 White House, Washington DC, 24 wine, wine-drinking, 42, 43, 54, 82, 169, 171, 183, 209, 226 women, 34, 42, 51, 58, 81, 82, 86,

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365

154, 164, 183, 190, 192, 200, 206, 208, 211, 248, 260, 267, 272–3, 284–5, 286; see also marriage Worms, Ole, 21 Xanthus, Nereid Monument, 280 Xanthus of Lydia, 196 Xenophanes of Colophon, 54n, 68, 84n, 101 Xenophon, 147, 209, 215, 220 Agesilaus, 244n, 246, 252 Anabasis, 100n, 207n, 246 Constitution of Sparta, 223, 224, 245, 246, 251, 252 Cyropaedia, 3, 6, 98n, 160n, 215–20 Hellenica, 3, 146n, 147, 159n, 161n, 243n, 244n, 245, 246, 251, 253n Hieron, 183n Oeconomicus, 218n Symposium, 3, 145, 164n Xeropolis, Euboea, 28, 29, 35 Xerxes I, 73, 82, 86, 87, 89, 90, 113, 120, 147, 148, 152, 193, 210, 214, 237, 260, 261, 274, 287, 291 yaunaˉ, yaunaˉ takabaraˉ, 260, 261 Zagros mountains, 68 Zeleia, Troad, 161 Zeuxis of Heraclea, 262

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