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The excavations of Sir Arthur Evans at Knossos in Crete from 1900 onwards revealed a still earlier non-Greek palace culture, with its zenith from about 2200 to 1450 BC; it was named Minoan, after the legendary king of Crete, the first lawgiver in Greece and judge in the underworld. The influence of Minoan civilization explained the rise of a palace culture in the comparatively backward area of mainland Greece; from about 1450 the Myceneans seem indeed to have taken control of Knossos itself. Thus the origins of the earliest civilizations in the land of Greece and the existence of a historical core to the Greek legends about the heroic age were established. But whereas Minoan culture was definitely non-Greek, the status of Mycenean culture was uncertain, until in 1952 a young English architect, Michael Ventris, deciphered the tablets from the destruction levels at Pylos on the mainland and at Mycenean Knossos. The syllabic script known as Linear B had been developed from the earlier still undeciphered Minoan Linear A; but the language it was used to record was shown by Ventris to be Greek, of a form closest to the most archaic elements in Greek previously known. For the first time it was shown that the history of Mycenean culture is both geographically and ethnically part of the history of Greece.
But this world of Mycenae is separate from the world of classical Greek civilization, both as a subject of study, in the way in which its history can be reconstructed, and also in reality. The Mycenean written records consist of lists of equipment and provisions stored in the palace, and relate to the particular year of destruction (the clay tablets survive only because they were accidentally baked in the fires which burnt the palaces). Moreover the limitations of the script make it unlikely that it was used for any other purpose: Mycenean culture was not properly literate. Thus the culture of the Mycenean world has to be reconstructed almost entirely from archaeology, in terms of its material remains. For if Greek myths have been vindicated as containing a historical basis by the discoveries of archaeology, they still cannot be used to supplement archaeology to any great extent. The studies of psychology, comparative mythology and anthropology, by men such as Freud, Malinowski and Lévi-Strauss, have as a common factor the basic assumption (which is surely correct) that myth is not history, but rather a means of ordering human experience related primarily to the preoccupations of the age that produces or preserves it: the social and psychological attitudes expressed in Greek myths about gods and heroes are those of the successive generations who shaped and reshaped them, from Homer and Hesiod onwards; and the hypothesis that the nature of Mycenean society could be reconstructed from myth or heroic poetry has been shown to be untenable, by the disparity between the evidence on social institutions provided by archaeology and the Linear B tablets, and that implied in the Greek legends.
The detailed reconstruction of the Mycenean world therefore rests on archaeology, and must in general be confined to its material culture; in this sense, to use a conventional distinction, it belongs to prehistory rather than to history. In contrast, the Greek world from the eighth century onwards is a fully historical world, in which the evidence of archaeology can be combined with the expression of the thoughts and feelings of contemporary individuals, to produce a comparatively detailed account, not only of what men did, but of why they did it, and of the pressures and limitations on their actions. The reason for this difference is the advent of literacy: rather than contrast prehistory with history, we should perhaps talk of the difference between our knowledge of non-literate and literate societies.
Again, in reality the civilization of Mycenae is fundamentally different from that of later Greece. It is an example of a phenomenon found elsewhere, when a warrior people falls under the influence of a more advanced civilization: the barbarian kingdoms of the early Byzantine world, such as the Ostrogoths in north Italy or the Vandals in north Africa, or later in the Middle Ages the Normans, offer obvious parallels. The world which influenced Mycenae was the world of Knossos, itself on the fringes of an area where the centralized palace economy and the oriental despotisms of Mesopotamia and Egypt had already flourished for some two thousand years. Mycenean civilization is linked far more to these cultures than to later developments in Greece.
The period from 1250 to 1150 was one of widespread destruction in the eastern Mediterranean. The Hittite Empire in Asia Minor collapsed about 1200; the resulting pressures caused movements of population which seriously disturbed Syria and Palestine, and which are recorded in Egyptian history in attempted invasions of Egypt itself by ‘the Peoples of the Sea’, who may have included groups of Achaeans or Mycenean Greeks in flight. In the Mycenean world itself, the destruction of Troy found in level VIIa, between 1250 and 1200, is generally agreed to be the historical basis of the Homeric Trojan War, and to represent the last major effort of the Myceneans. At almost the same time there are clear signs of preparations against attack in the settlements of the Greek Peloponnese. Then around 1200, Mycenae, Pylos and other centres were burned; and the surviving remnants of Mycenean culture were again attacked around 1150. The whole military and political organization of the palace economy disappeared, with its attendant skills in the fine arts and writing; most sites were deserted or only partially occupied; some were even given over to the dead. This was accompanied by emigration to outlying areas of the Mycenean world such as Cyprus, and widespread depopulation on the mainland. The archaeological evidence of a certain continuity in the debased style of sub-Mycenean pottery serves to demonstrate the level to which material culture had sunk.
The result of the collapse of Mycenean culture was a dark age, lasting for some three hundred years. Discontinuity with the past was virtually complete: later Greeks were unaware of almost all the important aspects of the world that they portrayed in heroic poetry, such as its social organization, its material culture and its system of writing. Even the Dark Age itself dropped out of sight: in his sketch of early Greece in book 1 of his history, Thucydides saw a gradual but continuous advance from the world of the Homeric heroes to his own day. Records of the past such as genealogies reached back only as far as about 900: in dim awareness of the resulting gap between their world and that of the heroes, the Greeks resorted to adding spurious names to the lists, and reckoning the average length of a generation at forty years instead of the more correct thirty years.
The Greek world from the eighth century onwards is a product, not of Mycenae, but of the Dark Age. Its darkness is the darkness of a primitive society with little material culture, and consequently one which has left little trace for the archaeologist. But in order to understand the society which emerged, it is necessary to know something of the preceding centuries. Three types of evidence can be used to reconstruct the outlines of Dark Age history.
The first is once again legend. These legends of course have to be treated with caution, in this case not only because folk tradition becomes distorted to fit the interests of later generations, but also because the sources from which we can reconstruct the legends are themselves scattered and very late, and have often been reworked and expanded to suit literary or quasi-historical needs: there is a great danger of reconstructing an account of the legends far more complete or systematic than ever actually existed in early Greece. Yet two events are recorded in the legends which seem to have some importance for history. The first is the explanation of the origins of the Dorians.
In historical times the Dorians were distinguished from other Greeks primarily by their dialect, but also by certain common social customs: for instance, each Dorian state was divided into three tribes, always with the same names; and there are a number of primitive institutions which can be found in widely separated Dorian communities, such as Sparta and Crete. The Dorians were unknown to the Homeric account of heroic Greece; yet later they occupied most of what had once been the centre of Mycenean power, the Peloponnese, and in certain areas such as Argos and Sparta they ruled over a serf population of non-Dorian Greeks. Legend explained that they had arrived only recently; the sons of the semi-divine hero, Herakles, had been exiled from Mycenae, and later returned with the Dorians to claim their inheritance. The legend of the ‘return of the sons of Herakles’ is a charter myth, explaining by what right a people apparently unknown to the heroic world had inherited the land of the Mycenean Greeks and enslaved some, part of its population. How much historical truth this legend also contains must be decided in relation to evidence of a different type.
A second group of legends concerns an expansion of the Greeks across the Aegean to the coast of Asia Minor to form another cultural and linguistic block, that of the Ionian Greeks. The stories are complicated, involving the foundations of individual cities, but the centre of departure is for the most part Athens: groups of refugees passed through Athens on their way to find new homes.
Thucydides describes how the victors from Troy had a hard homecoming to a land no longer fit for heroes, and the migrations that followed:
Even after the Trojan war there were still migrations and colonizing movements, so that lack of peace inhibited development. The long delays in the return of the Greeks from Troy caused much disturbance, and there was a great deal of political trouble in the cities: those driven into exile founded cities … Eighty years after the Trojan war the Dorians with the sons of Herakles made themselves masters of the Peloponnese. It was with difficulty and over a long period that peace returned and Greece became powerful; when the migrations were over, she sent out colonies, the Athenians to Ionia and many of the islands, and the Peloponnesians to most of Italy and Sicily and some parts of the rest of Greece. All these places were founded after the Trojan war.
(Thucydides 1.12)
There are obvious weaknesses in this account. Thucydides had no knowledge of the extent of cultural collapse in the Dark Age, largely because he had little conception of the power and wealth of Mycenean Greece. He writes of political troubles in terms appropriate to the revolutionary activity of his own day; he equates the Ionian migration with the later and more organized colonizations of southern Italy and Sicily, discussed in chapter 7. The reason for these limitations is clear enough: Thucydides is performing the same operation as a modern historian, attempting to construct a historical narrative out of myth and heroic poetry by applying the standards of explanation accepted in his own day. And in the legends and folk memory available to him, he could see much the same general pattern as we can.
The legends of the migration period find some confirmation in the distribution of dialects in historical Greece. The Greek language itself belongs to the Indo-European family; it seems to have entered Greece shortly before 2000, when the archaeological evidence suggests the arrival of a new culture; these new peoples will be the later Mycenean Greeks. Evidence of an earlier non-Indo-European language can be found in the survival of certain place names (for instance those ending in -nthos and -assos), which are those of known centres of culture in the third millennium; the extent to which the language spoken by the newcomers was transformed by contact with this earlier language is uncertain. But at least by the Mycenean period the language of the Linear B tablets was recognizably Greek.
In classical times Greek was split into various dialects, more or less closely interrelated. The Doric dialect was spoken in the southern and eastern Peloponnese, that is in what had once been the Mycenean heartland, Laconia and the Argolid (and perhaps Messenia). From there it had spread across the southern group of Aegean islands to Crete, Rhodes and the south-west coast of Asia Minor. The Ionic dialect was spoken in Attica, Euboea, the central islands of the Cyclades, and the central coast of Asia Minor. Further north in Asia Minor, the Lesbian (Aeolic) dialect is related to those spoken in Thessaly and Boeotia, though the language of these two areas is also connected to the north-western dialects spoken in Aetolia, Achaea and Elis. Finally in two remote and separate enclaves, the mountains of Arcadia and the distant island of Cyprus, an archaic form of Greek survived, known as Arcado-Cypriot.
This distribution obviously relates at least in part to the legends of the migrations in the Dark Age. The Arcado-Cypriot dialect seems closest to Mycenean Greek, and Ionic can be seen as a development from a common original; the distribution of Ionic clearly reflects the same events as the legends of the Ionian migration; and, given the continuity in Cyprus between Mycenean and classical times, it is reasonable to see Arcado-Cypriot as evidence for the survival of Mycenean Greek enclaves in remote and inaccessible areas. It has usually also been held that the relation between Doric and north-west Greek and their distribution support the legends of the post-Mycenean invasions from the north-west into the Peloponnese. In many ways that still seems the most reasonable hypothesis; but it is of course conceivable that some part of this dialect pattern goes back earlier, to the time of the first entry of the Greeks; and it is clear that many of the differences between the dialects are the result of divergent development after the various groups had reached their final homes.
The third type of evidence is archaeological; its contribution is more ambiguous. Strictly it is not even clear whether Troy VIIa or the Mycenean palaces fell first; and there is no archaeological evidence of who destroyed either culture. The sub-Mycenean period is one of extreme poverty and deprivation; its most striking characteristic is the absence of evidence, which points to extensive depopulation: there is no positive sign of the influx of a new people. The only major change that can be detected is in burial habits – the abandonment of communal burials and large chamber tombs for a return to the older practice of individual burial in cist tombs, and the gradual spread of cremation in place of inhumation. About a century after the final collapse of Mycenean culture occur the first signs of a reawakening. Renewed contact between Athens and Cyprus, the area of the Greek world which offers most archaeological continuity with the Mycenean past, brought from southern Asia Minor a major new technological advance, iron smelting; from about 1050 iron began to replace bronze as the metal in everyday use. About the same time in Athens a new style of pottery began to emerge, of considerably higher quality than before – Proto-Geometric (from about 1050 to 900), decorated with simple repeated geometric patterns and broad bands of dark and light. Again it is to this period, from about 1050 to 950, that the Ionian movement across the Aegean Sea from Athens to the coast of Asia Minor can be dated on the evidence of a number of excavated sites.
The site that has revealed most about development within the Dark Age is Lefkandi, a small low promontory on the inner coast of Euboea; here a single trial hole 8.5 metres deep to bedrock has provided an almost continuous sequence of artefacts from the early Mycenean period (about 2000 BC) through the Dark Age period to about 825 BC, with only a short gap of perhaps fifty years around 1150–1100; successive excavations in the surrounding area have revealed large cemeteries from the Dark Age period. This was clearly a substantial settlement with a remarkable level of continuity and prosperity across the Dark Age.
The most remarkable discovery at Lefkandi was made in 1980. A local headmaster chose the August bank holiday to hire a bulldozer in order to clear a tiresome unexcavated site in his garden: he revealed and half destroyed the most important and most puzzling Dark Age monument yet found. It is a building dating from about 950 BC, apsidal with a porch at the other end, at least 47 metres long by 10 metres wide, with complex internal dividing walls, an external wooden colonnade and a central row of supporting pillars for the roof. The clay floor was laid on levelled rock; the walls are of mud brick on a base of roughly shaped stone, and faced with plaster internally; the roof was thatched. It is clearly a public or religious building similar in form both to the major houses of the late Dark Age and to the earliest religious buildings such as the late Geometric temple of Apollo at Eretria. But it is some two hundred years earlier than these buildings, and is neither a chief’s house nor a temple. For the purpose of the structure is clear: centrally placed in the main room, two adjacent pits were dug at the same time as the building was constructed. In the first were the skeletons of four horses; in the second were two burials. One was a cremation: a bronze amphora decorated with hunting scenes around the rim contained the ashes of a man. The top of the vessel was closed with a bronze bowl, under which the decorated funeral shroud had been folded and was still preserved; beside the amphora was placed the iron sword, spearhead and whetstone of the cremated warrior. The other burial was that of a woman, not cremated, but laid out with feet and hands crossed; there were gilt hair coils by her head, a gold decorated pendant at her throat and a necklace of gold and faience beads; her breasts were covered by gold discs joined with a large gold plaque; beside her lay decorated pins. By her head was an iron knife with an ivory handle. Part of the building was constructed over the remains of the funeral pyre.
The burial rites recall those of Patroklos in Iliad 23, with its ritual sacrifice of his favourite horses and of human victims, or the accounts of Viking burials in south Russia two thousand years later, as described by Arab observers; in the words of Ibn Rustah,
When one of their notables dies, they make a grave like a large house and put him inside it. With him they put his clothes and the gold armlets he wore, and, moreover, an abundance of food, drinking bowls and coins. They also put his favourite wife in with him, still alive. Then the grave door is sealed and she dies there.
Such a building in the Greek world would normally have been designed for use; yet as soon as it was constructed the roof was smashed in and the entrance closed up. Ramps were constructed up the walls and the building was filled with rubble. It remained thereafter as a long mound, remembered sufficiently to be the focal point for the orientation of a group of later rich graves in the cemetery, which seem to be significantly grouped around one end, and perhaps belong to members of the same powerful family.
We stand at the midpoint between the Mycenean world and historical Greece, in the presence of a ritual murder such as was often re-enacted with horror in later myth. The world revealed is a world of wealth and power unknown elsewhere for two centuries either way. At present this discovery is unique, and we should remember that Lefkandi shows a continuity from the Mycenean period not found elsewhere. But it shows that, if it were ever possible to excavate the Lefkandi settlement in its entirety, the Dark Age would no longer be quite so dark.
The picture elsewhere is very different. From the archaeological evidence the Ionian migration and the importance of Athens in it are confirmed. But the earlier period is very obscure. The change in burial customs might indicate the arrival of a new people, the Dorians; but it could be explained as merely a reversion to older habits (the more spectacular forms of Mycenean burial were bound to disappear anyway), and burial customs are not always evidence for population change: the Roman empire saw a total change from cremation to burial during the first three centuries AD, for no reason that anyone has yet been able to discern. Some archaeologists have therefore preferred not to believe in a Dorian invasion, and to claim that the different groups in mainland Greece had been present since the beginning of Mycenean culture: the palaces were destroyed either by passing raiders, like the later Viking harassment of Celtic and Anglo-Saxon culture, or by local uprisings of a subject people. But despite the existence of some cultural continuity after the fall of the palaces, it is the general impression of discontinuity, the desertion of old settlements for new, and the instances of the use of old settlements for burial, which suggest most strongly the influx of a new population. And if any weight is to be given to legend, though they cannot be shown to have destroyed Mycenean culture, it would seem likely that it was the mysterious Dorians who benefited from the vacuum created. Other ages have known the same phenomenon, a people without culture leaving no sign of their coming but desolation, and a world that has to be created anew.
II (#ulink_b2356759-f8cc-5d38-bc78-4ee6e24e4724)
Sources (#ulink_b2356759-f8cc-5d38-bc78-4ee6e24e4724)
SOCIETIES without writing are dependent on the human memory for the transmission of knowledge of the past and of information in the present. Mnemonic devices, the use of recurrent story patterns and folk-tale motifs and repetitive phraseology serve also an aesthetic purpose, to produce a pleasing effect on the audience; it is for such reasons that the rhythmic patterns of poetic metre are widespread among primitive peoples. Those who achieve special skill in composing metrically will acquire special status as the spokesmen of the community, in their dual functions of preserving the past and interpreting the present. The earliest surviving literary evidence for the history of Greece is poetic; the advent of writing in the eighth century changed the position only slowly: it takes generations for the poet to lose his inherited status, and it was not until the middle of the sixth century that prose literature began to develop.
The aoidos or singer of epic was a professional oral poet, composing and reciting from a stock of traditional material. His theme was the exploits of the heroes of a distant past, the end of the Mycenean period; there seems to have been no attempt to reach back earlier, or to compose poems on more recent events. This oral epic flourished solely or primarily in Ionia, and its nature can best be illustrated from the linguistic peculiarities it exhibits. The dialect of epic is artificial: to an Ionic base have been added numerous borrowings from Aeolic and other east Greek dialects, to create a language whose forms are especially adapted to the flowing hexameter metre. The oral poet doubtless relied on memory to repeat with variations already existing poems, but he also needed to be able to compose as he sang. Apart from the repetition of descriptions of material objects or recurring scenes such as feasts, debates, battles or the sunrise, he acquired a whole vocabulary of formulae – metrical units adapted to particular positions in the hexameter line. As a result of the work of Milman Parry on the similarities between Homeric poetry and the practices of the surviving tradition of Serbo-Croatian oral epic, the principles of Homeric oral composition are now much better understood. Apart from more complex metrical formulae, names and nouns have different adjectives attached to them, whose function is not primarily to add to the sense, but to accompany the noun in particular metrical positions and in different grammatical cases; the economy of the system is such that each noun seldom has more than one epithet giving a particular metrical value.
The Greek oral epic poet was thus considerably limited by the tradition in which he worked. He was singing of a legendary past of which he knew little, in a language which encouraged the survival of descriptive elements long after they had ceased to exist in the real world, with limited scope for innovation. On the other hand he was a creative artist, composing as he sang, and living in a world with its own institutions, social customs and values; he must have used these extensively in his attempt to recreate a long lost heroic world. Indeed studies of oral literature in other cultures have noted that one of the main functions of traditional elements is to increase the scope for creativity: the purpose of the formulaic language of Greek epic is to facilitate composition, not repetition. There is therefore nothing strange in the view that a great individual artist can stand at the end of an oral epic tradition, relying on the achievements of his predecessors but transforming their art; and other examples show that the point of transition from oral culture to written text often provides an impulse for the traditional poet to attempt a monumental poem with a complex structure, which is still based on oral techniques, but exploits the possibilities of preservation and overall planning provided by the new medium. The Iliad and the Odyssey, attributed to Homer, are literary masterpieces, far surpassing all comparable material from Greek or other cultures.
It may not be certain whether Homer is one man or two, or a proper name for a generic class of professional singers; and it may be disputed at what point in the oral epic tradition the intervention of a great poet is most likely. The second epic poet of Greece is a more distinct personality. Hesiod composed around 700, and may well be a contemporary or within a generation of Homer; he is the first poet to name himself. At the start of the Theogony he describes how the Muses came to him on Mount Helicon as he was tending his sheep; they gave him the laurel staff of the aoidos and breathed a sacred voice into him. It is part of his consciousness of possessing an autonomous artistic personality outside the tradition of oral poetry that his other main work, the Works and Days, is conceived of as an address to his brother Perses on a real occasion, a dispute between the two over the division of their father’s land. Hesiod does not therefore seem to belong to an oral epic tradition in the same sense as Homer: his call to poetry was like the call of a contemporary Old Testament prophet. His father, unsuccessful as a sea trader, had emigrated from the town of Cyme in Aeolic Asia Minor to establish himself as a farmer on marginal land at Ascra in Boeotia: neither area is known to have possessed a native epic tradition.
Certainly Hesiod saw himself as a Homeric aoidos, and even describes how the only time he ever sailed across the sea was the few yards to Chalcis in Euboea, to take part in a contest at the funeral games of Amphidamas; he won a tripod which he dedicated to the Muses at the place where he had been granted his original vision: the occasion was a typical oral epic contest. But his technique is not the technique of an oral poet working within a fixed tradition. The dialect, metre and vocabulary are learned from epic, but they are used with a freedom and an awkwardness which suggest that Hesiod only half understood the skills of oral composition: this is partly because he lacked a set of formulae suitable to his subject matter, and partly because much of this subject matter, in the Works and Days at least, had to be reworked from the simpler speech rhythms of popular sayings. His fundamental originality explains the stiffness, inferior quality and line by line composition, which is so different from the easy flow of Homeric epic: it may well be that, rather than composing orally, Hesiod used writing in composition, and learnt his poems by heart for recitation. The clear signs of eastern influence in Hesiod’s poetry (ch. 6) also distinguish him from the Homeric tradition.
The evidence of inscriptions on pottery shows that the alphabet was used as a natural medium for recording quite trivial occasional poetry by the late eighth century: there is nothing implausible in the view that epic poets were also recording their compositions in writing by then, and even using the new skill to help them in composition. Poetry continued to be an important vehicle for public expression in the seventh and sixth centuries, but it was influenced in various ways by literacy: these ways are all related to the function of writing in preserving accurately the work of particular poets. References in Homer show that other types of poetry, songs of celebration, wedding songs, victory songs and dirges, already existed alongside epic; but there seems to have been no guild of professional singers to ensure their survival. With writing, various types of poetry emerged to establish separate identities; the existence of the different traditions from now on encouraged continuous development; writing also allowed the recording of more complex rhythms, and could almost function as a musical notation. After Hesiod, the concept of the poet as an individual was paramount: poems were known to be by a certain author, and this in turn will have affected the subject matter and tone of poetry towards the expression of personal emotions. With few exceptions lyric poetry did not survive the end of the ancient world: the fragments that remain are preserved in quotation by classical authors or have been found in the papyri from Graeco-Roman Egypt; the last fifty years have increased our knowledge of lyric poetry enormously.
The earliest of the lyric poets, Archilochos (about 680–40), exemplifies many of these trends. The illegitimate son of an aristocrat on Paros, he went to Thasos when his father led a colony there, and spent most of his life as a soldier until he was killed in battle. His poetry, whose language is often Homeric but whose metres are both popular and epic, is concerned with his personal circumstances – warfare, life in a frontier community, drink, love and sex, and abuse of his enemies: his most recently discovered poem, the longest fragment yet known, about the seduction of his girl-friend’s younger sister, was published in 1974. True lyric poetry, solo songs for the lyre, is represented by Alkaios (born about 620) and Sappho (born about 610), both from Lesbos and both members of aristocratic families. Alkaios was involved in political struggles against popular leaders: his political attitudes, exile, travels and descriptions of military life are typical; Sappho offers an unusual view of female society.
More important for the social function of poetry are the didactic poets. Kallinos of Ephesus in the early seventh century and Mimnermos of Kolophon about 600 encouraged their fellow citizens in struggles against the nomadic Cimmerian invaders from south Russia and the advancing power of Lydia. Tyrtaios towards the end of the seventh century did the same for the Spartans fighting against their Messenian neighbours, and also praised the social ethic of the new mass armies of heavy armed troops and their ideal of government, eunomia (good order). His poetic influence on Solon of Athens was great. Solon was appointed chief magistrate of Athens in 594 to solve serious economic and social unrest; his early fragments attack the injustices of Athenian society in a way that shows the use of poetry as political weapon; later he defended his reforms against extremists on both sides in the same way. The poetry attributed to Theognis of Megara (about 540) describes the dissatisfaction of an aristocrat at the influx of new wealth and the breakdown of traditional values, and also portrays upper-class homosexuality. In contrast, Xenophanes left Colophon in Asia Minor as a young man because of the Persian conquest in 545, and spent the rest of his life in the western colonies; he wrote on philosophical and scientific problems, and also attacked the contemporary emphasis on athletics and military virtues.
All early Greek poetry has a social function and a place of performance which influence its content; the different generic forms in origin reflect these different purposes. The lyric and elegiac poets composed for performance to the lyre and the double flute in drinking parties: their subject matter reflects the interests and preoccupations of particular social groups, the warriors and the aristocrats in their symposia.
Choral lyric was usually performed at religious festivals or other great occasions by trained choirs of men or girls singing and dancing to instrumental accompaniment, often antiphonically. Alkman was a younger contemporary of Tyrtaios, and his hymns offer an interesting contrast to the impression of Sparta as a military society. Simonides of Ceos (about 556–468) was court poet of the Athenian tyrant Hipparchos, and later commemorated the dead and the victors of the Persian Wars. Finally the greatest of the choral lyric poets, Pindar, in the fifth century, wrote for the Greek aristocrats and rulers who competed at the international games.
Lyric poetry presents a complex and varied picture of the world of early Greece: though its purpose was never overtly historical (there is no tradition of historical epic or descriptive panegyric), the poet’s role was still central; and so satisfactory for public expression were the varied poetic forms that they may well have delayed the appearance of a prose literature. Men of course spoke in prose, but they composed in verse. Composition in prose is related to a new need, that of precise and critical analysis; and it is a product of the Ionian enlightenment. The effort to formulate a critical scientific theory of matter, which began in Miletus with Thales in the early sixth century, led to the first known Greek work in prose, Anaximandros’ book on nature of about 550. Anaximandros attempted to explain both the underlying structure of the physical world and its development down to the creation of man – it was the substitution of science for myth. He was also the first Greek geographer and astronomer: the work contained the earliest known maps of the earth and the heavens, which were accompanied by a ‘description of the earth’ and a discussion of the stars and their movements.
Philosophers continued the scientific interests of Anaximandros; but it is another Milesian who carried his interest in human geography further, and so initiated the analysis of human societies. Hekataios, a prominent statesman around 500, also published a map and wrote a ‘description of the earth’, of which many short fragments survive in later authors. His concern was not with scientific theory, but with accurate geographical description. He himself had travelled at least in Asia and Egypt, and the detailed information given in the fragments suggests an ethnographic description of the Mediterranean world based on personal observation and the reports of other travellers. A second work by Hekataios discussed the heroic myths and the genealogies of those families who claimed descent from gods or heroes – as did Hekataios himself in the sixteenth generation. It seems to have been not merely a retelling of the hero myths, but a critical attempt to rationalize them and, if not produce history from them, at least make them portray a relatively normal human world. The critical approach of his book is emphasized in the first sentence:
Hekataios the Milesian speaks thus: I write these things as they seem to me; for the stories of the Greeks are many and absurd in my opinion.
(F.G.H. 1 frag, 1)
Hekataios saw the importance of travel and personal observation for the understanding of the human world; he may also be responsible for removing the gods from history by his curious and misguided attempt to remove them from mythology. Other early writers of prose are more shadowy figures. There were men who compiled mythological books without Hekataios’ critical attitude. And since antiquity there has been controversy as to whether there were any true historians before Herodotus; the evidence is unreliable, and even if the four dim Ionians in question did write before Herodotus, they had no influence on him, for they compiled a type of local history very different from his broad conception.
For the ancient world Herodotus was ‘the father of history’, and that judgement must stand. But he had also the reputation of being a liar, and the generally unfavourable opinion of his reliability lasted until the sixteenth century, when the accounts of travellers and missionaries from such areas as South America, Turkey and the far east revealed that tall stories about other cultures were not necessarily false. Since the nineteenth century accurate knowledge of the main civilizations about which Herodotus wrote, Egypt, Assyria, Babylon and Persia, has accumulated; and in the present age, when the difficulties in studying primitive societies and the problems of writing about their past are better appreciated, we can begin to understand the real achievement of Herodotus.
He was born in 484, between the two Persian invasions, at Halicarnassus in southern Asia Minor; he lived through the establishment of Athenian imperial power and died some time after 430, during the first ten years of the great Peloponnesian War between Athens and Sparta. His family was literary and aristocratic; he was brought up in exile on Samos; he travelled extensively in the Greek world, as far as Sicily and south Italy, north Africa, the Black Sea and south Russia; he visited Sardis in Lydia, and Phoenicia; he travelled up the Nile as far as Elephantinē and down the Euphrates as far as Babylon, and probably also went to the Persian capital of Susa. Well known as a literary figure in fifth century Athens, he finally became a citizen of the Athenian colony of Thurii in south Italy (founded in 444/3), where he died.
The scope of Herodotus’ book is described in its first sentence:
This is the account of the investigation of Herodotus of Halicarnassus, undertaken so that the achievements of men should not be obliterated by time and the great and marvellous works performed by both Greeks and barbarians should not be without fame, both other things and the reasons why they fought one another.
(Herodotus 1. 1)
The Greek word historiē translated by ‘investigation’ is the word which has entered the European languages as ‘history’; Herodotus uses it elsewhere to describe his enquiries, and it is connected with the Greek root ‘to know’, usually in the sense of knowing by personal observation, for instance as the witness in a lawsuit. Herodotus’ work is a series of descriptions of the various peoples of the Mediterranean and the near east arranged around the theme of the wars between Greeks and Persians: within this basic structure the digressions, or separate ‘accounts’ or ‘stories’ (which Herodotus calls logoi), are geographical, ethnographic and historical, ranging over the known world as far as its mysterious fringes and the encircling ocean. The modern word ‘historian’ scarcely covers all these activities; contemporaries used a vaguer term when they called him a ‘logos-maker’ or ‘logos-writer’. Thucydides was thinking of Herodotus when he claimed that his own readers should trust his conclusions, rather than ‘what the poets have composed about events in exaggeration, or what logos-writers have collected together, which is rather aimed at pleasing the ear than at the truth’. And he makes the proud statement:
The lack of invention in this narrative may seem less pleasing to the ear, but it will be enough if it is useful to those who wish to grasp clearly the past and the future, which, given human nature, will see these or similar events happening sometime again. This work is designed as a possession for all time rather than a display piece for instant listening.
(Thucydides 1. 21–2)
In these criticisms, and particularly the last, Thucydides seems to agree with later evidence in seeing Herodotus as a professional lecturer, giving his ‘stories’ or logoi in public as ‘display pieces for instant listening’; the final collection of these ‘stories’ in the present structured narrative was almost certainly published by 425, when Herodotus’ account of the causes of the Persian War was parodied by the comic poet Aristophanes. Herodotus may well in fact have begun like other contemporary literary figures, by lecturing on his travels and researches, and have only later arranged these lectures around the theme of the Persian Wars; but it is possible that he may have had his general theme in mind from the start.
Two literary influences on Herodotus are obvious. He owed much to Hekataios, whom he had certainly read, and whom he attacked both in his account of Egypt and as a map maker (Herodotus 2.143, 4.31): the early parts of the work must often cover the same ground in greater depth. Herodotus is also rightly described by a later Greek critic as ‘most Homeric’; Homer lies behind the conception of the whole enterprise as a war between Greeks and barbarians, and its declared intent to preserve ‘the great deeds of men’ (one of the acknowledged functions of epic poetry); the complex construction and digressive technique of Herodotus is similar to that of Homer, as are many of the more imaginative elements in the work.
Very few of Herodotus’ sources of information were written: details of the provinces of the Persian empire and its tribute, and of the organization of the Persian invasion force, may ultimately come from official Persian documents; and there are passing references to poetry and literature. But in general Herodotus was excluded from knowledge of the extensive literary and documentary evidence of the near east by his ignorance of foreign languages. As he himself makes clear, his work was based primarily on two types of evidence – what he had seen and what he had heard; it is a systematic and serious attempt to record oral traditions about the past. His practice was in each place to seek out ‘the men with knowledge’, usually priests or officials, and record their account with the minimum of comment. Only occasionally will he give variant traditions, and these have usually in fact been gathered by chance from different places; when he does this, he seldom declares which version he believes to be correct.
It is obvious that such a method left Herodotus largely at the mercy of his informants, who might be frivolous, ill-informed or biased. From Thucydides onwards Herodotus has been attacked as unscientific; but modern oral historians in fact hold that each tradition should be recorded separately: the contamination of two or more traditions produces an account which it is impossible to check or interpret, and which is an artificial invention of the modern anthropologist, not a true oral tradition.
All oral tradition consists of a chain of testimonies; in general the effective range for resonably detailed knowledge of the past is about two hundred years: it is very noticeable that Herodotus’ information is both qualitatively and quantitatively better for the period from the mid seventh century onwards. The historical worth of oral tradition is also related, not so much to the number of steps in the chain of testimonies, as to the purpose behind the recording of the tradition, the milieu in which it was remembered, and the cultural influences which may have affected its literary structure. The past is remembered not so much for its own sake as for its relevance to the present interests of a particular group; and each group imposes its characteristic deformation on the oral tradition.
In mainland Greece much of Herodotus’ information came from the great aristocratic families in each city: aristocratic tradition is of course especially liable to political distortion. For instance the Spartan aristocratic account played down the reforms of the age of Tyrtaios, and later the importance of their greatest king, Kleomenes; the Corinthian aristocracy travestied the history of their tyranny; the Athenian aristocratic family of the Alkmeonidai protested overmuch their anti-Persian stance and claimed the credit for the overthrow of the tyranny, minimizing the role of other families and popular support; Macedonian royal sources claimed that they had been secretly pro-Greek during the Persian Wars. There are many other examples.
Another group of traditions is very different. Here the great religious shrine of Delphi is of central importance: the Delphic tradition is not usually political; it is rather popular and moralizing. Often the stories are clearly related to particular monuments or offerings at the shrine (which is how we can detect their origin); and they centre round particular benefactors like Croesus king of Lydia. The obvious presence of folk-tale motifs might suggest the professional story-teller; but the clearest tendency is to impart a moral dimension to the past. Events are preserved in a framework in which the hero moves from prosperity to over-confidence and a divinely sanctioned reversal of fortune. This is no aristocratic ethic; it belongs to the priests of a shrine closely identified with a cooperative ethic, who engraved over the doors of their temple the two mottoes, ‘Know yourself, and ‘Nothing too much’.
The traditions of the eastern Greeks are far closer in form to the Delphic stories than to the aristocratic traditions of the mainland. For here too there is very little evidence of deformation due to particular political groups; yet even in quite recent history there are clear signs of recurrent patterns, folk motifs, and distortion for moral purposes. Thus the story of the tyranny of Polykrates of Samos as late as the second half of the sixth century could be transformed into a folk-tale, and the account of the Ionian revolt in the early fifth century contains many popular elements. At first sight this is surprising, for Herodotus was closer to events in the Greek east than on the mainland; he had for instance spent his youth on Samos only a generation after the death of Polykrates, and must have known many of those who fought in the great revolt; yet his east Greek history is in fact less reliable than his history of the mainland.
This curious characteristic of the east Greek tradition is related to the overall pattern of his work: it too is a moral story, of the pride of Persia, symbolized in the arrogance of Xerxes and humbled by the Greeks. Once more the gods punish those whose prosperity passes human limits; and the framework in which this happens is a framework designed to recall to the listener the steps by which the gods achieve their ends – the deeds of pride, the warnings disregarded, the dreams misinterpreted and false ones sent to deceive. This overall pattern has been imposed by Herodotus on his material, and its consonance with the pattern of east Greek stories suggests an interesting conclusion. Behind the preservation of the past in Ionia lies a moralizing tradition of story-telling found in mainland Greece only at Delphi, a tradition of which Herodotus is himself a representative: just as the Homeric poems are the culmination of the activity of generations of professional bards, so Herodotus the logos-writer has ‘collected together’ (to use Thucydides’ description) the results of an oral prose tradition, of folk stories told perhaps by professional or semi-professional ‘logos-makers’ in Delphi and the cities of Ionia. And he himself is the last and greatest of these logos-makers, weaving together the stories with all the skill of a traditional artist into a prose epic, whose form mirrors the form of its components. That this form is traditional and not of his own making is shown by its absence from the mainland Greek tradition: if he had been deliberately and consciously imposing a new pattern, he would surely have made this material conform to it; yet the comparative absence of moralizing folk-tale motifs in the stories of obvious mainland folk heroes like Kleomenes, Themistokles and others is remarkable.
Herodotus’ Athenian contemporaries scarcely understood the Ionian tradition within which he worked: they found his methods and his attitudes curiously old-fashioned. Aristophanes in his comedy the Acharnions (lines 509–39) produced a brilliant and unfair parody of Herodotus’ conception of the causes of the Persian Wars; Thucydides’ whole methodology was based on a rejection of the techniques of Herodotus: he failed to see the nature of Herodotus’ achievement because he was writing a very different type of history – contemporary history.
Within the realm of observation Herodotus was faced with the same problem as modern ethnographers and anthropologists. We may describe alien cultures in terms of some model, whether it is a typological or ‘historical’ model, or a theory of the fundamental structure of all human societies; or we may less consciously describe a society in relation to our own. Herodotus attempted the latter, and his descriptions are often unbalanced by a search for comparisons and contrasts. He notices especially the similarities and the oppositions between Greeks and barbarians; he also (and here perhaps the entertainer is most apparent) has a keen eye for marvels and strange customs. Such an attitude can produce an unbalanced picture, as when he says ‘the Egyptians in most of their manners and customs exactly reverse the ordinary practices of mankind’ (Herodotus 2.35); but it is a less insidious fault than the imposition of a single conceptual scheme on the manifold variety of human societies. Herodotus remains not only the first practitioner of oral history, but also a model for a type of history whose importance is greater today than ever before.
Thucydides’ history of the Peloponnesian War, composed in Athens and in exile during and just after the war (432–04), contains a number of digressions on past history, which are mostly designed to correct or expose the mistakes of his predecessors and contemporaries; even when they show little sympathy for the problems of discovering about the past, they are written with care, using either rigorous argument or documentary evidence. In particular the first twenty-one chapters of book 1 are an attempt to demonstrate the type of historical generalization that can safely be made about the past; they represent a minimalist attitude to what can be known, and an implicit rejection of Herodotus’ attempt at more detailed history.
Thucydides pointed out many of the weaknesses of past history composed from oral tradition, but he failed to offer any serious alternative; it was his contemporaries who made the next major advance, by turning from general history to local history. A later critic described them:
These men made similar choices about the selection of their subjects, and their powers were not so very different from one another, some of them writing histories about the Greeks and some about the barbarians, and not linking all these to one another but dividing them according to peoples and cities, and writing about them separately, all keeping to one and the same aim: whatever oral traditions were preserved locally among peoples or cities, and whatever documents were stored in holy places or archives, to bring these to the common notice of everyone just as they were received, neither adding to them nor subtracting from them.
(Dionysius of Halicarnassus, On Thucydides 5)
Whatever the aim of such writers, this is a somewhat favourable account of their actual achievement; still the discovery of local archives added a new dimension to the history of the past in at least one respect. The records surviving in local archives were primarily of chronological interest – lists of priests, victors at the games, and annual magistrates.
About the end of the fifth century the sophist and antiquarian lecturer Hippias of Elis published the Olympic victor list, which took chronology back to 776 in a four-year cycle: his system of Olympiad dating became standard for later historians. Another writer, Hellanikos of Lesbos, published a whole series of local histories in the late fifth century, whose character can be seen from two examples. The Priestesses of Hera at Argos was based on the records of the famous temple of Hera, which it apparently used to provide a general chronological framework for early Greek history: presumably the Argive records preserved not only the names of priestesses but also the length of office of each of them, and perhaps even some major historical events during their terms. Hellanikos’ other important work was a local history of Attica. It was almost certainly arranged round the list of annual magistrates going back to 683/2, of which a number of fragments on stone have been found in the Athenian agora. The fact that this complete list was publicly inscribed for the first time in the 420s, and not added to, suggests that it had probably been discovered by Hellanikos during his researches and brought by him to the attention of the Athenian people as an important historical document.
None of these works survive, but they were used by later authors, and in the case of Athens at least their characteristics are reasonably clear. They are marked by antiquarian interest in myth and origins, and by the importance they give to chronology; authors were often from priestly families (Kleidemos) or politicians (Androtion) or both (Philochoros). The influence of earlier local historians can be seen most clearly in Aristotle’s Constitution of Athens, a work which was discovered almost complete on a papyrus from Egypt in 1890. It is the only survivor of 158 constitutions of Greek states written by Aristotle and his pupils in the late fourth century, as part of his collection of evidence for the study of political science. The portion that survives is roughly eighty pages long, and consists of two sections, the first giving a constitutional history of Athens down to 404, the second describing the actual offices and working of the constitution at the time of writing. The historical part contains much material on political and institutional history, often distorted by later political prejudice; it must however be said that some of the political analyses are so crass and some of the documents so blatantly forged that many modern scholars have wanted to believe the work was compiled by a rather unintelligent pupil of Aristotle.
Later writers occasionally add information, which is of value only in so far as it derives from a trustworthy source. The most important of these authors are the Augustan geographer Strabo, Pausanias, the compiler of an antiquarian guide to Greece in the second century AD, and the essayist and biographer Plutarch (roughly AD 50–120), whose lives of Lykourgos, Solon and Themistokes reflect a late and imaginative tradition. Diodorus’ Historical Library (written in Rome before about 30 BC) preserves in its history of early Greece a précis of parts of the general history of the fourth century writer Ephoros, a rhetorical work largely derivative on Herodotus for this period.
The earliest inscriptions of more than a few words are in verse, but writing was quickly and widely used to record almost anything; for the period from the beginning of Greek writing down to the Persian Wars well over 5000 inscriptions are known, most of them of course very short. They are found in those types of material that can survive, bronze, lead, and especially pottery and stone; we should not forget the many documents that once existed on wood, parchment, wax tablets and papyrus. Some of the more important documents will be used as evidence later; these are mostly religious or commemorative (tombstones or dedications at shrines), or political (laws and treaties). The earliest surviving law is late seventh century, but the practice of putting up laws in public on stone or wood was common by the period of the Persian Wars.
The Mediterranean has been a hunting ground for European archaeologists for a century. The most useless site is the one which is still inhabited: Thebes, Chalcis, Greek Marseilles and early Syracuse are virtually unknown. The Athenian agora is only partly excavated because its true extent was miscalculated when the expropriations of owners by the government were carried out; more successful was the physical transplantation of the village of Delphi to a pleasanter and archaeologically barren site, against the wishes of the inhabitants and at French government expense (the French had won the right to excavate by removing the duty on Greek currants). Many sites in Asia Minor especially are disappointing because there was extensive rebuilding there in Hellenistic and Roman times: Delos and Cyrene are other examples. Particularly fruitful are sites that have been abandoned or sparsely occupied, with or without violent destruction (for instance Smyrna, the shrine of Perachora on the Isthmus of Corinth, Paestum); but the sacking and rebuilding of a city can also preserve – the survival of late archaic art is due largely to the sack of Athens by the Persians in 480 and the Periklean rebuilding, which caused the temple sculptures of Peisistratid Athens to be buried in the new foundations soon after they were carved. Excavations have been conducted at most of the obvious sites, the centres of archaic culture – Sparta, Aegina, Olympia, Athens, Samos, the Argolid, the Sicilian colonies; some less obvious sites turn out to be particularly rewarding because of their position – for instance Al Mina in north Syria or Naucratis in Egypt. Fringe areas such as the Scythian royal tombs or Celtic Gaul often provide important evidence because of their different burial customs: the cemeteries and other sites of Etruria have yielded so much Greek pottery that the eighteenth century thought Greek vases were Etruscan (Josiah Wedgwood called his pottery factory Etruria); there are few Greek museums whose collections can rival those of the great Italian Etruscan museums.
In relating different sites to each other and archaeological evidence in general to other types of evidence, the primary need is for an adequate chronological framework. For archaic Greece this is provided by pottery. In contrast to other artefacts pottery is of comparatively little value even when decorated, breakable, and when broken both useless and indestructible; in early Greece, painted pottery was a major art form whose styles varied from city to city and changed continually, so that it is comparatively easy to work out a relative chronology within each style. The styles of many areas were not widely distributed; Laconian pottery for instance is virtually confined to Sparta and its colony Tarentum; the various east Greek potteries are often difficult to distinguish, and their places of origin and chronological relationships are not yet fully determined. Such local styles are of limited interest in recording the presence of Greeks from a particular area in a particular place. Two cities, however, successively captured a wider market for their pottery: it is these styles, found all over the Mediterranean, which provide a relative chronology for archaeological sites in general, which can then be tied to absolute dates through known fixed points. Thus the dates of foundation of the Sicilian colonies given by Thucydides fix the beginnings of the early proto-Corinthian style; the sack of Athens in 480 offers another fixed point at the end of the archaic age, and there are a number of such fixes in between.
The pottery of Corinth was the first to achieve widespread circulation, helped of course by the city’s position as the starting point of the route to the west. Contact with the near east and the import of textiles and metalwork brought various decorative motifs to Greek art, and especially an interest in the realistic portrayal of animal and vegetable life: this orientalizing style appears in Corinthian pottery first about 725, when the late Geometric style gives way to early proto-Corinthian. The invention of the Black Figure technique of painting came within a generation (middle proto-Corinthian, c. 700–650); in this the figures are painted in black silhouette and details are then engraved on the figures after firing.
Corinthian pottery was the only ware widely exported for about a century; in the sixth century it was superseded by Athenian. Attic Black Figure began under the influence of Corinth (610–550), but quickly won pre-eminence, and in its mature phase (c. 570–25) reached an artistic perfection which has made it famous ever since. By about 530 a new technique of painting had been invented in Athens, the Red Figure technique, in which it is the background which is painted black, and the details of the figures are drawn in by brush. So individual are the styles of the different Black Figure and Red Figure artists that the same methods can be applied to distinguishing their hands as have been applied to Renaissance and later painters: the work of Sir John Beazley has resulted in the more or less certain identification of the work of over a thousand artists, and their classification both chronologically and into schools. Quite apart from our knowledge of painted pottery as an art form, this has given a chronological precision unknown in any other area of archaeology.
In more general terms the contribution of archaeology to the study of early Greek history is enormously greater than for most periods of history. It has explained many aspects of the origins and growth of Greek culture, its interdependence and local variations, the external influences on it and the means by which they arrived. It has illuminated the patterns of trade and colonization, and the major advances in warfare which lie at the basis of Greek geographical expansion and the diffusion of political power to a widening circle. Archaeology of course has obvious limitations, in that it can only offer partial insight into the less material aspects of life – religion, politics, culture and ideas; but it is more important to point out the areas where it still has more to contribute. Archaeologists have tended to concentrate on change rather than on continuity, and to direct their attention to certain areas of culture whose relative importance is not obvious. Thus we still know more about town centres than about towns, and about towns than about the countryside, or about weapons than about agricultural implements, and much more about the dead than the living. Despite the fact that Greek archaeology has stood as a model for other periods for so long, much remains to be done; and what is done will illuminate especially those areas about which literary and epigraphic sources are comparatively silent. The light thrown on the Dark Age in the last generation is an outstanding example of what can be achieved; and recent developments in survey archaeology have begun to illuminate the history of the countryside.
III (#ulink_c081ef76-aac4-543a-8895-4be0fe2220b0)
The End of the Dark Age: the Aristocracy (#ulink_c081ef76-aac4-543a-8895-4be0fe2220b0)
ABOUT THE late eighth century, with Homer and Hesiod, literary evidence becomes available to supplement the fìndings of archaeology. But whereas Hesiod describes a real world contemporary with himself, it is obvious from the character of the Greek oral epic tradition that there are difficulties in using the Homeric poems for history. In some respects Homeric society is clearly an artificial literary creation. It is a natural tendency of all heroic epic to exaggerate the social status and behaviour of everyone involved, so that characters appear generally to belong to the highest social class and to possess great wealth and extraordinary abilities, in implicit contrast with the inequalities and squalor of the present age. Equally it is agreed that there are some minor elements in the Homeric poems from almost every period; the presence or absence of isolated phenomena cannot therefore be held to count for or against any particular date. This rule can be given a general negative extension, for the oral epic tradition consciously or unconsciously excludes whole areas of experience as irrelevant, or as known to be later than the heroic age: thus all signs of the coming of the Dorians and the Ionian migration are absent, as are many aspects of the poet’s own period. In general, omissions, however large, carry little weight for the argument.
Nevertheless I would argue that there is a historical basis to the society described in Homer, in the poet’s retrojection of the institutions of his own day. Archaeological evidence suggests this. Though the poems show a number of Mycenean survivals, the Linear B tablets have revealed a society wholly different from that portrayed in Homer; equally the scanty evidence from the early Dark Age is incompatible with the material culture of the Homeric poems. Only in the later Dark Age do the archaeological and literary evidence begin to coincide over a wide range of phenomena. To take examples which have been used in the controversy, the emphasis on Phoenicians as traders points most probably to a period between 900 and 700, as does the typical display of wealth through the Storage and giving away of bronze cauldrons and tripods. The architecture of the Homeric house fìnds its closest parallels in the same period. Homeric burials are by cremation which points away from the Mycenean inhumation to the later Dark Age and onwards, though the actual funerary rites owe much to poetic invention, which in turn affected contemporary practices. The earliest and most striking instances have been found at Salamis in Cyprus, whose rulers, in close contact with Euboea and possessed of great wealth as vassals of Assyria, were practising complicated ‘Homeric’ funeral rites from the second half of the eighth century. On the mainland offerings of almost the same date found inserted into Mycenean tombs suggest that epic had created a new interest in the heroic past which itself influenced the development of hero cult.
Admittedly some central aspects of Homeric society have been thought to show a basic confusion. In descriptions of fìghting, for instance, the chariot, which disappeared as a weapon of war at the end of the Mycenean period, is still an essential item of the aristocrat’s equipment; but the epic tradition no longer under stood its military use. Instead it has become a transport vehicle taking the heroes from place to place on the battlefield, and standing idly by as they dismount and fìght on foot: occasionally it even takes on the attributes of a horse and performs feats such as jumping ditches. This seems to be a combination of a Mycenean weapon with the tactics of the aristocratic mounted infantry of the late Dark Age. Again the Homeric warrior fights with a jumble of weapons from different periods: he can even start off to battle with a pair of throwing spears and end up fìghting with a single thrusting one. The metal used for weapons is almost invariably bronze, but for agricultural and industrial tools it is iron – a combination unknown in the real world, where the replacement of bronze by iron came first in the military sphere. Such examples do not however prove the artificiality of Homeric society. The elements all seem to belong to real societies: it is only their combination which is artifìcial; and when the different elements can be dated, they show a tendency to fall into two categories, dim reflections of Mycenean practices and a clearer portrayal of the late Dark Age world.
More general considerations reinforce this conclusion. The process of continual re-creation which is implied by an oral epic tradition means that the factual basis of epic is little different from that implied in any oral tradition: the focus is sharpest on contemporary phenomena, but the existence of fixed linguistic rhythms and conventional descriptions leads back into the past; and since the poet is consciously re-creating the past, he will discard the obviously contemporary and preserve what he knows to be older elements. The reality of the resulting society must be tested by using comparative evidence from other cultures to show how compatible the different institutions described by Homer are, and whether the overall nature of the society resembles that of other known primitive societies. Finally there is a clear line of development from the institutions described in Homer to those which existed in later Greece.
The differences in the way Homer and Hesiod portray society are not then to be explained chronologically: Homer’s society is of course idealized, and reaches back in time through the generations of his predecessors; Hesiod’s is fully contemporary. And the towns of Ionia which produced Homer were in many respects more sophisticated, more secure and more conservative than the social tensions of the peasant communities in Boeotia. But also Homer describes society from above, from the aristocratic point of view, whereas Hesiod’s vision is that of the lower orders, unable to envisage change but obsessed with the petty injustices of the social system and the realities of peasant farming. It is for this reason that I have not distinguished sharply the evidence of Homer and Hesiod, but have used them to create a composite picture of society at the end of the Dark Age. Given the different characteristics of the two types of epic it is however obvious that inferences drawn from Hesiod are more certain than inferences from heroic epic.
The subject matter of Homeric epic is the activities of the great, and it is their social environment which is portrayed most clearly. The word basileus, which is the normal title of the Homeric hero, in later Greek came to mean king; but in the Linear B tablets the king himself is called by a title which survives in certain passages of Homer, wanax: somewhere much lower in the hierarchy at loca1 level is a group of people called by a name which is clearly the later Greek basileus; presumably when the palace economy disappeared, it was these men who were left as the leaders in their communities. In Homer and Hesiod the word basileus is in fact often used in a way which is much closer to the idea of a nobility, a class of aristocrats, one of whom may of course hold an ill-defined and perhaps uneasy position of supremacy within the community. Agamemnon at Troy is the highest basileus among a group of equals whose powers and attributes are not essentially different from his. When Odysseus visits the ideal land of Phaeacia he meets many basilēes feasting in the house of Alcinous and Alcinous himself says, ‘twelve honoured basilēes rule as leaders over the people, and I am the thirteenth’ (Odyssey 8. 390–1 ). The basilēes to whom Hesiod appeals for justice are a group of nobles. Monarchy probably ceased to be a widespread phenomenon in Greece at the beginning of the Dark Age: once again Homer’s ambivalence is due to the combination of Mycenean reminiscence with later society.
The basilēes of early Greece are a group of hereditary nobles largely independent of each other and separated from the rest of the community by their style of life as much as by their wealth, prerogatives or power. Each stands at the head of a group which can be viewed in two different ways: in terms of hereditary descent, as his genos or family, and in terms of its economic counterpart, the oikos (household or estate).
The Homeric family is not a particularly extended group. It comprises essentially the head of the house, his wife and his adult sons with their wives and offspring, together with other members of the immediate family. On his death the property is divided equally by lot among his sons, who then set up separate households; male children by slave women mostly have some status, though a lower one than sons of the wife: at one point Odysseus claims to be a bastard from Crete; his father treated him the same as his other children, but when he died the estate was shared among these, while he received only a house and little else (Odyssey 14.202ff). The basic Greek word for a man’s land is klēros, what he has inherited by lot; his dearest possessions which he will not leave and for which he will fight are his family, his oikos and his klēros (Iliad 15.498; Odyssey 14.64). It is the details of the division by lot of their father’s estate which Hesiod and his brother are quarrelling about (Works and Days 37), and Hesiod proclaims, work hard ‘that you may buy the klēros of others, not another yours’ (341). Beyond the immediate kin, the genos seems to have little significance; genealogies are not important and seldom go back beyond the third generation. Names for more distant kin are few, though kinship by marriage has a special term, as do certain members of the mother’s family. A man may expect help from his father-in-law or son-in-law as from his friends (Odyssey 8.58iff; Hesiod, Works and Days 345). But in general it is the immediate family which counts: blood-money for killing a man is described as due to his brother or father (Iliad 9.632f), not to any wider group; and when Odysseus kills the suitors, the father of one takes up the blood-feud with the words ‘it brings great shame for future men to hear if we do not take vengeance for the deaths of our sons and brothers’ (Odyssey 24.433ff). Curiously it is only killing within the family which involves a wider group of relatives or supporters (Iliad 2.66iff; Odyssey 15.272ff). It is somewhat misleading therefore to translate genos as clan rather than family.
The patriarchal nature of the family is shown not only by the rules of inheritance. Marriages are arranged by the heads of the genos, often for reasons of political friendship; the bride comes from the same social class, but is not necessarily related or even from the same area. Achilles says that if he returns from Troy, his father Peleus will himself seek a wife for him; ‘for there are many Achaean women in Hellas and Phthia, daughters of nobles who defend their citadels, one of whom I shall make my beloved bride if I wish’ (Iliad 9.394ff). The arranging of the marriage seems to involve both the giving of bridegifts (for which there is a special word, hedna) by the family of the bridegroom to that of the bride, and the provision of a dowry for the bride by her relatives. It has been suggested that these practices are incompatible, and represent two different historical layers in Homer; but they are in fact found together in other societies. The purpose of the dowry is to endow the future household; the bridegift has a different aim, which is neither to purchase the bride nor to initiate a gift-exchange involving the bride: it is rather to impress the bride’s family with the wealth and status of the bridegroom’s family. This is shown by the competition for a particularly desirable bride: Penelope complains to her suitors, ‘this has not been established in the past as the right way for suitors to behave, who wish to woo a noble lady and the daughter of a rich man, and compete with one another; but they themselves bring oxen and fat sheep as a feast for the friends of the bride, and they give splendid gifts: they do not eat another’s livelihood without repayment’ (Odyssey 18.275ff). The gifts of such suitors are not conditional on winning the bride’s hand: the losers lose all, so that there is here no exchange agreed, merely a contest in giving. The bride joins the bridegroom’s genos: when Telemachus arrives at Menelaus’ palace, a double wedding feast is in progress: his (bastard) son is bringing home a bride; and his daughter, long ago promised by Menelaus to Achilles’ (bastard) son, is leaving home (Odyssey 4. 1ff). The submergence of the wife in the new family of her father-in-law is shown by the survival in the Iliad of a kinship term found also in other Indo-European languages, e(i)nater, for the relationship between the wives of brothers, who would normally have lived together in the same household. The greatest tragedy is the premature death of the head, leaving his sons too young to assert their rights; this is what Andromache fears for her son in Troy, now Hector is dead (Iliad 22.484ff), and it is this struggle which Telemachus faces on Ithaca as his father’s prolonged absence makes it more and more likely that he has died.
Lower down the social scale marriage was a more practical affair, closely related to inheritance. Hesiod regards women as a curse sent by Zeus, ‘a great pain for mortals, living with men, sharing not in dread poverty but in prosperity’, like drones in the hive, but necessary in order to avoid the worse fate of others sharing the inheritance (Theogony 590–612). A man will marry at thirty a virgin in her fifth year from puberty (Works and Days 695fr; rather old: 14–16 was later the common age of marriage for girls), and he will have only one son if possible; though if one lives long enough there are compensations in more (376ff). Despite the strength of certain incest tabus shown in myth, endogamy, marriage within a relatively restricted cycle of relations, was the rule in Greece, and served to preserve existing patterns of ownership: in classical Athens an heiress could legally be claimed in marriage by her father’s closest male relative, beginning with her uncle; the procedure involved a herald publicly inviting claimants to come forward.
Many of these differences between the aristocracy and the ordinary citizen survived. Throughout the archaic period marriage outside the community was common between aristocrats, and contributed considerably to their political power and to the development of relations between cities; when in the mid fifth century Athens passed a law that citizens must in future be of Athenian parentage on both sides, this was a popular, anti-aristocratic move; the proposer, Perikles, like other Athenian aristocrats, would have found many earlier members of his family debarred from citizenship by such a rule.
A similar tension between aristocracy and peasantry perhaps explains the development in the status of women in early Greece. Hesiod reflects the general attitude then and later; but, though the portraits of Penelope and Nausicaa are idealized, Homer suggests that there was a time when women of the aristocracy had a high social status and considerable freedom: they could move freely without escorts, discuss on equal terms with their husbands, and might even be present at the banquets in the great hall. They were responsible for a large part of the household’s economic activities, weaving, grinding corn, and the supervision of the women slaves and the storechamber. In later Greek society respectable women were largely confined to their quarters, and took little part in male social activities at home or in public. This change in status is probably related to the movement from an estate-centred life to a city-centred one: the urbanization of Greek culture in most communities saw the increasing exclusion of women from important activities such as athletics, politics, drinking parties and intellectual discussion; these characteristically group male activities resulted also in the growth in most areas of that typically aristocratic Greek phenomenon, male homosexuality – though in the Symposium (182a) Plato mentions Ionia as an exception. Apart perhaps from Achilles and Patroclus and Zeus and Ganymede, Homer portrays early Greek society as markedly heterosexual. Marriage customs seem to show a similar shift; the bridegifts so prominent in Homer disappear, and in classical Greece only the dowry is known. In other words women had once been valuable social assets in an age when family and marriage alliances were more important; in the developed city-state they were no longer at a premium.
Around the immediate family lay the oikos. The early Greek basileus worked his estate with the help of slaves and occasional hired labour. The status of hired labourer (thēs) is the worst on earth: ‘spare me your praise of death’, says Achilles to Odysseus in the underworld, ‘I would rather be on earth and hire myself to a landless man with little for himself to live on, than rule over all the corpses of the dead’ (Odyssey 11.488ff). The life of a labourer is scarcely different from that of a beggar, for both are free men who have lost their position in society as completely as they can, and are dependent on the charity of another – only the beggar is preserved from starvation by the protection of Zeus; as an insult one of Penelope’s suitors offers the beggar Odysseus a job on an upland farm in return for food and clothing (Odyssey 18.357ff). This attitude to wage labour as private misfortune and public disgrace was widely prevalent later, and had a profound effect in shaping the economy’s dependence on slave labour: casual labour or skilled labour were acceptable types of employment, but free men would not willingly put themselves in the power of another by hiring themselves out on a regular basis. By contrast the slave had a value and a recognized position in society; nor was he responsible for his own misfortune. ‘But at least I shall be master of my own house and of the slaves whom great Odysseus captured for me’, says Telemachus (Odyssey 1.397ff): in raiding and warfare it was traditional to kill the males of any captured city and enslave the women and children; kidnapping, piracy and trade were also sources of supply: the faithful swineherd Eumaeus tells how his city was not sacked, nor was he captured while tending the flocks: he was the son of a noble, stolen by Phoenician traders with the help of his Phoenician nurse (herself captured by Taphian pirates) and sold to Odysseus’ father, who had brought him up with his youngest child (Odyssey 15.352ff). For such reasons women were relatively common as household slaves; men were few, reared from childhood and highly valued: they were put in charge of farms and allowed families of their own.
The basic source of wealth in ancient Greece was agriculture, which changes slowly if at all. Barley, because of its hardiness, was always the chief crop in Greece; wheat was a secondary cereal. The widespread use of linen for clothing and ropes shows that flax was also grown. The scenes portrayed on the shield of Achilles include ploughing, reaping and the vintage (Iliad 18.541–72); Hesiod’s description of the farmer’s year largely concerns the same activities (Works and Days 383–617): ploughing and sowing must begin when the Pleiades set and the cranes pass overhead (October), at the start of the rainy season: this was the hardest work of the year, for the plough was a light wooden one tipped with iron, which merely scratched the surface without turning it, and had to be forced into the earth by the ploughman as he drove the oxen. Hesiod recommends two ploughs ready in case one splits, and a strong forty-year-old man; on the shield of Achilles the fallow is ploughed three times, and each man is given a drink as he reaches the end of the furrow; Odysseus watches the setting sun ‘as when a man longs for his supper, for whom all day two dark oxen have dragged the jointed plough through the fallow, and welcome to him the sunlight sinks, so that he may leave for his supper; and his knees shake as he goes’ (Odyssey 13.31ff).
Autumn and winter are the times for cutting wood for tools: keep away from the talkers round the fire in the smithy. With the rising of Arcturus (February-March) work begins again; the vines must be pruned before the swallow returns: when snails begin to climb the plants (May) it is time to start the harvest; the rising of Orion (July) signals the winnowing and storing of the corn. High summer is the only time that Hesiod recommends for resting, in the shade by a spring with wine and food – until the vintage when Orion and the Dog Star are in the centre of the sky (September).
Apart from these staple crops, various types of green vegetable and bean were cultivated, and fruit in orchards: outside the house of Alcinous there is a large orchard with pears, pomegranates, apples, fìgs and olives, together with a vegetable garden and two springs for irrigation (Odyssey 7.112ff). One fruit mentioned had not yet obtained the central importance it possessed later – the olive. Olive oil was already used in washing (like soap), but not yet apparently for lighting and cooking: the main hall was lit with braziers and torches, not oil lamps, and they cooked with animal fat. It seems that there was no specialized cultivation of the olive: this had to wait for a change in habits of consumption, and the growth of a trade in staple commodities between different areas; for the concentration on olive oil in Attica from the sixth century onwards presupposes both a more than local market and the ability to organize corn imports.
Another characteristic of early Greek agriculture has caused controversy since ancient times. Classical Greece was largely a cereal-eating culture, deriving its proteins from beans (the ancient equivalent of a vegetarian, the Pythagorean, abstained from them), fish, and dairy produce from goats and sheep. Meat was eaten mainly at festivals, after the animal had been sacrifìed to the gods and their entrails burned as offerings. But ancient scholars noted that the Homeric heroes were largely meat-eating. Moreover wealth was measured in head of cattle: slaves, armour, tripods, ransoms, women are valued at so many cattle, and the general adjectives for wealth often refer to livestock. Eumaeus describes his master’s wealth: ‘twelve herds of cattle on the mainland, as many flocks of sheep, as many droves of pigs, as many wandering herds of goats, that strangers graze and his own herdsmen’ (that is, hired and slave labour: Odyssey 14.100ff). In contrast, though Hesiod himself had his vision while tending sheep on Mt Helicon and could think of nothing better than tender veal or goat to go with his cheese and wine in the summer heat, he gives no instructions about animal husbandry: mules and oxen were beasts of burden, sheep and goats produced wool and milk products, but they were sidelines in the main business of agriculture. Horses were outside his interests, for they were few and belonged to aristocrats, to be used only in sport and warfare.
This clearly reflects a basic shift of emphasis in Greek agriculture away from animal husbandry, but the problem is how to date it. The Linear B tablets show that the Mycenean kings possessed large herds; and some scholars have seen the transition as occurring early in the Dark Age. But it seems more likely that it is a later phenomenon almost contemporary with Hesiod. Populations in movement tend to be pastoral rather than crop-growing; the animal bones found by tombs show that meat continued to be widely available for the funeral feast throughout the Geometrie period, and there are many terracotta fìgurines of domestic animals dedicated at early sanctuaries. But animals are wasteful in land-use. As the population began to grow, and men like Hesiod’s father moved into the uplands, animal husbandry gradually gave way to arable farming, until only the mountains were left for sheep and goats. It will have been the aristocrats who had the lands to keep to the old style longest; and it may also be that in Asia Minor pastures could be extended into the hinterland, in a way not possible in Greece and the islands. Homer and Hesiod between them record the transition.
The physical shape of the noble’s house provides the key to the relationship between production of wealth and its use to establish the social status of the basileus. Stripped of its heroic embellishments (so much easier to build in words than with the primitive technology of early Greece), it consists essentially of a courtyard, stables, perhaps a porch where guests might sleep, private chambers for storing wealth and weapons and for women’s quarters, and the great hall or megaron – a long room with seats round the walls and a central hearth. The master of the house may have his own private chamber, as Odysseus did, or he may sleep in the hall.
Archaeological evidence relates primarily to town settlements, and so to ordinary housing; but even these single room dwellings provide analogies to the wall seats and central hearths of the aristocracy, as if either the larger had grown from the smaller or peasants were imitating the nobility. The comparative absence of larger and more complex houses has worried archaeologists, and led many to try to relate the Homeric house across the Dark Age to the Mycenean palace. But such worries may be unfounded, for it seems that many of the nobles did not live in the towns; so that the fact that their houses have not been found is not surprising, for the countryside of Anatolia and even mainland Greece has been little explored. Essentially the oikos-economy is estate-centred and suggests a period when aristocrats lived separately from the community. The transition to city life was part of the same development whose effects have been seen in the social position of women and in agriculture. In these respects Asia Minor may well have been more conservative than mainland Greece, until the disturbances from the seventh century onwards, with the Cimmerian invasion and the attacks of Lydia, drove the Ionian Greeks into their coastal cities. Even then it seems that in some areas fortified farmsteads preserved a little of the old style of life.
Not all basilēes lived in the country: Alcinous’ house for instance is within the city walls (Odyssey 6 and 7). And two archaeological finds give reality and proportion to the poetic descriptions. At Zagora on Andros a housing complex of the late eighth century seems to belong together as a unit: it is prominently placed in the middle of the settlement near an open space and the site of a later temple. The main room in the complex is square and about 8 metres across, with a central hearth and benches along three walls. The eighth century settlement at Emporio on Chios is even more interesting. A primitive defence wall, which can hardly have been more than 2 metres high, ran round the hilltop, enclosing about 6 acres; the only two buildings within it were a later seventh century temple and, built into the wall and contemporary with it, a megaron hall 18 metres long, with three central columns and a porch supported by two more columns. Below the walls lay a village of perhaps 500 inhabitants; the larger houses were of the same megaron type with central columns and hearth, others had stone benches against the walls. Here perhaps is the roughly fortified residence of a loca1 basiletis, a refuge for his herds and for those living outside it, who must have regarded the owner of the main megaron as their leader. It was in such dim and smoke-fìlled halls as those of Zagora and Emporio that the poems of Homer were originally sung.
Early Greek society was not feudal: there was no class owing obligations to an arìstocracy in return for land, and no general serf population separate from the slaves, who were always recruited from outside the community. The various scattered forms of obligated servitude found later in Dorian communities like Sparta and Argos, or colonial cities like Syracuse, or in the static population of Athens, are not individual survivals of a general phenomenon, but special developments conditioned by the history of each area. Generally early Greece was a land of free peasantry, in which the distinction between aristocracy and people (dēmos) was a question of birth and life style, unencumbered by complex social structures.
In the absence of permanent ties of allegiance, despite the hereditary nature of the aristocracy, the establishment of personal status (timē) created a competitive society: status was important because activities such as warfare, raiding and piracy required the ability to attract supporters from outside the genos. It is for this reason that feasting and the entertainment of male companions (hetairoi) was an essential activity for the man of influence; it was this function of achieving rank by feasts of merit which the great hall served, and towards which the surplus production of the oikos was largely directed. For hetairoi seem to have been attracted by such displays of personal generosity, by the reputation of the leader and by ties of guest-friendship (xenia), more often than through marriage or blood connection.