UNIVERSITY OF CINCINNATI
August 16, 2006 Date:______
Julie Hruby I, ______, hereby submit this work as part of the requirements for the degree of: Doctor of Philosophy in: Classics It is entitled: Feasting and Ceramics: A View from the Palace of Nestor at Pylos
This work and its defense approved by:
Chair: Jack___ _L._ Davis______Gisela____ _W_alberg______L_ynne___ _A._ Schepartz______
Feasting and Ceramics: A View from the Palace of Nestor at Pylos
A dissertation submitted to the Division of Research and Advanced Studies of the University of Cincinnati
in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of
DOCTORATE OF PHILOSOPHY (Ph.D.)
in the Department of Classics of the College of Arts and Sciences
2006
by
Julie A. Hruby
A.B. Duke University, 1996 M.A. University of Cincinnati, 2001
Committee Chair: Jack L. Davis, Ph.D. Gisela Walberg, Ph.D. Lynne Schepartz, Ph.D.
ABSTRACT
A life-cycle or object biographical approach is used to approach an assemblage of nearly 6,700 vessels from the pantries (rooms 18-22) of the Mycenaean Palace of Nestor at Pylos. The stratigraphy of the location where they were found is reconstructed, allowing for the redating of a small shrine in room 18 from the LH IIIB destruction to a later period. It is argued that the palace remained largely intact in the immediate aftermath of, and despite, the fire that ended its useful life. The system by which the vessels had been shelved is reconstructed. On the bases of this reconstruction, Linear B evidence, and metrical data collected from the vessels, the vessel taxonomy of the
Mycenaeans is recreated.
It is argued that the assemblage was intended for use at a palatially sponsored feast or feasts. Such feasts were held approximately monthly and would have been held throughout the Messenian landscape. The quantities of food and drink allocated to them suggest that many of these feasts must have been broadly inclusive in nature, though inequalities do appear to have been displayed through differential access to service and through qualitative differences in foods.
Because this function was essential to the maintenance of elite legitimacy, the palace became a consumer of large quantities of pottery. The process by which this pottery was produced is described, and the relationship between the palace and the potter is explored.
ii
iii ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As with any project of this scope, the author could not have accomplished what she did without the support, both practical and moral, of a vast number of people. In particular, I would like to thank my committee: Jack Davis, for profitable discussions about pottery and the palace of Nestor, for access to the Pylos material, and for careful reading of and comments on drafts; Gisela Walberg, for her moral support and her willingness to share her knowledge of pottery with me; and Lynne Schepartz, who kindly agreed to remain on my committee, even as the proportion of the dissertation dedicated to physical anthropology declined precipitously.
Copious thanks must go to Shari Stocker; as the director of HARP (the Hora
Apotheke Reorganization Project), she introduced me to the abundance of pottery from rooms 18-22 of the Palace of Nestor and to the sensible manner in which it is now stored.
Without her work, gaining physical access to the material would have been a challenging and time-consuming process, perhaps impossible. As a friend, her moral and practical support have been unwavering.
A number of people provided practical support and advice in Greece in the summer and fall of 2002 and the summer of 2003. The guards at the Hora Museum were truly lovely company, endlessly patient with my halting Greek, in addition to providing practical support and even snacks; Freya Evanson, Hariklia Brekoulaki, Andreas
Karydas, Heinrich Hall, and all the folks at the Hotel Phillip in Pylos bestowed too many kindnesses to count. Paul Halstead and Valassia Isaakidou were most welcome company
iv and provided fruitful discussions as well as daily transportation from Hora to Pylos for over a month.
Many other scholars offered information, ideas, and productive conversations; notable among these are Cynthia Shelmerdine, Kim Shelton, Bill Alexander, Ruth
Palmer, Yannis Hamilakis, Jerry Rutter, Jim Newhard, Eleni Hasaki, Billur Tekkök,
Brian Rose, Mike Galaty, Tom Strasser, and John Younger. The librarians at the
University of Cincinnati’s Burnham Classics library deserve all good things; Jean
Wellington, Mike Braunlin, Jacquie Riley, and David Ball have gone to great lengths to help me find obscure sources. E. Tucker Blackburn taught me to navigate the archives of the Pylos excavation, a skill that proved essential to this undertaking.
I could not have reached this point without the moral support, practical suggestions, and occasional nagging of my “Dissertation Discussion Group” at UC:
Carrie Galsworthy, Carol Hershenson, Shari Stocker, Joanne Murphy, Kathleen Quinn,
Susan Wise, Evi Gorogianni, and Jim Newhard. My particular thanks go to Carol
Hershenson for her help in making the feasting chapter intelligible and with finding bibliography. Many other current and former UC students have shared their ideas and encouragement, including Kalliopi Efkleidou, Jeff Kramer, Sarah Dieterle, Jen Glaubius,
Erin Lopp, Hüseyin Öztürk, and Aaron Wolpert.
Many thanks, as well, to the members of the Departments of Religion,
Philosophy, and Classics and the Department of History at Wright State University for their encouragement and advice; Bruce Laforce, Jeannie Marchand, Linda Farmer,
Woodie McCree, and Mark Verman have been especially kind and encouraging. Too many colleagues, friends and family members to mention have provided encouragement;
v many thanks to my extended family; my parents, Mary and George; and my sister Laura.
I have boundless gratitude for Jay, Janet, and Brinda Chatterjee, who so frequently fed me and let me work in their dining room, and for Eric Chatterjee, who has gracefully tolerated my high levels of stress, impatience, and late hours spent working, and who inked many of my drawings.
The University of Cincinnati Department of Classics has supported me through this process with a Louise Taft Semple fellowship, for which I am most grateful. All archival photos from the Pylos excavations are here reproduced with the permission of the Department of Classics of the University of Cincinnati.
Finally, I dedicate this dissertation to the memory of Paul Rehak, whose kindness and enthusiasm will not be forgotten.
vi CONTENTS
ABSTRACT ii ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS iv CONTENTS vii LIST OF TABLES viii LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS ix
Chapter 1 INTRODUCTION 1
Chapter 2 THE SEQUENCE OF SOIL, POTTERY, AND SMALL FIND DEPOSITION 20
Chapter 3 GENERAL STORAGE SYSTEM AND STRUCTURES 46
Chapter 4 STORAGE AND ANCIENT TYPOLOGY 71
Chapter 5 USE: FEASTING AND CLASS-DIFFERENTIATED CUISINE 103
Chapter 6 PRODUCTION METHODS AND PRODUCER 178
Chapter 7 CONCLUSIONS 224
REFERENCES 235
Appendix I MUNSELL VALUES OF SOIL 268
Appendix II POTTERY DEPOSITION PATTERNS BY TYPE 270
Appendix III FOODS AVAILABLE FOR MYCENAEAN CUISINE 287
Appendix IV CONCORDANCE OF ROOM NUMBERS 298
vii TABLES
3.1. Pottery quantities per area, by room. 49
4.1. Rawson’s classification system. 82
4.2. Matrix of dissimilar pot types. 83
4.3. Revised vessel typology. 86
6.1. C.V. values for Chinese Wan Bowls. 214
6.2. C.V. values for Spanish pitchers. 214
6.3. C.V. values for standard bowls from rooms 20-22. 216
6.4. C.V. values for teacups from rooms 20-22. 216
6.5. C.V. values for flat-based dippers from rooms 20-22. 216
6.6. C.V. values for standard kylikes from rooms 18-20. 217
6.7. C.V. values for large kylikes from rooms 18, 20. 217
viii ILLUSTRATIONS
Figure 1.1. The palace of Nestor. Archival slide. 1
Figure 1.2. The palace of Nestor key plan, by J. Travlos. 2
Figure 1.3. Relationships among stages in the lifecycles of objects. J. A. Hruby. 11
Figure 2.1. Map of mud brick buildings mentioned in text. J. A. Hruby. 27
Figure 2.2. Building 3 on map. Note fallen roof. J. A. Hruby. 28
Figure 2.3. Building 1 (see map for location). J. A. Hruby. 29
Figure 2.4. Closer view of building 1. J. A. Hruby. 29
Figure 2.5. Building 2, with soot. J. A. Hruby. 30
Figure 2.6. Building 2, overview. J. A. Hruby. 30
Figure 2.7. Building 2, burning and collapse. J. A. Hruby. 30
Figure 2.8. Lid on floor in corner of room 24. Archival photo P.55.71. 33
Figure 2.9. Table of offerings at southeast end of room 18. Archival photo P.52.7. 38
Figure 2.10. Plan of room 18 based on that in Rawson 1953, p. 110. 38
Figure 2.11. Sketch, southeast end of room 18. Mylonas 1952, p. 24. 39
Figure 2.12. Composite section of room 18, facing southeast. 41
Figure 2.13. Table of offerings from throne room. Archival photo P.52.F19.26 42
Figure 2.14. Dipper bases from southeast end, room 18. J. A. Hruby. 42
Figure 2.15. Broken dipper bowl. J. A. Hruby. 43
Figure 2.16. Intact dipper bowl. J. A. Hruby. 43
Figure 3.1. Vessels shelved by type in Hora museum apotheke, 1955. Archival 47 photo P.55.110.
ix Figure 3.2. Pantry plan with post holes, locations of densely deposited pottery. 48
Figure 3.3. Heap of kylikes from the south corner of room 19. Archival photo P.53.32. 50
Figure 3.4. Vertically stacked kylikes. 51
Figure 3.5. Conceptualization of rows of pots along the walls of room 19. 53
Figure 3.6. Horizontally crossed kylikes, from above. 55
Figure 3.7. Kylix with firing “clouds” in plant shapes. J. A. Hruby. 58
Figure 3.8. Sherd with calcareous encrustation, possibly a pseudomorph of fabric. J. A. Hruby. 58
Figure 3.9. Pots clustered by type with handles aligned as if they had been tied together. Archival photo P.53.51. 60
Figure 3.10. Northwest wall, room 20. Archival photo P.53.21. 64
Figure 3.11. Distribution pattern, room 20. 64
Figure 3.12. Room 20, south corner. Archival photo P.53.52. 65
Figure 3.13. Vessels as excavated, southeast end of room 22. Archival photo 68 P.55 T108/9.
Figure 3.14. Mass of bowls fills the southeastern end of room 21. Archival 68 photo P.53.36.
Figure 3.15. Fallen stack of bowls from southeast side, room 22. Detail, 69 archival slide.
Figure 3.16. Fallen stack of dippers from southeast side, room 22. Detail, 69 archival slide.
Figure 4.1. Hypothetical cylindrical vessels. 87
Figure 4.2. Histogram of average rim diameters of bowls and basins. 87
Figure 4.3. Histogram of average rim diameter of round-bottom dippers. 89
Figure 4.4. Histogram showing rim diameters of kylikes with two high 90 handles.
x Figure 4.5. Histogram showing rim diameters of kylikes with two high handles. 90
Figure 4.6. Histogram showing capacities of kylikes with two high handles. 91
Figure 4.7. Histogram of jug rim diameters. 93
Figure 4.8. Histogram of jug capacities. 93
Figure 4.9. Histogram of rim diameters of juglets. 94
Figure 4.10. Histogram of heights of juglets. 94
Figure 4.11. Histogram of maximum diameters of juglets. 95
Figure 4.12. Histogram of capacities of juglets. 95
Figure 4.13. Histogram of neck diameters of juglets. 96
Figure 4.14. Histogram of rim diameters of “type 29” kylikes. 98
Figure 4.15. Histogram of capacities of “type 29” kylikes. 98
Figure 5.1. Miscentered kylix stem. J. A. Hruby. 106
Figure 5.2. Misshapen kylix base. J. A. Hruby. 106
Figure 5.3. Misshapen kylix base. J. A. Hruby. 107
Figure 5.4. Kylix with pierced bowl. J. A. Hruby. 107
Figure 5.5. Kylix with pierced bowl. J. A. Hruby. 107
Figure 5.6. Rawson’s pot types 6, 7, and 9. Blegen and Rawson 1966, p. 357. 142
Figure 5.7. Drawing of bowl 55.500. Piet de Jong. Reproduced with permission of Department of Classics, University of Cincinnati. 143
Figure 5.8. Souvlaki tray. Blegen and Rawson 1966, p. 417. 145
Figure 5.9. Tripod cooking pots. Blegen and Rawson 1966, p. 411. 146
Figure 5.10 Large coarseware lids. Blegen and Rawson 1966, pp. 415-416. 149
Figure 6.1. Dipper handle exhibiting a spall from a large calcareous inclusion. 182 J. A. Hruby.
xi
Figure 6.2. Sherds with large calcareous inclusions, two of which were sufficiently large as to require that the potter add clay patches to reinforce the pots. J. A. Hruby. 183
Figure 6.3. A typical bowl from the pantries. J. A. Hruby. 185
Figure 6.4. Marks left by wet-wiping with a cloth. J. A. Hruby. 186
Figure 6.5. A typical dipper. J. A. Hruby. 187
Figure 6.6. A typical teacup. Piet de Jong. Reproduced with permission of Department of Classics, University of Cincinnati. 188
Figure 6.7. A typical standard kylix. J. A. Hruby. 189
Figure 6.8. A typical one-handled kylix. J. A. Hruby. 189
Figure 6.9. A typical miniature kylix. Piet de Jong. Reproduced with permission of Department of Classics, University of Cincinnati. 190
Figure 6.10. A typical large kylix. J. A. Hruby. 190
Figure 6.11. Partial bowl, preserving a place where the rim was torn and repaired. J. A. Hruby. 193
Figure 6.12. Off-center kylix stem. J. A. Hruby. 194
Figure 6.13. Warped kylix foot. J. A. Hruby. 194
Figure 6.14. Warped kylix foot. J. A. Hruby. 194
Figure 6.15. “Spiral screw” in bowl. J. A. Hruby. 194
Figure 6.16. Kylix bowl exhibits slumping. J. A. Hruby. 195
Figure 6.17. Rhodes 1976, p. 68. 195
Figure 6.18. Motion of fingers as bowl handles are attached. J. A. Hruby. 205
xii Chapter 1: Introduction
HISTORY OF RESEARCH
In the southwest of Greece’s Peloponnese, atop the Englianos ridge, sits the
Mycenaean structure known as the Palace of Nestor (Figs. 1.1, 1.2). Overlooking the
Bay of Navarino, it was initially excavated by Carl Blegen. Blegen and his colleagues had already hypothesized the existence of a palace in the region on the basis of the uncommonly high concentration of elite burials, and having visited the region in the late
1920s and again in 1938, they undertook excavations in the spring of 1939 (Blegen and
Rawson 1966, p. 5). The immediate success of the project, which discovered Linear B tablets, substantial walls, and painted plaster on the first day of excavation, is by now well known (Blegen and Rawson 1966, p. 5-6; Ventris and Chadwick 1973, p. 14).
Figure 1.1. View of the Palace of Nestor from the southeast.
1
Figure 1.2. Palace of Nestor key plan.
2 The interruption in excavations necessitated by World War II and its aftermath was not wasted time; the decipherment of the Linear B script largely occurred during this period (Chadwick 1973, p. 22), and in May of 1952 excavation was resumed. The 1939 excavations were limited to test trenches; in 1952, systematic excavation began, with a pair of intersecting 1.5 meter-wide trenches each bisecting the palace structure. One of these (trench “Z”), excavated by George Mylonas, ran from the southwest to the northeast. Within the first five meters of excavation, he discovered masses of kylikes in a room he called “compartment No. 3” (Mylonas 1952, pp. 5, 23), now room 19. Beyond this he sunk a small side trench, called “trench Za”, into what is now called room 18; here he found a plaster table of offering and a few vessels (Mylonas 1952, pp. 23-25; Rawson
1953, p. 27). He did not excavate fully, leaving most finds in situ.
The following year, Marion Rawson joined the team and undertook the oversight of the excavation of the rooms now known as 16 through 21. Upon excavation, the fact that rooms 18 through 21 had been used for the storage of pottery became immediately apparent (Blegen 1954, p. 28). The great masses of ceramic materials (over three and a half metric tons; see Fig. 3.3), with small shapes repeated in vast numbers and the presence of post-holes (presumably for shelves) argued for a storage function. Though attention shifted to other areas of the structure in 1954, in 1955 Rolf Hubbe completed the excavation of the pantries (room 22) and carried out the excavation of the contiguous oil magazines (rooms 23 and 24). Blegen and his colleagues continued to excavate the palace and other structures in its environs through 1965. Each year, they presented an overview of their discoveries in a preliminary report published in the American Journal of Archaeology.
3 Rawson undertook the study of the pottery for publication, and in 1966, the first of the Palace of Nestor volumes appeared (Blegen and Rawson 1966), summarizing the architecture and non-epigraphic, non-pictorial finds from the palace. Volume II, the publication by Mabel Lang of the painted plaster, followed in 1969. In 1973, volume III, in which Blegen, Rawson, Taylour, and Donovan published the miscellaneous tombs and other nearby structures, appeared (Blegen et al. 1973). Though exemplary by the standards of their day, the Palace of Nestor volumes are sufficiently concise to justify a more detailed examination of materials published therein.1 They have nonetheless provided the basis for much analysis in the years since their appearance, and they are the starting point for any study of the palace or its neighboring structures.
Over the past several decades, scholars have authored a vast number of studies using Blegen and his colleagues’ published data2 to address a variety of issues ranging from chronology (e.g., Popham 1991; Mountjoy 1997; Carington-Smith 1999) to
Mycenaean socio-political organization (e.g., Killen 1984; Rehak 1995; Gregersen 1997;
Shelmerdine 1999; Whitelaw 2001). Over the past decade, a number of scholars have studied the original excavation records, the structure itself, and the objects from the palace and the other structures excavated nearby, resulting in a steady stream of new insights into Bronze Age architecture, chronology, art, and social, political, and economic practices (e.g., Hofstra 2000; Nelson 2001; Isaakidou et al. 2002; Stocker 2003; Stocker and Davis 2004).
1 See pp. 6-7 and 147 for a fuller treatment of some of the drawbacks to, and inconsistencies in, Blegen and Rawson 1966. 2 This is particularly true if we include Bennett and Olivier’s 1973 transcription of the Linear B tablets among the published data.
4 PRIMARY SOURCES
The current study makes use of many of these sources in addition to a wide variety of primary source materials to reconstruct the lifecycles of the pottery from one set of palatial pantries, those now named rooms 18-22. The benefits and difficulties of the secondary sources will be discussed as they arise, but I will discuss the primary sources briefly here, as they form the underpinning of this dissertation. Many remain unpublished, and as a result, the advantages and disadvantages of each remain unfamiliar to most scholars.
The first primary source is the structure of the palace itself. The building can help answer questions not just about the architecture but, in some cases, about the fixtures it once contained. For example, postholes in the floor plaster (not all of which are noted in
The Palace of Nestor) indicate the former locations of shelves. A visit to the structure can be particularly helpful for visualizing the interrelationships between different spaces and gaining a sense of scale. However, as some parts of the structure have been reconstructed, it is essential to check photographs and notebooks to determine that the relevant parts of the palace are original before any conclusions are drawn.3
The second primary source is the pottery and finds from the palace, now stored in the Hora Museum. Several hundred complete pots and many small finds are currently on display, while thousands more pots are stored in a museum apotheke. The pottery can provide metrical data as well as information on use-wear and manufacture. A number of pots have remained unwashed, providing information about the soils in which they were buried, and, potentially, residues.
3 Including the exterior (SW) wall of rooms 19 and 20; photo P.53.41 shows the absence, at the time of excavation, of the now-rebuilt wall.
5 The visual records from the excavations include slides, photo albums of black and white record shots, and the drawings and paintings of Piet de Jong. The slides are useful for the reconstruction of deposition sequences because they are in color, and they are also helpful in determining the horizontal and vertical distribution of artifacts. The photo albums are valuable for reconstructing object distributions and resolving architectural issues. De Jong’s drawings and paintings of pottery and fresco and his reconstructions of the palace are aesthetically pleasing but are often inaccurate. Fortunately, he was fully aware of many of the inaccuracies, and he often mentioned them on his drawings, noting, e.g., that he had drawn a badly asymmetrical pot as if it were symmetrical.
Blegen himself and each trench supervisor kept an excavation notebook. The excavation notebooks contain a variety of information, including deposition sequences, plans, and soil color and texture. They may also discuss how much of the pottery and small finds was kept and how much discarded, information that can be useful for reconstructing the total contents of a room. Excavators each had specific strengths and weaknesses; Rawson’s notebooks contain excellent plans but only a few sections, while
Hubbe’s plans are incomplete but his sections are excellent.
There are also pottery notebooks, kept by Marion Rawson, that list catalogued (or
“numbered” in the parlance of Blegen and Rawson 1966) pots. Many entries contain detailed and generally accurate measurements, though where pots are asymmetrical, she typically gives an average measurement rather than a range. Not all pots, nor even all of the complete pots, are catalogued, and the proportion of catalogued vessels varies wildly from room to room. In short, the data that are given are reliable, and measurements seem
6 to be given for pots that are themselves representative of their types, but the number of pots catalogued from any given context is not particularly meaningful.
While, individually, these sources provide some information about the history of the Palace of Nestor and the people who lived or worked there, they can provide a surprisingly complete picture when used in combination with each other and with data from ethnographic and technical studies, from archaeological survey, and from the texts excavated from the palace.
THE CONTEXT
The ceramic contents of the pantries at the time of the palace’s destruction were intended to be used to serve food and drink at massive feasts, as I argue in Chapter 5.
Pottery is stored in a manner reflecting its purpose; cooking and storage wares were generally not found in the pantries, and the table and serving wares were stored by type, with thousands of unpainted serving wares (bowls, cups, kylikes) in relatively standard sizes stored in rooms 19, 21, and 22. A broad range of shapes, predominantly of serving wares (such as dippers in various sizes, jugs and juglets, bowls and basins, and giant kylikes with flat rims: i.e., serving vessels not drinking vessels), a few of which were painted, were stored in rooms 18 and 20.
One of the most notable aspects of the pantries is the sheer number of vessels that were stored there. Almost three thousand kylikes were recovered from room 19 alone, and room 21 contained 1,099 bowls and 1,024 “teacups”. Altogether, nearly 7,000 pots were stored in an area of approximately 50 square meters.
7 The rooms in which the pottery was stored had once been configured differently.
Until late in the LH IIIB period, there had been no exterior doors into these suites of rooms, and rooms 22 and 18, combined with room 16, had formed an open corridor
(Nelson 2001, fig. 83). Rooms 19, 20, and 21 had apparently been used for storage, as the floor plaster does indicate that they contained shelves.4 When the palace was remodeled in the late LH IIIB period (for which see Nelson 2001, pp. 212-216, fig. 83;
Wright 1984), more storage space was added by closing off the corridor to form additional storerooms, and access to the space was rerouted; rooms 21 and 22 were still accessible from inside the palace via the oil magazines (rooms 23 and 24), but rooms 18-
20 were accessible only from the exterior court 88.
METHODOLOGY AND ITS THEORETICAL JUSTIFICATION
Throughout its lifecycle, the assemblage from rooms 18-22 served as a locus for the negotiation and performance of social hierarchies. These social hierarchies can be difficult to reconstruct, but a lifecycle approach (also called an object biographical approach) to the objects sheds considerable light on the people who interacted with them as well as on the objects themselves. Gosden and Marshall (1999, p. 169) have noted that, until recently, disciplines such as anthropology, history, and sociology tended to consider material objects to be vital to social processes but rarely to be useful in understanding them. Archaeology, of course, has been an exception, but as they note, function, dating, and style were primary goals before the advent of processualism, and not until relatively recently has the interface between human histories and object histories
4 It should, however, be noted that the floor plaster has not yet been studied in detail, and the date at which it was installed is somewhat uncertain. If, as noted in chapter 3, there are the remains of a posthole in the plaster floor of room 18 as well, the plaster might post-date the addition of the blocking walls.
8 received rigorous attention. It has been noted that, even if we view things as having no inherent meaning, as gaining meaning only through people’s interactions with the objects and with each other,
…this formal truth does not illuminate the concrete, historical circulation of
things. For that we have to follow the things themselves, for their meanings are
inscribed in their forms, their uses, their trajectories. It is only through the
analysis of these trajectories that we can interpret the human transactions and
calculations that enliven things. Thus, even though from a theoretical point of
view human actors encode things with significance, from a methodological point
of view it is the things-in-motion that illuminate their human and social context.
(Appadurai 1986, p. 5)5
Although such justifications for a lifecycle approach are a relatively recent phenomenon, the utility of such approaches has prompted their use for over a century, most notably by scholars of lithics. The study of lithic tools has included processes of production and use from the time of its pioneers (Holmes 1894) to the present (Andrefsky
1998, p. 3); this approach has particularly been emphasized since George Frison (1968) made explicit the fact that some changes in tool form reflected their use (Andrefsky 1998, p. 4).
Even within the realm of ceramic studies, the use of a lifecycle approach is by no means unprecedented; Matson (1965) stressed the need for understanding the cultural context and interrelatedness of ceramic production and use. Most current studies
5 His thinking is based on the work of Kopytoff (1986).
9 incorporate at least two stages in the lifecycle of pots. Most models of production, for example, now incorporate distribution (Rice 1987, p. 186), and Braun has argued that production and use are intertwined. He writes:
Generally overlooked in the analysis of pottery, however, is the fact that most
pots were not made simply to be shaped, tempered, and decorated. Most pots are
implements; they are made to be used as containers. Many of the attributes of
pottery routinely recorded from sherds for purposes of culture-historical
classification are, in fact, evidence of the techniques used by potters to achieve
particular characteristics of utility in the finished vessels. (1983, p. 107)
Van der Leeuw has explicitly called for “a systemic approach to pottery-making,
-trading, -using, and –breaking” (1984, p. 56), and Papadopoulos and Smithson (2002) provided one such treatment in their publication of a Geometric amphora from the
Cyclades.
THE RELATIONSHIPS AMONG STAGES OF THE LIFECYCLE
An object goes through a series of stages as the course of its existence. It is difficult to treat any one of those stages in isolation; many conferences and individual studies treat the relationship between two stages, most often production and transfer, which is typically referred to as “trade” or “distribution” (Howard and Morris 1981;
Blitzer 1984; Carothers 1985; Bey and Pool 1992; Chávez 1992; Dabney 1997). I have chosen to use the term “transfer” on the grounds that it incorporates the wide variety of
10 mechanisms by which objects may be conveyed from the producer to the consumer.
“Trade” indicates reciprocity, thereby eliminating from discussion taxation, forced labor, or theft as a consumer’s means of acquiring goods. “Distribution” implies that a producer produces for multiple consumers. “Transfer” is more neutral, implying only that goods leave the possession or workspace of the producer and enter the possession of a consumer.
The relationships among lifecycle stages may be complex. Figure 1.3 graphically represents the interrelated character of the life stages through which an object may pass; not every object will undergo reuse and redeposition. Although certain of these relationships have been explored in great detail, at least for some time periods and industries, others have remained obscure; it would be worthwhile, then, to survey these interfaces briefly.
Production affects transfer in a multitude of fashions, and the expected character of transfer may also affect the production process. The location of production and its relationship to the location of consumption will determine the level of need for transportation. The social relationships of the producer and consumer will determine the
Figure 1.3. Relationships among stages in the lifecycles of objects, where an arrow represents the words “may directly impact”. Square brackets indicate that not all objects undergo this stage.
11
need, or lack of need, for a middleman. The forms produced will affect the portability of the product; the need for portability may affect the forms produced (for example, bowls made to nest easily, or delicate blades made to be sturdier).
Production affects storage directly, and vice versa. The producer must create items than can be stored by whatever system the consumers utilize. On the other hand, the storage systems utilized will be limited by what the producers are able to provide.
Pre-industrialized production typically cannot provide perfectly standardized pottery, for example. This fact may necessitate higher shelving heights, as a shelf must accommodate the tallest object placed on it.
Production also affects use directly, and vice versa. The producer creates items that will appeal to the needs or desires of a market or an individual consumer; if the producer fails to understand and meet the consumers’ needs, he or she will fail.
Consumers choose the products that appeal to them, on the basis of the use to which the objects will be put (use should be construed broadly here, to include symbolic, political, and social use); producers produce to satisfy consumer needs (Arnold 1988, p. 127).
Intensive use may lead to high rates of breakage and the need for increased production levels (Arnold 1988, p. 128). On the other hand, consumers are restricted to the available products; a consumer cannot obtain a more technically advanced item than that produced, however much use he or she might have for such a thing.
Production may also directly affect deposition, although the reverse is unlikely to be true in premodern societies. Rates of breakage and hence deposition are directly affected by production techniques; a well-tempered cooking pot will last longer than a
12 poorly tempered one, and so fewer will be deposited in the archaeological record. Well- made items may break into fewer pieces and so be less broadly scattered, or by contrast, if a particularly large object breaks into few pieces, it may require purposeful deposition in waste contexts farther from their use contexts to keep the waste out of the way.
Furthermore, production affects reuse, much as it affects use. The physical attributes of a product set constraints on its reuse: e.g., a piece of cloth may be effectively reused to apply varnish if it is made of wool, but not if it is made of linen.
The fashion in which a product is transferred may affect both how and where it is stored. An object that is obtained at high cost may be stored with great care, and an object obtained easily or cheaply may be stored with less care; fine china is likely to be stored with padding between plates not only because these are more breakable than paper picnic plates, but also because they are obtained at much greater cost. A product that is transferred in a container may be stored in the same container indefinitely. Storage facilities may be located such that they are proximate to routes along which items may be efficiently transported to the consumer, especially if they are stored in anticipation of use elsewhere.
The transfer of a product may also affect the way it is used. A product obtained at higher cost or greater distance may be valued more and used with less frequency or with more care, as may an object that is considered to be difficult or impossible to replace
(e.g., if the favored producer retires or dies). An “expensive” or irreplaceable item may also be used more conspicuously in an attempt to impress others or less conspicuously in an attempt to appear modest. Different cultures and individuals may value various mechanisms of transfer differently, and the context in which a person chooses to use an
13 item may reflect the perceived values of other members of his or her culture or subculture, as well as his or her own. If a consumer’s peers value mass-marketed goods, the consumer may prefer to hide the gloves knitted by his grandmother in the closet and wear others (even gloves visually indistinguishable from handmade ones) that are commercially available; another consumer with peers who value items obtained directly from the producer may proudly wear a hand-tailored skirt or serve dinner on plates purchased from a local potter.
Additionally, the transfer of a product may affect when or where it is deposited in the archaeological record. A type of product obtained at great cost may be deposited less frequently because it is curated carefully or because it is valued even in a broken state; conversely, it may be deposited more frequently, reflecting conspicuous consumption. If the relationship between producer and consumer is a close one, depositional practices may be affected by that relationship; the consumer may keep an item longer or discard it with some care if the producer dies or becomes incapable of further production, or the consumer may destroy or discard an item following interpersonal stress with the producer, neither of which is likely to follow transfer via more remote mechanisms.
The transfer relationship may affect the likelihood that an item is reused as well as the way in which it may be reused. An object or material obtained from afar may be more likely to be recycled or reused insofar as its value reflects its exotic origins.
The manner in which an object or object class is stored may impact the frequency with which it is used, and vice versa. An object that is stored in a location that is difficult to see or to reach may be used less frequently as a result of the inconvenience of doing
14 so; conversely, an object that is used frequently is typically stored in an accessible location.
The manner in which an object is stored may affect both the place in which it is deposited and the rate at which items of its type are deposited; fragile items on high shelves may break more frequently, since they may be dropped as they are removed from storage, or fragile items stored at low levels may be broken by children or animals. If a building is destroyed, items may be deposited where they are stored.
The use to which an object is put will have a clear impact on deposition patterns; intensive or careless use will result in a higher rate of deposition as well as production
(Arnold 1988, p. 155). Additionally, the use to which an object is put will limit the manner in which it can be reused. A bowl that was used to hold paint, for example, might not be reused in a context in which it would hold food; conversely, a pot that is merely cracked through use rather than shattered might be reused to hold dry foods or other goods.
The place in which an object is deposited and the rate at which objects of its type are deposited may limit the possibilities for reuse of that object. To take an extreme example, a type of pot deposited only in Greece is unlikely to be found reused in Italy; conversely, earlier stone tools deposited near later threshing floors are more likely to be reused in threshing sledges than are stone tools deposited in rocky areas without agriculture. Where an object is reused will clearly affect where it is redeposited.
The relationships among the different stages of an object’s life, then, are complex and can be closely intertwined. In the case of the objects from rooms 18-22 from the
Palace of Nestor at Pylos, we know that the producer was working quickly to create a
15 large collection of pottery for the palace, with whom he appears to have had some form of contractual obligation. Most of the forms that were produced in large numbers were shaped in such a way as to be easily stackable; those that were not easily stackable (the kylikes) required larger amounts of space in the palace. The function of the assemblage as the serving and tablewares for a feast created the need for the production of such a large assemblage and justified the dedication of a large amount of space to its storage.
Because the palace was destroyed with the pottery in storage, the pottery’s deposition reflects the patterns in which it was stored. Finally, some objects from the pantries were reused and redeposited higher in the stratigraphy, as discussed in Chapter 2.
BENEFITS OF AN OBJECT-BIOGRAPHICAL APPROACH
One advantage to the use of such an approach is that it provides us with a framework within which to examine the relationships not only among different stages in the object’s lifecycle but also between the decision-making and the actual activities of the people who interact with the object. Skibo (1992, p. 35) differentiates intended from actual function; intended function is largely reflected in manufacturing processes, while actual function may be reflected in use-wear and deposition context. Similarly, a vessel may be intended for storage in a particular context, and that intention may be reflected in the form of the vessel; the actual context in which it is stored may also be recovered when it is the deposition context.
Another advantage to a lifecycle approach is that it can focus awareness on important stages in that lifecycle that have been heretofore neglected. Specifically, storage of goods has received relatively little attention, despite the fact that it must have
16 been an important strategy for people in a wide variety of circumstances. Forbes and
Foxhall treat food storage as a key element in food production strategies (1995); surely there is more to be said about stockpiling of food and other goods, whether by producers, middlemen, or consumers, reacting to various economic or social conditions.
Above all, this approach can lead us to a better understand of the thought processes that led to the creation of the archaeological record. It is easy for us as archaeologists to underestimate the degree to which different stages in an object's life are interrelated. An ancient producer would not have had this luxury; he or she must have been constantly aware of the needs and desires of the consumer, the uses for which vessels were intended, and even the general systems by which the vessels would have been stored, in addition to the pragmatic constraints placed upon the craft by as diverse conditions as weather, working properties of available clay, and fuel availability. As
Matson points out:
Potters can have great flexibility in their methods of ware production and these
are often influenced by social constraints. For instance, the death of a potter, the
nature of the cooperating household, the products of children with their small
hands, the time demands of compulsory schooling today, and economic im-
peratives such as the cost of fuel and clay procurement, heavy rains, or changes in
market demands, can quickly alter production techniques and even vessel shapes
and sizes. More elusive aspects such as consumers' attitudes toward the potters
and the products of competitive villages—“the food (or water) doesn't taste right"
17 from certain wares when purchases are made in the market—must be kept in
mind. (1992, p. vi)
In our attempts to gain understanding of the social backdrop to the objects we study, we must maintain a similar level of flexibility if we are to grasp the complex of factors that create the archaeological record. A lifecycle approach encourages this by providing a framework within which we may approach a wide variety of issues. Among these are 1) specific stages in the life of an object (how, when, where, and by whom is a vessel manufactured, traded, stored, used, deposited, reused, or re-deposited), 2) relationships between stages in the life of an object (how does the usage or intended usage of a vessel affect how it is stored, or deposited, or manufactured; how do storage systems affect the shapes in which vessels are created, the frequency with which they are used, or the deposition patterns that may result), and 3) the relationships between objects and external factors. These external factors may include individuals (how does the potter relate to his pots, how is the identity of a consumer reflected by deposition patterns), objects and cultures (what symbolic associations does an object or a class of objects convey), objects and other objects (why are objects of specific varieties typically found in close proximity, which objects fall into "natural" categories, why, and what are those categories), and objects as a locus for relationships between individuals or classes (what objects are given as gifts in various social contexts, what are the rights and obligations of ownership, how are production systems organized, how may the relationship between producer and consumer best be characterized, how is material wealth transformed into
18 sociopolitical status, how do people approach objects from their own past and the pasts of their families and cultures).
The material from rooms 18-22 of the Palace of Nestor provides an unmatched sample with which to test an approach such as this. It is extensive, with thousands of vessels, several hundred of which are known to be complete or nearly so.6 It dates primarily to a single, sudden, and identifiable destruction horizon, and with few exceptions, material can be assumed to be contemporary. It was well excavated and recorded, and it suffered relatively little post-depositional disturbance. Hence we have a sample that is large, nearly complete, and largely lacking in extraneous material; it is a
"clean" body of evidence.
As a practical matter, I have chosen to write this dissertation backwards; I begin with deposition, reuse, and redeposition (Chapter 2), because it is impossible to discuss other aspects of the objects’ biographies without understanding which objects are contemporaneous. Then I address how the objects were stored, from both a logistical point of view (Chapter 3) and in terms of what that tells us about how the Mycenaeans categorized their pottery (Chapter 4); the latter is a necessary prerequisite to discussing production and transfer (Chapter 6) insofar as that discussion incorporates the level of standardization, and it is impossible to accurately represent levels of standardization without understanding the categories into which the pottery was divided by its producer.
The contents of Chapters 3 and 4 also enable us to discuss the primary function of the main assemblage (Chapter 5) because the distribution of pot types reflects the functions of those vessels.
6 Probably several thousand more are complete, but the labor required to ascertain how many and which ones is not currently available
19 Chapter 2: The Sequence of Soil, Pottery, and Small Find Deposition
The depositional sequence from the late LH IIIB floor to the surface level in the pantries, like that in the palace as a whole, is characterized by 1) intermittent levels of black or gray habitation debris; 2) yellow soil with plaster, sherds, and bits of charcoal representing post-habitation, post-destruction silting; 3) reddish soil with bits of plaster, sherds, and charcoal representing collapsed mud brick and other architectural elements; and 4) a darker plow zone. The degree of destruction and rate of deposition may have varied from one part of the building to another, reflecting localized patterns of destruction during the fire that destroyed the palace. In room 18, a small shrine sits at an elevation probably corresponding with the interface between the yellow and the superimposed red layer, indicating that it was established some time after the palace burned but before the mud brick in the vicinity collapsed. Despite the paucity of ceramic evidence for the period after the palace's destruction, this assemblage indicates a continuity or brief resumption of cultic activities at the palace. As the space within which these activities took place is limited, they must have been small in scale and cannot have been attended by more than a few individuals.
STRATIGRAPHY
Blegen and Rawson discuss the deposition sequence at the palace primarily in architectural terms (1966, p. 31), with chronology provided by associated pottery.
Nowhere do they explicitly take on the problems of the deposition sequence or discuss in any detail the soils they excavated, though in the context of discussions of individual rooms they do periodically mention "the usual mass of red burned brick" or that "the
20 lowest pots lay in yellowish earth on a floor of hard-packed earth" (p. 130). Their notebooks make clear, however, that they and some of their excavation staff were aware
(to varying degrees) of the stratigraphy as they excavated. Section drawings from the notebooks tend to be rare, as well as difficult to read and interpret (e.g., Rawson 1953, pp. 44, 68; the excavators seem to have been much more concerned with understanding what was happening in plan than in elevation), but the combination of section drawings and text allows a reconstruction of their overall conception of the stratigraphy. Hofstra, using the published account, summarizes their view of the deposition sequence as follows:
In most areas of the Main Building, Blegen and Rawson considered floor deposits
to be “sealed” beneath layers of burnt destruction debris. Two major types of this
burnt destruction debris (sometimes co-existing within rooms) were documented
by the excavators. In most of the enclosed spaces within the building and near the
walls, a reddish layer of soil immediately below plowed earth was interpreted as
the remains of disintegrated mud brick from building material. It was frequently
described as “brickish” and could be interspersed with pieces of mud brick,
fragments of plaster and bits of carbonized wood or other organic matter. Often
collapsed upper floor debris could be recognized by a layer or line of fallen floor
plaster — a distinctively coarse, thick type sometimes incorporating small
recycled fragments of fresco — high (25-50 cm) in the destruction fill. In some
cases quite distinct layers of collapsed floor covering made recognition of fallen
upper floor levels fairly easy, but in many rooms plaster (and finds) from floor
21 and walls above was mixed with that from the walls of the ground floor room
itself; smaller objects such as lithics may also have trickled through from upper to
lower layers.
The main reddish destruction layer could shade to or be replaced by a
yellow stratum, particularly in open areas such as courts, but the latter, from the
ceramic and other finds in it, appeared to represent destruction deposit as well.
Below the red or yellow layer and immediately atop the floor was often a dark
grey or black “ashy” layer 5-10 cm deep. (2000, pp. 11-12)
In order to understand the stratigraphy of the palace as a whole and of the pantries in particular, it is helpful to have some idea of what the different soil types represent.
Fortunately, some soil has been preserved among unwashed pottery (of which over a metric ton remains) from rooms 19 and 21; unfortunately, this pottery was collected without regard for recording its vertical position or the color of the soil from which it came, so it is not possible to associate actual soil color with the excavators' conception of soil color with absolute certainty. Indeed, several lots appear to contain some blend of the yellowish and reddish soils. Nonetheless, the range of colors does span a pinkish red to a yellow or light yellowish brown, and examining the soil accreted on sherds should provide a sense of the extremes of that range (though the yellow and red soils occasionally blended into one another, it is clear from section drawings and slides that in most cases they represented distinct strata).
The most yellow soils appear to have Munsell values around 10 YR 6/3, technically “pale brown” but with a distinctly yellow character (see Appendix 1 for
22 Munsell values collected from soils). The most reddish soils have Munsell values around
5 YR 5/6, or "yellowish red" (and generally appear red to me). It cannot be coincidental that the yellowish "pale brown" color closely approximates the color of most of the soil/bedrock visible in road cuts in the vicinity of the palace, and represents the base color of the soil/bedrock in the vicinity (there is now very little soil left, but the soft marl bedrock weathers to form a silt of similar color; see Zangger et al. 1997, p. 556 for modern increased rates of erosion and the character of the soil and bedrock). The red, by contrast, is (as noted above) often described by the excavators as representing burned mud brick; indeed, lumps of burned mud brick recovered from unwashed pottery typically do have Munsell values around 5YR to 7.5 YR 5/6, not too different from the most reddish soil found in the region (Nelson 2001, p. 59).7 Soils with a heavily organic content, whether from roots of plants, ash, or human trash, tend to have a much darker character, although it can be difficult to differentiate among these causes (cf. Stein and
Rapp 1978, pp. 250-252); here, the broad, horizontal character of the darker deposits argues against an origin from plant roots. Habitation debris is the most likely candidate, at least in room 18, since Rawson notes that it is “earth not ashes for it is fairly hard”
(1953, p. 49). The yellow, then, may represent virgin soil or the bedrock (termed by the excavators "hardpan" or "stereo" in the notebooks); when sherds and other refuse are
7Modern mud brick in Messenia tends to be made from one of two different colors of soils, dark reddish alfisols or light yellow clayey silts. The fact that the mud brick remains are reddish should not, however, be taken as an indication that the mud brick superstructure of the palace was made from a redder soil rather than a yellow one, as the heating that occurred at the palace's destruction would have fired the local kaolinites from yellow to pink (Galaty 1999a, p. 36). Indeed, there is ethnographic evidence that mud bricks are typically made from soil extracted in close proximity to the finished structure (Stein and Rapp 1978, p. 237); assuming this to have been the case at the palace, the mud bricks would have been yellow.
23 incorporated in this color of soil, a stratum may represent intentional fill, windborne particles accumulated over time in the absence or near-absence of humans and animals, or degraded unburned mud brick. The red must represent burned mud brick (either collapsed or brought in as fill), and the gray or black may represent either habitation debris or material burned (presumably in the palatial destruction).
Rather than terming certain deposits "destruction deposits", and viewing them as sealing materials beneath them, as Blegen and Rawson did, we can examine the sequence of destruction and post-destruction deposits to determine what is likely to have remained in situ until excavation and what may have stood above ground after the destruction of the palace in LH IIIB, subject to modification by humans, animals, weather, and other factors, at different times. Indeed, it is clear that parts of the palace structure remained standing well into the Dark Ages, as they were incorporated into structures of that date
(Brenningmeyer 2000, p. 330; Nelson 2001, p. 45).
As described above, the most common stratigraphic sequence above the LH IIIB floor throughout the palace is represented by, from bottom to top, black/gray soil (some places), yellow soil, red soil, and the plow zone. In large open areas, the red soil may be missing, consistent with an identification of it as burned mud brick from the second floor; an absence of upper story walls can be assumed in areas without supporting ground floor structures, which would cause the absence of red mud brick debris. The black or gray may represent organic habitation debris, or it may represent ash from burned shelving, furniture, or architectural elements (ceilings, decorative trim, doors). The yellow material, between the floor and the collapsed mud brick, must represent material
24 accumulated after the fire but before the collapse of the second story walls, probably soils eroded from elsewhere in the area and trapped by the still-standing walls of the palace.
We are accustomed to imagining the palace coming to a sudden, fiery end, leaving only a mass of rubble (e.g., Nelson 2001, p. xiv "But, at the end of LH IIIB, the palace was destroyed.... Whatever the force or cause, the devastation was complete. The palace complex lay in a heap of smoldering rubble, and the hilltop was deserted..."). The idea that not only the stone walls but also the mud brick superstructure lasted long enough for at least 20 cm of yellow airborne particulates to accumulate before the mud brick completely collapsed is not a comfortable one, as it suggests that the collapse of the palatial structure was slow and, despite the immense social significance of the collapse of the institution housed in it, not architecturally spectacular.
MUD BRICK AND FIRE
Observation of mud brick or mud brick and stone buildings in Messenia can provide insight into the destruction sequence at the palace. As one drives from the town of Pylos to that of Hora, there are today over 20 mud brick structures visible from the road, all in varying stages of decay. None serve as residences now, though many once did; they have either been abandoned entirely (sometimes with contents such as trunks remaining in situ) or are reused as field houses, with minimal or no upkeep.8 Most are built with mud brick as their primary constituent, though some have mud brick superstructures above stone socles or ground floors.
8 The last mud brick structure in use as a residence was destroyed and replaced with a house made of concrete in 2004.
25 By seriating these structures on the basis of the degree to which they have decayed, it is possible to establish a set of stages representing progressive disintegration.
A less completely decayed structure is assumed to be at an earlier stage of disintegration than a more completely decayed one. The progression is currently being confirmed by repeated observations of the same structures over the course of several years.9
Typically, the first visible damage after abandonment is to the plaster, interior or exterior; cracks in the walls, weathering, or wear (from abrasion or impact from humans, sometimes carrying tools or other unwieldy objects, or animals) lead to the localized crumbling of mud or lime plaster.10 This is followed by a slow process of degradation of both plaster and mud brick, with higher rates of decay in the immediate vicinity of earlier damage. Pieces of plaster and small bits of mud brick are deposited on the floor within the structure and, to a lesser extent, outside the structure. Whether within the structure or outside it, the plaster and brick fragments may intermix with soils eroded into the area or with animal dung.11 Roof tiles may collapse, though the wooden structure of the roof tends to maintain its integrity surprisingly well. As degradation continues, the mud brick may fail to properly support the roof, which falls in (Fig. 2.2), dumping tiles toward the corner or side that has fallen in first.
Mud bricks continue to dissolve, and eventually, one wall after another becomes structurally unsound and collapses. However, the resilience of the mud brick should not be underestimated; this process of dissolution and collapse is a slow one, even in wet
9 Observations have been made annually from 2002 through 2005. 10 The term “abandonment” is, in this context, used to represent the point at which repairs cease to be made regularly, rather than the point at which the structure is no longer used; many structures are put to a variety of non-habitation uses as they decay. 11 Whether erosion is primarily windborne or waterborne remains unclear, and may vary with the location of the structure and its relationship to local topographic features.
26 conditions. Through the wettest autumn and winter in recent memory (2002/2003), only one wall of one of the observed structures collapsed, despite their overall poor state of repair. In the succeeding three years, no walls from the sample set have collapsed without the intervention of humans with bulldozers.
Figure 2.1. Map of mud brick buildings mentioned in text. Scale is 1:125,000.
27
Figure 2.2. Building 3 on map. Note fallen roof.
Mud brick structures built on a stone foundation or on stone ground floor walls are even more resilient. One house in Hora, which was intentionally demolished in 2004, was built of stone to a height of approximately two meters, above which it was of mud brick. Hence, the mud brick had largely avoided accidental impact from humans and animals. It bore very little plaster, and the brick had clearly been eroding for some time, but the roof and walls were entirely intact and the building remained in use. An abandoned building on the road from Pylos to Hora, approximately 2 km past the road to
Kalamata, had a ground floor of stone and a mud brick superstructure (Figs. 2.3, 2.4). It has lost its roof and three of its mud brick walls, but the fourth wall has remained standing even though the structure is largely overgrown and appears to have been abandoned for many years.
All of these structures, however, seem to be slowly decomposing from a combination of weather and neglect. How does fire affect the sequence of decomposition and deposition? One formerly spectacular residence along the Pylos-Hora road, on the left just as one reaches the first side road leading to Koryphasion when driving from
Pylos to the north, has suffered fire damage, as the soot-coated walls indicate (Fig. 2.5).
28 Figure 2.3. Building 1 (see map for location).
Figure 2.4. Closer view of building 1.
Its ground floor is of stone, its second floor of mud brick. It is no longer habitable, but one of the lower rooms remains in use as a field house where agricultural tools are stored when not in use. Damage is highly localized, with the roof all but gone in one corner
(Fig. 2.6) and the floor of the second storey partially intact but not safe for use.
The sequence in which decay occurs in a burned structure is broadly similar to that seen in non-burned mud brick structures, though it is possible that fire accelerates the process by destroying roof beams, allowing nearby walls to be exposed to weather sooner than they might otherwise be. Plaster and brick fragments from the second floor are presumably being mixed with plaster from the ground floor walls as they simultaneously degrade and fall to the floor of the ground level, both inside and outside the structure.
29 Even in areas with a great deal of fire damage, many wood beams from the walls are more or less intact (Fig. 2.7), having been protected from fire by the mud and plaster that coated them. The most notable aspect of the destruction of a fire-ravaged building is not the quantity of damage but the fact that so much stands of a building that is entirely unsuitable for occupation.
Figure 2.5. Building 2, with soot. Figure 2.6. Building 2, overview.
Figure 2.7. Building 2, burning and collapse.
30 The Palace of Nestor presumably suffered more from fire damage than did this house; from the vitrification of palace pottery we may infer that temperatures reached over 1100° C in certain loci such as the Inner Propylon and the Archives Room complex
(Galaty 1999a; Hofstra 2000, p. 14), in contrast with a typical house fire, which may reach 750° C (Maynard 6.10). Similarly high temperatures were reached in intentionally fired Neolithic houses in Yugoslavia (Stevanovic 1997, pp. 367-372).12
Even so, we should probably envision damage as more limited and probably more localized than that pictured by Blegen and Rawson. Nelson has argued that the palatial structure contained fewer wooden architectural elements than originally thought (i.e., the chases in the chase-and-pier construction did not contain wood; 2001, pp. 74-75).
Though the palace contained a large quantity of flammable materials (olive oil, textiles, and furniture), the widespread use of architectural stone, mud, and plaster probably minimized architectural damage caused by fire, as only the wooden elements (ceilings and perhaps roofing) would have been susceptible to the flames; indeed, mud brick is still recommended for use in the Australian bush because of its resistance to fire
(http://www.greenhouse.gov.au/yourhome/technical/fs34d_2.htm). Similarly, during the
Afghan-British War, British military officers discovered that mud structures were difficult to burn when they attempted to destroy houses in Waziristan, Pakistan; in fact, they resorted to the use of explosives to collapse the structures partially before burning, in an effort to create a draft and to expose wooden architectural elements (Gordon 1953).
The palace need not have been leveled or even have suffered more than localized damage
12 She experimentally determines the colors of bricks fired at different temperatures, and she plots the color distribution throughout four different houses.
31 to have been rendered unusable without difficult repairs (see Maynard 6.3 for variability in damage).
Some spaces within the palace are likely to have seen rapid burning (e.g., the oil magazines); others may have smoldered.13 A difference can been seen even among the rooms under consideration here; pottery from rooms 21 and 22 tends more toward a greenish hue, indicative of high heat, in contrast with the room 18 pottery which tends more toward a buff or orange color, probably representing the color to which it was initially fired when produced.14
There are two indications that the fire was set intentionally and required a certain amount of effort. First, lids from the oil magazine were found on the floor rather than on the jars (Fig. 2.8; Hubbe 1955, pp. 34, 65), an unlikely location unless someone was attempting to burn the palace. Second, floor plaster seems to be heavily fire damaged, and accidental fires rarely do serious damage at low levels of the ground floor, while fires set using accelerants do tend to cause damage at floor level (Bankoff and Winter 1979, p.
14; Stevanovic 1997, pp. 368-369).
13 It would be worth bringing a fire investigator to examine the remains of the palace and its contents; evidence ranging from types and locations of soot to the extent of charring of some wood has been preserved, and by re-firing ceramics, it should be possible to reconstruct the temperatures reached and quantity of atmospheric oxygen in various areas. A professional investigator should be able to reconstruct the sequence of events at the point of the palace's destruction in some detail. 14 This trend in the locations of ceramics of different colors is by no means surprising. Not only was the material from rooms 21 and 22 closer to the oil magazines, it stood between the magazines and the nearest likely source of oxygen, namely the door between room 21 and court 88, which seems to have been propped open with a large lid. See Maynard, section 6 for an overview of the factors influencing the trajectory of building fires.
32 Figure 2.8. Lid on floor in corner of room 24.
CHRONOLOGY OF DEPOSITS
The vast majority of the ceramic material recovered from the Palace of Nestor dates to the LH IIIB period, but this is not the only period represented, either architecturally or ceramically. Pre-LH IIIB material was difficult for the excavators to reach, but they nonetheless investigated earlier periods wherever they were not prevented by the presence of plaster floors. The reconstruction of earlier stratigraphy is difficult, in some locations perhaps impossible, in light of the poor elevation drawings and the failure of the excavators in many cases to distinguish from which strata sherds came.15 From room 18, for example, we have a small number of Late Helladic I sherds, but it is now impossible to know whether they came from a layer below the final floor, or whether they might have been incorporated in mud brick that melted and then collapsed into the room.
Insofar as progress in understanding the pre-LH IIIB palace has been made, it has been primarily on the architectural front; the Minnesota Archaeological Researches in the
Western Peloponnese – Pylos project and Michael Nelson's dissertation (2001) in
15 Fortunately, the Early Helladic period, at least, is better known from the nearby site of Deriziotes Aloni, a half kilometer southwest of the Palace (Stocker 2003), and Sharon Stocker is studying the Middle Helladic ceramic elements from the palace itself.
33 particular have helped to build an architectural chronology, tracing Middle Helladic wall fragments, Early Mycenaean constructions (most peripheral to the later palace), LH IIIA buildings, and the two LH IIIB phases of the palace (pp. 191-216).
Post-palatial use of the site has excited more interest. Blegen and Rawson had described the pottery from the end of the palace as belonging to “the latest stage in the style of Mycenaean III B”(p. 421). They note, however, that “along with the late III B types in a good many rooms were found examples which, if recovered by themselves alone, would be unhesitatingly attributed to the succeeding style of III C”(p. 421), among which are, most notably, deep bowls. They therefore conclude, “the palace came to its end at a time when pottery of Mycenaean III C was beginning to be made and to displace the wares of III B”(p. 421). Popham (1991) was troubled by the absence of fortifications at the time the palace was destroyed, at which point the Pylians should ostensibly have been aware that other Mycenaean centers were falling and felt sufficiently threatened to have fortified their citadel; in an effort to make the Pylian destruction contemporary with, or slightly in advance of, the major destructions in the Argolid, he argued that the palace had been destroyed not in late LH IIIB but somewhat earlier in the LH IIIB period, followed by a LH IIIC/Dark Age reoccupation. His sense of the character of the Pylian palatial pottery was that the bulk of it “retained a strong LH IIIA character” (p. 315) with only a few LH IIIB elements, but that a few specific items reflected a date “well into the
IIIC stage” (p. 316).
Mountjoy (1997), however, undertook a detailed comparison of the painted pottery types from the Palace with those from sites with LH IIIB2/IIIC early phases, and she demonstrated that the Pylos pottery did in fact reflect a transitional LH IIIB2/LH IIIC
34 phase. Carington-Smith, apparently unaware of Mountjoy's article, accepts Popham's suggestion that the palace was reinhabited and destroyed in LH IIIC, though she agrees with Blegen and Rawson that the major period of occupation was LH IIIB; she postulates two episodes of incendiary destruction, one in LH IIIB early and another in LH IIIC. She does so because she thinks that the kylikes and milk-bowls from pantry 60 of the palace represent a set of LH IIIC forms different from those more traditional ones of rooms 18-
22, in a different fabric, and in a different location. She considers the room 60 vessels to be "strange, rather bucolic pots to find in a Mycenaean palace" (1999, p. 88). As I argue below, the difference is one of function rather than of date; the forms and fabrics from rooms 60, 67, and 68 represent the utilitarian vessels used for food preparation, fire tending, and daily use, while the more traditional forms and more attractive fabrics of the vessels from rooms 18 through 22 represent the “good china”. Hence there is no reason to imagine large-scale reoccupation of the site on the basis of materials from the palace itself.
Messenia underwent clear cultural upheavals during the period succeeding the palatial destruction, with large areas and many sites abandoned (see Harrison and
Spencer 1998, p. 148-150 for a brief overview). Both the UMME (McDonald and Rapp
1972, pp. 310-321) and the PRAP surveys (Davis et al. 1997, pp. 424, 452-453) found minimal LH IIIC and Dark Ages material; PRAP found 2 of its 3 swollen kylix stems, characteristically LH IIIC, in the vicinity of the palace, and very few other sites had sherds of Submycenaean to Geometric date. Habitation in the region did continue, though perhaps not quite continuously, at Nichoria (McDonald, Coulson, and Rosser
1983).
35 Continuing habitation at the palace is less certain; Griebel and Nelson note the presence of “Dark Ages” activity within the more open areas of the Palace of Nestor (the inner propylon, the throne room, courts 63 and 88, rooms 83-87; 1998, p. 98), which they characterize as domestic. However, as Hofstra notes, destruction debris was found leaning against the stones of room 87, suggesting that it predates the LH IIIB destruction, and the walls of 86-88 also appear to have been fire-damaged, suggesting that all three rooms may predate the LH IIIB fire (2000, pp. 18-23). The walls of rooms 89 and 90 do rest above the court floor that dates to LH IIIB, suggesting that they at least are later constructions, but their date remains unclear and could be as late as the Archaic period
(Blegen and Rawson 1966, pp. 296-297). From the throne room, there are only “a few
Geometric fragments…from surface soil (Blegen and Rawson 1966, p. 91), hardly a strong indication of later reuse. Traces, then, of later reuse of the palatial structure are minimal and chronologically ambiguous. Interestingly, where we do find clear examples of LH IIIC through Geometric pottery in the region is often in funeral contexts: a reused tholos at Tragana (Desborough 1964, p. 95) and the "Protogeometric tholos" at Kato
Englianos (Blegen et al. 1973, pp. 237-242).
ROOM 18 AND A POST-DESTRUCTION SHRINE
Although the quantity of post-palatial material in the vicinity of the palace is minimal, further study may indicate that there is slightly more than we have recognized.
I would suggest that we have at least one other example of post-LH IIIB activity at the palace, though it, too, is difficult to date. The assemblage from the southeast end of room
18 is clearly anomalous for the room, both stratigraphically and in its contents, having
36 contained what appears to be a small shrine. Originally excavated, then reburied by
Mylonas in 1952 (Fig. 2.9), a table of offerings was later uncovered again and the area around and below it excavated by Rawson in 1953. Rawson, who envisioned room 18 primarily in plan (Fig. 2.10), was aware that the contents of the southeast end differed from those of the northwest end. The northwest end contained almost 500 vessels, primarily serving wares such as basins, bowls, dippers, and jugs. The southeast half of the room, however, was nearly empty except for the end, which contained:
…part of a table of offerings surrounded by small pots at some 0.30 m. above the
floor in the reddish earth from dissolved crude brick. Also collected around the
table were 36 disks from the bases of kylikes, ranging from two very small and
flat (possibly from the little votives) to several very large. In a few instances the
stem or part of the stem is preserved, but for the most part they were only the
disks (Blegen and Rawson 1966, p. 120).
Although the Palace of Nestor volume mentions only the plaster table of offerings and the kylix bases, in her notebook Rawson mentions that she also found "some tiny pebbles and ashy stuff between the table of offerings and the wall to the southeast" (1953, p. 27) and “a few bits of burned bone and shell and a piece of chalky stuff, thin and curved, that was gray when removed and turned purple when exposed to air” (1953, p.
49).16 She does not specify the location in which she discovered the latter, but as she
16 The presence of so many kylix bases, without the rest of the kylikes, was initially puzzling to me. My thanks to Jerry Rutter, who suggested that the broken bases are likely to have been used as the lids of small containers made of perishable materials.
37 incorporates this comment into a discussion of cleaning around the table of offerings and the nearby vessels, they presumably do come from the same vicinity. Both the 1952 photograph of the table of offerings (Fig. 2.9) and Mylonas’ sketch of the context (Fig.
2.11) show that a small cup also stood upright on the table. Unfortunately, other than the ceramic elements, none of this material appears to have been saved, and virtually all of the ceramic material has been misplaced or has, in the time since excavation, been combined with material from other locations within room 18.
Figure 2.9. Table of offerings at southeast end of room 18.
Figure 2.10. Plan of room 18 based on that in Rawson’s 1953 notebook (p. 110). Shaded areas represent findspots of vessels.
38 Rawson treats this “shrine” as contemporary with the other materials she excavates. In publication, she and Blegen discuss its location briefly: “From its position one might conclude that the table of offerings stood in Room 18 on a raised stand or bench of clay, but it is equally possible that it and the pots around it fell from a household shrine in the upper story” (Blegen and Rawson 1966, p. 120). The excavation notebooks suggest an alternate interpretation - that the context post-dates the LH IIIB destruction.
Mylonas suspected as much when he initially discovered it in 1952; he noted that it was strange for the table of offerings to be placed so high in the fill and "in a perfect horizontal position. Is it in situ?" he asks (June 2, 1952, p. 16). Not only is the surface of the table of offerings horizontal; the cup on it sits upright. The horizontal position of both the table and the cup argues against the likelihood of their having fallen from an upper story.
Figure 2.11. Mylonas's notebook sketch, southeast end of room 18.
Examination of the table of offerings, now stored in Apotheke 2 of the Hora museum, indicates that its legs are not preserved and that its top portion is approximately
8 cm thick (though because its underside was encased in plaster by conservators, this
39 figure remains approximate). If the table of offerings, missing its legs, had been placed on a level floor, other items in the vicinity, also on that floor, should sit with their bases approximately 8 cm lower. Indeed, Mylonas did discover, near the table of offerings, an upright cup that he describes as having been four centimeters lower than the table (p. 18); if the rim of the cup sat 4 cm lower, and if the cup was approximately 4 cm tall (assuming that it was likely to have been one of the dipper bottoms shown in Fig. 2.13), then the cup’s base sat approximately 8 cm below the top of the table of offerings. Hence, the position in which the table of offerings and nearby objects were found seems to be consistent with the hypothesized floor level.
When in 1953 Rawson had removed the fill from the previous year, she found the table surrounded by earth that she described as "red burned brick, which is terribly hard, and large chunks of plaster, fallen and apparently unpainted.... Bits of carbonized material mixed with the hard red brickish stuff" (May 29, 1953, p. 27). She found the
"earth below becoming yellowish, still very hard" (p. 27). The data she provides regarding stratigraphy are confusing and often contradictory, and her section drawings are inadequate. It is possible, however, using a combination of her information, that of
Mylonas, and what can be seen in photographs, to reconstruct a section drawing parallel to the southeast wall of room 18 (Fig. 2.12). In this section, I have included the black stratum (containing pottery from the LH IIIB destruction) and the level of the floor with masses of LH IIIB pots, although both were in fact found some distance to the northwest of the table of offerings, in order to illustrate their elevation relative to it.
It appears that the table of offerings had red, brick-laden soil around and above it.
There is no stratigraphic evidence that it sat on a bench or other raised structure. It did,
40 however, sit higher than the masses of pottery that marked the LH IIIB floor, or at least higher than the floor on which the pottery had fallen (the heaps of pots at the northwest end of the room appear to have reached a considerable height, perhaps a half meter).
Rawson describes pots deposited in the LH IIIB destruction in an intermittent gray-black or black layer, above the hard yellow LH IIIB floor; they seem to have reached into the upper red layer, which must represent elements of the mud brick super-structure that
Figure 2.12. Composite section of room 18, facing southeast.
would, after the destruction, have melted or collapsed over time. The table of offerings and its associated pottery, then, must have been deposited later than the mass of pottery found in the northwest half of the room.
41 This is a surprising conclusion. The pottery from this context at the southeast end of the room, though deposited later than the LH IIIB destruction, all appears to date from
LH IIIB; indeed, the pots and sherds from this context were not noticeably different from those elsewhere in rooms 18 and 20. The partially preserved table of offerings appears to be almost a twin to the nearly complete one found in situ next to a column base in the throne room (Fig. 2.13). The most likely explanation for the condition of the table of offerings and the LH IIIB character of the pottery is that they were reused; at some point
Figure 2.13. Table of offerings, from the Throne Room.
Figure 2.14. Dipper bowls from southeast end, room 18.
42
Figure 2.15. One dipper bowl.
Figure 2.16. Another dipper bowl. after the palace was destroyed but before most of the mud brick second level collapsed, someone seems to have created a small shrine, probably recovering the table of offerings from some other room in the palace. The only pottery in the Hora museum known to have come from the southeast end of the room consists of a pair of nearly identical bowls, dippers with handles missing (Fig. 2.14).
43 It is worth noting that the two dipper-bowls from the southeast of room 18 are unique among the materials from the pantries in one respect; they preserve signs of wear that appear to be prehistoric (Figs. 2.15, 2.16). Wear marks are not rare among the sherds from the pantries, but the vast majority of wear marks seem to be modern and may well have resulted from post-excavation factors such as vigorous cleaning or unpadded storage among other sherds in the museum. They occur on those sherds that are of softer, more orange fabric, and marks tend not to be particularly deep. The fabric of the two dipper bowls, by contrast, is reasonably hard, yet it shows clear scrape marks. These marks do not appear to result from storage or sherd movement; they are found exclusively on the interiors, where the vessels would be less exposed to other sherds, and the marks from both bowls appear to follow a similar pattern, which we would not expect to happen from random wear. The marks also do not appear to be the result of cleaning. The bowl in figure 2.15 was found in six pieces, and the edges of the individual sherds are rounded, suggesting that the breaks predate excavation. As a result, any scraping in cleaning should have affected the sherds individually, rather than be arranged on all the sherds in a consistent pattern. It is likely, then, the scraped interiors reflect ancient rather than modern wear. This observation implies that the vessels from the southeast end of room
18 were actually used in antiquity, and in a different fashion than were the other vessels in the room.
OVERVIEW
The stratigraphic sequence, from the LH IIIB floor up, consists of black or dark gray habitation or destruction debris, yellow soil from post-destruction silting, reddish
44 soil from burned mud brick, and a plow zone. The presence of a layer of post-destruction silting before the mud brick collapsed indicates that the palatial collapse did not immediately follow the fire that ended habitation, a conclusion reinforced by the observation of the gradual decay of modern mud brick buildings. The gradual nature of the building’s collapse reopens the question of whether the palace was burned intentionally or accidentally, since the paucity of valuable remains excavated from the palace might indicate that valuables were salvaged post-burning rather than plundered before the fire was set.
45 Chapter 3: General Storage System and Structures
In The Palace of Nestor, Blegen and Rawson say surprisingly little about the storage systems used in the pantries. They describe the architecture of each of the rooms in some detail but attempt only a cursory reconstruction of the furniture that must once have been built into them or the systems by which vessels may have been classified and stored. They do hypothesize that a black strip found along the southwest wall of room 18 with a number of broken pots might represent the carbonized remains of a wooden shelf
(1966, p. 120). They note the existence and dimensions of roughly circular holes in the floors of rooms 19 and 20, which they hypothesize represent the locations of shelf posts
(pp. 124, 126) as well as large flat stones, probably supports for shelf posts, on the floors of rooms 19, 21 and 22 (pp. 124, 130, 133).
They also note that pots were, to some extent, stored by type. They refer to room
21 as the "bowl and cup department," with bowls stacked together at the southeast and cups stacked together at the northwest (1966, p. 130), and comment that in room 18, "a collection of small pedestaled amphoras lay with handles side by side as if they had been strung together on a string" (p. 119). They do not see the collection as entirely orderly, commenting on room 18 that "big and little pots were found together, but some groups also contained pots mainly of one shape" (p. 119). The collection may, however, have been perfectly ordered if we acknowledge that the original arrangement of the vessels was three dimensional; that is, large vessels may have been placed side by side rather than stacked, with smaller vessels side by side on shelves at a different level. This method would have optimized storage space by minimizing the number of taller shelves
46 needed. Indeed, the excavators themselves shelved the vessels horizontally by type in their own storeroom in the Hora museum (Fig. 3.1).
Figure 3.1. Vessels shelved by type in Hora museum apotheke, 1955.
Using excavation notebooks and photographs, Blegen and Rawson’s publications, and a little mathematics, we can reconstruct something more of the storage system. Some of the locations in which posts once stood are clear from extant postholes in the plaster or from the presence on the ground of flat rocks, each of which would have distributed the downward pressure of a shelf post and kept it from shattering the plaster below.
However, more posts must have existed at the time of the palace’s destruction than those for which we have direct evidence. The sheer volume of pottery in room 19, for example, does not allow for any storage solution other than shelving on three sides of the room; as there is no evidence that shelves were cantilevered from the walls, the shelves must have been supported by posts. It is clear from the spacing of extant posts that direct evidence for fewer than half of the original room 19 posts survives. In some cases, such as room 22, the absence of floor plaster may have made postholes difficult to detect; in other cases, such as room 19, the plaster floor remains intact, and perhaps the excavators failed to identify flat stones that supported posts, or perhaps the downward pressure of
47 the shelf posts had been diffused by horizontal pieces of wood that burned or have degraded since the palace’s destruction.
Figure 3.2. Pantry plan with post holes and flat rocks on which posts rested (both indicated by circles), hypothetical locations of posts (indicated by Xs), and locations of densely deposited pottery (shaded).
48 Based on plans in the notebooks and on excavation photographs, in figure 3.2 I have diagrammed a) the locations of the actual holes in the floor plaster and the flat rocks that indicate the past existence of posts supporting the shelving system, b) hypothetical positions in which floor posts must also have stood (based on the relatively standard spacing of existing evidence for posts, in the form of either holes or flat rocks), and c) the locations from which dense collections of pots were recovered.
Let us begin with the shelving system in room 19, simpler than the others because, with only one vessel type, the options were more limited. Additionally, pottery was packed densely into this small space (Table 3.1, Fig. 3.3), with about three times the ceramic density17 of the next-most-full room (room 21) and 17 times the density of the least dense room (room 18), further restricting the range of potential storage configurations.
floor area in room # weight of pots in kg m2 weight/area 18 125 13.2 10 kg/m2 19 2,000 11.7 170 kg/m2 20 500 10.5 50 kg/m2 21 600 9.75 60 kg/m2 200 saved (much 22 disposed) 4.9 40 kg/m2 saved Table 3.1. Pottery quantities per area, by room. All measurements are approximate.
17 Density is given here in the form of sherd weight per square meter rather than vessel count per square meter because count per area fails to take into account vessel size, which may be highly variable; i.e. using vessel count per area, a room with 30 miniature kylikes would be perceived as being as densely packed as one with 30 pithoi, a statistic that communicates little about the challenges faced by those packing pottery into the room.
49
Figure 3.3. Heap of kylikes from the floor of the south corner of room 19, as photographed in June of 1953. A large number of kylikes had already been removed from this context in the previous year.
ROOM 19
The photographs from the excavation unfortunately provide us with little information about how the items were shelved, except that their horizontal distribution suggests that they probably were stored along three walls (the fourth wall, to the northwest, had the door). That they were stored on shelves is clear; large quantities of carbonized wood must have been found among the kylikes (although wood is not mentioned in any publications or discussed at length in the notebooks, the carbonized material remains in many of the unwashed kylikes), and it is inconceivable that such a large quantity of pots could have been fitted into the room without making use of vertical space. We can also determine that the shelves must have extended out into the room, beyond the posts, with the posts supporting shelving that extended not just between them and the wall, but into the room. None of the potential tessellations of kylikes discussed below would make it possible to fit all kylikes behind the posts; in every case, the
50 number of kylikes necessitates their storage both behind and toward the center of the room from the posts.
Let us examine three potential storage patterns. First, let us assume that the kylikes were stored upside-down, stacked two high per shelf (Fig. 3.4). (They cannot have been stacked more than two high, or the stack would have been extremely unstable; even in stacks of two, the individual stacks would have been fairly unstable. Similarly, they cannot have stood stacked upright, as this system, too, would have been extremely unstable). We can determine both the maximum number of shelves and the minimum depth to which pots were shelved.
Figure 3.4. Vertically stacked kylikes.
In this case, we can determine that there would have been a vertical maximum of eight shelves of kylikes. We make this estimate on the assumption that the height of the room, divided by the minimum height of each shelf, yields the maximum number of shelves. Lang (1969, p. 214) estimated floor-to-ceiling height at 3 meters on the basis of the heights of the wall paintings; Blegen and Rawson estimated floor-to-floor height at
3.25-3.5 meters on the basis of the height of a fallen ashlar block wall that had comprised the northeast façade of the palace (1966, p. 80), which, allowing for the thickness of the floor of the second level, is in accord with Lang's estimate (Nelson 2001, p. 25). We will, then, use 3.0 meters as the approximate vertical space available for shelving. Each shelf must have required at least 37 cm in height. An average height for kylikes from this
51 room is approximately 20 cm. A second kylix stacked in another adds approximately 15 cm, since the two overlap by approximately 5 cm. As a result, a stack of two kylikes stands approximately 35 cm high (these figures are based upon my measurements and drawings of over 30 kylikes from room 19). If we estimate a shelf thickness at 2 cm, then each level would have required at least 37 cm. Three meters of room height divided by
37 cm per shelf height gives eight shelves.
Next, we can determine the horizontal depth to which kylikes were shelved. If at least 2854 kylikes18 were shelved on eight shelves, each shelf level must have contained at least 357 kylikes (2854 divided by 8) or 179 stacks of two kylikes (357 kylikes divided by 2 kylikes per stack). We can envision the stacks of kylikes on each level as forming a series of angular “U” shaped rows around the room, each one kylix wide (Fig. 3.5). The number of kylix stacks that fit into the outermost row will be the sum of the numbers that fit along each wall, minus two (so that corner stacks are not counted twice). Each wall will have a number of stacks along it equal to the length of the wall divided by the width of each kylix stack. The walls are 3.9 meters (NE wall), 3.0 meters (SE wall), and 3.85 meters (SW wall) long. The widest parts of a kylix stack are the rims; most rim diameters measure around 18 cm, if we ignore the handles (which do not increase the distance needed between vessels if they are set with handles askew). The outer row of stacks will have contained at most 54 stacks (3.9 meters divided by 0.18 meters gives 21 stacks along the first wall, 3.0 meters divided by 0.18 meters gives 14 stacks along the
18 Though Rawson recovered 2,854 kylikes from the room, it is conceivable that not every kylix originally stored there was recovered; as the top levels of the heaps of kylikes may have stood above ground for some time after the palace was destroyed, visitors could have carried off vessels for reuse or as souvenirs, or kylikes could have been kicked around and deposited elsewhere in the palace or its immediate vicinity. Hence, 2,854 is here considered to represent the minimum number of kylikes.
52 second wall, and 3.85 meters divided by 0.18 meters gives 21 stacks along the third wall, minus two stacks to prevent each of two corner stacks from being counted as belonging to both walls). As 179 stacks must fit on each level, the outer row of 54 stacks is insufficient, and the pots must have been shelved more than one row deep.
Figure 3.5. Conceptualization of rows of pots along the walls of room 19 (facing southeast; not to scale).
In the second row, we must account for the presence of the posts, which take space that would otherwise be used for the storage of pots. Assuming two sets of kylikes were displaced per post (of which there were presumably 10), 20 stacks of pots are displaced per level. Additionally, the number of stacks decreases by four with every successive row inward. Because pots already were shelved at the end of the room, each of the rows along the sides must be shorter by one stack. Similarly, the end row must be shorter by two stacks, as one is displaced at each end by the outermost row. Hence the second row inward would have had 28 stacks (54 - 4 = 48 stacks, but with 20 stacks displaced by posts). The outermost and second-outermost rows would then have a total of 82 stacks (54 + 28), still well short of the 179 stacks that must have been shelved.
53 The same process can be repeated for the third row in, though we need not account here for the posts; 44 stacks (48 – 4) would have comprised the third row. The first three rows, then, would have had a combined total of 126 stacks (54 + 28 + 44), still fewer than the necessary 179. A fourth row would have 40 stacks, or 44 – 4, and the four rows would have had a sum of 166 stacks (54 + 28 + 44 + 40), still short of the 179 necessary. A fifth row would have 36 stacks (40 – 4), and five rows could have held a total of 202 stacks (54 + 28 + 44 + 40 + 36), well beyond the necessary 179 stacks per level. It is possible that pots were shelved five deep along only one wall, or perhaps they were shelved five deep on the lower levels and only four deep on upper levels. In any case, four to five rows were the minimum depth if the vessels were stacked.
A second, different configuration is also possible. If the kylikes were stored on their sides, crossed as in Fig. 3.6, the space used would have approximated a cube 25 cm wide by 25 cm deep by 20 cm high. With a height of 20 cm plus 2 cm for minimum shelf thickness, or 22 cm per level, and with a 3 m ceiling, a maximum of 13 shelves would have fitted vertically, and each shelf must have held 220 pots (2854/13) or 110 pairs. In the outermost row, 40 pairs could have fit per level. Only 10 pairs would be displaced by posts; consequently, the second row would have had 26 pairs (40 – 4 – 10), and the first and second rows combined would have had 66 pairs (40 + 26). A third row would have had 32 pairs (36 – 4), so the first three rows would have had 98 pairs (40 + 26 + 32), still too few; hence a fourth row would also have been necessary, adding 28 pairs (32 – 4) for a total of 126. As in the first system, the innermost row may have been partial, limited either to particular walls or to the lower levels. With this system too, four rows would
54 have been the minimum shelving depth necessary to account for the storage of as many kylikes as were actually found in the room.
Figure 3.6. Horizontally crossed kylikes (from above).
According to a third possible configuration, each kylix would have been shelved individually, probably in an inverted position, resting on its rim. With a shelf spacing of
22 cm (20 cm between shelves and 2 cm thick shelves), there would be a maximum of 13 levels, each of which must have held 220 pots (2854/13). There would have been the same number of vessels in each row of each level as there were stacks in each row in the first configuration, since a single vessel requires as much horizontal space as does a stack of vessels. The first row would have held 54 pots, the second 28, the third 44, the fourth
40, and the fifth 36. The first five rows, then, would have held a total of 202 vessels, fewer than the 220 pots per level that would have been necessary, dictating the presence of a sixth row.
In any of my three scenarios, the shelves would have had to extend well into the room past the posts. In scenario one, some shelves may have reached only 0.72 meters from the walls but others must have extended 0.90 meters into the room. In scenario two, some shelves might have reached 0.75 meters from the walls and others 1.00 meters. In scenario three, some shelves may have extended only 0.90 meters into the rooms but at least half must have extended as much as 1.08 meters from the walls. I have excluded the possibility of a fourth configuration, with kylikes nested on their sides (imagine the
55 first configuration, but with the kylikes in a lengthy horizontal series), because 1) there is no indication whatsoever from photographs, drawings, or notebook descriptions that kylikes were so stored; if the kylikes had been so interlocked, I would expect some to have remained so, and Marion Rawson did tend to note nested or stacked vessels when she found them elsewhere in the pantries; 2) removal of kylikes so stored would have been inconvenient and probably would have led to high rates of breakage; indeed, there would have been a risk of entire rows of kylikes falling on the floor; and 3) there would have been minimal savings of space from storage in this manner.
Among the three storage options, I consider the second to be most likely. In favor of the first scheme, the stacked kylikes, is its relative simplicity; only eight shelves would be required (seven if the floor was used) rather than 13 (or 12 plus floor), the results are more compact than those of either of the other methods, and as we shall see below, stacking was a familiar concept to the keepers of these pantries. However, my own experiments suggest that while it is possible to balance kylikes, this is difficult as both their bases and interiors are often irregular.
The hypothesis of crossed horizontal kylikes has more to recommend it. First, it is stable. Second, it uses space efficiently. Indeed, both the original excavators and the current team reorganizing these materials have independently used a similar crossed-stem system to fit kylikes into containers (barrels and boxes, respectively). We know that the miniature kylikes from room 20 were discovered with stems crossed (Rawson 1953, p.
149), proving that the benefits of this system were realized in the Bronze Age. The only real drawback to this scheme is that it requires more effort to add and remove vessels than if vessels were individually placed, although, since those who hosted feasts seem to
56 have had slaves, they may not have been particularly concerned with saving labor. One tantalizing hint that this may have been the system in place can be found on the surface of the vessels themselves; there are indications that padding may have been used to prevent horizontally placed vessels from chipping. First, there are firing "clouds" on many of the vessels in the shape of brush or grasses; while it is not impossible that these may have come from the initial firing when the vessels were produced, I have reason to believe that at least some come from the re-firing that took place when the palace burned. The kylix shown in Fig. 3.7 appears to have been horizontally placed upon grasses or brush when the clouds were formed, and on the basis of ethnographically observed kiln-loading practices, it seems highly unlikely that kylikes would have been placed in a kiln on their sides. Furthermore, there are patterns in the calcareous encrustations of unwashed vessels that closely resemble fabric (Fig. 3.8). While salts do sometimes form regular, crystalline structures that may be mistaken for fabrics (personal communication, Hariklia
Brekoulaki 2002), these patterns may also represent a fossilized form of ancient fabric used to pad vessels; the phenomenon of calcium leaching into fabric to form a cast is known to have taken place at Çayönü in Turkey.19 Use of fabric to pad vessels is known from other cultures (including our own), and Mycenaean use of scrap fabric to pad crossed kylikes seems reasonable.
The evidence generally points, then, to a shelving pattern of kylikes with horizontally crossed stems in room 19. This pattern would have been stable and space- efficient, and there is some circumstantial evidence to support it; namely, miniature kylikes were stored in this way in a neighboring room, and at the time of the palatial
19 Reported in the popular press including Fabric, p. 54 and on the Oriental Institute’s website at http://oi.uchicago.edu/OI/AR/92-93/92-93_Prehistoric.html.
57 conflagration, some kylix stems such as the one shown in Fig. 3.8 seem to have been placed horizontally.
Figure 3.7. Kylix with firing "clouds" in plant shapes.
Figure 3.8. Sherd with calcareous encrustation, possibly a pseudomorph of fabric.
ROOM 18
As Blegen and Rawson note (1966, p. 119), the small pedestaled amphoras inside the door of room 18 appear to have been strung together through their handles, since the
58 handles are aligned. As Fig. 3.9 illustrates, these are not the only vessels to have been strung together with others of their types. A cluster of miniature dippers also appears to have been strung together, as does a group of small jugs. The notebooks indicate that a number of vessels were found stacked by type: seven miniature bowls (without handles) were stacked together (Rawson 1953, p. 154); large shallow bowls, each with two pinched-out handles, were stacked in two sets of three (pp. 111, 154), and another stack of two with a third bowl nearby (p. 110). Six larger jugs were found in close proximity
(p. 110; presumably these, too, would have been tied together by their handles), as were the three spouted bowls (Blegen and Rawson 1966, p. 121, in combination with data from
Rawson n.d. and Rawson 1953, pp. 110, 111). This is not to suggest, unfortunately, that there were always clear-cut associations between vessels of the same type. A few vessels were found at some distance (as much as a meter) from others of their type, perhaps reflecting mis-shelving, shelving collapse, or post-destruction activities. While it is possible that the intention was occasionally to store pottery of one type in separate places
(perhaps reflecting multiple functions of a single pot type?), the bulk of pottery clearly was stored by type, so it is tempting to view anomalies as having been misplaced, either before or after the palatial destruction.
The fact that many of the vessels that had been strung together were found immediately in front of the door between rooms 18 and 20, where they would have been stepped on had they been placed on the floor and where they could not have been placed on shelves suggests that they may have been hung, either from the ceiling or from the
59 door frame.20 The larger vessels may have been placed either on the floor or on shelves; a carbonized layer perhaps representing a shelf was reported along the southwest wall
(Blegen and Rawson 1966, p. 119), though the relatively small quantity of ceramics recovered in the room could have been set on the floor and would not have required shelving.
Figure 3.9. Pots clustered by type with handles aligned as if they had been tied together.
The contents of room 18 and their storage provide another problem, however. If we look at Fig. 2.10, we see that the pottery in room 18 was found within a relatively limited area. What was in the rest of the room? One possibility is that whoever established the shrine at the southeast end cleared out a quantity of pottery in order to set up the shrine, but if so, why did they not remove the pottery that was in the door from
20 If the door, like those in the central parts of the palace, was approximately 2.15 meters high (Lang 1969, p. 214), pots might have been suspended from the top of the frame and still been high enough not to hit the heads of most people.
60 room 20? A second possibility is that the materials stored in the interior part of room 18 were perishable; carbonized matter was, in fact, found in the southeast portion of the room. A wooden platter was found in Shaft Grave V at Mycenae (Karo 1933, no. 890); similar platters could have been used at Pylos to serve a wide variety of foods. A Linear
B sign at Mycenae represents a basket (*155VAS; Vandenabeele and Olivier 1979, p.
273), and basket-makers are listed in the Linear B tablets from Pylos (Ae 574 and 765), reminding us that such perishable containers could have functioned as a part of the service for a feast, perhaps holding breads or other solid items. Feasting would apparently have required some furniture, as well; the wall paintings depict figures seated on stools at tables, and Killen has argued that the Ta series of tablets inventory the furniture for a feast (1998a, p. 421; Palaima 2000, p. 237). It would have made more sense, however, to have stored relatively unwieldy items like furniture near the exit where they would not have had to have been carried past breakable pottery.
A third possibility is that room 18 might have also contained metal vessels, either removed in anticipation of the building's demise or scavenged in its aftermath. Of the pottery storage spaces in the palace, the interior of room 18 must have been among the more difficult of access, hence well suited to the storage of items valuable enough to have been potential targets of pilfering. Further, the tablet from nearby in room 20, Tn996, inventories large metal vessels; Rawson considered it to have fallen from above because of its "shattered" condition and because it was found amid pieces of flooring from above
(Blegen and Rawson 1966, p. 127; Rawson 1953, p. 73), but I would consider its attribution to the second floor to be less certain than she suggests. The photographs of the tablet reveal that it was actually in relatively good condition (better, if anything, than
61 that of the pots from the same context, and at least one of the breaks came from her workman's pick; Rawson 1953, p. 73), and it appears to have been at the same level as much of the pottery. This tablet, then, could have recorded the more valuable contents of room 18.
ROOM 20
Room 20 contained somewhat more material per square meter than did room 18
(Fig. 3.3), though still a fraction of the quantity that was found in room 19. The ceramics were found on a plaster floor level, clustered in three sections of the room, the south corner, the east corner, and along the northwest wall. A number of items from each section were still stacked when excavated. It is not entirely clear whether there were shelves in use in this room at the time of the LH IIIB destruction. Certainly there are holes in the plaster into which posts once fitted, but the plaster floor may date to an earlier period21 and the shelving structure may not have been in use at the time the room was destroyed. The more extensive carbonized remains found in rooms 18 and 19 were apparently not found here, though Blegen and Rawson offer conflicting information; in
The Palace of Nestor, they note "a thin stratum of black earth that lay beneath some of the pots may have been the residue of wooden boards that were burned up" (1966, p.
21 The plaster floor in room 20 was still in use at the time of the LH IIIB destruction, but it may have been laid long before. If the plaster was laid at the same time as the plaster in room 18 was, it must have been a remnant of an earlier phase in room 20’s history. Rawson says that the pottery on the room 18 destruction-era floor sat approximately 0.35 meters above the plaster floor (1953, p. 87), suggesting that fill had been added, perhaps in the remodeling that blocked the ends of a corridor to form room 18 (Nelson 2001, p. 212); the original date of the room 18 floor plaster is unclear. However, the plaster in room 20 does sit higher than that in room 18 (though only 0.20, not 0.35, meters higher) so it may postdate the room 18 plaster.
62 126), yet in her excavation notebook, Rawson comments that “it is strange there is no trace of burned wood under the pots” (Rawson 1953, p. 153). The notebook is probably the more reliable source, as it was written during excavation rather than over a decade later. Rawson believed that the pots must have been sitting on something, to have fallen in such disorder (1953, p. 69), but she also observes a number of rocks here, probably fallen from a second story pavement. These would have caused some havoc in falling from some three meters above, whether they hit pots placed directly on the floor or shelves holding ceramics. An olive tree was removed from this part of the room (Rawson
1953, p. 149), and its roots also disturbed some of the contents.
The heavier concentration of materials at the northeastern end of the northwest wall and the near-absence of pottery from the southwestern end of the room (see Figs.
3.10, 3.11) suggests that shelves might have been tipped, and that the majority of the pots slid to one end of the room. On the other hand, bowls were typically deposited in stacks, and those that had tipped did so in no particular direction, rather than to the northeast as we might expect if they had slipped off a shelf in that direction. Furthermore, the vessels were found more or less arranged by type (Fig. 3.11), suggesting that they may not have been displaced too much horizontally from their original storage places. It is, therefore, unclear whether there were shelves in this location in the late LH IIIB period.
The south corner, immediately to the right as one enters the room from court 88, contained almost exclusively what Rawson in her excavation notebook calls "large stemmed bowls" and "large kylixes" (1953, p. 112). At least some of these sat directly on the floor; shown in Fig. 3.12 is an in situ large stemmed bowl, inside of which were found two more large stemmed bowls. It is by no means clear that more than a single
63 Figure 3.10. Northwest wall, room 20.
Figure 3.11. Distribution pattern, room 20.
64 shelf would have been needed for these. There were seven large stemmed bowls, eight large kylikes, and a "tiny cup" found in this corner ("cup" may refer either to an actual cup or to a dipper; no distinction was made at the time of excavation), with three of the bowls stacked and another inside a kylix. As both of the larger shapes have rim diameters approximating 30 cm and the dimensions of the corner are 0.70 by 1.10m, 8 vessels would have fit on the floor without stacking. Enough space for the remaining vessels could have been found by stacking them; hence more than one shelf would have been superfluous (unless other things were also stored here, but there is no indication of this), and even one shelf would have been unnecessary if the vessels were stacked to an average height of two items.
Figure 3.12. Room 20, south corner.
The east corner contained approximately 14 standard kylikes and 29 standard bowls, in addition to one basin and one "tiny cup". In this case, it is particularly difficult to determine whether these were shelved, on account of a lack of good photographic
65 evidence. However, it is clear that the bowls were stacked, at least seven high in one case. The area forming the corner is approximately 0.85 by 1.0m, and, as both bowls and kylikes have rim diameters approximating 0.2m, there would have been sufficient horizontal space for at least 20 vessels. Even if none of the kylikes were stacked, with bowls combined into five stacks there would have been enough space that a shelf would not have been necessary. On the other hand, there is nevertheless an indication that pots may have rested on a low shelf or table. Vessels were recovered no closer to the northeast wall than 0.35 meters (see Fig. 3.2 or 3.11); perhaps the vessels were placed at some minimal height and in the process of destruction were tipped away from this wall.
A few vessels were also found in the center of the room, namely six small pedestalled amphoras and two kylikes. While the kylikes might represent stray elements from other parts of room 20, the amphoras seem akin to some in room 18 in that they form a set of small, closed, painted vessels; it is unfortunate that these amphoras were not photographed in situ, nor does Rawson comment on the alignment of their handles, leaving us with no way to determine whether these amphoras, like those in room 18, were tied together (having been suspended from the ceiling?). Vessels were also found in the doorway between rooms 18 and 20; these for the most part replicate shapes found in room 18, such as small painted jugs, bowls, miniature kylikes, and tankards. The few pots recorded to have originated here that were of a very different character (the scoop and 3-legged pot, which are unusual shapes for these pantries and were also in a different fabric) were found below the late LH IIIB floor level (Rawson 1953, p. 113 et al.).
66 ROOMS 21, 22
Rooms 21 and 22 may be treated as a pair; pots were stored in a similar way in both rooms. There is an architectural division between these two rooms and those we have already discussed: it is not actually possible to walk from rooms 21 and 22 into rooms 18 through 20 without exiting the building, though the five rooms are typically discussed together because they all contained vast quantities of pottery.22 The system for storing vessels in rooms 21 and 22 is far easier to reconstruct than that of the other rooms, because the quantity of pottery is lower relative to the available space than in room 19, and the types are more restricted than in rooms 18 and 20. Also, there are clear photographs of the southeast halves of both rooms from the time of excavation. Like room 19, these rooms contained of large numbers of vessels (1,099 shallow bowls and
1,024 teacups in room 21; 147 bowls, 55 teacups, and 399 dippers in room 22), and it is clear that they were ordered by type. In room 22, two-handled bowls were stacked in the southeast side of the room, with "teacups" and dippers on both the southeast and the northwest sides. On the southeast side, all three shapes seem to have been intermixed
(each stack comprised identical forms, but the stacks were not sorted by type). From the photographs, it appears that the intermixing represents intershelving rather than differentiation shelf-to-shelf (Fig. 3.13; see Appendix 2, numbers 4, 12, and 23 for relevant type distributions).
Indeed, as bowls would have filled the southeast shelves of room 21, the shelves in room 22 may simply have represented a continuation of the room 21 shelving for
22 E.g. Whitelaw 2001, Carington-Smith 1999.
67
Figure 3.13. Vessels as excavated, southeast end of room 22.
Figure 3.14. Mass of bowls fills the southeastern end of room 21.
bowls, especially since they are only found in that part of room 22 closest to the part of room 21 that contained bowls. Dippers were found throughout room 22, though the distribution of teacups is less easily reconstructed. Bowls were clearly stacked (Fig.
3.13) as in room 21 (Fig. 3.14), with stacks typically 10 high (Blegen 1956, p. 98). In
68 neither room was there any indication of shelving materials contemporary with the LH
IIIB palace; in light of the height of the stacks of bowls, moreover, shelves would have been unnecessary. There are clues, though, that the pots were not merely stacked haphazardly. Fig. 3.15 is a close-up of a fallen stack of bowls (which had apparently been stored upright) from room 22, visible also in figure 3.15. Interestingly, the handles are still aligned together, despite their fall. This may suggest that a string was placed through the handles, and that it held them together. The same may be true of the dippers;
Figure 3.15. Fallen stack of bowls from southeast side, room 22.
Figure 3.16. Fallen stack of dippers from southeast side, room 22.
their handles are also aligned such that the handles lie as close together as possible (Fig.
3.16), suggesting that they also were tied together.
69 CONCLUSIONS REGARDING STORAGE SYSTEMS
It would be easy to assume that pottery was stored on shelves wherever it was kept at the Palace of Nestor. Indeed, the remains of post holes or flat stones to support posts do appear in rooms 19, 20, 21, and 22 (and there is a trace of a post hole in the plaster in room 18, just to the left of the door, that was not discussed in Blegen and
Rawson), yet the post holes are in plaster floors that date to an earlier phase of the palace.
They do indicate that despite remodeling, this corner of the palace had a continuous history of use as a storage space; they do not prove that the late LH IIIB palace had shelving in these spaces. It is clear that there was shelving in room 19 and equally clear that there was not in rooms 21 and 22; the situation in rooms 18 and 20 is less certain.
That vessels of several types, both those stored in massive quantities (bowls) and those stored in smaller quantities (small jars) appear to have been tied together is of some interest. First, if the vessels were tied in batches of discrete numbers (though this is not at all certain), they would have been much easier to inventory. Second, and perhaps more important, they would have been somewhat more portable than we think of them as being; a stack of ten bowls tied together is significantly more portable than are ten individual bowls, well within the power of one individual to carry yet requiring minimal attention; hence we need not imagine all feasts as occurring in court 88 or even at the palace itself. It is much easier to imagine palace personnel loading up a cart or a pack animal23 with 120 bundles of bowls than it is to imagine them loading a cart with 1200 separate bowls.
23 The use of donkeys to transport pottery is attested in twentieth century Cyprus (Ionas 2000, pp. 11-12).
70 Chapter 4: Storage and Ancient Typology
The Mycenaean practice of shelving pottery by type, and the fact that much of this organization has been preserved in the pantries at Pylos, can contribute to our understanding of the ways in which the Mycenaeans themselves classified their pottery.
The intricate classification systems devised and revised by such scholars as Furumark
(1941), French (1963, 1966, 1967, 1969), Symeonoglou (1970) and Mountjoy (1986,
1993) are essential archaeological tools for dating and for recognizing imports and local imitations of vessels from afar. They cannot, however, provide insight into how ancient people viewed their own ceramic assemblages.
To do so, following Parker (2001, p. 317), we must acknowledge, "First, the words and categories of one language and culture may not translate directly into another.... The second point is that, even within a language, some terms and categories are more fundamental than others. Red and blue are primary terms as well as primary colors; desert-mist and fuchsia are not." Not only may the Mycenaeans have had different categories from ours, they may have ranked their categories differently; distinctions that we might consider to be of primary importance in differentiating categories may have been used but considered to be of lesser importance by the
Mycenaeans, whose categories would, therefore, have had a different taxonomy.
Numerous ethnoarchaeological studies have demonstrated that the fine distinctions considered so critical by archaeologists may have little meaning to members of the investigated culture (Underhill 2003; Mahias 1993, p. 164). Willett Kempton, in his study of folk classifications of ceramics, distinguishes between folk classification and what he terms 'devised classification'; folk classification represents systems that are "used
71 by the common people, have multiple authors (usually unknown), are transmitted informally from generation to generation, and change through time. They are classification systems because they divide the world into named segments" (1981, p. 3).
A devised classification, by contrast, is "a system of categories deliberately created for a particular purpose, usually on the basis of uniform conventions." He gives the Linnaean system of nomenclature as an example (p. 3). We cannot, then, assume that the categories of Furumark (a devised classification system) would have any particular meaning to those who created or used the vessels, whose taxonomy24 can be described as
"folk."
As early as 1922, Malinowski set as the goal of the anthropologist "to grasp the native's point of view, his relation to life, to realize his vision of his world" (p. 25); this goal has since been incorporated into the goals of cognitive archaeologists (Renfrew
1994). An understanding of folk taxonomy is not only necessary for understanding a
"native" point of view; it is a prerequisite for understanding a variety of broader social processes. For example, one common approach to evaluation of craft specialization is the study of standardization in production (Rice 1981; Davis and Lewis 1985; Blackman,
Stein, and Vandiver 1993). Standardization and diversity can only be accurately measured in a context in which the producer's conception of taxonomy is understood. A study may erroneously find that a type of vessel was produced at a low level of standardization if the author unwittingly combines what were, to the producer, multiple vessel types. Conversely, a study may erroneously find a high level of standardization if the author has unknowingly chosen a biased sample by selecting members of what he or
24 Or taxonomies; some intracultural variation is possible.
72 she considers a primary category but the producer would only see as a subset of a larger category.
To understand Mycenaean vessel taxonomies, then, is potentially interesting both as a means of access to the cognitive structures of the Mycenaeans and as a tool for the interpretation of broader social structures. To undertake this project, we must first agree that the underlying folk taxonomies exist. Hall (1984, p. 267) has questioned the assumption that "real" ceramic classifications do exist. In the present case, however, the
Linear B evidence for lexicalization of ceramic categories (see below) implies that they had some commonly accepted meaning; a word or an ideogram is of no utility without some degree of cultural consensus regarding its meaning.
The terms "emic" and "etic," borrowed from linguistics via anthropology (Parker
2001, pp. 317-323) will be useful to this discussion; "emic" (from phonemic) represents the basic categories that differentiate meaning, where "etic" (from phonetic) represents the more extensively divided range of all possibilities for categorization; social categories are emic, not etic. A devised taxonomy with extensive subdivisions, such as those with which all classically trained archaeologists are familiar, will tend to include divisions with no meaning or only sub-emic (secondary) meaning to the members of the culture being studied.
Lacking Mycenaean informants, how do we identify the emic classifications of the Pylian potters and peoples? The sub-emic classifications? Parker notes that "One common sign of an emic category is lexicalization, that is, 'The Greeks had a word for it'"
(2001, p. 322). We may extend this to an ideogram; that is to say, several of the Linear B signs clearly represent vessel forms, though the lexemes represented by some of them
73 (e.g., *208VAS) are not known. For an ideogram to have meaning, it too must represent a category.
The Linear B documents are somewhat problematic, however. The ideograms are sketches, schematic representations. Many of the vessels are identified as being made of gold, silver, or bronze; many are not identified as to material at all. Ceramic and metal forms cannot always have been identical, if only because some forms practical in metal are difficult or excessively delicate when manufactured in clay (see Vandenabeele and
Olivier 1979, p. 189 for the silver dipper from the Vaphio tholos, p. 213 for the chalice from Mycenae tomb IV). The ideograms may not, therefore, correspond with extant clay vessels.
What the ideograms can do, not despite but because of their sketchy nature, is provide us with a guide to what factors were important to the scribes in differentiating one vessel type from another. Whatever factors make one vessel ideogram different from another must be among those axes on which the actual vessels were differentiated. If two different signs vary only in number of handles, and the difference cannot be explained by regional or temporal variation or by different styles of individual scribes, then presumably the number of handles must have been a defining aspect of vessel type.
Similarly, if two different signs vary only in proportion, then proportion is an important aspect in distinguishing vessel categories as well as vessel signs.
The few extant vessel names can function similarly: the names used for vessels will reflect cultural norms for categorization. For example, a type of small glass dish in my cupboard is called a "custard cup" even though it has never seen, and probably will never see, custard. The fact that it is still called that, however, reflects an interest in the
74 functional aspects of this particular vessel; were form of primary interest to me, it would perhaps be called a "small angular bowl without handles"25; were the material of primary interest, it would perhaps be grouped with another type of vessel and called a "glass".
VESSEL NAMES AS EVIDENCE FOR PYLIAN AXES OF TAXONOMIC
DELINEATION
The evidence of names is limited by what happens to be preserved in the extant tablets. At Pylos, we have 13 vessel names attested, of which four provide hints to the ways Mycenaeans classified their pottery.26 Two names refer to the vessels’ functions: sign *228 VAS is labeled on PY Ta 709.1 as po-ro-e-ke-te-ri-ja, which Palmer equates with prohelkteria, an "instrument for drawing forth" (1963, p. 342), and sign
*212VAS is found at PY Tn 996.2 (the sole tablet from rooms 18-22) labeled u-do- ro, or hydria, a vessel for water. Two names refer to the vessels’ shapes: sign *201VAS
is found on PY Ta 641 and 709, where it is repeatedly labeled ti-ri-po (Ta 641.1 thrice, Ta 709.3 twice), or tripos, classical τρι′πους (Ventris and
25 The similarity between the form-based name and many of those used by archaeologists for prehistoric pottery is not coincidental; form is among the most obvious attributes to a researcher examining a collection of vessels or vessel fragments in a museum or laboratory. Fabric is often used for initial sorting of archaeological finds and it can roughly reflect function, but typically only a few obvious categories (such as “finewares”, “coarsewares,” or “cooking wares”) are used for basic classification; detailed ware typologies typically shed more light on exchange patterns than on function. 26 I have limited this discussion to the tablets at Pylos itself; there are tablets with similar data from Knossos, Thebes, and especially Mycenae, and there were pots shelved by type in the Potter’s Workshop at Zygouries, but I prefer not to assume geographic or chronological homogeneity in systems of classification. Did the inhabitants of Mycenae classify their pottery in exactly the same way the inhabitants of Pylos did?
75 Chadwick 1973, p. 324; Vandenabeele and Olivier 1979, p. 225), a reference to its three feet. *209VAS , from Tn 996.3, has a name, a-po-]rẹ-we or αµφορε′υς partially reconstructed following the occurrence of the same term at Mycenae (Vandenabeele and
Olivier 1979, p. 260); this appears to be a contracted form of αµφιφορε′υς (a-pi-po-re- we), attested at Knossos on KN Uc 160.2 (Aura Jorro 1985, pp. 83, 87; Vandenabeele and
Olivier 1979, p. 260), a reference to its pair of handles (Hooker 1980, p. 131).
Several other signs are associated with names, but the meanings of the names are currently not clear beyond the association with their ideograms. Nevertheless, they provide us with evidence that these pot types were differentiated lexicographically. Sign
VAS *200 is found on PY Ta 709.1 labeled pi-je-ra3, or phielai, later the classical
φιε′λη (Ventris and Chadwick 1973, p. 324; Vandenabeele and Olivier 1979, p. 222).
VAS *219 is found on PY Tn 996.2 named pi-a2-ra, or phihalai, classical φια′λη
(contra Ventris and Chadwick 1973, p. 324, these are clearly not the same vessel; see
Bennett and Olivier 1973, p. 235, Vandenabeele and Olivier 1979, p. 222). *202VAS
is repeatedly labeled di-pa on PY Ta 641 (thrice on line 2, twice on line 3), equivalent to the Homeric δε′πας (Ventris and Chadwick 1973, p. 324;
Vandenabeele and Olivier 1979, p. 235). *203VAS is found on PY Ta 641.2 marked qe-to, possibly but not certainly an ancestor of the classical πι′θος (Ventris and
Chadwick 1973, pp. 493-494; Vandenabeele and Olivier 1979, p. 239). *204VAS
76 , from PY Ta 711.2.3 is named qe-ra-na three times (Ventris and Chadwick 1973, pp. 335, 497; Vandenabeele and Olivier 1979, p. 247). *205VAS is found at PY Tn
996.3 labeled a-te-we (Vandenabeele and Olivier 1979, p. 252), and from the same line comes *206VAS, ka-ti (classical κη′θις). Sign *208VAS occurs twice on
PY Tn 996 in line 4 and the first is labeled po-ka-ta-ma (Chadwick 1973, pp. 339, 572;
Vandenabeele and Olivier 1979, p. 209).27 *214VAS is named pa-ko-to (nominative dual) on PY Ta 709.1 (Chadwick 1973, p. 499).
Though we lack linguistic evidence for the literal meanings of the last nine words, the first four can provide some insight.28 Two of the four, the po-ro-e-ke-te-ri-ja or thing-for-drawing-forth and the u-do-ro or thing-for-water, have names referring to their functions. Two of the four, the ti-ri-po and the a-po-re-we, have names that specify features, feet and handles respectively. Hence, we know that both function and features played important roles in the Pylian vessel taxonomy.
27 The two signs are distinctly different, however, with the second showing a distinct foot and high handles, and it should almost certainly be considered to represent sign *200VAS , seen at Ta 709.1. As only the first is labeled, it is unclear why scholars from Ventris and Chadwick 1973, p. 324 through Olivier and Vandenabeele 1979, p. 209 have grouped the two divergent signs. Bennett and Olivier 1973, p. 235 split them into *208a and *208b, an acknowledgement that they differ from each other, but fail to note the similarity between *200 and *208b. Also, it appears that most sketches of *208b (Ventris and Chadwick 1973, p. 324, Bennett and Olivier 1973, p. 235) fail to note that the small lines at the rim are handles and not an out-turned rim (they extend further than a rim would), a point that is clear in the photographs and is essential to the identification of this sign as *200). 28 Obviously the names label the pot types, but they may, like the first four pot names, have had their origins in references to attributes of those pots.
77
VESSEL IDEOGRAMS AS EVIDENCE FOR PYLIAN AXES OF TAXONOMIC
DELINEATION
As mentioned above, the Linear B ideograms themselves can indicate which factors the scribes considered crucial to represent, and can thereby point to which aspects of a vessel's form were considered essential to its identification. The problem then becomes determining how much variation in an ideogram represents orthographic variation (scribe to scribe, region to region, period to period) and how much represents variation in mental templates. Fortunately, within the Pylos Linear B corpus, orthographic variation over time and on the basis of region can be dismissed, as all tablets are essentially contemporary and originate from the same site. Variation from scribe to scribe can present problems, but the number of scribes writing tablets with vessels is fortunately small; scribes 1, 2, 44, and the member of class III who wrote Tn 996 are the only relevant individuals (Palaima 1988). Yet more conveniently, the number of relevant tablets is quite small (10), with several depicting a range of vessel ideograms. As a result, in the many cases in which we are examining ideograms from the same tablet, even variation within a single scribe's orthography should be limited, so we may safely attribute most variability to variation in mental prototypes of the depicted vessels.
Ideograms are distinguished primarily along two lines: proportions, and features.
Proportional differences may to some extent represent differences between scribes: for example, the difference between the proportion of sign *205VAS at Tn996.3γ (written
by a scribe of class III) and of sign *204VAS at Ta711.2α and Ta711.3α (written by
78 scribe 2) might be attributed to different scribal styles if they did not have different names. The sign at 996.3γ is narrow, akin to that a few characters earlier at 996.3α, where the broader signs at Ta 711.2α and Ta 711.3α are more like the figures on Ta641, written by the same scribe.
In other cases, differing proportions must indicate that a different vessel type is indicated. Ta709.1β (sign *214VAS ) is distinctly wider than those written by the same scribe at Ta 641.2β,γ,δ and .3α and β (sign *202VAS); though the number of handles is different, the difference in number of handles cannot be the defining element here, since the vessels (with 0, 3, and 4 handles) on Ta 641 are all labeled di-pa and thus must all represent the same broad vessel type. The difference is proportion; *214 VAS represents a wider vessel-type, with both broader rim and base.
Similarly, the sign *203VAS at Ta 641.2α cannot represent the same vessel as those at Ta 641.2β,γ,δ and .3α and β (sign *202VAS) because it is broader than they and because the point at which the handles are attached is different. The hypothesis that it represents a different vessel type from those in the signs at Ta 641.2β,γ,δ and .3α and β
(sign *202VAS; named di-pa) is confirmed by the fact that it has a different name (qe-to).
Features such as handles are clearly of some importance as a means of distinguishing ideograms, even if on Ta 641 the vessels named di-pa do bear different numbers of handles. Indeed, the fact that the vessel ideograms at Ta 641.2β,γ,δ and .3α and β are listed separately, with the number of handles on each also described in the text, only emphasizes the idea that handles are a defining characteristic. This impression is
79 reinforced in a number of contexts. The vessel ideogram at Ta 711.3α differs from
that at Ta 641.3β only in that the one at Ta 711.3α has a handle; because they have different names, the vessel types are different, with only the handle as a visual indication of difference. It is not only in the output of scribe 2 that we see an emphasis placed on handles as a defining element. In Tn 996.3, the signs representing the first and third vessels (*209VAS and *205VAS ) vary only in the number of their handles.
The presence or absence of raised bases or feet is also distinctly indicated.
Though Bennett and Olivier list Tn 996.4γ as sign *208b, grouped with *208a which is represented by the preceding ideogram Tn996.4β with no particular foot, it is clearly more akin to *200VAS (seen at Ta 709.1α; see note 4 for discussion) in having both high handles and a distinct foot. These are visually distinguished from kylikes,
which have stems (e.g., Tn 316.3α, 316.5β, and 316 v.3α ), and from bowls, depicted with horizontal handles (contra Olivier and Vandenabeele
1979, p. 209, who do not note that the horizontal lines represent the pinched out bowl handles so common at Pylos; as the bowls are depicted in elevation, their handles become lines rather than loops), but they preserve no distinct base. From these cases, we are able to determine that features including handles, bases, and stems were of interest to the
Mycenaean scribe, as was proportion.
80 LINEAR B DESCRIPTIONS AS EVIDENCE FOR PYLIAN AXES OF TAXONOMIC
DELINEATION
The descriptions that precede vessel ideograms may provide additional information regarding the taxonomic distinctions made by Mycenaean scribes. In serving adjectivally, these descriptions indicate axes of delineation that are of a lower order than those represented by the ideograms and vessel names; they incorporate data that are not essential enough to be coded in the sign itself, but that are nonetheless sufficiently of interest to be worth recording. Among the types of data so recorded are size, workmanship, decoration, and material. Of these, material may be the most important; it is the only aspect to have its own set of ideograms, and these are in some cases joined in a ligature with the vessel ideograms (Tn 316 v.5α and v.6α). Even so, the material is not always specified (e.g., Ta 709.1, Tn 996.2) and in these cases it is presumably either unimportant or sufficiently standard so as to be taken for granted. In our analysis of the materials from rooms 18-22 of the palace, all remaining material is ceramic, so this axis of delineation must be excluded from our evaluation of the pot types represented in the pantries.
Size, workmanship, and decoration are also mentioned. On Ta 641, the vessels named di-pa are in two cases described as me-zo-e ("bigger") and in three cases described as me-wi-jo ("smaller"). Workmanship is also mentioned on Ta 641, as well as elsewhere; tripods are described as ke-re-si-jo we-ke, of Cretan workmanship (Ta 641.1,
709.3). Decoration is also briefly mentioned (Ta 711.3; see Hooker 1980, p. 129).
Factors such as workmanship, ownership, and other personal associations are likely to have been less important in the case of a large collection of ceramics than with
81
# Name 1 basin: 2 pinched out horizontal handles 3 bowl, diminutive handleless flaring 4 bowl, shallow angular 5 bowl, deeper, angular, 2 pinched out horizontal handles 9 bowl, large shallow; 1 vertical handle opposite open spout 12 cup: shallow, 1 low handle ("teacup") 13 cup: 1 low handle, ring base (plastic ornament) 18 cup: shallow; 2HH, raised base (fine) 19 cup: 2HH, ring-base 20 dipper: diminutive; 1HH 21 dipper: small, semiglobular; 1HH 23 dipper: broad HH, raised base or flat bottom 24 dipper: 1HH, rounded bottom; perforated bowl; "strainer" 25 dipper: lg; 1HH; rounded handle 26 kylix: diminutive, 2 high straddle handles 27 kylix: small, angular; one low handle 29 kylix: 2 low flattened loop handles 29b kylix: small, high stem 29c kylix: "standard" size; mostly high stem 29d kylix: "outsized" standard 29e kylix: somewhat larger, low stem 29f kylix: still larger; stem low or of medium height 29g kylix: approximately of same capacity as preceding; high stem 29h kylix: v. lg.; stem high or of medium height 29i kylix: giant size; stem high or of medium height 30 kylix: 2HH 30a kylix: small; shallow bowl, high stem 30b kylix: like 30a but more capacious 30c kylix: deep conical bowl, stem of medium height 31 kylix: 1HH, shallow bowl, high stem 33 tankard: large; 1H 34 jug: small; 1H, narrow neck 35 jug: small; 1H, wide neck 36 jug: 1H relatively wide neck 42 jug: 1H narrow neck, low stem 46 amphora: small; wide mouth 47 amphora: small, narrow neck, pedestal base 51 jar: pithoid, small; 3 horizontal H on shoulder, wide mouth, pedestal base 62 stemmed krater: 2 flat vertical handles from rim to side 77 lid: basin-like, very large; 2H on side Table 4.1. Rawson's vessel typology; type number is at the left, description to the right (H=handle, HH=high handle). Indented classes represent subtypes.
82
Table 4.2. Matrix of dissimilar pot types. Pot types are listed by Rawson’s number along both axes; those types that can be differentiated from each other on the basis of first order criteria are marked (with “F” for features or “*” for proportion). Blank spaces indicate that the pot type listed to the left cannot be differentiated from that listed above on the basis of first-order criteria.
83 more unique, prestigious vessels; in any case, these aspects represent associations of specific items more than classificatory schemes. Insofar as we may reconstruct the factors determining Mycenaean classification, it appears that features (feet, handles, spouts) are key criteria. Function is also important and will correlate closely with features, as well as with proportion, another basic factor. The second tier of criteria includes material, size, and perhaps decoration.
Knowing this, we may return to Rawson's classifications of vessels from the pantries at the Palace of Nestor (Table 4.1). As all are made of clay, material can be discounted in this context. We will first ask whether some of Rawson’s categories should be combined. Did she split categories that should have been united? If we create an exclusion matrix of her categories (Table 4.2), we can determine that specific categories of hers were properly divided from each other on the basis of first order criteria; they do indeed have differences in features or proportions. The remaining clusters of types are undifferentiated on the basis of first-order criteria and can then be examined as possibly differentiated on the basis of second order criteria (size); metrical data derived from study of the pottery now stored in the Hora Museum and from Rawson's notebooks is essential to this undertaking.
Looking at this matrix, there are a limited number of types that cannot be differentiated on the basis of first-order criteria. These include types #1, #4, and #5
(basins and bowls); #20, #21, and #25 (rounded-bottom dippers); #26 and #30 (high handled kylikes); and #34, #35, and #36 (jugs). Metrical data should provide a good indication as to whether these vessel types should be grouped. The use of metrical data to form or evaluate archaeological classifications is not new (multivariate analyses are
84 broadly used in lithic, materials, and skeletal analyses, e.g, Bieber et al. 1976; Bisi 1982;
Shawcross and Winder 1997); unfortunately multivariate analysis provided no useful results for the current dataset. Graphing of single variables, however, proved informative in revealing size categories; when a variable displays multimodality, each peak may represent the mode of a separate category, especially in cases where there are clear breaks between modes. The rationale for this approach is fairly simple and is meticulously set forth by Read and Russel (1996, p. 667). The artisan who creates an object chooses, either consciously or unconsciously, to create qualitative variables that take on distinct values and quantitative ones that exhibit multimodality; these choices are what enabled the original users to categorize objects in classes, and they can allow us to do the same.
A wide variety of attributes are available for analysis, and vessels need only exhibit multimodality in a single attribute to form different types. For example, imagine a set of vessel forms that are variations on the basic cylinder (Fig. 4.1). A sample consisting of several of each form could be identified as consisting of three types on the basis of the multimodal nature of height measurements, even if other measures (e.g., rim diameter, handle width, handle length) were unimodal. Hence, in order to differentiate types, we need only find one dimension in which the distribution is multimodal (though in practice, multimodality in one measure can create multimodality in others; for example, if we were to measure the slope of the line from the bottom left to the top right corners of each vessel, the variation in heights would create variation in the slopes, which would then also be multimodal).
Can we differentiate Rawson's types 1, 4, and 5 (bowls and basins) on the basis of metrical data? A histogram of the average rim diameters of 94 bowls and basins
85 bowl, 2 pinched out horizontal handles; Rawson's #1,4,5 basin ( 29.2 cm < rim diameter < 35 cm) Rawson's #1 bow l, mid-sized (21.1 cm < rim diameter < 24.5 cm) includes some members of Rawsons's #4; #5 bowl, standard (12.9 cm < rim diameter < 17.9 cm) some members of Rawson's #4 bowl, large shallow; 1 vertical handle opposite open spout; Rawson's #9 cup: shallow, 1 low handle ("teacup"); Rawson's #12 cup: 1 low handle, ring base (plastic ornament); Rawson's #13 cup: shallow; 2HH, raised base; Rawson's #18 cup: 2HH, ring-base; Rawson's #19 Dipper: rounded bottom Rawson's # 20,21,25 dipper: diminutive (5.1 cm < rim diameter < 5.6 cm) Rawson's # 20 dipper: large (10.0 cm < rim diameter < 16 cm) Rawson's #25, minus the example with a perforation which should be more closely identified with Rawson's #24, dipper with perforated bowl dipper: broad HH, raised base/flat bottom (identical size to dipper, large); Rawson's #23 dipper: 1HH, perforated bowl; "strainer"; Rawson's #24, 1 member of #25 kylix: 2 HH; Rawson's #26, 30 a,b,c diminutive, 2 high handles (volume < 0.04 L) Rawson's #26 full size, 2 high handles (0.3 L < volume < 1.05 L) Rawson's #30 kylix: small, angular; one low handle; Rawson's #27 kylix: 2 low flattened loop handles; Rawson's #29 b,c,d,e,f,g,h,i standard (0.6 L < volume < 1.4 L; rim diameter < 18.5 cm) Rawson's 29 b, c large (1.75 L < volume < 3.0 L; 19.25 cm < rim diameter < 28.8 cm) Rawson's 29d, e, f, g giant (3.4 L < volume; 30 cm < rim diameter) Rawson's 29 h, i kylix: 1HH, shallow bowl, high stem; Rawson's #31 Tankard; Rawson's #33 jug; Rawson's #34, 35, 36 s mall jug, 1H: Rawson's #34, 35 narrow neck; approx. equivalent to Rawson's #34 wide neck; approx. equivalent to Rawson's #35 large jug: 1H relatively wide neck; Rawson's #36 stemmed jug: 1H narrow neck, low stem; Rawson's #42 amphora: small; wide mouth; Rawson's #46 amphora: small, narrow neck, pedestal base; Rawson's #47 jar: pithoid, small; 3 horizontal H on shoulder, wide mouth, pedestal base; Rawson's #41 stemmed krater: 2 flat vertical handles from rim to side; Rawson's #62 lid: basin-like, very large; 2H on side; Rawson's #77 Table 4.3. Revised vessel typology (H=handle, HH=high handle). Indented classes represent subtypes, twice indented classes represent sub-subtypes.
86
Figure 4.1. Hypothetical cylindrical vessels.
Histogram 40
35
30
25
20 Count
15
10
5
0 10 12.5 15 17.5 20 22.5 25 27.5 30 32.5 35 37.5 Average Rim Diameter
Figure 4.2. Histogram of average rim diameters of bowls and basins.
indicates that indeed, there are at least three and possibly four different size categories.29
The "standard" bowls have rim diameters in the range of 12.9 to 17.9 cm; larger bowls
29 Average rim diameter was calculated for each bowl as the average of the minimum and maximum rim diameters; many bowls were highly irregular in shape. The sample comprises all bowls and basins catalogued by Rawson in addition to those I catalogued
87 have rim diameters in the range of 21.1 to 24.5 cm. The largest bowls (called "giant" by
Rawson at the time of excavation) have rim diameters from 29.2 to 35 centimeters, though this group could perhaps be further subdivided. Interestingly, though I find three groups as Rawson did, the dividing lines are not drawn identically. All of my "standard" bowls would fit into Rawson's type 4, but some of the members of her type 4 would fit into the larger group, alongside members of her type 5. Her "basins" or type 1 does, however, correspond with my group of largest vessels.
The next question is whether the rounded-bottom dippers, Rawson's types 20, 21, and 25, should comprise one category or more than one. Analysis of 36 examples reveals that their rim diameters are also multimodal (Fig. 4.3). Those with rim diameters from
4.3 through 6 cm form one class, the diminutive or miniature dippers (Rawson's type
#20). Less certain is whether those with rim diameters from 7 through 10 cm should be considered to represent one class or two. If the single large outlier and the diminutive examples are removed from the sample, creating a new sample of 19 mid-size dippers, this sample passes a broad series of statistical tests30 at the 5% level for representing members drawn from a normal distribution, which suggests that we do not have sufficient metric evidence to subdivide this class.
for other purposes. It should not be considered to represent a random or stratified sample; unusual size classes are overrepresented relative to their frequency within the context as a whole in Rawson’s catalogue and may, due to their fragility, be underrepresented in mine. 30NCSS 2001 provides Shapiro-Wilk, the Anderson-Darling, the Martinez-Iglewicz, the Kolmogorov-Smirnov, and the D'Agostino Skewness, Kurtosis, and Omnibus test results for normality among the descriptive statistics for any selected attribute. Though the distributions of average rim-diameter sizes for mid-sized dippers cannot be rejected as normal by any of these tests, it is essential to remember for a sample of this size, these tests very rarely can reject normality. Their failure to reject normality is not a strong indication that the distribution is in fact normal.
88
Histogram 10
9
8
7
6
Count 5
4
3
2
1
0 4 6 8 10 12 14 16 18 Average Rim Diameter
Figure 4.3. Histogram of average rim diameter of rounded-bottom dippers.
Maintaining mid-sized dippers as a single group is consistent with the spatial distribution of its member vessels. All of these dippers come from room 18 or from the doorway between rooms 18 and 20. Two cases, Rawson's catalogue numbers 53.259 and
53.260, come from the same locus (NW of door, locus 5). 53.259 has an average rim diameter of 8.0 cm, and 53.260 has an average rim diameter of 10.0 cm; if we were to split the mid-sized dippers into two groups on the basis of rim diameter, these would fall into separate groups. Given their storage together, it seems less likely that they should be considered to belong to different groups.
Another set of vessels that may be divided on the basis of size is Rawson's types
26 and 30, the two-high-handled kylikes. Their rim diameters (n=44; Fig. 4.4) indicate at
89 Histogram 18
16
14
12
10
Count 8
6
4
2
0 4 6 8 10 12 14 16 18 Average Rim Diameter
Figure 4.4. Histogram showing rim diameters of kylikes with two high handles.
Histogram 35
30
25
20 Count 15
10
5
0 2 4 6 8 10 12 14 16 18 20 22 24 Average Height
Figure 4.5. Histogram showing heights of kylikes with two high handles.
90 Histogram 35
30
25
20 Count 15
10
5
0 -.2 0 .2 .4 .6 .8 1 1.2 Capacities
Figure 4.6. Histogram showing capacities of kylikes with two high handles.
least a bimodal distribution. Here, the question of whether to further divide the larger examples may be addressed using other dimensions. Both height in cm (n=42) and capacity in liters (n=65)31 appear to be trimodal distributions, 32 suggesting that there may
31All measurements are based on data given in Blegen and Rawson 1966, data from Rawson N.D., and measurements I took in the fall of 2002. Because some measurements are more faithfully reported by Rawson than others, and because some measurements were unavailable due to incomplete vessel preservation, a single vessel type may have widely varying numbers of measurements. Capacities were measured by the original excavators by filling the vessels with grains, then measuring the volume those grains filled in modern measured vessels. I measured capacities by weighing the vessels empty, then filling the vessels with small beans and weighing them full. I then converted that weight to a volume. The measures of capacity for kylikes with two high handles includes pots of this type found throughout the palace and not only in the pantries, as Rawson did not differentiate by findspot in the 1966 publication. 32I tend to view height as a less reliable indicator than other metrical characteristics, especially of non-miniature kylikes, insofar as this variable is sometimes a result of two
91 indeed be three distinct size classes, the miniature (Rawson's type 26), the mid-sized
(some members of Rawson's type 30), and the larger (the remaining members of
Rawson's type 30).
The jugs (Rawson's types 34, 35, 36) may be approached similarly. There is a distinct break in every metrical characteristic between a smaller class and a larger; this is visible in average rim diameter but nowhere so obvious as in capacity (n=43; Fig. 4.8).33
The larger class, congruent with Rawson's type 36, could conceivably be further subdivided, but the sample size does not provide us with sufficient grounds on which to do so.
Among the smaller examples, we may again ask whether these should be divided into smaller classes. The answer is not immediately obvious. The average rim diameter looks as if it might be bimodal, but it is not clearly so (n=33). The average height is unimodal (n=33). Maximum diameter is unimodal (n=32), as is capacity (n=37). Neck diameter (n=33) appears to be likely but not certainly bimodal. Composite measurements, ratios, get us no further.
different production processes, which can cloud evaluation of multimodality; the miniature kylikes appear to have been thrown off the hump, while most larger kylikes were thrown in two parts, the stem and the bowl separately (see below). Rim diameter, by contrast, is an excellent indicator. First, insofar as the potter may be consciously striving for standardization, rim diameter is the most likely place to find it; as one modern potters' manual points out (Rhodes 1976, p. 69), the rim diameter is the measure most visible to the potter as he or she sits at the wheel; potters, especially the inexperienced, may easily misjudge height, since they are looking down upon the vessel rather than across at it. Additionally, Smith (1985) finds that vessel attributes and functions correlate closely; the three best predictors of function are rim size, capacity, and relative openness of profile. 33 Two of the juglets the capacities of which are included were found in room 23.
92 Histogram 18
16
14
12
10
Count 8
6
4
2
0 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 Average Rim Diameter
Figure 4.7. Histogram of jug rim diameters.
Histogram 40
35
30
25
20 Count
15
10
5
0 0 .25 .5 .75 1 1.25 1.5 1.75 2 2.25 2.5 2.75 Capacity
Figure 4.8. Histogram of jug capacities.
93 Histogram 10
9
8
7
6
5 Count 4
3
2
1
0 4 4.25 4.5 4.75 5 5.25 5.5 5.75 6 6.25 6.5 Average Rim Diameter
Figure 4.9. Histogram of rim diameters of juglets.
Histogram 12
10
8
6 Count
4
2
0 8 8.5 9 9.5 10 10.5 11 11.5 Average Height
Figure 4.10. Histogram of heights of juglets.
94 Histogram 12
10
8
6 Count
4
2
0 7.5 7.75 8 8.25 8.5 8.75 9 9.25 9.5 9.75 10 10.25 Maximum Diameter
Figure 4.11. Histogram of maximum diameters of juglets.
Histogram 20
18
16
14
12
10 Count 8
6
4
2
0 .1 .12 .15 .17 .2 .23 .25 .28 .3 .33 .35 Capacity
Figure 4.12. Histogram of capacities of juglets.
95 Histogram 12
10
8
6 Count
4
2
0 2.5 3 3.5 4 4.5 5 5.5 Neck Diameter
Figure 4.13 Histogram of neck diameters of juglets.
Here, the findspots of the actual vessels can once again help. All were found either in room 18 or nearby in room 20. There were, however, two distinct clusters just inside the door to room 18 (one of these clusters is visible in the foreground of Fig. 3.9).
The members of the cluster labeled "in front of door No. 1" have neck diameters of 3.0,
3.0, 3.0, 3.1, 3.2, and 3.7 cm. Those in the adjacent cluster, labeled "in front of door No.
3" have neck diameters of 3.9, 4.0, 4.0, 4.0, 4.1, 4.2, 4.2, 4.2, 4.3, and 4.3 cm.
Comparing these values with the overall distribution of neck diameters (Fig. 4.13), it becomes clear that there is in fact a division of juglets on the basis of neck diameter.
Another question we may address is whether Rawson's subdivisions of the most common type of kylix (type 29) are defensible. She divides the type into subtypes a through i, of which subtypes b through i are found in rooms 18 through 22. These subdivisions are suspect for two reasons. First, there are so many of them; 9 subclasses
96 of graded size simply seem, intuitively, to be excessive. Second, their boundaries are not discrete. If we examine the size ranges (rim diameter, height, capacity) given in publication for each of the vessel types, we find that the various ranges are more or less continuous, suggesting that the classification might not be "natural" (Blegen and Rawson
1966, pp. 369-371). Indeed, when we form histograms of rim diameter and capacity, we find three or at most four modes, rather than eight or 9. "Standard" kylikes may be described as those with rim diameters between 16.1 and 18.5 cm and capacities between
0.6 and 1.4 L; these correspond with Rawson's subtypes 29 b and c. Large kylikes have rim diameters between 19.25 and 28.8 cm and capacities between 1.75 and 3.0 L; these correspond with Rawson's subtypes 29 d, e, f, and g. The giant kylikes have rim diameters over 30 cm and capacities above 3.4 L; these correspond with Rawson's subtypes 29 h and i.
Interestingly, these subtypes correlate much more closely with those Rawson used during excavation than those she published; as she excavated, she described kylikes as small, medium, large, or giant, and if we combine her small and medium to form my
"standard" size, the two taxonomies correlate closely. This phenomenon suggests that we may more closely approximate ancient folk taxonomies before we study materials in great depth and create detailed typologies; we are fortunate indeed to have Rawson's excavation notebooks, not only for the direct data they provide but because they also preserve an earlier and fresher stage in her thinking about pottery classification.
On the basis of metrical data, I discovered no other categories that required subdivision. I would suggest, however, that the single member of Rawson's type 25
(large dippers) with a perforation in the base should be reassigned to type 24 on the basis
97 Histogram 16
14
12
10
8 Count
6
4
2
0 12.5 15 17.5 20 22.5 25 27.5 30 32.5 35 37.5 Average Rim Diameter
Figure 4.14. Histogram of rim diameters of “type 29” kylikes (n=88).
Histogram 25
22.5
20
17.5
15
12.5 Count 10
7.5
5
2.5
0 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 Capacity
Figure 4.15. Histogram of capacities of “type 29” kylikes (n=85).
98 of this feature. Type 24 is represented by a single perforated dipper (strainer?); while the base shape of the example assigned to type 25 is somewhat more flattened than that assigned to type 24. Surely the perforation has sufficient functional implications to indicate that the two are better grouped together than with other dippers with more similar base shapes.
Overall, then, we find that the vessels from rooms 18-22 fall into 21 basic categories. The first category, bowls with two pinched out handles, can be further subdivided into three sizes, standard, mid-sized, and basins; the first and second each contain members of Rawson’s type #4, the second contains all members of Rawson’s type #5, and the third corresponds with Rawson’s type #1. The second consists of opposite-spouted bowls, or Rawson’s type #9, and the third consists of Rawson’s type
#12, the teacup. The fourth is a cup with a ring base and a single low handle, Rawson’s
#13. The fifth is a shallow cup with two high handles and a raised base (Rawson’s #18), and the sixth is similar but with a ring base (Rawson’s #19). The seventh is a rounded- bottomed dipper, which was made in two size classes, diminutive (Rawson’s #20) and larger (roughly equivalent to Rawson’s #25). The eighth is identical to the larger rounded-bottom dippers except that it has a raised base and flat bottom (Rawson’s #23); the ninth is a dipper with a perforated bowl (Rawson’s #24 and one member of #25).
The tenth through thirteenth types are kylikes. The tenth has two high handles and comes in two size classes, diminutive (Rawson’s #26) and full size (Rawson’s #30).
The eleventh is small and angular, with a single low handle; it corresponds with
Rawson’s type 27. The twelfth is the kylix with two low loop handles; it may be subdivided into the standard size (Rawson’s 29b and c), large (29d, e, and f), and giant
99 (29h and i). The thirteenth is the high-stemmed kylix with a single high handle,
Rawson’s #31. The fourteenth type is the tankard, Rawson’s #33.
The fifteenth through nineteenth types are closed shapes. The fifteenth type, the jug, comes in two sizes, small (further subdivided by neck width into Rawson’s types 34 and 35) and larger (Rawson’s type 36). The sixteenth is the stemmed jug (#42). The seventeenth and eighteenth are amphoras, the latter with a pedestal base (Rawson’s types
46 and 47 respectively). The nineteenth is a small, pithoid jar, Rawson’s type 41. The twentieth shape is a stemmed krater (Rawson’s type 62), and the twenty-first is a large lid
(Rawson’s type 77).
Mapping of these types within rooms 18-22 confirms that indeed the storerooms were organized by type. It is possible, using a combination of the excavation notebooks, the pottery notebooks, the final publication, and examination of preserved vessels, to reconstruct which pot types were found where (Appendix 2). There are, however, major impediments to this project; the terms used for various types during excavation do not always correspond with those used in the pottery notebooks which in turn do not necessarily correspond with those used in publication. Furthermore, the classifications represented by these terms also vary from excavation notebook to pottery notebook to publication. Another problem is that the presence of every single vessel was not noted during excavation; an extraordinarily large number were mapped, but the practical requirements for excavating with some speed prevented an in-depth study of the in situ pottery. The plans presented in Appendix 2 should be viewed as a reflection primarily of
Rawson's classificatory thinking at the time of excavation. It may in the future be possible to re-map these on the basis of the revised taxonomy and examination of the
100 actual pottery, but the labor-intensive nature of such a project and the loss of data on some excavation labels would make it a formidable task.
The plans of type distribution (as type was understood at the time of excavation) do nevertheless indicate that type and distribution correlated closely. Many types are unique to rooms 18 and 20: miniature vessels (types 3, 20, and 26 representing bowls, dippers, and kylikes respectively) are found only in rooms 18 and 20, and those occur in distinct clusters. Basins are found only in room 18 and the nearby portion of room 20.
The largest of the kylikes are found exclusively in rooms 18 and 20. Jugs, juglets, and amphoras are unique to rooms 18 and 20, and stemmed kraters and large rounded- bottomed dippers are unique to room 20. Spouted bowls are found only in one locus in room 18. Small angular one-handled kylikes are found extensively in room 20, with a few also in room 21. Standard kylikes fill room 19, and a number are also found in rooms 18 and 20 (but none whatsoever in rooms 21 and 22). Standard bowls are found primarily along the southeast walls of rooms 21 and 22, but also in smaller numbers in the northeastern half of room 20. "Teacups" are predominantly found to the northwest in room 21, though they are also found in rooms 22 and 20. The flat-based dippers are the only variety found in room 22, but a few of them are also found in room 18 and in the northwest half of room 20. Indeed, function seems to have played a key role in the overall shelving system, with tablewares in rooms 19, 21, and 22 and serving wares in rooms 18 and 20.
All indications are that the classification system established by Rawson correlates reasonably closely with that of the original inhabitants of the palace, with notable exceptions as outlined above. Having a sense of this system allows us to more adeptly
101 address the intended use of the assemblage as a whole and of each of its constituent parts; being able to estimate numbers of each type with some degree of accuracy will prove essential to building an understanding of the functioning of these vessels within the broader context of Pylian feasts.
102 Chapter 5: Use: Feasting and Class-Differentiated Cuisine Eating is an extremely old custom and has been practiced by the better classes of society almost without interruption from earliest times. And "society," like the potentate of the parable whose touch transformed every object into gold, has embellished and adorned the all-too-common habit of eating, until there has been evolved throughout the ages that most charming and exquisite product of human culture--the formal dinner party. (Stewart 1922)
HYPOTHETICAL FUNCTIONS
The body of material contained in this suite of five rooms is most notable for its quantity, with a total of 6,668 vessels counted (Blegen and Rawson 1966, pp. 119-134).
Three basic hypotheses have been offered to explain the presence of such a large collection: sale, palatial staff dining, and feasting. The last interpretation has received considerable support in recent scholarship; the occasions and locations at which the palace at Pylos sponsored feasting, the statuses of the participants in various stages of this activity, and the socio-economic and political implications of the custom are discussed in this chapter.
First, it has been suggested that this assemblage represents a palatial monopoly on vessels for sale (Keramopoullos in Blegen and Rawson 1966, p. 350; McDonald and
Rapp 1972, p. 252). Blegen and Rawson argue against this interpretation of the assemblage, noting that it would have been unlikely to have been profitable for a monarch to hold rights to the production of objects of minimal value (1966, pp. 350-351);
I would suggest that while control of production or distribution of large numbers of items of little individual value may indeed be profitable in some cases, the notion of “sale” is
103 highly problematic in the context of a non-monetary economy.34 Furthermore, we might expect the output to be stored outside the palace building, given that even items essential to core palatial functions are often stored in separate buildings (e.g., the wine magazine).
Blegen and Rawson further note that the widespread distribution of broken vessels of shapes represented in the pantries indicates repeated use of and demand for pottery at the site itself (1966, p. 351).
The second hypothesis, that offered by the excavators, is that the vessels "could have been no more than the ordinary everyday earthenware utensils required for the needs of the large staff that surely composed the household, retainers, servants and slaves in the palace" (Blegen and Rawson 1966, p. 350). This suggestion also, however, may be rejected; the sheer quantity of the pottery in these stores and its apparently unused condition argue against this hypothesis, and it seems unlikely that the palace regularly fed its staff on the premises.
The number of vessels in these pantries is too large for them all to have been used at once for any plausible number of palatial staff and retainers; given that there appears to have been meal service for at least 1,100 (1,099 bowls and 1,024 cups preserved from room 21 alone) and beverage service for approximately 3,000 (2,854 kylikes from room
19 alone, though the original number would have been higher),35 we would have to
34 The debate as to whether it is appropriate to use market terminology and concepts to describe activities in a pre-monetary society goes well beyond the scope of this dissertation; see Polanyi 1957 and his critics, including North (1977) and Silver (1983, 1985). 35 All numbers of vessel types based on Blegen and Rawson 1966, pp. 119-134; although the same source lists pot types also in pp. 350-418, the latter listing appears to be less complete than the former.
104 imagine either a truly vast staff operating in the palace and its close environs,36 or that the pottery was used serially, with large quantities of "extra" pottery held in store in case of breakage. In either case, we would expect signs of heavy wear on at least a significant proportion of the assemblage. Virtually none of the vessels from LH IIIB contexts in these rooms, however, show signs of wear from use. The only wear that I detected that can be attributed to pre-depositional use is on the materials from the shrine at the southeast end of room 18 (see above).
Furthermore, not all of the vessels are actually usable; since the useless ones have not been discarded or sorted out in any way, presumably those who were in charge of the pantries did not know which vessels were nonfunctional.37 Several "standard" kylikes
36 Despite the extensive preservation of Linear B tablets recording personnel, it is difficult to determine the actual number of people working at or near the palace. The Aa and Ab tablets record a census of female personnel and their offspring; these two series appear to record the same people at two different times (Ventris and Chadwick 1956, p. 155). The Ab series typically does record a place-name; at Pylos, there are approximately 276 women, 98 female children, and 103 male children. The Ad series records adult males, of whom 179 are described as being at Pylos, giving a total of over 650 individuals (these numbers based on tablets as published in Bennett and Olivier 1973). However, there may have been others recorded in tablets that were not preserved, and it is unclear how many personnel or residents there might have been who would have had high enough status that they would not have been included in this census. The greatest problem, however, is that while these individuals are listed as being at pu-ro (Pylos), we have no way of knowing whether they were at the palace or in its close environs, or merely in the town of Pylos, perhaps in the lower city somewhere, or even in the vicinity of, but not within, the city. In fact, it is difficult to believe that the 656 personnel listed could possibly have fit in the palace and its surrounding buildings and work spaces, even with a second story doubling the available floor space and a roof perhaps tripling it. So much of the palace was dedicated to storage that I have difficulty imagining more than a few hundred personnel functioning in the palace, on its roof, and in its surrounding buildings and courts. 37If someone had tried to use a nonfunctional pot and failed, it seems more likely that he or she would have thrown the vessel aside; as the flawed vessels appear to have been carefully shelved alongside good ones, it is unlikely that the flaws were known. Hence, the fact that these pots have not been discarded suggests a lack of knowledge of their flaws rather than an absence of concern for the flaws; whether anyone affiliated with the palace actually cared about the presence of a number of flawed vessels is not clear.
105 from room 19 can never have stood full of liquid, as their stems or bases are too badly warped (Fig.s 5.1, 5.2, 5.3). One of the very large kylikes from room 20 never held liquid either; like others of its size, it has a pierced stem, but unlike the others, one of the sets of holes is set too high and pierces the basin of the kylix (Fig.s 5.4, 5.5), making it incapable of holding liquid. Since these vessels were intershelved with usable vessels and were probably not known to be defective, we can conclude that they were not in regular use. If there had been a large palatial "mess hall" and this had been its pantry, we would expect to find both a high degree of wear on the pottery and that non-serviceable vessels had been discarded. In other words, this assemblage most likely represents a pristine or near-pristine collection awaiting use.
A further objection to the “mess hall” hypothesis is the variety of serving vessels found in rooms 18 and 20. If the goal had been to feed 1,000 people quickly and frequently, we might expect a limited number of forms. On the contrary, however, the variety of forms stored in these pantries was not small; there were miniature bowls,
Figure 5.1. Miscentered kylix stem. Figure 5.2. Misshapen kylix base.
106 Figure 5.3. Misshapen kylix base.
Figure 5.4. Kylix with pierced bowl. Figure 5.5. Holes in kylix bowl.
dippers, and kylikes, bowls with pinched-out handles in three sizes, spouted bowls, teacups, ring-based cups, cups with two high handles and raised bases, cups with two high handles and ring bases, tankards, four different kinds of dippers, funnels or strainers, a wide variety of types of kylikes, jugs of various sizes and proportions, amphoras, jars of different sizes, and kraters. Hence, this assemblage must represent serving vessels and tableware intended for usage in a more elaborate context than daily feeding of staff. Yet another objection to the “mess hall” hypothesis is that even those who worked at Pylos itself often received full rations for themselves and their families, as we know from the
107 tablets (in particular the Ab series); if the staff of the palace regularly consumed meals served by the palace, why would full rations also have been distributed?38
Insofar as the palace did require serving and table wares for day-to-day functioning, probably feeding only those working within it or in the immediate vicinity, room 60 is a more likely candidate for the relevant pantry. Room 60 contained a variety of red, coarseware vessels including basins, bowls, cups, kylikes, jugs, kraters, ladles, and tripod "incense burners" (Blegen and Rawson 1966, pp. 240-241). Other types, including table and serving vessels, overlap with those found in rooms 18-22, though in much smaller numbers (51 standard bowls, 253 kylikes of type 30c) and with a more restricted range of forms. The simple explanation is that these represent the vessels used daily, in contrast with those stored in rooms 18-22. The fabric is different and is coarser. The manufacture is more efficient: most cups and kylikes are of forms with raised handles that attach to the interior wall, rather than to the rim, as do those in room 19; a modern potters' guide notes that attaching handles to rims is time consuming.39 The interior attachments would, then, have been a matter of economy. Furthermore, room 60 is among the most accessible parts of the palace complex; it can be reached with relative ease from every building, in contrast with rooms 18-22, which would have been more difficult to reach from the wine magazine or the northeastern building. If the movement of members of the palace staff was in any way restricted, room 60 would nonetheless
38These vessels also make poor candidates for the containers in which rations were dispensed; the wide variety of serving shapes, some highly specialized, and the low level of standardization of capacities (see chapter 6) suggest that they were not so used. See Efkleidou 2004, pp. 123-126 and references therein for discussion of rations. 39“The handle can originate from the neck just below the rim, or it can grow out of the rim. Making it come from the rim usually requires some hand modeling to complete the attachment and, in shops where speed is a factor, the handles are placed a little below the rim” (Rhodes 1976, p. 85).
108 have been available (and even convenient) to all. In short, there is a better candidate for the casual dishware than the vessels found in rooms 18-22.40
The third hypothesis, that the room 18-22 assemblage represents a service intended for large feasts, is strongly substantiated. That the palace sponsored regular feasts is clear. Palatial trash heaps contained ubiquitous broken table wares (Hofstra
2000, p. 56); assemblages of burned animal bones represent the discarded remains of sacrifices in which the meat had been removed from the bones (Isaakidou et al. 2002;
Halstead and Isaakidou 2004; Stocker and Davis 2004). The Linear B records also indicate that the palace acquired materials for banqueting (Killen 1994, p. 70). The pottery from rooms 18-22 would have been well suited to serving large numbers of feasting Mycenaeans. The range of forms preserved is consistent with needs for
40 The contents of room 60 have been though to represent an assemblage of vessels for feasting (Bennet and Davis 1999, p. 110; Bendall 2004). Bendall argues that the contents of room 60 served the same purpose as the combined contents of rooms 18-22 (assumed to be a service for feasting) and rooms 67-68 (cooking wares), because they contain pots of similar shapes (pp. 120-121). While I agree that this is broadly true (i.e., that room 60 contained both cooking vessels, as did rooms 67 and 68, and serving vessels, as did rooms 18-22) and that both assemblages were used for preparing and serving food, I suggest that it need not follow that both assemblages were solely used for preparing and serving food at public feasts. In fact, although the room 60 assemblage does include food service vessels such as cups and bowls, it also includes a large variety of highly specialized forms that occur nowhere else at the palace. There are more basins (of a type found only in room 60), and more spouted bowls (of types found only in room 60), than serving bowls. There are feeding bottles and scoops, each of which is found by the dozen in room 60 and only rarely in the rest of the palace. Although the precise functions of many of these vessels remains unclear, their coarse fabric and construction and their specialized forms suggest that they were intended for utilitarian purposes, not for show. Room 60 was not solely a repository for feasting vessels. It is tempting, then, to envision room 60 as the storeroom for vessels used by the palatial staff on a regular basis, including both food service vessels and those used for various specialized palace chores. This interpretation by no means precludes the use of the food service vessels for feasting; it is easy to imagine that those who ate from these bowls and cups on a daily basis might have been expected to do so at a feast as well, or that the common dishes might have been used to serve lower status guests.
109 banqueting, with vast numbers of those vessel types that would be needed by all individuals (bowls, cups, kylikes), and smaller numbers of vessels of those forms that would be used for serving (basins, jugs and juglets, jars). This hypothesis is now broadly accepted, contributing to a growing corpus of scholarship on feasting (see Bendall 2004;
Wright 2004c; Isaakidou et al. 2002), though the idea that the palace sponsored feasts is not a new one (Graham 1967; Säflund 1980).
To dedicate an entire chapter to the use of a set of vessels that were not in fact used, or that were used only once or twice, may seem strange. Yet while these objects might not have actually served their intended purpose, they did have a purpose for which they were manufactured and stored. An examination of this intended function can provide insight into a broad range of relationships between Mycenaeans of various economic classes, including those who feasted together, those who produced the pottery, and those who commissioned its production. Building an understanding of the character and importance of feasting within the Pylian socio-political system is an essential step toward understanding both the pots themselves and the people for whose use they were intended.
MYCENAEAN FEASTING
Mycenaean feasting practices have begun to provoke some discussion, most notably in a session at the 103rd annual meeting of the Archaeological Institute of
America, a 2001 round table at Sheffield, and the publication of the papers delivered at both (Wright 2004a; Halstead and Barrett 2004). Most papers focused on the detection of feasting through its archaeological correlates (Stocker and Davis 2004; Dabney, Halstead, and Thomas 2004; Borgna 2004; Steel 2004; Day and Wilson 2004; Halstead and
110 Isaakidou 2004). While this is a necessary preliminary step, I would suggest that a close examination of textual and archaeological evidence from Pylos can take us much further, leading us from a preliminary understanding of the basic questions of when and where feasts occurred, what was eaten, and who attended, to more complex questions of social and political messages conveyed through food and manners.
FREQUENCY OF FEASTING It is critical to ask how often feasts occurred, since their frequency would have influenced the extent to which the participants were affected by the imparting of messages and demonstrations of statuses. Social status is learned and negotiated; if feasts were major loci for such practices, they must have occurred with sufficient regularity to reinforce associated behaviors. The evidence from Pylos does suggest that feasting occurred on a regular and relatively frequent basis. The location of the storerooms that are the focus of this dissertation, the number of specific political or religious festivals evidenced in the Linear B tablets, and the importance of festivals in the monthly calendar at Pylos all provide evidence for the frequency of feasts.
Certainly the easy access to rooms 18-22 suggests that the use of their contents was not rare, despite the unworn condition of the pottery; were feasts infrequent (only held at initiations or funerals of a few high-ranking figures, for example), we might expect the pottery to be stored in a less accessible (and convenient, hence presumably valued) location, perhaps on the second floor, rather than on the ground floor in rooms with direct access to the outdoors. On the other hand, we may question the ability of the palace to host vast feasts on a constant basis. Its storage capacities clearly were greater during the last phase of occupation than they had been earlier, but its magazines of wine,
111 for example, would not have been sufficient to provide refreshment for thousands on a daily or weekly basis; the estimated 4500-6200 L capacity of the wine magazine (Palmer
1995, p. 282) would have included significant quantities for industrial use (Palmer 1994, pp. 88-91) as well as for use in trade (pp. 91-94). Even if renewed regularly by taxes or
“gifts”, this supply would surely have been insufficient for daily or even weekly use by the thousands for whom the palace has sufficient drinking vessels.41
A reasonable estimate for the frequency of feasts might be once a month. A number of different activities within the palatial system appear to have occurred on a monthly basis, including the standard distribution of rations to dependent personnel and the dedication of gifts to divinities; either or both of these might have occasioned feasts or festivals. Further, the extant Linear B texts reflect approximately three to five months' accumulation (Palaima 1995a, pp. 629-631), and the number of feasts recorded during this time period may be between four and six. Both political and religious ceremonies connected with feasting are recorded in the tablets.
Either one or two political events may be noted, both of which entailed feasting.
The first is mentioned in tablet Un 2. At Pakijana, upon the king's initiation
(coronation?), a large quantity of food is disbursed, including thousands of liters of grain, hundreds of liters of wine, an ox, 32 sheep, four goats, and seven pigs (Bennet 1998, p.
41 Indeed, the wine from the wine magazine is 28-38% of all wine mentioned on the tablets (the total quantity of wine listed is 16,155 L; see Palmer 1994, p. 193), suggesting that the total wine available for palatial use was probably not more than several times what was stored in the magazine. The quantities we see mentioned in the tablets are a small fraction of what has been produced in historical times. In 1716, for example, 993 dönüms of land were dedicated to grapes, each producing 256-384 kg of grapes for a total of 254,000-381,000 kg of grapes (though some of these would have been table grapes), and in 1911, over a million kilograms of grapes were grown for wine (2,974 stremmata of land dedicated to growing wine grapes, producing at 360-500 kg/stremma; Davis, Bennet, and Zarinebaf 2005, pp. 179, 181).
112 112; Palaima 2004, p. 103). A possible second such event is mentioned in Ta 711 and other Ta tablets; an inventory of the palatial fine portable furniture, metal vessels, and sacrificial weaponry is undertaken upon the occasion of the king appointing Sigewas to be a damokoros, a political event entailing both ceremonial banqueting and drinking
(Killen 1998a; Rehak 1995, p. 101; though Palaima 2004, p. 114 cautions that it is also possible to interpret this tablet as a record of a new official taking responsibility for maintaining these items).
At least four different religious or seasonal festivals are also recorded. Tablets Fr
343 and Fr 1217 both refer to the re-ke-e-to-ro-te-ri-jo or lechestroterion, a festival of
Poseidon at Pakijana (Shelmerdine 1985, pp. 101, 124; Palaima 1999, p. 444 n. 26), and
Fr 1222 records oil for another festival, the to-no-e-ke-te-ri-jo or thornohelkterion
(Shelmerdine 1985, p. 124). Fr 1202 gives the time period me-tu-wo ne-wo, translated by
Palaima as "in the period of the festival of the new wine" (1999, p. 444 n. 26); he also identifies the di-pi-si-we-wi-jo as a festival without giving a translation. That feasts accompanied at least some religious festivals is indicated by contributions of food to divinities in quantities that are far in excess of what would be required for the maintenance of a few temple personnel, and the range of dedications is comparable to what is provided for feasts. Poseidon, for example, receives two different types of contributions; Es tablets 645-649, 651-653, 703, and 726-729 record the contribution of almost 1400 L of grain (but only grain) to Poseidon by individuals, where Un 718 records
42 the contribution of a variety of foodstuffs by e-ke-ra2-wo (the wanax/king?), the lawagetas (secondary leader), the da-mo or damos (landholding citizen body?) and the
42 See Bennet 2001, p. 26, n. 11 regarding the identification of e-ke-ra2-wo as the wanax.
113 wo-ro-ki-jo-ne-jo (the people outside of the damos? Or perhaps a personal name? See
Nikoloudis 2004 and Palaima 2004, pp. 110-111 and references therein for the former interpretation, Killen 1998b, p. 21, nn. 7-8 for the latter). The contributions to temples in the forms of staples might have been used for any number of purposes: rations to dependent personnel, as currency with which to barter for needed goods, or as a part of the provisioning of a feast. The contribution of a variety of goods recorded in Un 718, by contrast, looks distinctly like the contributions to a feast. It is directly comparable to the contribution outlined on Un 2, a tablet widely acknowledged to list goods for a feast
(Killen 2004, pp. 158-159; Bennet and Davis 1999, p. 116; Piteros et al.1999). Un 718 lists grain, wine, animals, cheeses, honey, and flour; Un 2 lists grain, wine, animals, and olives. The quantities in Un 718, while smaller than those in Un 2, are nonetheless of a similar scale, with between a quarter and a third as much wine, more cheeses and fewer animals, half as much flour, a bit more honey, and just over a third as much grain (the grain recorded is *120 rather than the *121 in Un 2; the question of which sign represents wheat and which barley is debated; see Palmer 1992, 2004; Halstead 1995; Killen 2004).
Killen points out the differences between the two tablets, suggesting that Un 718 represents materials given in a sacrifice and not eaten at a “large, state-sponsored banquet” (2004, pp. 158-159 n. v, contra Palaima 2004, pp. 110-113). He proposes that the nature of the items and the order in which they are listed “strongly suggests that they were used in (sacrificial) offerings to the god” (p. 158). Yet there is no reason to believe that sacrificial offerings to the gods were not consumed in a banquet. Killen considers
Un 718 to record “small numbers of animals and amounts of other foodstuffs, etc.” which he contrasts with “very much larger numbers and amounts of other foodstuffs listed on
114 the certain banquet ‘menu’ records like Un 2” (p. 159). The difference in the quantities of foods listed on the two tablets does not strike me as problematic; the quantities listed on Un 718 are sufficient to serve many hundreds, and it is by no means inconceivable that some festivals were significantly more important and better attended than others.
Killen also notes some minor differences in the materials supplied, such as the inclusion of unguent and two sheepskins in Un 718 but not in other feasting tablets. These differences also are relatively minor; the other feasting tablets differ as much from each other as any does from Un 718. For example, Un 2 lists two of item *146 (a type of cloth), which is not attested in other Pylos feasting tablets. In contrast, the differences between Un 718 and the tablets recording offerings to divinities are considerable; divinities are typically offered one type of good at a time, such as animals (Un 6), grain
(Es 646), or metal vessels (Tn 316). Indeed, Un 718 would be completely unique in its broad scope if we viewed it as inventorying items to be sacrificed to the god but not consumed at a feast; it would, on the other hand, be quite typical as a list of supplies for a feast, differing from other feasting tablets only in containing slightly smaller quantities.
A few other festivals or feasts might be recorded among the other Un tablets, but many of the tablets are too fragmentary to read; Un 47, Un 853+869+870+876, and Un
1185 are good candidates, with large quantities of similar goods, but these are likely to refer to disbursements of food for the same feasts mentioned in the Fr or Ta tablets, which do not record allocations of food. Of these three tablets, only Un 853 includes any mention of the recipient of the food and animals, namely Poseidon, who is already associated with the lechestroterion in Fr 343. The conservative course, then, is to assume that they do not refer to otherwise unknown festivals but to those festivals mentioned
115 elsewhere in the Linear B record. Since it is not clear whether the preceeding two political events accompanied by feasts coincided with religious festivals or were held independently, extant Linear B records may refer to between four and six different events. These feasts, over the course of three to five months, could then have occurred as infrequently as in four months out of five or as frequently as twice per month.
Further evidence pointing toward a monthly frequency of feasting is provided by the names of time periods. The palace seems to have used the month as the basic chronological period by which many events (including ration distribution) were scheduled. Names of chronological periods include "me-tu-wo ne-wo" or "in the period of the festival of the new wine" (Fr 1202); "pa-ki-ja-ni-jo-jo me-no" or "in the month of
Pakijana" (Fr 1224; for the association between Pakijana and Poseidon, see this tablet);
"re-ke-e-to-ro-te-ri-jo" or "in the period of the festival of the strewing of the couch" (Fr
343, Fr 1217); as well as the famed "po-ro-wi-to" or "in the month of sailing" (Fr 1218,
Fr 1221, Fr 1232, Tn 316; see Palaima 1999, p. 444 n. 26). The frequent association of festival names with time periods points toward the use of festivals as prominent calendrical markers; if the most important calendrical period is the month, then monthly festivals seem likely, though perhaps not essential. A system of feasting characterized by monthly religious festivals plus occasional event-based feasts (royal investitures, military victories, inaugurations of major architectural structures) is claimed for Mesopotamia
(Schmandt-Besserat 2001, p. 397). A rough parallel may be provided by Classical
Athenian practice, in which there were multiple festivals in most months, but typically only one was celebrated broadly (Parke 1977). Mycenaean palaces and religious establishments would have celebrated with comparable frequency.
116
LOCATIONS OF FEASTS
The common assumption is that feasts occurred solely or primarily at the palace;43 this supposition may be challenged on the basis of both negative evidence against frequent feasting in the palace itself, and of positive evidence for the location of feasts elsewhere in the Pylian kingdom. There is little reason to suppose that large scale feasting was conducted frequently in the immediate vicinity of the palace, and several classes of evidence that might be assumed to support such a reconstruction in fact support the opposite conclusion. Only one of the Un tablets with potential relevance to feasting,
Un 138, refers specifically to Pylos; as it records an amount due rather than an amount disbursed, it may refer to items that will later be sent to another location; it does not indicate that the feast took place at Pylos itself. The famed wall paintings within the palace that depict feasting could be taken as a direct reflection of what occurs nearby
(Säflund 1980, p. 241), but as McCallum notes, the scene depicted is outdoors (1987a, pp. 96, 107), with rocks; if we follow McCallum in envisioning the fresco as depicting an actual event, it probably did not take place in the palace or even in the plaster-paved court
88. Even the masses of pottery found in rooms 18-22 need not indicate frequent feasting at the palace. As discussed in chapter 3, the pots appear to have been stored tied together in transportable form, so they could conceivably have been dispensed to other locations
43 For example, Palaima (1989, p. 118) assumes that the pigs on tablet Cn 608, being fattened at nine different major centers, are to be later returned to the palace for sacrifice; the tablet itself contains no indication that the pigs are to be relocated to the palace, and in fact, the parallels between this tablet and Vn 20 (see discussion below) may imply that the pigs are to be consumed in festivals in the towns where they are fattened.
117 for feasts, or they could simply have been kept for occasional or impending usage at the palace, as their unworn character might suggest.44
There is, on the other hand, extensive evidence in the Linear B records that feasts occurred throughout the Messenian landscape, perhaps reflecting traditions of worship of different divinities at different locations and on different dates, or reflecting palatial consolidation of power through provision of feasts to the populace at large.45 In addition, the archaeological evidence surveyed by Wright for cult activities outside the palaces
(1994) identified loci of rituals geographically external to the citadels but tied to the palatial system. One example of such a context he discusses is LH IIIA2 Tsoungiza, which he suggests was linked to the palace at Mycenae on the grounds that it has a large terracotta figure dating to LH IIIA1, corresponding to the date of the initial construction of the palace and its fortifications, and that the site seems to have lain within Mycenae’s territory (1994, pp. 69-70). Hamilakis and Konsolaki identify Ayios Konstantinos on the
Methana peninsula as another lower-level site at which sacrificial feasting took place; “it is not improbable,” they write, “that Ayios Konstantinos resembled one of the outlying cult localities that Linear B documents record as receiving animals and other items for sacrifices and feasting” (2004, p. 146).
That the palace at Pylos similarly provisioned feasts throughout the kingdom is clear from textual evidence. Two different systems for palatial provisioning of provincial
44 Whitelaw does note that the removal of these pots from the palatial structure would necessitate carrying them through the “bottleneck” of corridors 59/61 (2001, p. 58). At its narrowest point, the gate between ramp 59 and corridor 61, the path is 1.50 m wide (Blegen and Rawson 1966, p. 241). This is, however, still wide enough for a small cart or a heavily-laden donkey. 45 The location of feasts throughout the Pylian landscape has recently been discussed briefly by Bendall 2004, pp. 109-110 and Palaima 2004, pp. 106, 108-109.
118 feasts can be detected, one for single types of items disbursed to a list of locations in proportions similar to those for the collection of taxes, and the other involving a broader range of goods sent to a single location on each occasion. The two systems differ not only in the array of items provided and the methods apparently employed in calculating their quantities, but also possibly in the types of occasions for which they were used and the probable sources of those goods, particularly the wine.
The first system of disbursement is evidenced by the correspondences between tablets Vn 20 and Cn 608. Tablet Vn 20 records the distribution of 11,808 liters of wine to the nine towns of the Hither Province; Palmer notes that this likely represents an amount granted for a festival rather than for regular consumption (1995, p. 282).46 In tablet Cn 608, the same nine towns, listed in the same order, are to fatten from two to six hogs per town. The ratio of hogs in Cn 608 to wine disbursed in Vn 20 is roughly
46 Palmer notes, as well, that the quantity is significantly larger than the capacity of the palace’s wine storage magazine (1994, p. 146), the remaining 25 pithoi from which she estimates to have had a combined capacity of either 4,683 or 6,293 liters, depending on the method by which capacity is computed. However, the LH IIIB capacity of the room may have been significantly higher for two reasons: first, the number of pithoi in the magazine was once higher than 25; Palmer notes that there were holes for at least 10 more pithoi. Even if there were only 10 additional pithoi (40% more than the number actually preserved), if we assume them to have been of sizes similar to those of the preserved pithoi, the original capacity of the magazine goes up by 40%, to either 6556 or 8810 liters. Second, the full heights of the pithoi are not preserved. Estimates are based on the assumption that the preserved portions of the pithoi could contain 2/3 of the volume the total pithoi would have held, yet she notes that the true range would be between 1/2 and 2/3 (p. 168). If we use the 1/2 figure rather than 2/3, the original volumes might have been somewhat higher, around either 8,700 or 11,500 liters. While these estimates are necessarily imprecise, given both the poor state of preservation of the remaining pithoi and the uncertainty regarding the number of pithoi originally present, the similarity between the high estimate and the quantity of wine recorded in Vn 20 would suggest the possibility that the palace was disbursing the entire contents of the wine magazine, or nearly doing so, for the event for which Vn 20 records wine disbursement. It is, of course, equally possible that the magazine held a smaller amount, and that additional storage existed elsewhere or that the palace was recording the movement of wine that was never actually in its possession.
119 consistent; in six of nine instances, the ratio is one hog to 17 measures of wine. The other ratios are 1:10, 1:15, and 1:20; apparently, the quantities of both wine and pigs were intended to conform to some notional system of relative importance or size of the various towns, but while the quantities of wine could more accurately reflect that system, the small number of pigs per town may have introduced variability (it is not possible to fatten only part of a pig, e.g., the 1:20 ratio to 1:17). The proportions of wine disbursed to, and pigs fattened at, each community are similar to those of the taxes assessed in the Ma tablets and must reflect the same system; i.e., Pe-to-no receives the most wine and fattens the most pigs, just as it is assessed the greatest amount in the Ma tablets; Pi-*82 and Me- ta-pa receive half as much wine and fatten half as many pigs, and they are assessed just under half as much in the Ma tablets. The palace, then, appears to be overseeing the institution of feasting throughout the Hither Province, using the same system as that used for taxation (Shelmerdine 1973, pp. 271, 275) and providing at least the wine. The tablets Vn 20 and Cn 608 refer only to the Hither Province, however, and we have no comparable records for the Further Province. Hence, it is unclear whether similar feasts were held at all in the Further Province; perhaps they were, and the tablets have not been preserved (if they did exist, might they have been kept at Leuktron, capital of the Further
Province?).
This taxation-style distribution is not the only method for supplying feasts used by the palace. Some tablets record the disbursement of a wide variety of foodstuffs and animals to single locations. The distribution of food to Pakijana for the initiation of the king, in Un 2, is one such. Un 47, unfortunately in fragmentary condition, records a
120 similar assemblage of food items at Ro-u-so or Lousos, in the Hither Province, and Un
718 records contributions to Poseidon at an unnamed location.
The relationship between these two types of tablets recording distribution of feasting supplies is unclear. Because the Un tablets seem to have cultic associations, while Vn 20 and Cn 608 disburse on the same basis as the taxation system, it is tempting to believe that the difference between the two systems of provisioning is that one provides for cult-based feasts and the other for political feasts.47 This division, if it exists, cannot be absolute, however, since tablet Un 2 refers specifically to a political event.
The two types of disbursements do reflect real differences of some sort, however.
The Un tablets do not merely record in different form the same events as the ones recorded in Cn 608 and Vn 20, as the quantities of both pigs and wine are different. The
Un tablets record the distribution of all food necessary, or at least a broad range of needed foodstuffs, for a feast; insofar as Un 718 may be representative, the donors are the wanax, the lawagetas, the demos, and the organization wo-ro-ki-jo-ne-jo or the man
Wroikion (see above, p. 114), working in concert on an apparently kingdom-wide scale.
Vn 20 and Cn 608 represent a different means of provisioning, perhaps by different people or by people working within different sociopolitical structures. It is unfortunately not clear who supplies the wine in Vn 20; the term pa-ra-we-wo, a hapax legomenon modifying the wine, may refer to its owner, its vintner, the place where it was produced, or may simply be an adjective describing it (Palmer 1994, p. 76). I would suggest that
47 Un 718 lists offerings to Poseidon, Un 47 records a collection of food items at Ro-u-so or Lousos, which is the location of cult in Fr 1220 and 1226, and Un 2 a collection of food items at Pakijana, also with strong cultic associations (En 609).
121 the palace is the most likely candidate for the body providing the wine, as it is difficult to imagine any other institution or individual capable of providing almost 12,000 liters of wine (74% of all wine mentioned in the Pylos Linear B corpus; Palmer 1994, p. 282), and the distribution does follow the taxation system. The palace, however, may not have provided all types of foods. Cn 608 does not appear to represent a disbursement at all but may reflect a requirement that the towns fatten pigs for their own feasts.48
COMMENSALITY, PARTICIPATION, AND EXCLUSION
The two systems for provisioning feasts appear to represent two different types of feasts, differing both in scale and in timing. Those recorded in the Un tablets, supplied on a kingdom-wide basis, probably occurred only at one location at a time; there is no certainly no reason to believe that the various feasts recorded in the Un tablets were held simultaneously. The feasting event (or events, if the tablets refer to different events supplied similarly) recorded in Cn 608 and Vn 20, with some supplies provided by the palace and others by the towns themselves, probably occurred in every major town concurrently, as the towns were provisioned simultaneously. If quantities consumed are any indication, the number of people included in the event(s) of Cn 608 and Vn 20 was probably much greater than the number of people included in the events supplied by the
Un tablets as well. Un 2 records the allocation of 732 liters of wine, and Un 718 the allocation of 216 liters, tiny fractions of the 11,808 liters allocated in Vn 20; the differences in numbers of participants may imply differences in the social inclusiveness of these events, and leads to further considerations of the levels of participation by
48 The possibility that this might be the case was independently recognized by Bendall 2004.
122 different classes of people known or assumed to have been associated with each type of event.
Indeed, the entire population of the Hither Province may have taken part in the event(s) supplied in Cn 608 and Vn 20. Reasonable estimates for the population of the kingdom of Pylos range from 30-50,000 individuals (McDonald and Rapp 1972, p. 141;
Carothers and McDonald 1979, p. 436; Bennet 1995, pp. 593, 600; Whitelaw 2001, pp.
63-64),49 of whom approximately half, perhaps fewer, might have lived in the Hither
Province.50 If a total of 15,000-25,000 individuals lived in the Hither Province, 11,808 liters of wine would have supplied 0.47 to 0.79 liters (approximately 2-3 cups) of wine per person in the province. Given that it is likely to have been consumed watered
(Sherratt 2004, pp. 205-206), the quantity supplied would have been sufficient for a feast for the entire populace.51 As a point of comparison, the Spartan syssitia had a daily wine
49 These estimates are primarily based on multiplying inhabited area by likely population densities. 50 The relative sizes of the populations of the Hither and Further provinces have not been determined, but they seem likely to have been roughly equal. The two provinces sustained similar weights of taxation. It is, of course, possible that taxes were not apportioned fairly on the basis of population, although it seems unlikely that the populations of the Hither and Further provinces were much different; both the number and sizes of Late Helladic habitation sites are similar, with slightly larger sites, on average, in the Further province (McDonald and Rapp 1972, pocket map 8-14; Carothers 1992, pp. 233-234; Bennet 1995, p. 594). If the Further province did have a slightly larger population, then we might expect that the wine dispatched to the Hither province would have been divided among fewer individuals, and the amount of wine per person should lie closer to the higher end of the range given above. Although more recent work has shown that UMME’s survey tended to miss smaller sites, there is no reason to believe that the ratio of small sites to large ones would have varied significantly by province, so the general picture of equivalent area inhabited (hence, presumably, equivalent populations) should hold. 51 Indeed, even if the entire maximum population of the polity, including the Further as well as the Hither province, consumed 11,808 liters, there would still have been almost a quarter of a liter, or about one cup, of wine per person.
123 ration of 0.8 liters, probably representing not only wine for the Spartiate but also his attendants, though not on an unusually festive occasion (Foxhall and Forbes 1982, p. 58).
By contrast, the feasts recorded on the Un tablets must have been more restricted in scale. The fact that each would have been held in only a single location would have inherently reduced the number of people able to attend; it is reasonable to assume that not everyone in the kingdom would have been able to travel to Pakijana or Lousos for a festival. The supplies provided suggest that a smaller (though still enormous) number were wined and dined; the largest of the Un tablets, Un 2, records the provision of 1968 liters of grain, 18 liters of cyperus, 144 liters of flour, 384 liters of olives, 24 liters of an unknown item, 12 liters of honey, 120 liters of figs, one ox, 26 rams, six ewes, two he- goats, two she-goats, one fat hog, six sows, 732 liters of wine, and two cloths (Ventris and Chadwick 1973, p. 221). This list of foods would still feed several thousand, but not the 15,000 that is likely to have been the minimum population of the province. Un 718, recording supplies for a smaller feast, included 792 liters of grain, 72 liters of flour, four liters of an unknown item, 20 liters of honey, one ox, four he-goats, 20 cheeses, 218 liters of wine, and two sheepskins; again, a few thousand might be fed, but not the entire provincial population.
The large scale of even the smaller feasts in the Un tablets may lead us to suspect that they were broadly inclusive, perhaps open to anyone who might be able to, and wish to, attend. Pragmatic concerns of distance, time, or responsibility ("it's too far away" or
"I can't go because I have to get the vines trimmed" or "I can't go because somebody has to stay here to take care of mother") undoubtedly played a role in limiting attendance, perhaps differentially constraining those of different economic statuses. Gender, too,
124 may at times have constrained attendance; in both Classical Greece and the Bronze Age
Near East, some festivals were for men only, some for women only, and some for members of both sexes (Dalby 1996, p. 6; Schmandt-Besserat 2001, pp. 394-396). The figures shown banqueting in Mycenaean frescoes are male (Rehak 1995, p. 97), but there is some indirect evidence that women, including elite women, attended feasts. Among the items of furniture inventoried in the Ta tablets in preparation for the appointment of a damokoro were 15 elaborately inlaid footstools of precious materials; only four individuals depicted iconographically are shown using footstools,52 but all are female
(Rehak 1995, pp. 101, 103), and an ivory footstool was found buried with a female in a
LM IIIA context in tholos A at Archanes (p. 102).
Given the inexact nature of both population and consumption estimates, we cannot be certain that every person had the right and opportunity to attend state- or religion-sponsored feasts. Despite the inclusive aspect of such events, there may have been those who were systematically excluded from some or all events. These individuals, if they existed, are not now identifiable, but on the basis of historical parallels they might have included slaves or members of certain age grades, or in cases of religious feasts, individuals defined as "impure" or otherwise objectionable. The relationships between these individuals and those who attended, or between these individuals and the population at large, cannot currently be reconstructed, but we should remember that such individuals could have existed. As a recent sociological study of food notes, "commensality is a perilous notion. If sharing food signifies an equivalence
52 One from a gold ring from Tiryns, one from a sealing from Thebes, one from the “White Goddess” fresco at Pylos, and one fresco from the Cult Center at Mycenae (Rehak 1995, p. 103).
125 among insiders within a group, it simultaneously defines insiders as socially different from outsiders, and marks the boundary between them" (Mennell, Murcott, and van
Otterloo 1992, p. 117).53
Indeed, who was an "insider" remains an open question. The people present at a feast would have included not only the banqueters but also those who served and entertained them; whether these individuals were honored or disdained is unknown. In
Classical Greece, the personnel who staffed a large feast were of a mix of statuses, some slave and some free, some invisible and others honored (Dalby 1996, p. 9). Several different classes of evidence - iconographic, textual, or based on forms of the material evidence - attest or imply several different categories of personnel in addition to the banqueters at such gatherings; likewise, among the banqueters themselves unequal classes may have been differentiated by different levels of service, equipment, and behaviors, and in all likelihood by different foods.
The Mycenaean lyre player depicted in the fresco in the Palace of Nestor megaron
(see McCallum 1987a, p. 96; Lang 1969, Plate A), at least, seems to have been accorded some status, since he is attired in the same type of clothing as the seated banqueters. Two lyre-players appear on a personnel tablet from Thebes (TH Av 106; Aravantinos, Godart, and Sacconi 2001, p. 31) as palatial staff, where they are listed alongside other essential personnel such as six fullers. Remains of ivory phorminxes, the type of lyre depicted in
53 See also the work of Dietler 1996, 2001; Dietler and Hayden 2001b, pp. 10-11; Hayden 2001, p. 20; though these authors, and Dietler in particular, discuss the political aspects of inclusion in feasting and the diacritical relationships established by those engaged in the feast, the politics of exclusion is addressed less directly. Even Dietler 2001, pp. 88-90, in a section entitled “Feasts and Social Boundaries”, focuses on political relationships among different classes of participants and not on the relationship between participants and non-participants.
126 the fresco, have been found exclusively in elite burial contexts (Younger 1998, pp. 18,
61-63).54 Yet, as Younger notes, the lyre player in the Pylos fresco is not truly a participant in the banquet, and he is placed spatially apart from and above it (1998, pp.
47-48).
The status of the bakers (a-to-po-qo; An 39, An 427, Fn 50) is unclear, as is the manner in which they would have participated in the feast itself. Were they working feverishly to put the last touches on dishes, or were they enjoying their output along with the compliments of the banqueters? Did they participate as banqueters, or did they eat leftovers? We know that they were paid in kind, which appears to correlate with mid- level status (Gregersen 1997, pp. 398, 405), or at least with a higher level of independence than that experienced by those whose entire sustenance was supplied by the palace (Efkleidou 2004, pp. 126-129, 135, 179, and especially 222). At Pylos, bakers are typically mentioned in groups (An 39, An 427) and in no case are listed by name, which may reflect a lower status level than that experienced by individuals who are listed by name (Efkleidou 2004, p. 223).55 Those engaged in preliminary grain-processing would have been of lower status and fully dependent on the palace, from which they received rations; they too are listed in groups rather than by name (Ab 789; see Efkleidou 2004, pp. 123-126, 135).
Of servers we known nothing at all, beyond that they perhaps existed. No occupational title in Linear B has been associated with either "waiter" or "waitress." The only evidence for their existence is archaeological and highly indirect. One type of
54 These are a different type of lyre from the tortoise shell lyres found in a cultic context at Phylakopi on Melos (Renfrew 1985, p. 384). 55 By contrast, bakers at Mycenae receive rations but are listed by name (Efkleidou 2004, p. 223).
127 vessel, the bowl with a spout opposite its handle, was probably used for serving others
(see below). Only five such bowls have been recovered from the palace as a whole, however, and three from the pantries. Were there only a few servers? A few servers could not have sufficed for a party attended by approximately 1,000 individuals, unless only a limited number of participants were served, and most were expected to serve themselves. Did most banqueters, serving themselves from basins with dippers, consume the same sauces or gravies as did those who were served? Or did the spouted bowls contain sauces only served to a few? It does indeed appear that only a few would have been served from the spouted bowls; the total capacity of the five bowls is less than 10 liters, and the spouts are sufficiently large to pour rather than drizzle their contents. Even if we assume that they were all refilled several times, it is difficult to imagine that they provided for more than a few hundred individuals. The statuses of those who served, prepared, and entertained, then, is highly uncertain. Whether they were pleased to participate as they did or bemoaned their inability to eat with their companions is completely unknown.
Among the banqueters, too, there would have been distinct social differences, marked by differences in behaviors, serving wares, and even foods. If a limited number of participants were served by others while most served themselves, those who were served probably were perceived to have higher social status than those who were not.
There may also have been some ranking of participants that was reflected in the vessels from which they were served and ate (Bendall 2004, pp. 120-124). It is possible that a restricted set of participants would have been served from decorated metal or other highly decorated vessels; Tn 996, found in room 20, lists a variety of serving vessels, though
128 only some are of metal, namely seven bronze ewers, three bronze bowls, and one gold bowl. The Ta tablets also record the existence of a small number of highly decorated
(metal?) serving vessels including three ewers (Ta 711) and three high-handled bowls (Ta
709).
Whether elites ate from metal vessels at a feast is nonetheless unclear. The predominance of ewers and bowls might suggest that these metal vessels represent service for the washing of guests’ hands rather than for food. Even if they were used for food or drink, it is by no means clear whether the bowls were tablewares (from which individuals ate or drank) or servicewares (from which food or drink were apportioned to multiple individuals), and the ewers seem likely to have been servicewares. It is conceivable that the bowls and ewers were all used as servicewares, in which case even the hosts and most honored guests would have eaten from clay vessels, creating a commensal aspect to the feast; all attendants, regardless of rank, would eat from comparable tablewares. Conversely, if a few were served from metal servicewares (or washed their hands with water from metal wares), those few would stand out as having higher rank, creating a diacritical aspect to the feast.
Elsewhere in the tablets, metal cups and bowls are given to divinities and to the occasional priest (for his own use, or for that of his god?; see Tn 316), but aside from the four bowls on Tn 996, we have no record of the palace having kept metal tablewares for its own purposes. The palace clearly did have metal vessels, as some traces of them have been found (Bendall 2004, pp. 122-123, 129 n. 2; Hofstra 2000, pp. 101-104). However, while it is difficult to be certain as a result of the poor state of preservation of these
129 fragments, it is worth noting that the vessels seem to have been in shapes employed for drinking (kylikes, jugs) and not for eating (Bendall 2004, p. 129, n. 2).
While feasts certainly did entail drinking, it need not necessarily follow that all drinking occurred at feasts, and I would suggest that there must have been social occasions on which wine was consumed without a meal (i.e., not at feasts). The number of people who could have drunk from the kylikes stored in room 19 (roughly 2,854) was approximately two and a half times the number of people who could have eaten from bowls (1,246) or eaten or drunk from “teacups” (1,079) stored in rooms 21 and 22, suggesting that there might have been drinking parties that were more broadly attended than the feasts. Hence, the actual presence of metal drinkingwares also need not imply that high-status individuals consumed food or drink from metal vessels at feasts.
There may even have been differences between the manners of the elites and those of the commoners. Dietler has argued that both wine and its accompanying etiquette were critical to the development of socio-political complexity among the Celts
(1990, pp. 384-385), and a similar use of etiquette (“a behavioural mechanism for the expression and signification of group identity”; Wright 2004d, p. 90) may be hypothesized to have existed among the Mycenaeans. Though the details of elite manners may elude us, the forms of vessels do provide a hint. A modern potter provides the insight that “Drinking from [a kylix] requires a poised attention and the use of both hands. The form seems to indicate that with the Greeks drinking was more ritualistic than with us, involving a controlled gesture” (Rhodes 1976, p. 127). Although iconographic representations of Mycenaean drinking refute the idea that both hands were used (see Wright 1995a, pp. 304-305), or at least indicates that the use of a single hand
130 was perceived to be the “right” way to toast with or drink from a kylix, this fact only gives greater weight to the observation that great attention and controlled gesture were essential; since even a half-filled standard kylix weighs about half a kilogram, with most of the weight toward the top, lifting it one-handed without paying attention would have been risky. Perhaps drinking “properly” with one hand was the type of skill cultivated and considered essential by elites, but not followed systematically by the population at large?
The most distinct differences between elite and commoner may, however, have appeared in the realm of cuisine. Exactly which food items were consumed by whom and under what circumstances is difficult to reconstruct, but it will become clear that the
Mycenaeans had a strongly class-differentiated cuisine. As the consumption of food and drink is a central element in any feast (Dietler and Hayden 2001b, p. 3), a detailed investigation of Pylian cuisine seems to be justified.
HAUTE CUISINE
Bronze Age cuisine (as opposed to diet; that is, the style of food in addition to its content) has received surprisingly little scholarly attention. Vickery's Food in Early
Greece (1936), a discussion of food in pre-Iron Age Greece, dedicates over 80 pages to availability of food items, but barely two to food preparation and none to food service.
The picture has shifted only slightly over the past 65 years; lively discussions of what was eaten are still relatively common (e.g., Foxhall 1995; Halstead 1987; Kroll 1982;
Hopf 1971), and the social and ritual aspects of food and feasting are beginning to receive some attention (Isaakidou et al. 2002; Wright 1995a, 2004a; Halstead and Barrett 2004),
131 but the culinary aspects of food in the Aegean Bronze Age (specifically, the style of food and its preparation) remain comparatively unexplored. Insofar as it has been discussed,
Minoan cuisine has received proportionally more attention than has Mycenaean (Borgna
1997; Riley 1999; Hamilakis 1996a; Day and Wilson 2004). Bronze Age Greece fills only 15 pages of 465 in Curtis's Ancient Food Technology (2001, pp. 259-275), and the vast majority of the discussion focuses on Crete. Why has Mycenaean cuisine gone unstudied? Is it happenstance that those scholars interested in cuisine work on Crete?
There is no shortage of discussion of Mycenaean diet; perhaps the dearth of scholarship on cuisine reflects our preconceptions of the restrained Mycenaean character (see Nixon
1994, pp. 11-13 for common stereotypes about the Mycenaeans)? Yet it is clear that the
Mycenaeans did have an elaborate cuisine available primarily to the palatial elites (as briefly suggested by Vermeule 1972, p. 180, and contra Vickery 1936, p. 87, who saw
Greek cuisine as essentially unchanged from the Neolithic period through the end of the
Bronze Age).
In examining Mycenaean cuisine, four basic questions are pertinent. First, why does a culture develop an elite cuisine? Second, how do we know that the Mycenaeans did develop haute cuisine? Third, of what did this cuisine consist? Fourth, who had access to elaborated food items, and under what conditions?
WHY HAUTE CUISINE?
The emergence of haute cuisine in a variety of cultures, including early modern
Europe, and its characterization in contemporary societies has, over the past few decades, formed the focus of revolutionary research in history, sociology, and anthropology
132 (Goody 1982; Mennell 1985; Mennell, Murcott, and van Otterloo 1992; McIntosh 1996).
Haute cuisine represents food and its presentation that is qualitatively different from what is standard within a society. In many societies class differences in food consumption are largely an issue of quantity. For example, Mennell (1985, pp. 42-45) discusses class- based differentiation in level of consumption in Medieval England and France, and he finds especially notable differences in the quantity of meat consumed. By contrast, some societies (including our own) give priority to differences in quality.
Why and under what conditions haute cuisine develops are central issues, and a consensus has emerged that socioeconomic factors are essential. McIntosh (1996, pp. 22-
23) summarizes as follows:
As Goody (1982) argued and Mennell et al. (1992) further developed, cuisine
followed social differentiation. Societies with greater social differentiation (or
grid, as Mary Douglas referred to it) had a more differentiated cuisine as well.
This was principally a hierarchical distinction, the notion of an elite cuisine versus
the common meals, dishes, cutlery, and norms regarding deportment of the
nonelite.
Control and manipulation of the symbolic aspects of class help maintain class
boundaries. Hierarchical societies manage to deny inhabitants of the lower order
access not only to goods considered necessities, but also to those goods whose
very possession denotes upper-class status. In societies in which hierarchical
control is less, as lower-order groups obtain sufficient resources, they are able to
133 command access to these status goods. In order to continue to maintain
possessional, and thus, symbolic distance, upper status groups must seek new
goods and symbols.
Hence, consumption of food is a prominent form of conspicuous consumption, a tool by which elites have been able to maintain their own social status by restricting that of others (see Bourdieu 1984 in toto, but especially pp. 56, 66, 68, 77, 79, 179-180 for food consumption as a means of establishing social distance). Bourdieu (1984), following Veblen (1899), argues that status is symbol-driven. Consumption is driven by socially defined needs, i.e., by individuals wanting what the members of the class above have. Class mobility may be restricted through the restriction of access to symbols. In societies in which food was in short supply, mere quantity sufficed, but "when the possibilities of quantitative consumption for the expression of social superiority had been exhausted, the qualitative possibilities were inexhaustible" (Mennell 1985, p. 33).
Perhaps one of the reasons haute cuisine is so effective as a means of establishing social hierarchies is the fact that it entails a vast amount of conspicuous consumption.
Concoctive preparations create more wastage than do simple ones (Yen 1975, p. 162).
More labor is required in preparation, and more expense in acquiring exotic ingredients.
Innovation brings the risk of failure, and for an individual or family without surplus, the failure of an experiment is costly. Because food is consumed on a daily basis, opportunity for food expenditure never disappears or abates, and its value can never be directly recovered once consumption has occurred.
Cuisine is not the only means of establishing social stratification, however, and
134 there are some highly stratified societies with minimal or no elite cuisine at all (see
Mennell 1985, pp. 102-133 for England's comparatively undifferentiated cuisine and
Goody 1982 for Africa's). Among the factors cited as necessary for haute cuisine's emergence are urbanization, large agricultural surpluses, and the absence of a strong puritan ethos of simplicity; strong central leadership, and trade and imperialism may also be factors (Mennell 1985, pp. 102-133, McIntosh 1996, p. 23). Cuisine cannot be a useful tool for hierarchy building unless elites live in reasonably close proximity to each other, where they can share meals and food-related ideas, nor can it occur where ideals prohibit or devalue it. Lack of agricultural surplus renders it unnecessary; in times of shortage, simply to be well fed serves as a sufficient marker of class. In the context of early modern France, Mennell suggests that strong central leadership can encourage a shift in elite competition from the political realm to the culinary; a case could be made for the same phenomenon having occurred in early imperial Rome. Trade or imperialism can also spur culinary innovation on a practical level by introducing new ingredients and techniques. Each of these factors is present, to some degree, in the Mycenaean palatial system, but rather than assume that their presence indicates that the Mycenaeans did develop haute cuisine, we should examine the cuisine itself as a system of food, food ideals, preparatory techniques, and manners.
INDICATIONS THAT THE MYCENAEANS HAD HAUTE CUISINE
There are a variety of indications that Mycenaean elites in general and Pylian elites in particular had a highly developed cuisine. On a pragmatic level, cuisine requires a variety of ingredients, a variety of preparation techniques, and trained personnel. On a
135 cultural level, haute cuisine requires that high quality food be valued. The Mycenaeans had sufficient variety in available ingredients to create endless elaboration, and they actively sought increased variety by introducing new plant species and importing food items over considerable distances. They had elaborate food preparation techniques, as attested by their culinary equipment. The tablets tell us that the palaces supported specialized culinary personnel, and the contents of Mycenaean tombs reveal that food and its preparation had strong symbolic value.
One of the most essential elements in any cuisine must be the ingredients. A wide variety of available ingredients is a necessary precondition for the existence of haute cuisine (though clearly it would be possible to have a wide variety of available ingredients without developing haute cuisine); the Mycenaeans did meet this condition.
Appendix 3 provides only a partial list of foods available and evidence for their use in the
Mycenaean world, both textual and archaeological; in light of problems of preservation and recovery, we should assume that the archaeological evidence, notably for plants, is incomplete, and that there must have been heavier use of vegetable resources than that for which we currently have evidence. Hence, a great variety of ingredients was available.
That elites sought increased variety is indicated by the introduction during the
Mycenaean period of new species, namely the walnut, the chestnut, and possibly rye.
The Osmanaga Lagoon pollen cores, taken near the Palace of Nestor, show, circa 1400
B.C., new species including rye, walnut, the plane tree, and the Judas tree (Zangger 1998, p. 6; Yazvenko 1998, p. 19). We might attribute the advent of these only to climactic or land-use change, but at least two of the four plants are food items well suited to incorporation within existing culinary traditions. Zohary and Hopf argue that the walnut
136 and the chestnut were native to Greece and Turkey until the Würm glaciation, when they receded to the Pontic and south Caspian regions. Their pollen reappears circa 1500-1300
B.C. in Anatolia and in Greece, and at the beginning of the Classical period in Italy; hence they were very probably introduced by humans (1988, pp. 163-164). Dalby offers further support for this argument by noting that most Classical names for nuts (including the walnut and chestnut, but also the hazelnut and filbert) reflect an Anatolian origin
(1996, p. 81); the almond, already known in Greece in the Paleolithic, does not.
The record of imported comestibles is unclear, but there does appear to have been some long-distance trade in non-subsistence foods. Direct evidence is scarce, insofar as the Linear B tablets discuss trade only within the area under palatial control, and archaeological evidence of perishable materials has until recently been lacking. A number of spices listed in Linear B tablets do have Near Eastern names (including cumin and sesame; Ventris and Chadwick 1956, p. 105; Cline 1994, p. 128), but there is currently no evidence suggesting if these were all imported, or if some were cultivated in
Greece (Ventris and Chadwick 1956, p. 131; Palmer 1994, p. 477; Sarpaki 2001).
Wine is another perishable item that may have been imported from other areas within the Aegean region, and perhaps from beyond it. Unfortunately, the evidence for
Pylian participation in any far-reaching wine trade is ambiguous. Traditionally,
Canaanite jars have been associated with the wine trade (Pendlebury 1930, p. 88;
Vermeule 1972, p. 255), but analysis of the contents of the jars found on the Ulu Burun wreck found that they contained a variety of goods including olives, glass beads, orpiment, and terebinth resin (see Leonard 1995, p. 250 for a summary of jar contents).
In Egypt we know them to have contained a vast array of materials, many but not all food
137 (Leonard 1995, p. 251). A program of residue analysis of those in the Aegean would doubtless prove interesting; McGovern found one Canaanite jar from LH IIIB Mycenae to have traces of resinated wine (Tzedakis and Martlew 1999, p. 157). This result should be treated with some caution, however. First, it represents only a single jar. Second, the publication of the actual data is still in press, and it is not clear from the catalogue whether remains of grapes were found or only resin; if only resin, the jar need not have contained wine at all, as terebinth resin has a number of other uses (Leonard 1995).
That some of the Canaanite jars in the Aegean might have contained wine is nonetheless likely, and most of the other likely contents (oils, grains) are comestibles.
Only one Caananite jar has so far been found at Pylos (from tholos 3; Cline 1994, pp. 95,
172), which seems to have had a lower level of contact with the Near East (less frequent or through more intermediaries) than did the palaces of the Argolid, but it is possible to imagine Pylian elites receiving trans-shipped wine and other goods either as gifts from elites elsewhere or through more localized trade networks. Indeed, Leonard hypothesizes that the primary vessels for wine transport would have been skins, of which we have no trace at all before Homer, but which would have been more easily transported locally than would the heavier Caananite jars (1995, p. 252).
The variety of food sources available to the Mycenaean chef was clearly extensive. Indeed, a brief survey of modern Greek cuisine indicates that the majority of dishes are made from ingredients that were available in the Mycenaean period. Imagine vinegar used in many cases where lemon juice would be today, quail and other birds used rather than chicken; the only important items lacking are tomatoes, potatoes, pasta, and rice, though bulgur or barley might have been employed in cases where rice would be
138 used today. Though these newer elements are used in a number of the most frequently eaten modern dishes, the number and variety of dishes possible without them is truly impressive: most salads, the full range of seafoods and meat dishes, all bean purees, all but a few pies and soups and stews, most vegetable dishes, all trachanas, a vast array of sauces, even pastries and puddings. Indeed, it is possible that the Mycenaean chef had a greater variety of available ingredients than does the modern one; among the food items we know to have been used in antiquity are several that have largely or entirely gone out of use (ass meat, flax, acorns).
It is clear that those who prepared food at Pylos had a variety of techniques available in addition to a variety of ingredients, though study of Aegean food preparation technology has been limited. Vaughan, in an overview of paleodietary research in the
Aegean, notes only the mastery of fire and the ability to produce pottery as benchmarks in food processing (2000, p. 2); while these innovations are of unquestionable importance, they are obviously only the most basic of tools. The techniques of which they permitted development are surely worthy of investigation; as Goody (1982) demonstrated, methods of food preparation have distinct social and cultural implications.
While a detailed reconstruction of Mycenaean cooking techniques exceeds the scope of this dissertation, the existence of complex food preparation procedures at Pylos is nonetheless demonstrated by the presence of a suite of highly specialized food preparation equipment. Among the relevant types of equipment are griddles, side- spouted bowls, souvlaki trays, tripod cooking pots, and perhaps ovens.
"Griddles" (or fragments thereof) are reported to have been found in room 71
(Blegen and Rawson 1966, p. 267), room 76 (p. 273), room 77 (p. 274), room 97 (p. 312),
139 area 102 (p. 332), from room 105 (wine magazine, p. 340), and several from room 103 (p.
340). These are flat, coarseware trays, with rims and regularly spaced dimples marking the finished top surface. Those from the site of Midea are described as having marks of burning on the bottom (Dalinghaus 1998, p. 137). Their purpose has been debated.
Blegen and Rawson note: "What the purpose of these utensils was is unknown to us though it suggests the baking of waffles or pancakes"(1966, p. 341). Hofstra comments,
"It has been suggested that these 'griddles' were used for parching grain" (2000, p. 63; parching refers to roasting before the grain is ground, for which see Curtis 2001, p. 279).
The Laconia survey publication refers to an example as a "brazier?" (Cavanagh et al.
1996, p. 22). The last option seems unlikely. The finished surface with the rim and dimples must be the top; were it a brazier, we would expect burning on this top surface.
As the traces of burning are found on the bottom, it must have been placed in or on a fire or hot coals, rather than having had hot coals placed on it.
That these trays might have been used for parching grain is more plausible. They are typically found with other culinary equipment. The bottom surface would be exposed to fire, explaining the traces of burning. Traditionally, parching is considered to have been a major technique for preparing grains throughout the ancient Eastern
Mediterranean. Even so, there are drawbacks to this interpretation. The first clear evidence for parching in the Aegean dates to the early sixth century (Braun 1995, p. 27).
The deep indentations in the trays would have been an impediment to the parching process, as they would have trapped stray grains that would then have burned. Also,
Tzedakis and Martlew report that residues of both oil and cereals were found on a griddle
140 from LH IIIB Midea (1999, p. 126); oils would not have been used in the parching process. 56
If we assume that the griddles at Pylos served the same function as the one tested from Midea, then Blegen and Rawson's evaluation is the most likely. The term
"pancake" for the product prepared on the griddle may be excessively specific, and I would suggest "flatbread" as an alternative. The vessel would be appropriate to the production of breads both leavened (perhaps akin to pita) and unleavened (akin to tortillas or to the large flatbreads still consumed in Syria). The dimples would have trapped oil, which would have expanded as it was heated, lifting the bread from the surface of the griddle and preventing it from sticking.
Whatever the specific purpose of these vessels, their distribution appears to be primarily limited to palatial contexts. They are known from Mycenae (French 1969, p.
85), Midea (Dalinghaus 1998, pp. 136-137, 219), the Menelaion (Catling, personal communication in Cavanagh et al. 1996, p. 22), and the Palace of Nestor. To my knowledge, they have never been found at non-palatial sites. The PRAP survey found none (Cynthia Shelmerdine, personal communication), nor did the Nichoria excavation
(Dickinson, Martin, and Shelmerdine 1992, pp. 467-617). The Laconia survey found one near the Menelaion (Cavanagh et al. 1996, pp. 22, 403, 405, fig. 12.4.2; it is not at all clear why this surface sherd is dated to MH, given that all other known examples are dated to LH IIIB). As a food preparation vessel type found primarily at palatial sites, and
56I eagerly await the full publication of the results summarized in Tzedakis and Martlew 1999, which is an exhibit catalogue. The authors make bold inferences from the data, and it would be premature to accept fully their conclusions in advance of publication of the supporting data. As the largest program to date of residue analysis in the Aegean region, however, it may provide unprecedented insight into prehistoric cuisine.
141 at Pylos only within the palace structures, the griddle provides strong evidence for specialized food production techniques and for a division between palatial and non- palatial cuisine.
Figure 5.6. Rawson’s pot types 6, 7, and 9.
Side-spouted bowls also represent specialized food preparation equipment. Some variation was found among the varieties of spouted bowls from the Palace of Nestor. The excavators recognized three types with single handles and capacities under 3 liters. A fourth type has double handles and there is a much larger fifth type; the purposes of these two types are unclear, but the form of the fourth and the size of the fifth are sufficiently different from other types that they probably were used for different functions. Normal types include type 6: "small, shallow; one high side handle, open trough spout" (Blegen and Rawson 1966, p. 357); type 7: "small, shallow; one high side handle, open trough, bridge spout" (Blegen and Rawson 1966, p. 357); and type 9: "large, shallow; one vertical handle opposite open spout" (Fig. 5.6; Blegen and Rawson 1966, p. 358). Little attention was given by Blegen, Rawson, and their colleagues to the relationship between
142 the placement of the handle and that of the spout; indeed, Piet de Jong drew one side- spouted bowl as if the spout had been opposite the handle, merely noting on his drawing that he had done so (Fig. 5.7). Types 6 and 7 are distinctly different from type 9. The former types probably represent specialized cooking shapes, while the latter is a serving vessel.
Vessels of types 6 and 7 are not only smaller in capacity (0.35-0.95 L.) than those of type 9 (1.5-2.7 L.). They are of a different, coarser fabric (suited to heating; see Rice
1987, pp. 228-230 for the relationship between inclusions and thermal stress), and they are undecorated, in contrast to the painted examples of type 9, which are found only in a fine ware that would be less well suited to heating. The different types of bowls were
Figure 5.7. Side-spouted bowl drawn as opposite-spouted.
143 found in different locations; side-spouted bowls were in room 60 with other coarseware vessels, opposite-spouted bowls were in rooms 18 and 98 with other finewares. The different placement of the handle also provides an indication of intended use; a right- handed individual would pour towards him- or herself, a controlled and potentially slow pour. The gritty fabric suggests the possibility of heating before pouring. Heating, then pouring, is typically done to reduce a liquid, usually in the production of gravies, sauces, glazes, or soups (Rombauer and Becker 1975, pp. 154, 339, 522), which often requires the slow, steady addition of warm liquids. Types 6 and 7, then, are likely to have been specialized cooking vessels, given their forms, their fabrics, and their find-spots, and it is possible that they were used for reducing liquids for sauces or similar foodstuffs.
By contrast, the bowls with spouts opposite their handles are showier and would be difficult to use in cooking. The hand would be approximately 40 cm from the tip of the spout, or approximately double the handle-to-spout distance of the side-spouted bowls; hence pouring would be less closely controlled, and they would require that there be a greater distance between the person pouring and the place where the pouring occurred. It would be extremely awkward, for example, to pour from an opposite- spouted bowl into a pot while stirring its contents. Indeed, it would even be difficult to pour from such a vessel onto one's own plate or bowl at a table. These opposite-spouted bowls would, on the other hand, be ideally suited to a standing attendant serving a seated banqueter.
An interesting comparandum is the spouted ceramic bowl from Nichoria
(Dickinson, Martin, and Shelmerdine 1992, pp. 514, 611). It is a painted fineware vessel of LH IIIB2 date, but its shape differs from those at Pylos; the two handles, placed
144 opposite each other, are horizontal rather than vertical, and the spout is set at approximately 90 degrees from them. On the basis of its fabric and paint, we may assume that this form represents a serving and not a food preparation vessel; yet it would
Figure 5.8. Souvlaki tray.
be difficult to use for serving another person and well suited for serving one's self. The coarseware side-spouted bowls, then, must represent food preparation vessels, in contrast to the other spouted vessels that are painted finewares. They may be added to the griddles as examples of specialized cooking equipment.
Souvlaki trays clearly represent a third specialized cooking form. These are large, coarse, rectangular trays that lack a wall or rim along one short side; the rims of the walls along the long sides are notched at regular intervals. That the souvlaki trays were used for grilling meats is commonly accepted; the notches would have held skewers, and the trays were found in contexts with other cooking vessels. Unfortunately, recent analysis of residue in a similar tray from Mycenae proved inconclusive (Tzedakis and Martlew
1999, p. 134: "cooking meat cannot be excluded").
It is easy to underestimate the importance of the trays; Palmer sees the grilling of meat as a minor aspect even of palatial cookery because over 50 restorable small tripod cooking pots were found in the palace pantries (room 67), in contrast to one restorable souvlaki tray (or grilling pan, the terms are used interchangeably; 1994, p. 139). Yet these figures may be misleading; the number of restorable vessels need not accurately
145 represent the number of original vessels. The tripod cooking pots are less fragile than are souvlaki trays, and they come from a context in which the pottery is generally less fragmentary than in many other places in the palace; we do not know how many unrestorable souvlaki trays might be represented by sherds from room 105 or elsewhere.
Furthermore, there are multiple methods for grilling; from room 71, area 76, and from outside the southern angle of the hill outside the southwestern building come terracotta objects that may represent spit supports (Blegen and Rawson 1966, pp. 266, 272, 288).
Souvlaki trays may have been used to grill meats only for small groups of people, or perhaps when there was a need to collect drippings; cooking on a spit over an open fire would not allow the collection of drippings, while the souvlaki trays would have both collected the drippings and directed them toward its open end, which could have been set over a large bowl or basin.
Figure 5.9. Tripod cooking pots.
The large number (at least 50) of tripod cooking pots found in room 67 is also likely to represent food preparation activities. Those of type 69 have one handle and a
"pour channel" (a shallow eversion that Blegen and Rawson apparently considered to be insufficiently distinct to call a spout); those of type 70 have two handles and no “pour
146 channel” (Blegen and Rawson 1966, pp. 413-414).57 All are made of a coarse, red fabric, but they are otherwise highly variable. Pots of type 69 are typically of smaller capacity
(0.45-0.85 L) than those of type 70 (0.6-1.65 L). It has been assumed that they were used for boiling foods (e.g., Borgna 1997; Blegen and Rawson 1966, p. 414), a reasonable idea in light of their construction, fabric, and find spots. A number of questions, however, remain: why are there so many, and why are they so small? Would a few large vessels not have allowed for more efficient cooking? Was the speed at which smaller vessels could heat important for specific cooking procedures? What was cooked in such small batches? Residue analysis might provide answers eventually, though I know of no similar vessels that have so far been subjected to such analysis; in the meantime, the vessel capacities provide a vague hint.
The average capacity of measurable vessels of type 69 was 0.69 liters, while that of type 70 was 0.96 liters. Rawson numbered 34 of the former and 18 of the latter
(Blegen and Rawson 1966, p. 414). (Complete or nearly complete vessels typically were given numbers and catalogued; sherds and partially preserved vessels typically were not.
In many cases, Blegen and Rawson (1966) provide both the number of vessels “counted”, which includes both incomplete and complete vessels, and the number of vessels
“numbered”, which includes only the complete vessels. In this case, they do not give a number “counted”.) Hence the total capacity of the numbered vessels was only around 41 liters, though they would actually have held significantly less, given that they could not have been filled to the rim. Many more vessels were recovered than were numbered
(how many is not clear), but even if we imagine the original number of vessels to have
57 All type 69 and 70 vessels from the palace came from room 67 and the doorway between rooms 66 and 67.
147 been ten times58 the number that was numbered, they would have had a combined capacity of only 410 liters. Since they could not have been filled to the rim, we can approximate a food output from these vessels of only 300 liters. We have tablewares for over 1,000 individuals; even if the tripod cooking pots were all used to cook a single food item (and the presence of multiple types may suggest that they were not), they were not cooking a staple food that was served hot to the majority of those eating at a large-scale feast. A maximum of 0.30 liters, or just over a cup, might have been produced per person, but probably much less. Given the small per capita output, we may imagine that these vessels might have been used to cook non-staple foods (sauces, syrups) rather than staples (porridges, soups), or that they were used to cook foods consumed by a minority of participants in a feast. Whichever of these possibilities might have been the case, the large number of small vessels should indicate an unusually labor-intensive food production process.
Built ovens are not known from the Peloponnese in the Bronze Age (see Borgna
1997; Hasaki 2002, pp. 115-120). They are known from northern Greece, especially during the Neolithic period, and from Crete throughout the Bronze Age; baking is typically considered a characteristic feature of Minoan (and not Mycenaean) cooking
(Borgna 1997). There is, however, also the possibility that large "lids”, placed over cooking trays and banked with coals, were used as ovens. Blegen and Rawson describe several different types of lids, of which three are large and made from a coarse fabric, types 75, 76, and 77 (Fig. 5.10; 1966, pp. 416-417). All examples of types 75 and 76
58 This number is an estimated maximum, based on the fact that very few of the pot types for which both a “counted” figure and a “numbered” are given have a counted:numbered ratio higher than 10:1.
148 were found in the oil magazines (pp. 416-417), suggesting that they were in fact used as pithos lids and not as ovens. Lids of type 77, however, seem to have been used for a wide variety of purposes; three were found in the oil magazines, where they presumably were used as lids, but one from room 46 appears to have been used as a cover for a
Figure 5.10. Large coarseware lids.
chimney, and examples were also found in room 7, in the doorway from room 21 to courtyard 88 (perhaps propping a door open?), and in room 105 (p. 417). Blegen and
Rawson (1966, pp. 348-349) note that in room 105 in the Wine Magazine there was at least one large lid, at least two broiling pans, and fragments of cooking pots, but it also contained a large number of pithoi, the lid to one of which it may have been.
Determination of which materials were associated with the lid is difficult because the fragmentary materials were only cursorily published. Palmer (1995, p. 280) describes lids as being found with cooking pots and not with pithoi, however, and these "lids" do bear a striking resemblance to the larger Roman and Medieval clibani and testi
149 (Cubberley 1995) and to the modern Greek gastra and Albanian saç, used as ovens.59
Evaluation of the hypothesis will require examination of any burning patterns on the lids and further consideration of their spatial distribution; in particular, it would be helpful to know whether more fragmentary examples were found among the extensive collections of kitchenwares in room 60 or the Southwestern Building.
It is unfortunate that the rooms with the majority of cooking equipment are among the most poorly preserved, the most carelessly excavated, and the most cursorily published. The interior portion of the Southwestern Building is, for example, a likely area for food preparation, with direct access to open areas in which feasting presumably took place (room 64, courts 63 and 88; see Bennet and Davis 1999, p. 110; Shelmerdine
1998a, p. 84), and the building's contents appear to have been used for food preparation
(Whitelaw 2001, p. 57). The Wine Magazine also contained food preparation equipment, though here the equipment may have been in storage rather than actively in use at the time of the palace's destruction (Palmer 1994, pp. 160, 165). Among the many types of vessels found in the Southwestern Building were braziers, tripod cooking pots of at least two types, lids that do not fit those cooking pots, griddles, ladles, pithoi, jars, basins, shallow cooking pans, and larnakes, in addition to both chipped and ground stone tools
(Blegen and Rawson 1966, pp. 260-288, 378-418). The function of many of these vessels is currently unclear, though further study of their attributes and their spatial relationships to each other may in the future help to elucidate the activities that took place here. The overall character of the pottery is clearly domestic, however, with a large proportion of
59 My thanks to Jack Davis for mentioning the modern Albanian comparanda and to William Alexander, who kindly sent me photographs and a description of this ingenious baking method. The Roman and Medieval comparanda are of clay; the modern Greek and Albanian examples are metal.
150 coarse ware vessels, some of which are found nowhere else in the palace (e.g., the shallow cooking pans).
The palace clearly does contain a repertoire of specialized food preparation equipment; in at least one case, that of the griddles, this equipment is not typically found outside of palatial contexts. Though highly specialized procedures need not require highly specialized equipment, the reverse is not true; that is, highly specialized equipment must reflect specialized procedures.
The last item in the triad of elements essential to haute cuisine is that of personnel; fortunately, the palatial records include extensive documentation of its workers, including bakers, grain-grinders, and other food-related personnel. Although meanings of occupational titles are often debated and are in some cases simply unknown, many are firmly attributed. That a-to-po-qo refers to bakers is relatively uncontested, and there were either three or four at Pylos. While Olivier has argued for an association between bakers and the cultic sphere (1960, pp. 137-147), Lindgren has suggested that, while bakers are to be found listed in cultic contexts, we ought not assign bakers to these contexts exclusively (1973, p. 27; the relevant tablets are An 39.11, An 427.3, and Fn
50.7); we should probably remain skeptical of any modern attempt to separate the religious from the secular in the absence of evidence that such a division has some basis in Mycenaean concepts. Bakers at Pylos were paid in kind (Gregersen 1997, pp. 398,
405).
The precise meaning of another term for food workers, me-re-ti-ri-ja (and its variants) is unclear, though it represents women and children who function as some sort of millers or grinders; there are at least 40 of them at Pylos and Leuktron (Aa 62, Aa 764,
151 Ab 789, Ad 308; Lindgren 1973, p. 95). They presumably have an occupation differentiable from that of those individuals who are called si-to-ko-wo, or grain-grinders, of whom there are 90 at Pylos (Lindgren 1973, p. 139), but none elsewhere. However uncertain the details, it is clear that the palace supported a large staff to process grains and a small number of individuals to bake them. From ten to twelve mi-ka-ta, "mixers," are also listed; what they mix is not mentioned. Palaima suggests that they were "most likely a kind of temple functionary in charge of 'mixing' offerings such as wine, olive oil, honey" (1997, p. 409); why they should specifically be temple functionaries is not clear.
Two professions, me-ri-da-ma-te (and variants; 20 such individuals are listed at Pylos;
Lindgren 1973, p. 96), and me-ri-te-wo (Lindgren 1973, p. 97) have some relationship with honey, though once again the specific natures of their functions are not certain. A number of these professionals (me-ri-du-ma-te, mi-ka-ta, a-to-po-qo) are listed together on a single tablet, An 39, along with fire-kindlers, occupational titles the meanings of which are highly uncertain (o-pi-te-u-ke-e-we, e-to-wo-ko), and an individual with a proper name.
The existence of a broad range of ingredients, of specialized food preparation techniques, and of specialized culinary personnel all suggest that the elites at Pylos had access to haute cuisine. The inclusion of both food preparation and food service equipment in elite Mycenaean funerary contexts in the Pylos region also points toward the association of cuisine and wealth. While the presence of metal food preparation equipment such as bronze bowls (Blegen et al. 1973, p. 158), a colander (if it is such;
Blegen et al. 1973, pp. 230-231 describe this vessel as having pointillé decoration that has worn through, but it appears to have been pierced intentionally), cauldrons (Blegen et
152 al. 1973, pp. 156, 160), and a cleaver (Blegen et al. 1973, p. 188), might be attributed to their material value, the same can presumably not be said of pottery. Mortuary feasting
(see Hamilakis 1998) might explain the presence of table and serving vessels such as kylikes and jugs, most of which were fine wares; funerary offerings of scented oils or unguents could explain the presence of stirrup vases or alabastra, also in fine ware.
The majority of pottery found in funerary contexts, however, was coarse ware.
This discovery surprised and perhaps dismayed Blegen and his colleagues (e.g., Blegen et al. 1973, pp. 81, 105, 111, 112). The presence of pithoi used for burials may account for some of the coarse wares, but there appear to have been a number of food preparation vessels as well, including scoops (Blegen et al. 1973, pp. 82, 93; there were probably sherds from other types of cooking vessels, but the coarse wares from burials are as yet largely unpublished). The importance of food preparation equipment is reinforced by the presence of sets of miniature coarse ware cooking vessels such as cooking pots, jugs, and feeding bottles in the Volimidia chamber tombs (specifically numbers 4, 5, and 6, now on display in the Hora museum); these miniatures cannot have been used within a funerary context for food preparation and so must be considered symbolic. Whether they represented vessels to be used in an afterlife or merely symbolized an interest (on the part of the deceased or of those who survived) in or valuation of culinary pursuits, their inclusion in an elite funerary context indicates that elites valued their cuisine.
POTENTIAL CULINARY ELEMENTS OF MYCENAEAN HAUTE CUISINE
Of what, then, did Pylian cuisine consist? "Special" foods, the ones in which people take pride, tend to be labor-intensive and often seasonal, in contrast to the
153 standard fare, which tends to be less labor-intensive but more resilient in the face of change (Wilson 1975, p. 136). To understand of what high cuisine consists, then, it is necessary to briefly survey low cuisine, against which the elites would have defined their own eating habits or preferences.
As in the Classical period, grain probably formed the majority of the common diet. Foxhall and Forbes (1982, p. 69) suggest that while the Classical Greek diet resembled a modern one in some respects, cereals were more important then, probably due to lower olive oil consumption; they demonstrate convincingly that modern trees and methods of oil pressing are more productive than ancient ones, and that olive oil was valued too highly to be eaten with the abandon with which it is now consumed. The same must have been true for the Mycenaeans. Certainly, olive oil was not among the standard palatial rations issued to low-level dependent personnel; the A- series tablets record the provision only of a grain (whether barley or wheat is still under discussion;
Palmer 1992, 2004; Halstead 1995) and of figs.
Standard fare was probably similar to what was described by Pliny in his Natural
History (XVIII.xiv.74); the Greeks of his time ate large quantities of barley, much like modern trachanas. They soaked the grain, dried it, ground it, and mixed in flax, coriander and salt, or they made simple cakes (wheat can undergo the same processing; modern trachanas is described as "coarsely ground wheat boiled in either sweet or sour milk until all the milk is absorbed, and then left to dry in the sun. When dry it is broken up and stored"; Foxhall and Forbes 1982, p. 66). Similar grain-based porridges and soups can make good use of hand-ground grains, and they do not require ovens. We tend to think of the oven as essential for cooking, but even in the mid-19th century in Western Europe,
154 most homes functioned without this tool (Mennell 1985, p. 47). In Medieval Europe, mechanically milled grain and the use of the communal oven would have been rendered expensive by seigneurial monopoly (p. 48); in the Mycenaean period, there were no mechanical mills, and hand-grinding grain to the point at which it makes appealing bread would have required massive input of labor. While the bread itself might have been appealing, the labor input might have been unavailable or unappealing to most members of the lower classes. The number of individuals involved in grain preparation for the palace (over 100) serves as an indication of the labor-intensive nature of bread production.
Figs could have been added to porridges to sweeten them and add calories, or they could have been consumed separately. Other elements of diet probably varied by location, occupation, and other factors.60 Foraged items might have included vegetables
(greens, roots, or flowers), fruits and nuts (wild pears, wild almonds), fungi, snails, cicadas, honey, and even pulses (such as lupins; see Dalby 1996, p. 25 for a Classical equivalent), and kitchen gardens will have provided small landowners or tenants with a variety of vegetables and herbs. In a predominantly agricultural society, a certain level of barter and gifting must have also been used to increase the variety of available foodstuffs.
Nonetheless, for the majority of the population, there must have been no access to, or restricted access to, a broad spectrum of foods and beverages. Elites would have used these, perhaps in combination with fundamentals of common fare, to create haute cuisine. Among the identifiable elements of Mycenaean haute cuisine are alcoholic
60 Including, perhaps, personal preferences, wealth, and social or familial ties to people who might have had access to various foods.
155 beverages; breads and pastries; meats; sauces and gravies; certain fruits, nuts, and herbs; perhaps oils; and perhaps certain fish or seafoods.
Alcoholic beverages could have taken the form of wine; ales, and other malted beverages; mead (fermented honey); or fruit wines and ciders. For non-grape fruit wines and ciders we have no evidence at all. Wine was certainly consumed, but the evidence for beers and mead is equivocal. That the Mycenaeans discovered mead is prima facie likely. Honey is hygroscopic and if not stored properly will incorporate water from the air. Dormant yeast spores become active, resulting in fermentation (Spence 1997, p. 77).
The process of beer production is somewhat more complex, but it was well known throughout Egypt and the Near East in antiquity (Curtis 2001, pp. 105-117, 210). If
Aegean peoples wanted to produce beer, the technology was widely available, and the ingredients (malted barley or wheat, yeast, water) were commonly consumed in other forms.
The only strong evidence to date for ancient Aegean consumption of mead or beer comes from residue analysis. McGovern finds residues that indicate to him "the possibility of a mixed fermented beverage comprised of wine, barley beer and honey mead" (Tzedakis and Martlew 1999, p. 167, also pp. 168-173; treated as certain in
McGovern 1999) from both cooking and serving vessels. There are a number of problems with such an assertion, only some of which may be resolved by the forthcoming volume of analyses. The first problem is with the idea of mixing; the presence of different residues could reflect repeated use of the same vessels for different contents,
156 rather than mixtures.61 The second problem is with the idea that residues of grape indicate the presence of wine, residues of barley indicate the presence of beer, and residues of honey indicate the presence of mead. Raisins may be added to mead as a sugar to feed yeast, or grape skins may be added for tannin (Spence 1997, p. 89), in which case grape residues need not indicate the presence of wine. Unfermented barley water was widely consumed by the Romans (White 1995, p. 40), so barley residues need not indicate beer. Unfermented honey may be added to beer or to wine to sweeten it (me- ri-ti-jo is written on nodule PY Wr 1360 from the Wine Magazine, possibly equivalent to melitios or honeyed, see Ventris and Chadwick 1973, p. 560; L. Palmer 1965, p. 379; R.
Palmer 1995, pp. 160, 275) or to stabilize it (Dalby 1996, p. 147). Perhaps barley was cooked with honey and sweet wine or must or grape juice as a dessert. From plant residues alone, we cannot assume fermentation.
In a few cases, Evans and McGovern specifically report the presence of substances associated with fermentation, tartaric acid for wine and dimethyl oxalate for beer (Tzedakis and Martlew 1999, pp. 169, 183). These products, especially in combination with residues of grape or barley, have potential as stronger indicators of the presence of fermented beverages. A cooking pot from Middle Minoan IIB Apodoulou, for example, has traces of both phosphoric acid and dimethyl oxalate (p. 183), suggesting that it might have been used to brew beer. Other evidence for beer production and consumption is limited, that for mead production and consumption nonexistent. Siphons such as those used for drinking beer in the Near East have not, to my knowledge, been
61 E.g., a kylix is described as having held "Resinated wine, barley beer as part of a mixed fermented beverage also containing honey mead," (Tzedakis and Martlew 1999, p. 176).
157 found in Greece, nor do they form any part of Aegean iconography despite their lasting prominence in Near Eastern iconography.
It has been suggested that the fineware "tankards", of which three were found in room 20 and the doorway from room 20 to room 18, might have been used for beer consumption (Palmer 2002); at a glance, they do resemble modern beer tankards. Upon closer examination, this use seems unlikely. First, the handles are too small to be held by more than a few fingers (their round shape may suggest that it was expected that they would be held with a single finger); tankard capacities reach well over 2 liters, suggesting that if they held something as heavy as a liquid, the handles would have been ineffective.
Second, there are very few tankards; in rooms 18-22, there were over 1,000 teacups, over
1,000 serving bowls, nearly 3,000 standard kylikes, and three tankards. The number is more in keeping with that of serving vessels (three spouted bowls, for example). Third, the tankards are painted; among the vessels found in rooms 18-22, very few types have painted decorations, and all of those are serving vessels: juglets and jugs, small jars, spouted bowls, and small dippers. Fourth, the Linear B sign that closely resembles the tankard (*123) is used for an herbal condiment (Ventris and Chadwick 1973, p. 229). We may fairly assume, then, that tankards were not primarily intended or used for the consumption of beer; they cannot, therefore, support the hypothesis that the Mycenaeans drank beer. The strongest evidence would be a series of results of residue analysis indicating the presence both of barley and of fermentation products in preparation or serving vessels; to date, such evidence does not exist.
The evidence for wine consumption is much stronger, including extensive Linear
B records (for which see Palmer 1995 and references therein). Wine appears to have
158 primarily been consumed by wealthier members of society, though not necessarily only by palatial elites. Palmer notes that viticulture is labor intensive, requiring a large quantity of concurrent labor, so "a self-sufficient farmer probably aimed to produce enough grain and olives to meet his needs for the coming year, before he could afford to raise vines in any quantity" (1995, p. 273), and he must have had access to significant familial or other labor resources; yet viticulture was a part of the traditional agricultural system, so access was probably not restricted outright (1994, p. 187).
Palmer argues that grapes were grown by and wine produced by estates, not by the palace itself, on the basis that nodules with seals of 39 individual seal holders were found in the Wine Magazine (1995, pp. 277, 281). Individuals associated with those estates, at least high ranking ones, probably had more access to wine than did small farmers. Wine must have been broadly available to elites, either from their own production or by bartering; Un 718 lists donations from various estates, and wine is the one thing given by all (p. 279). The palace also records disbursements of wine to higher- level religious functionaries and to gods, but not to lower level religious personnel or to slaves (pp. 277-278, 284). Further evidence of its valued status is reflected by the fact that it is typically listed with animals, cheese, and honey, none of which are staples, and which are themselves given to gods and to elites (p. 279). As discussed above, however, the palace does disburse a large quantity to the nine towns of the Hither Province, probably for a festival (Vn 20), and whichever lower ranking individuals were able to attend feasts would at least have had access to wine on those occasions. Vn 20 records the disbursement of 11,808 liters; each town receives from 576 to 2880 liters, probably enough for everyone attending. Wine, then, while not exclusively consumed by elites,
159 was probably available only to elites on a regular basis, while lower ranking individuals might have had the opportunity to consume it at public festivals.
Grains, too, must have formed a part of elite cuisine. As discussed above, griddles have been found exclusively in palatial contexts. It is unclear whether this indicates that only palatial elites were able to command regular bread production, since bread could conceivably have been baked on other surfaces such as flat rocks. The presence of the specialized tool, however, could indicate that bread was more frequently produced in palatial contexts; that a specific type of bread, one that required the specialized griddle, was only produced in palatial contexts; or perhaps even that bread was produced only in palatial contexts in sufficient quantity to require the use of a more effective tool. Perhaps non-elite members of the population were able to make bread, then, for use while traveling or for special occasions; they may have avoided the extra labor input needed for daily use but may willingly have expended the extra energy under certain circumstances. Even if so, the breads consumed by elites may have differed from those consumed by non-elites, and the wide range of qualities that would have been possible might even have allowed for culinary differentiation between different levels of elites.
A number of factors impact the quality of flour and of bread. One is the grain used; for leavened bread, the grain largely determines how well the bread will rise.
Bread wheat rises better than emmer wheat, which rises better than barley flour, but bread wheat is less robust a plant than emmer and is more susceptible to disease and insects after it is harvested (Braun 1995, p. 35). The origin of the grain may also have been a factor in its quality, just as in the Classical period, when the barley of Lesbos was
160 considered to be outstanding (Archestratus, preserved in Athenaius III.77). The fineness to which the flour was ground also would have affected the bread's quality, as would the degree to which the flour was sifted to remove grit (cf. Classical complaints about gritty bread in White 1995, p. 42). Ingredients other than the grain would have affected the outcome, as well. Leavening could have come from a wide variety of sources including wine, beer-froth, and natural yeasts (White 1995, p. 41). Classical Greeks are claimed to have made 72 different kinds of bread by the addition of milk, oil, honey, cheese, and wine (J. Renfrew 1973, p. 192). Furthermore, the skill of the baker should not be discounted as a factor.
The "special" nature of bread is reinforced by the existence of a few figurines probably depicting its production. Two come from Tsoungiza, where they were found in a context with vessels and faunal remains consistent with feasting (Dabney, Halstead, and
Thomas 2004, p. 92; Wright 1994, p. 69), there are at least two from Mycenae (one from the Treasury of Atreus, one from the House of Lead; Tzonou-Herbst 2002, pp. 127, 132), and one is without known context (Blegen 1946-1948). The non-palatial find spot at
Tsoungiza might hint at bread production in a less elite context, or perhaps bread was brought to Tsoungiza for special occasions. The figurines are difficult to interpret, and the safest course is probably to limit our interpretation to the fact that at least one person in the Argolid considered bread production to be sufficiently important or interesting to justify depicting it in clay.
Meats also may have formed a greater proportion of haute cuisine than of standard cuisine, and in contexts of communal consumption, the choicer cuts of meat may have been reserved for elites. Meat does not seem to have been a staple food for
161 individuals of any class; it is not found in the ration tablets (Palmer 1994, p. 119), nor did it become a staple of the modern diet until about 40 years ago (Palmer 1995, p. 279;
Riley 1999, p. 32). The association between consumption of meat from domesticated animals and cultic practice is a strong one in the Classical period (Detienne and Vernant
1989) and is now attested by archaeozoological remains from the Palace of Nestor itself
(Isaakidou et al. 2002; Stocker and Davis 2004). As discussed above, elites may for purely pragmatic reasons have had more frequent access to feasts than did commoners, and they could thereby have had more regular access to meat. They will also, by virtue of greater wealth, have had the option of sacrificing on a smaller, more private scale with greater frequency.
In the context of public feasts, elite holders of cultic or civic offices and honored guests may have been granted access to the choice cuts. Three systems of division of meat are known from historic Greece. These include the division into equal parts assigned by lottery, the assignment of cuts by the rank of the recipient, and a mixed system in which the choicest parts are given to elites and those specifically honored, with the remainder allotted in an egalitarian manner (Detienne and Vernant 1989, p. 13).
From published data, it is not certain which model characterized Pylian feasting, but the locations of cut marks on the bones might, when published completely, provide insight.
In a system based purely on honor-based portioning, the primary butchering is that of dismemberment (Detienne and Vernant 1989, p. 13); filleting is essential to finer portioning. Isaakidou and her colleagues demonstrate that the cattle bones from the
Palace of Nestor have been both dismembered and filleted; they illustrate bones showing more marks of dismemberment than of filleting, but they note that recognized filleting
162 marks are underrepresented (2002, pp. 88-89). Hence, an evaluation here of the likelihood of rank-based division of meat would be premature; for the time being, we should merely be aware that the possibility exists that choice cuts were given to privileged individuals.
We are accustomed to associating meat from domesticated animals with sacrifice; in the Classical period, wild animals are not sacrificed (Detienne and Vernant 1989, p. 8).
Yet in the Mycenaean period, certain animals (wild boar, deer) would have been hunted rather than killed in sacrifice, and these too formed a component of Mycenaean haute cuisine. Halstead and Isaakidou note the presence of burned deer bone, probably from red deer (2004, p. 143; see also Isaakidou et al. 2002, p. 88; Stocker and Davis 2004, p. 62) as a part of feasting assemblages at the Palace of Nestor, and Sloan and Duncan (1978, pp. 63,74) show that a high proportion (17.1%) of the LH IIIB2 bones at Nichoria come from hunted animals (primarily deer), more than in any other period. Hunting is a favorite topic of elite iconography, appearing in frescoes from the palace itself (Lang
1969, pp. 40-44, 68-70), and on seals and gold rings (for one from Routsi near Pylos see
Sakellariou 1964, p. 310; for one from the palace see p. 362; for a particularly good example from Athens, see p. 26). The prevalence of hunting in elite iconography may reflect the popularity of hunting among elite activities. Whether commoners were allowed or able to hunt large game is unclear, but it is likely that such hunting formed an element of elite social identity (Morris 1990; Hamilakis 1996b; Bennet 2001, p. 35), with the practical result that meat from game animals would have been more frequently accessible to those of higher rank. There may, then, have been as many as three different types of class differentiation in meat consumption: elites may have had access to the
163 preferred cuts of meat during communal meals, elites probably did have more frequent access to the meat of sacrificed domestic animals, and elites probably also had more frequent access to the meat of hunted large animals.
Though we have no direct evidence that sauces or gravies supplemented meats and breads, the presence of certain types of spouted vessels suggest that they did play a role in Pylian cuisine. As discussed above, the side-spouted bowls (of which there are
55) would have been ideally suited to the production of sauces and gravies, the opposite- spouted bowls to their serving. The exact character of Mycenaean sauces remains a mystery, if only because the range of potential ingredients is so extensive: liquids could have included water, stock, honey, oil, milk, mustard, fish sauces, wine, vinegar, fruit juice, or must; thickeners could have included ground almonds, egg yolk or whites, bread crumbs, flour, or dates;62 other ingredients added purely for flavor may have included herbs and spices, nuts, fruits (fresh or dried), or giblets. Even if such sauces formed a part of common cuisine (which is rather unlikely, if we characterize it as heavily porridge or stew-like), their quality must have depended heavily on both the skill of the cook and the quality of the ingredients. In both respects, elites may have had an advantage over their less privileged contemporaries, employing professional food preparers and maintaining access to a broader range of ingredients.
The evidence for fish and other seafood in elite cuisine is limited. In Homer, eating seafood is associated with poverty and starvation (Riley 1999, p. 62); in the
Classical period, fish is highly valued, though probably not a major dietary element
62 The list of liquids is based on those mentioned by Solomon 1995, p. 116; the list of thickeners is based on those mentioned by Mennell 1985, p. 51 and by Solomon 1995, p. 125.
164 (Rostovtzeff 1941, p. 1254, Gallant 1985, pp. 43-44, Riley 1999, p. 59). The archaeological evidence is meager. Non-indigenous snails were found in an elite context at Akrotiri, Thera, and, if imported, were probably intended as a luxury food (Palmer
1994, p. 464 n.1); yet it would be risky to assume that the foodways of a heavily
Minoanized culture were identical to those of Mycenaeans several hundred years later.
Carbon isotope data from Grave Circle B skeletons at Mycenae indicate that the two elder males (from a sample of four males and two females) had consumed more marine proteins than had the other four individuals, who had consumed virtually none (Tzedakis and Martlew 1999, p. 222); yet both the small sample size and the chronological distance from the destruction of the Palace of Nestor limit the value of this evidence.
Analysis of carbon isotopes from a larger (n=37) and chronologically closer sample from the chamber tomb burials at Armenoi also indicates a paucity of marine dietary elements, but again, the relevance of the evidence is problematic (Tzedakis and
Martlew 1999). The degree of Mycenaeanization of the Cretan diet is unknown, and the patterns at Armenoi probably reflect Minoan foodways, which may have differed significantly from Mycenaean ones. Furthermore, the Armenoi sample appears to include data from members of a wide range of economic classes; Tzedakis and Martlew state that “there are no differences in diets between rich and poor people” (1999, p. 247), but if the dietary differences were nutritionally small but symbolically significant
(equivalent to the occasional use of caviar at parties), they would not have had a discernable effect on skeletal isotopes. Fish are an excellent candidate for an element of elite cuisine; fish type distributions are heavily regional within the Mediterranean (Riley
165 1999, p. 57), and preserved fish from afar could have held a particular cachet. Further evidence, however, is clearly required.
Class differences may have played a role in access to a variety of high-quality fruits, vegetables, and herbs, as well. Foxhall (1995, pp. 242-43) points out that the palaces could get staples from small farmers as rent or taxes, enabling them to diversify their agricultural production. Palmer (1995, p. 480; 2001, pp. 60, 64) argues that fresh herbs and high quality fruits were grown by elite large landholders, who could select for higher quality forms, and that the labor-intensive pruning and weed control in an orchard would allow for the growth of larger fruits over the course of a longer growing season.
The combination of the ability to diversify beyond staple production and the ability to intensively cultivate non-staple crops would have allowed elites to grow, give, and consume higher quality fruits in greater variety.
Oils were used but were less important to diet in the Classical period than in recent times (Foxhall and Forbes 1982, p. 69), and heavy olive oil consumption seems historically to be correlated with a market economy (Hamilakis 1999, p. 43). In the
Mycenaean period, if olive oil was used for culinary purposes at all, it was used on a restricted basis. Hamilakis notes that the evidence for olive oil production before the
Late Bronze Age is limited and the scale on which it was produced even in the LBA was probably small (1996, pp. 7, 18), as the growth of olives is more laborious and more risky than that of cereals (Hamilakis 1999, p. 43). The evidence for the use of olive oil in perfumes and unguents is extensive (Shelmerdine 1984), but the evidence for its culinary use is ambivalent (Hamilakis 1996, p. 19). At least two of the oil tablets from room 23 do refer to unflavored and unscented olive oil (Shelmerdine 1984, p. 90), though perhaps
166 they are to be used for perfume or industrial purposes rather than for cooking. On the other hand, most of the herbs used to treat oil for perfume may also be eaten (coriander, fennel, mint), and would have added interesting flavors as well as scents. Residues of olive oil are reported from a pair of Middle Minoan tripod cooking pots from Apodoulou
(Tzedakis and Martlew 1999, pp. 88, 90), a pair of LM I tripod cooking pots from Chania
(pp. 107, 108), several LM III cooking pots from Armenoi (pp. 112, 115, 116), cooking pots from LH IIIB Thebes (p. 120), and cooking jars from LH IIIB Mycenae (p.131), but the reliability of these discoveries cannot be evaluated until the actual results have been published. Insofar as olive oil’s use has been established in non-culinary contexts, it is clearly linked with elites and with religious institutions (Shelmerdine 1985, p. 124,
Hamilakis 1996, pp. 19-20), and it is worthy of note that the cooking vessels found to have had olive oil residues came exclusively from elite and cultic contexts. The context at Chania is described as a “sacred area” (Tzedakis and Martlew 1999, p. 106); that at
Armenoi is funerary (p. 111); and that at Mycenae is the Cult Centre (p. 128, 131). At
Apodoulou, the context from which oil residues come is wealthy and domestic (p. 86), and that at Thebes is also domestic, though its level of wealth or architectural elaboration is unclear (p. 118).
Though we have no direct evidence, it is reasonable to believe that the
Mycenaeans would also have had sweets of some sort; certainly honey appears in quantity in various tablets, including those supplying feasts (e.g., Un 718). Among the possible desserts are pastries (perhaps with nuts or fruits), fruit compotes, dairy such as yogurt or cheese with honey, and halva. Another culinary element for which we have no direct evidence is color; chefs may use the natural colors of foods to create an appealing
167 visual presentation, or they may add intentionally add color. Chefs of Medieval Western
Europe used saffron for yellow, sandalwood for red, herbs for green, and mulberries for blue (Mennell 1985, p. 50), all of which would have been available. Safflower was also available for yellow and red (Zohary and Hopf 1988, p. 174).
Which of these culinary elements was used on specific occasions, and which was available to whom, is a more difficult problem. Hamilakis would go so far as to reject the distinction between basic and luxury foods because it “implies that some foods aim to satisfy biological needs and other foods non-biological ones, such as competitive display”
(1999, p. 40). In doing so, he seems to be rejecting a schema proposed by Palmer (1994).
The Classical Greeks conceptually divided their caloric consumption into three parts: the sitos (the staple, grain, sometimes referred to as artos or bread), the opson (the food eaten with the staple), and the poton (drink, sometimes replaced in text with oinos, wine)
(Davidson 1995, p. 205). Following this, Palmer (1994, p. 132) suggests that
Mycenaeans also divided food into staples and delicacies, with the Ab and Fn tablets representing the sitos, the staples (grain, figs) given as rations, in contrast to the wine, flour, oil, and honey listed elsewhere. I would suggest that while this division did exist, it did not correspond with the division between elite and low cuisine, and the opson did not represent delicacies or the food of the wealthy (available to the poor only at feasts), merely the non-grain portion of the diet (which may be adequately translated as "relish",
Dalby 1996, p. 22). Both elites and commoners would have consumed grain; it may have formed a greater portion of a slave's diet than a wealthy person's, but there would have been significant qualitative differences in grain consumption as well (including bread versus porridge, types of grains, fineness of grinding). Elite members of society would
168 have had regular access to better food regardless of type, in addition to access to better types of food. On the other hand, even the very poor must have eaten more than grain and figs on a daily basis. As Foxhall and Forbes (1982) demonstrate, even the most grain-intensive diets contain other elements that contribute approximately a quarter of all calories as well as crucial vitamins and minerals. Though Mycenaean slaves and the poor might have primarily consumed grain on a daily basis, they must have supplemented it with wild plant materials, perhaps with snails, perhaps with vegetables from kitchen gardens, and presumably with legumes. These supplements would all constitute the
"opson", though they might have been humble indeed. Hence, while the Mycenaeans did differentiate staple foods from other foods, we should avoid equating staple foods with the humble and non-staple foods with the elite.
In discarding the implication that foods serve either biological or cultural purposes, we need not discard the distinction between elite and non-elite cuisine. That foodstuffs of all sorts are used both for biological sustenance and as a means of cultural communication is indisputable (Bourdieu 1984, Detienne and Vernant 1989, Goody
1982). Indeed, in some cases a more luxurious cuisine may even serve biological purposes better than does a simpler diet by providing a healthier level of caloric intake or a greater variety of vitamins and minerals. That access to some foods was more restricted than access to other foods is, however, also quite certain. I would suggest that the distinction between elite and common foods be maintained as a reflection of restriction of access, with the caveat that simply assigning foods to one category or the other is insufficient. Access may have been restricted to different groups: the wanax, palatial elites, certain religious personnel, dwellers of urban areas, or wealthy landholders. It
169 may have been restricted by different mechanisms: physical or geographical restrictions, religious customs, cultural customs, economic barriers, or acquired tastes. Restrictions may have been maintained with different levels of rigor, from “X is never to be eaten by a commoner on pain of death” to “Y requires an ingredient imported from a long way away” to “Z is laborious to make and most would only bother to do so for special occasions”. An examination of the interplay of these factors, within a feast or within a society at large, may provide a more meaningful picture of the mechanisms of status negotiation than could a simple division of foods into elite and common classes.
Different scholars have envisioned the mechanics of cuisine differentiation among
Mycenaeans as operating in a variety of ways. Borgna (whose focus is not the Mainland but Crete, and so fails to expound upon this position) sees Mycenaean elite cuisine as either nonexistent or purely palatial and political in character:
Conversely, the possible development of such a kind of "haute cuisine" on the
Mainland does not seem to affect the general diet and the more common cooking
practices. In the Mycenaean world, such a cuisine, if it ever emerged, remained
exclusively linked to the highest levels of society and to the ceremonial display of
the palace aristocracies...". (1997, p. 205)
Palmer, by contrast, sees unequal access to foods as arising directly from economic strategies, with wealthier landholders able to diversify production and engage in more labor-intensive forms of cultivation. She suggests that:
170 The households with greater agricultural wealth could afford to invest in “luxury”
foods after they had met their basic subsistence needs, that is, they could produce
and consume items that were already part of the agricultural tradition, such as
meat from domesticated animals or wine, but on a scale much greater than the
ordinary household could afford. (1994, p. 466)
Palmer does not envision palatial or other elite monopolies on such foodstuffs, which she views as a part of a longstanding agricultural tradition; instead, she sees them as available in greater quantities to economic elites than to poorer individuals, but available at least on occasion to all members of Mycenaean society. Hamilakis, who argues at length that the relationship between foods, feasting, and sociopolitical power is of interest (1996b, 1999), generally casts the consumption of special foods as a socioeconomic event (1999, pp. 40, 44, 48), but addresses the problem of differential access only briefly (“The heavy initial investment, higher labour input and risk, and strong attachment to the land that vine and olive involve, make the cultivation of vines and olives the prerogative of groups or individuals with strong entitlement relationships”
1999, p. 45). He does, however, make a point that is relevant to Palmer’s argument: namely, that two members the so-called “Mediterranean Triad” (olive oil and wine) were not so heavily embedded in the traditional agriculture as is typically assumed and that they were in fact relatively new (1996a; 1999, pp. 42-45). Hence, we should not assume that these two items, and the knowledge and technology for their production, were broadly available.
171 I would argue that the mechanisms by which access to cuisine varied were more complex than either Borgna or Palmer envision. Elite dishes not only contained different ingredients, in different proportions, from more common fare, they were prepared and served in different manners. Borgna is probably correct in identifying palatial cuisine as different from non-palatial; the incredible variety of food preparation equipment found at the Palace of Nestor, especially when compared to the more limited suite of shapes from secondary sites such as Nichoria, suggests that palatial cuisine was more specialized even than that of lower-order elites. This distinction may have come in part from the palace’s ability to command both specialized labor (chefs, bakers) and masses of unspecialized labor (grain-grinders). The distinction may have come in part from palatial contacts with traders or external elites who could provide unusual ingredients. Some elements of haute cuisine, such as imported items, would have been available only to those with extensive external contacts or to those who could trade with those with external contacts, namely merchants and high-level elites.
Other elements seem to have been available to lower-level elites; contributions to the palace and to divinities were primarily in the form of grain (e.g., Es 644, Es 649), but in Un 138, wealthy individuals owe olives, wine, and animals as well as grain.
Presumably, if they were expected to provide these items, these individuals had access to them. Additionally, in Un 718 at least one group, the da-mo, provides non-staple foodstuffs; the da-mo may refer to the landholding citizen body. The da-mo provides a relatively small amount of wine, two rams, and five cheeses, suggesting that the
172 landholding citizenry (at least as a composite) has limited access to spare wine, animals, and cheese.63
Certain foods would have been available, regardless of class, in the specific case of feasting. Among the foodstuffs known to have been consumed in the context of those feasts held throughout the Hither Province and accessible, at least on an occasional basis, to anyone attending those feasts are pig (Cn 608) and wine (Vn 20). As discussed above, these feasts must have been broadly attended, probably by the majority of the population.
Other foods must have been served, but their identity remains obscure; for example, sa- pi-de are disbursed to the same towns as are pigs and wine, in the same proportions (Vn
19), but the identification of this commodity remains uncertain. Other tablets recording commodities disbursed at such feasts may not have been preserved, and the feasts may have had some characteristics of a potluck, with some supplies either provided by local elites or brought by common attendees. It is likely that the common attendees would still not have consumed certain rare foodstuffs, such as particular imported wines, but at
63 If we follow Nikoloudis 2004, Palaima 2004, pp. 110-111 and 1995b, p. 132 (and references therein), rather than Killen 1998b, the wo-ro-ki-jo-ne-jo may refer to non- native members of society. The wo-ro-ki-jo-ne-jo provides a very small amount of wine, no animals, five cheeses, and a moderate amount of honey; this combined group provides less than does the single person of the lawagetas, suggesting that these people had minimal access to meat and wine, though perhaps reasonably good access to cheese and honey. If this was the case, then the contributions of various classes as recorded in the Linear B documents would suggest that economic class did strongly affect food availability. Poorer individuals probably had infrequent access to meats and to wine, and they may have used cheese (in addition to grains and pulses) as a substitute protein source. The fact that wine, then, would have been contributed on a small scale by the lowest-class group suggests that Palmer’s evaluation of wine availability is reasonable. While the growth of large quantities of vines does require significant labor input and stability, the tending of small numbers of vines or perhaps the creation of wine from wild grapes might have been within the reach of small landholders or even the landless, albeit in relatively small quantities. The large-scale production of wine must, however, have been limited to the relatively wealthy.
173 feasts they would have consumed items that they ate or drank infrequently, such as meat and local wines.
The foodstuffs consumed at the feasts held at sanctuaries have been more broadly recorded, insofar as what appear to be reasonably complete inventories of supplies have been preserved. These feasts, as discussed above, may also have had a more restricted attendance. Un 2 records a significant range of comestibles, including an ox, rams, ewes, both male and female goats, pigs and sows, in addition to grain, flour, wine, olives, honey, figs, and a few un-translated items (*132, “O”). Un 718 records a broad (yet somewhat different) range of foods: an ox, rams, cheeses, grain, flour, wine, honey, and an un-translated item (*153).
It is worthy of note that, in both tablets, the quantities of flour are very small in comparison with the quantities of unground grains (between 7 and 9%). What is not clear is why both flour and unground grains are supplied. Is additional grain to be ground for the production of breads or pastries at the location of the festival? Is the flour to be used for pastries while the unground grain is to be used for breads or porridges? Is the already-ground flour is of a particularly high quality, to be used for breads for those of a certain standing, while the unground grain is to be used to feed those of lower status?
Another possibility is that some of the grains or other supplies are intended for barter for non-standard goods such as fruits, vegetables, or herbs. In any case, the range of foodstuffs provided indicates a rather elaborate feast, with a heavy meat component and, interestingly, proportionally less wine than is provided for the form of feasting held throughout the Hither Province.
174 The provision of feasts was clearly an expensive endeavor. Thousands of liters of wine and grains and dozens of animals were consumed in a short period of time. The obvious question is why such expenditures were undertaken. An extensive theoretical literature addresses the cross-cultural value of feasting, with some scholars arguing that feasting is so widespread because it has practical value for the whole society (see especially Hayden 2001, pp. 28-35), while others argue that feasting is a tool used by elites to empower themselves at the expense of commoners or of other elites (e.g., Dietler
2001, pp. 66-90). The latter view has been widely adopted by Aegean prehistorians.
Hamilakis and Konsolaki, for example, ask if the feasting at Pylos is not a case of “dis- empowerment for the many” (2004, p. 147, but see Hamilakis 2000, p. 58 for a broader view); Shelmerdine notes that “in many societies such meals are mechanisms whereby a chief can assert and enhance his authority by rewarding his dependents” (1997, p. 579).
Killen, by contrast, sees Mycenaean state banquets as forming a bond among the various members of society (1994, p. 70). I would suggest that feasting need not be either useful to elites or useful to society at large, but that (at least at Pylos) it is both useful to elites and useful to society at large; while elites exploited feasts as best they could, so did lower-level members of Mycenaean society.
The benefits to elite sponsors of feasts are clear: by giving food and drink, they create obligations on the part of the recipients. The recipients must either reciprocate or accept a status of social inferiority (Dietler 2001, p. 74; Mauss 1967). By creating a sense of obligation among the recipients, sponsors may convert economic capital to social capital, which may in turn be converted to political or military support or labor, and even used to justify existing socio-economic inequalities. The powerful must be
175 widely perceived to hold power legitimately in order to maintain preeminence, with non- elites complicit in the acceptance of social structures (Jost and Major 2001, pp. 4, 14).
Essentially, the members of low-status groups will accept inferior status only insofar as they view their status, and that of their superiors, as legitimate (Jost and Major 2001).
Social status is defined by rights and obligations (Jost and Major 2001, p. 12); elites may have been obligated to sponsor periodic feasts in order to maintain their legitimate status.
The Linear B tablets in which elites provision feasts reflect obligations, not wholly voluntary contributions (see especially Un 138, in which foodstuffs appear to be “due”).
The mechanisms by which social inequalities are constructed and maintained are discussed by Ridgeway, who argues that “the process that actually creates status beliefs is the apparently consensual association of influence and esteem in local encounters with a categorical distinction between the actors” (2001, p. 272). In other words, people learn their status beliefs in situations (such as communal feasts) in which they see people “like” themselves treated deferentially by inferiors and non-deferentially by superiors.
Categories of people may be based on differential access to resources, technology, information, or moral standing (pp. 272-273). Feasts, then, may be opportunities for sponsoring elites to display differential access to resources. They may also, however, be opportunities for elites, both those sponsoring the feasts and others in attendance, to display differential access to information or moral standing (in the form of manners, social ties, religious knowledge, piety, or status).
That elites had the opportunity to benefit from feasts is unquestioned. That commoners also benefited, at least insofar as they were fed, is also accepted. The social bond created by communal sacrifice and consumption, especially that of alcoholic
176 beverages, created a sense of inclusion and identity (Nikoloudis 2001, p. 11; Hamilakis
2000, p. 58). Indeed, the remarkable sameness of the pottery from the palatial pantries may have reinforced the communal aspects of feasting; with the possible exception of a few elites who might have consumed food or drink served from metal containers, the whole assembled company would have used visually indistinguishable plainware vessels.
The stake in feasting maintained by the lower classes should not be underestimated, nor should we simplistically view feasts as wholly provided by elites. Tablet Un 718, enumerating foods provided by the demos (the landholding citizen body?) and the worgioneion (resident non-citizens?) as well as by Ekhelawon and the lawagetas
(Nikoloudis 2004; Palaima 2004, 1995b, p. 132), provides a reminder that at least some feasts were in part provisioned by the people, reducing the level of social debt to elites and increasing the level to which the people must have felt invested in the system of feasting.
The nearly 7,000 vessels stored in rooms 18 through 22 would, then, have been intended to serve in a context in which they would have played a significant role in the development, negotiation, and acceptance of socio-political status at Pylos. Although apparently unused or only lightly used at the time of the palace’s destruction, these vessels were intended to be an essential component in the maintenance of palatial legitimacy. In these bowls, cups, and other vessels could have been served, on a periodic basis, a wide variety of highly sophisticated and desired foods.
177 Chapter 6: Production Methods and Producer
INTRODUCTION
Production is here considered in concert with the relationship between producer and consumer, on the grounds that these issues are inseparably intertwined (see Chapter
1). Pottery production and the relationship between producers and the palace have received much attention in recent discussions of the form of the Mycenaean economy and the relationship between the palaces and the inhabitants of the kingdoms that they administered (Killen 1984; Galaty 1999b; Galaty and Parkinson 1999; Whitelaw 2001;
Knappett 2001). Since Pylos provides a coherent body of Linear B evidence and a largely complete excavated palatial context, many of these studies have used Pylos as a case study. These debates, while lively and fruitful, have largely taken place without the participants having had the benefits of detailed analyses of all relevant pottery. Detailed examination of the materials from rooms 18 through 22 of the Palace of Nestor, in concert with the limited Linear B evidence and with ethnographic comparanda, can allow a more nuanced understanding of potters, consumers, and the relationship between the two.
In order to lay the groundwork for my discussion, I begin with a description of the pottery from rooms 18 through 22, discussing its fabric and the processes by which it was produced. I argue that the contents of these rooms were carelessly made. Having established the character of the materials under consideration, it becomes possible to consider the social system that led to their creation. Why are potters and pots so scarce in the Linear B record? Why is there no LH IIIB kiln at the palace? And do these absences
178 indicate palatial disregard for pottery production? How many potters supplied the palace as a whole, and how many produced the wares found in the pantries in particular? How may we best describe the production system or systems employed by the producers, and what does that tell us about the relationship between producer and consumer?
FABRIC
Over 99% of the pots from LH IIIB levels in rooms 18-22 appear to belong to a single fabric. Only the few pithoi and the “lid” from the doorway from room 21 into court 88 vary sufficiently to be macroscopically differentiable from the bulk of the ceramics. The paste used for the vast majority of vessels ranges from orange (Munsell 5
YR 6/8 reddish yellow) through pink (7.5 YR 7/4-8/3) through yellow buff to pale green
(10Y 8/1 light greenish gray), with hardness increasing along the spectrum from fairly soft orange (that leaves powder on the hand when touched, and with a surface that may be difficult to preserve when washing) to semi-vitrified green (that does not degrade in water, cannot be easily scratched with a fingernail, and “clinks” when tapped on a hard surface). The variation in color can be demonstrated to represent different firing conditions, rather than different compositions, by the fact that, in the bodies of some individual vessels, the entire color range is present. The greenish color of some vessels may represent firing in reducing, rather than oxidizing, conditions, as Galaty obtained a green color (5GY 6/1 greenish gray) by firing a sample of clay from Ano Englianos in a pit kiln (1999, p. 36). A green hue may also have been caused by very high levels of heat; Galaty’s highest temperature firing of 1100 degrees Celsius in an oxidizing environment did not cause any of his samples of raw Messenian clay to turn green
179 (1999a, p. 36), but Matson describes finewares discovered by UMME as having a similar composition64 (1972, p. 201; confirmed by Galaty 1999a, pp. 51-63) and he correlates firing temperature and color as follows: 600-800C with light reds, 800-900C with reddish yellow, 900-1050 with pale yellow, and olive yellow at higher temperatures.
In either case, it is worth remembering that the colors we see today may not be those sought or obtained by the potter; the pots would have been effectively re-fired when the palace burned (see Chapter 2). Matson saw only a few greenish sherds in UMME’s surface collections (1972, p. 202), perhaps indicating that he saw fewer burned sherds since he was primarily studying finds from lower-order sites, though both Shelmerdine and Galaty (personal communication) indicate that there is no particular correlation between paste colors and particular sites in the materials collected by the PRAP survey.
On the other hand, Shelmerdine has indicated that the green sherds found elsewhere in
Messenia tend to be soft, even powdery; it is unclear whether this contrast with the hard green sherds from the palace reflects a different fineware fabric used for palatial vessels or the same fabric, hardened at the palace by the refiring that occurred when the building was destroyed. The fact that Galaty found the palatial finewares to be petrographically and chemically similar to finewares from elsewhere in Messenia (Galaty 1999a, pp. 49,
70-71, 77) might, however, suggest that the fabric is the same or at least similar, and that the difference results from the refiring.
Based on examination with a 30x lens, the range of inclusions appears to be standardized, primarily calcium carbonate but with small quantities of muscovite.
Density approximates 5%, and grains are typically sub-angular to rounded and less than 1
64 “The fine-textures sherds, pale yellow, pink, and light red in color, constituted the most common group in the site samples, appearing in almost two-thirds of the collections. They contained few visible inclusions except occasional bits of limestone and ochre, and minute flakes of muscovite.”
180 mm in any dimension, though a rare large lump of calcium carbonate may reach 2 cm long. The ubiquitous presence of calcium carbonate may indicate that this clay was originally fired at a lower temperature. Lime hydration at 700-800 C leads to undesirable spalling (also known as “lime-popping”; see Fig. 6.1), though that temperature may be raised somewhat by the addition of salt or seawater (Vitelli 1984, p. 117; Stimmel et al.
1982; Rice 1987, p. 98; Arnold 1985, pp. 26-27). Firing at very high temperatures can theoretically ameliorate the problem (Galaty 1999a, p. 45; Blackman et al. 1993, p. 67), but it does not seem to have done so in the case of these pots; most of them currently exhibit heavy spalling.65 It seems unlikely, then, that ancient potters would have intended to fire the clay to a temperature at which many, perhaps most, pots would have become damaged.
These characteristics corroborate the data obtained by Galaty’s study of the fabrics of ceramics from Messenia. He describes a small sample (n=6) of finewares from
Ano Englianos as having an average of 94% matrix (1999, p. 50) or 6% inclusions.
These samples are members of his “type 2” fabric, representing all finewares studied from Messenian sites. The finewares are made from local kaolinites (1999a, p. 40).
He does suggest that calcium carbonate was intentionally added to some Messenian clay bodies, though it is unclear whether these might have included those of finewares (1999a, p. 50). Vitelli (1984, p. 117) notes that calcite inclusions that were intentionally added as
65 Though most of the pots under consideration do currently exhibit spalls, it is admittedly difficult to know how many of them did so in antiquity. Water seepage may lead to secondary deposition of calcium within, as well as on the surface of, sherds (Rice 1987, p. 421), and this post-depositional calcium may have spalled at some point in the three thousand years the pottery remained buried. Furthermore, almost all cleaned pots have had surface deposits removed by the use of hydrochloric acid; the effects of the hydrochloric acid on calcium inclusions must not be discounted as a factor in reducing the integrity of surfaces, though it remains unclear whether the acid only melted inclusions or caused them to spall.
181 Figure 6.1. Dipper handle exhibiting a spall from a large calcareous inclusion.
temper may be identified on the basis of their angularity, since such temper will have been crushed. Galaty notes that added temper is typically larger than natural inclusions, so “the addition of temper to a clay paste can be substantiated by identifying a bi-modal size distribution of mineral inclusions” (1999a, p. 39).
The inclusions found in the pottery from rooms 18-22 are fairly rounded, perhaps suggesting their natural origin. Periodically, a very large (over 1 cm) angular inclusion is visible in the wall of a pot, but it is difficult to imagine that these lumps were intentionally added, as they create unsightly spalls and sometimes are thick enough to form protuberances on the side of the vessel (Fig. 6.2). Perhaps they were added accidentally during production, though it is also possible that they represent pieces that were broken from larger fragments in the course of digging the clay, which were not removed during the clay preparation.
182
Figure 6.2. Sherds with large calcareous inclusions, two of which were sufficiently large as to require that the potter add clay patches to reinforce the pots.
PRODUCTION
It is possible, using clues left behind on these pots, to reconstruct a chaîne- opératoire tracing the entire production process. The process appears to have been very similar to what has been observed in the workshops of traditional wheel-using Eastern
Mediterranean potters in the twentieth century (Casson 1938, 1951; Hampe and Winter
1962; Matson 1972; Voyatzoglou 1973; Blitzer 1984; Bolger 1985; Nicholson and
Patterson 1985; London 1986, 1987, 1989, 1990, 1991; Hemsley 1991; Tekkök-Biçken
2000), though obviously without those steps associated with glazing. The first step must have consisted of the digging of clay; it is not clear whether this step would have been undertaken by the potter or an assistant, or whether clay was purchased from an external supplier. Matson describes modern Messenian potters at Vounaria obtaining clay “from a pit or embankment in the potter’s land, from a small mine dug into a hillside, or from a grotto north of town which supplies several of the potters” (Matson 1972, p. 213).
183 Though Matson noted that usable clays are widely available throughout the region,
Galaty points to the restricted availability of the marine-deposited clays that are ideal for the production of finewares, and which require “no levigation, no tempering, and are easily worked” (1999a, p. 23). If the clay was not levigated, then the presence of a few large calcareous inclusions should not surprise us.
The clay would have been mined by the potter, an assistant, or a supplier, and then transported to the workshop. It would have required minimal preparation (Galaty
1999a, p. 71; Matson 1972); the potter or an assistant would have wedged the clay to remove air pockets and to make the texture consistent, either by kneading it or by treading on it. Particularly large inclusions might have been picked out by hand, although evidently not with great care.
It is clear from the interior spiral lines that all finewares from the pantries were wheel-thrown on a counterclockwise wheel; counterclockwise kick wheels are typical of the European tradition and only require a single operator, in contrast with the Japanese twirled flywheel (Rhodes 1976, p. 33). Vitelli warns against using the presence of parallel finger striations as conclusive evidence that a pot was thrown on the wheel, given that one of her students was able to create similar lines by using a cup as an exterior mold and using her fingers to thin the interior (1984, p. 120). It is clear, however, that such marks were not formed in this way in the case of the pots under discussion; the finger marks are continuous rather than interrupted, and the exteriors are clearly not molded, as small lips can sometimes be seen where the base has been cut from the wheel. These fineware forms are likely to have been thrown “off the hump” (a method according to
184 which a quantity of clay is centered on the wheel, and individual vessels are formed from clay at the top of the pile).
From this point, the paths of different vessels diverge, even in the case of the most common vessels. Bowls (Fig. 6.3) were thrown with thick lower walls to fight slumping
(a flaw resulting when the clay moves too far out from a supporting base and falls, forming a shelf; see Rhodes 1976, p. 68); a rib of wood or some other relatively hard material was used to create an external carination. The bowl would then have been cut from the clay that remained on the wheel; modern traditional potters in Greece use wire
(Matson 1972, p. 215), but cord is employed elsewhere (Rhodes 1976, p. 63) and would have been accessible to the Mycenaean potter. Bowls, like many other forms, seem to have been self-slipped (technically an engobe rather than a slip; Speight and Toki 1995, p. 298) by wiping with a wet cloth; drip marks can be seen on the majority
(approximately 70%) of bowls, and they are visible both on interior and on exterior
Figure 6.3. A typical bowl from the pantries. Scale 1:2.
185
Figure 6.4. Marks left by wiping with a wet cloth.
surfaces. Wipe marks can in some cases be seen crossing the ridges formed in throwing
(Fig. 6.4).
Handles were attached shortly after the pots were wiped, as the extremely wet finger marks left at the attachment points indicate. Handles were formed from flat ribbons of clay, suggesting that they were cut from a sheet of clay, not drawn from a lump. Dermal ridges (lines from both finger and palm prints) indicate that handles were attached while the left thumb and radial palm placed pressure on the interior of the rim and the right hand pressed the ends of the ribbons horizontally into the body of the bowl.
The fact that the clay body was particularly wet would have improved the adhesion of the handles. The bowls would then have been allowed to dry leather-hard before most
(approximately 80%) of the standard-sized bowls and all of the larger-sized bowls, after being turned upside-down, were trimmed near the base to thin the walls there. Since the rims have not been flattened from the weight of the vessel pressing down on them, it seems likely that the bowls were placed on some sort of chuck on the wheel. A modern
186 potters’ guide suggests that “chucks are useful when a number of bowls of almost identical size and shape are to be trimmed. The bowls are lightly pushed down on the chuck and quickly come onto center...smooth or precise forms are trimmed from harder clay with a rapidly turning wheel and small, sharp tools” (Rhodes 1976, pp. 57-58).
Dippers (Fig. 6.5) were similarly formed. They too were thrown off the hump and had thick lower walls. The walls were more vertical and had no crisp carination.
They too would have been cut from the wheel and show signs of having been self- slipped; most reveal drips and some have wipe marks. The handles, unlike those of the bowls, are not flat and appear to have been pulled into shape with the fingers rather than cut from a sheet of clay; the left ulnar heel of the palm was placed against the rim’s interior to support it while the right thumb pushed the ends of the handle vertically into the exterior of the rim and the body of the dipper. Standard dippers, unlike bowls, were not trimmed.
Figure 6.5. A typical dipper. Scale 1:2.
187
Figure 6.6. A typical teacup. Scale 1:2. Based on a drawing by Piet de Jong.
Teacups (Fig. 6.6) were formed like dippers, though the handles are smaller, the bowls shallower, and a few (approximately 20%) have been trimmed.
Kylikes are the most complex forms found in rooms 18-22. The standard kylikes
(Fig. 6.7) were thrown in two pieces, the bowl, on the one hand, and the combined stem and foot on the other (thrown upside-down). The bowl was thrown, probably off the hump, with thick lower walls and without a crisp carination. It would then have been cut from the wheel and allowed to dry leather-hard; the stem and foot pieces would have been thrown separately and allowed to dry to a similar stage of hardness. A few of the thickest bowls were trimmed near their bases, and all would have required some rewetting to allow the attachment of two small vertical strap handles and the stem and foot; they were wet-wiped after the vase was completely assembled. Smaller, one- handled kylikes (Fig. 6.8) were formed differently; they were thrown in a single piece, and cut from the wheel below the base. They were then inverted on the wheel and an angular blade was used to create a dimple in the middle of the base, reducing the clay’s thickness and the consequent risk of breakage in the kiln. Miniature kylikes (Fig. 6.9) were also thrown in one piece but lack a dimple. In addition, their handles were attached differently; the upper end was pressed into the interior of the bowl rather than into the
188
Figure 6.7. A typical standard kylix. Scale 1:2.
Figure 6.8. A typical one-handled kylix. Scale 1:2.
189
Figure 6.9. A typical miniature kylix. Scale 1:2. Piet de Jong.
Figure 6.10. A typical large kylix. Scale 1:2.
190 exterior of the rim. Larger kylikes (Fig. 6.10; see Table 4.3 for size classifications) were thrown like the standard ones, but the stems were sometimes hollow and were often pierced transversely after they had been attached to the bowls.
None of the most common pots that were used as tablewares was painted, although some of the less common serving wares were. These latter forms include jugs and juglets, jars, and tiny dippers. There is evidence that the painted and unpainted wares were produced in the same places, at the same time; a few drops of paint may be found accidentally spattered on what are otherwise unpainted vessels.
All vessels would have been placed upside-down in a kiln, then fired. Traditional potters invert pots in order to keep ash from falling into them (Matson 1972, p. 219), and in this position moisture can escape from thick-bottomed pots more easily, reducing the frequency of cracking and explosion (Speight and Toki 1995, p. 349).
The actual kiln used in the production of pots in LH IIIB Pylos has not yet been discovered. A single kiln was found in excavations at the palace (Blegen et al. 1973), but it appears to have gone out of use some time before the palace as a whole was destroyed.
The kiln is, however, fairly typical of Mycenaean kilns (Schallin 1997; Niemeier 1997;
Hasaki 2002). It is a small, round, updraft kiln with a central support for a perforated floor that would have separated the pots from the combustion chamber (Hasaki 2002, pp.
409-410). It is unclear why this kiln was abandoned; perhaps it was too small (hence fuel inefficient and more difficult to load), too close to the palace, or had been damaged. In any case, the kiln would probably have been fired from 4 hours to a full day (a more closely stacked load requires slower firing; Speight and Toki 1995, p. 349), then allowed
191 to cool slowly before the pots were drawn from it (Matson 1972, p. 219; Wood 1990, p.
44).
SPEED AND LACK OF SKILL
Close examination of the pottery from rooms 18-22 indicates that the potter66 was working under time pressure and was perhaps also inexperienced. There is strong evidence for an absence of quality control, for quick work, and for mistakes of the type made primarily by relatively inexperienced potters. Vitelli says that “the longer we would-be potters have worked with clay, the more pots we have made, and the better the quality we are able to produce, the easier it is to bring ourselves to destroy a pot which does not come up to our self-imposed standards. I think of encounters I have had with contemporary production potters: some will sell their ‘seconds,’ or imperfect pieces, at reduced prices. Some will only give seconds to friends or use them in their own homes or workshops. Those with the highest standards destroy all imperfect pieces as soon as they are recognized as irreparably marred, either before or after firing.” (Vitelli 1984, p.
121). The potter who threw the pots in rooms 18-22 either had no self-imposed (or externally imposed) standards, or he was forced by the urgency of the project to abandon those standards.
Many pots had holes or tears that had been quickly repaired before firing.
Eighteen of the 232 vessels examined for holes, or 8%, did exhibit this trait; the repaired vessels include bowls, basins, teacups, standard kylikes, and giant kylikes. One bowl even had two different holes that had been repaired. In most cases, the hole probably was
66 See pp. 199-209 for the argument that a single producer is likely to have formed the entire corpus of material from rooms 18-22.
192 created when the trimming went a bit too far and broke through the body of the vessel, though in one case the rim tore, probably when the handle was added (Fig. 6.11). Even the mends were made carelessly; finger marks are still visible where clay was smashed over a hole.
Figure 6.11. Partial bowl, preserving a place where the rim was torn and repaired.
In addition, many vessels are highly asymmetrical. Rim diameters vary internally by an average of 4.4% and by as much as 28%, and heights vary internally by an average of 10% and by as much as 25%. When vessels are lifted from the wheel, they are distorted, but they tend to revert to their original symmetry as they dry (Rhodes 1976, p.
19). Consequently, the fact that these vessels are highly asymmetrical should be taken to indicate careless manufacture. Many vessels are warped; warping may result from uneven building or from poor support in the kiln (Speight and Toki 1995, p. 475).
Individual kylikes in some cases have stems that are so badly off-center that they barely
193 stand while empty and probably would not when full (Fig. 6.12). Others have feet that are warped so badly that they tip over even if only bumped gently (Figs. 6.13, 6.14).
Figure 6.12. Off-center kylix stem. Figure 6.13. Warped kylix foot.
Figure 6.14. Warped kylix foot. Figure 6.15. “Spiral screw” in bowl.
That speed was a factor in the quality of the product is clear from the presence inside most vessels of deep ridges formed when they were thrown (Fig. 6.15). These features, described as “spiral screws”(Rhodes 1976, p. 18), result from pulling the clay
194
Figure 6.16. Kylix bowl exhibiting Figure 6.17. Illustration of slumping from
slumping.67 a modern potters’ manual
very rapidly and are considered undesirable by modern ceramic artists.68 That a lack of experience was a factor in the quality of the product is clear from the periodic occurrence of “slumping” (Fig. 6.16, 6.17), a problem faced primarily by inexperienced potters
(Rhodes 1976, p. 68).
The pottery from the pantries, then, was made quickly by an inexperienced potter.
Not all vessels display the same problems, and the potter was able to make many vessels without problems. Had he been more careful and had he had enough time, he could have pulped the substandard vessels before they went into the kiln, reusing the clay to create more attractive and functional products, or he could have refused to pass on to the palace those substandard wares that managed to survive the kiln. He did neither, and the palace accepted the result.
67 The exterior of this kylix has been trimmed, hiding some traces of the slumping, but the interior shelf that remains is characteristic of this problem. 68 In addition to aesthetic issues, the spiral screw may create functional disadvantages; for example, it would presumably be more difficult to clean a bowl with a spiral screw than a smoother bowl.
195 PALATIAL INVOLVEMENT IN POTTERY PRODUCTION
The relatively few references to potters and pots in the Linear B tablets and the absence of a LH IIIB kiln at the palace are frequently discussed as evidence for a lack of palatial concern with pottery production (Lindgren 1973, pp. 77-78; Palaima 1997, pp.
410-411; Halstead 1992, pp. 64, 69). The contrast between the rarity of Linear B references to pottery and the absence of a kiln, on the one hand, and the obvious abundance of pottery from the palace on the other, has been seen as puzzling (e.g., by
Lindgren 1973, pp. 77-78). Voutsa also asks:
At the practical level, the basic method is to compare the archaeological record
with the evidence of the tablets: how far do the palace archives lend confirmation
to the production model of the period formed on the basis of finds yielded by the
archaeologist's spade? To put it another way, what do we expect to encounter in
the texts, and what do the texts in fact contain? How, for example, are we to
account for the almost complete absence of reference to craftsmen in branches
whose development to an 'industrial' level is indisputable, to refer to the
controversial example of potters? (2001, p. 145)
The typical answer is that pottery was a craft practiced outside the palatial economic sector (Galaty and Parkinson 1999; Shelmerdine 1999). Halstead, for example, states that “potters are scarcely mentioned in the archives, however, so much of the abundant pottery found in the palaces was presumably made in the non-palatial sector”
(Halstead 1992, p. 64). A number of reasons have been advanced for the lack of palatial
196 control. Tegyey (1988, p. 6) suggests that the industry was not under the direct control of the palaces because of the widespread availability of raw materials, and Palaima suggests that the antiquity of the craft made it unsuitable for political control.
The other common explanation is that there were once tablets that recorded the acquisition of pottery but that they were not preserved. Voutsa (2001, p. 160) suggests that the shortage of tablets reflects not the lack of palatial concern but seasonality; the pottery production and delivery season, mid-spring through mid-fall, did not coincide with the seasons of the tablets that were preserved (late winter through early spring).
Halstead plays with the ideas that “if, as has been suggested, Linear B was primarily used to monitor the fulfillment of regular obligations, these unrecorded flows of commodities may well represent irregular, non-obligatory transactions” (1992, p. 65), or that direct acquisitions are underrepresented because the tablets were pulped quickly (1999, pp. 37-
38). The former explanation seems unlikely given the sheer volume of pottery recovered, although the latter is certainly possible.
Galaty remarks repeatedly that we have not yet discovered an LH IIIB workshop or kiln installation in the vicinity of the palace (1999a, pp. 26, 27, 78). This should not surprise us, nor should it be taken to indicate the independence of potters from the palatial power structure. The most distant of Blegen’s test trenches was approximately
100 meters from the citadel, and excavation of the outlying areas was anything but complete; PRAP’s geophysical work found walls more distant, and the character of those areas remains largely unknown (Davis 1998a, p. 58). Bennet describes the settlement at
197 Pylos as covering a minimum of 12.4 hectares, excluding the central buildings
(approximately 2 ha; 1999, p. 13).69
Kilns should be found at the less-extensively examined margins of the settlement, not in its well-studied center. Ethnographic examples of placing kilns at the edges of a settlement are numerous (e.g., Kentri on Crete; Blitzer 1984, p. 147), because kilns produce unpleasant heat and smoke, because they may be a fire hazard (Wood 1990, p.
33), and because of the importance of easy access to fuel (Matson 1972, p. 200). The fact that potters may actually have obtained clay from Ano Englianos (Galaty 1999a, p. 28) does not indicate that they must have worked at the palace or even on the ridge; a survey of potters from various societies worldwide found that 84% obtained their clay within 7 km of the locus of manufacture (Arnold 1985, pp. 35-52), suggesting that production sites need be only in the general vicinity of the clay source. Indeed, the “wanakteros” or royal potter is listed in the Linear B tablets as having a land holding at Pakijana, near, but not at, Pylos (Ventris and Chadwick 1973, p. 443). It is tempting to believe that he may also have had his workshop there.
The Linear B evidence for pottery production is, moreover, much more closely compatible with the archaeological record than has traditionally been thought: the Linear
B record is less sparse than it is often believed to be, and the overwhelmingly large quantity of pottery recovered from the palace is probably the output of only a few individuals. It would be easy to come to the conclusion, from perusing the scholarly literature, that only one potter is mentioned in the tablets. Shelmerdine mentions in passing that “a potter does figure in the records”(1999, p. 21); Palaima discusses the royal
69 A figure of approximately 15 ha is generally accepted; see also Davis et al. 1997, fig. 12; Whitelaw 2001, p. 63.
198 potter at some length (1995b, 1997), though he does note the existence of other potters
(1997, p. 410). But Galaty’s extensive 1999 study of the ceramic manufacture of the
Pylian province fails to mention any except the royal potter.
There are, however, four different potters listed at Pylos. The best-known of the ke-ra-me-we (potters), named pi-ri-ta-wo (Brithawon), is listed in tablets PY En 467 and
En 371+1160 as having a land-holding (ko-to-na ki-ti-me-na). A second potter, named – qe-ta-ko, is recorded alongside those slaves and other craftsmen who have delivered a goat or goatskin to the palace (Cn 1287), and two more potters of unknown status
(Papadopoulos 1997, p. 459) are associated with the location re-ka-ta-ne in a personnel tablet (An 207+360). Interestingly, there are also four different ceramic fabrics represented in the LH IIIB palace (Galaty 1999a, p. 50), one fine and three coarse. It is tempting to believe that each fabric type represents the unique recipe of one potter or workshop. The association of either a single clay source or a unique clay recipe with a discrete producer or production group is clearly possible, as it is ethnographically well- attested. Matson notes that “the study of modern Messenian potters showed that within one village several sources of clay were used by different potters, and that salable vessels were produced by all of them” (1972, p. 201); at Yerassa, Cyprus, “although the same clay bed was used by different potters, each followed his own recipe by mixing this clay with clay and soil from other sources according to his or her individual requirements and taste” (Helmsley 1991, p. 216).
Nonetheless, we cannot assume that a single fabric corresponds precisely to a single potter or workshop. In some cases, as in modern south highland Peru and in
Middle Classic Matacapan Mexico, each potting village, rather than potter, uses a single
199 recipe (Chávez 1992, p. 85; Pool and Santley 1992, p. 214), with the result that many different potters and workshops create similar wares. If this was the case among the LH
IIB Pylians, then there may have been many more than four potters who supplied the palace, some of them not mentioned in extant tablets. Alternately, itinerant potters may use local clay sources wherever they go, with the result that a single potter may create vessels with many different fabrics. However, this is probably not true in the case of wheel-made, kiln-fired wares; itinerant potters are typically described as using a turntable
(van der Leeuw 1984, p. 61), as a wheel is too heavy to transport easily and limits the clays appropriate for use.
Though we cannot yet be certain of a one-potter to one-fabric equivalence, it does seem likely. When one shape is made in two different fabrics, they seem to be made differently. The fineware kylikes from rooms 18-22 have external handle attachments; the red coarseware kylikes from room 60 have one external handle attachment and one internal.70 It might be possible, though beyond the scope of the current project, to test this hypothesis by examining pottery of different fabrics for matching fingerprints.
Three of the four fabrics, all coarse, are found almost exclusively elsewhere than in rooms 18-22. It is impossible to know exactly how many coarseware vessels were recovered from the palace. Blegen and Rawson report that “upwards of 7,000 vessels” were found in the entire palace (1966, p. 350); 6,668 were carefully counted in rooms 18-
22, but clearly well over 400 vessels were found elsewhere in the palace. The numbers included in the Palace of Nestor publications typically report the number catalogued or counted rather than the total number recovered, and for many rooms, not even all vessels
70 Similarly, Day, Wilson, and Kiriatzi found three different potting traditions, each using a different fabric and displaying characteristic motor habits (1997).
200 were counted. This information is in some cases not recoverable, as some excavators discarded material. That said, it does appear that perhaps over 2,000 vessels were in use in the palace outside of rooms 18-22 at the time the palace was destroyed, and that a majority of them (at least 75%, more likely 85-90%) were finewares.71 By contrast, of the 6,668 vessels recovered from rooms 18-22, virtually all were finewares (over 99%).
There do not seem to have been enough coarsewares in any one fabric or even in all three fabrics to represent the output of one full-time potter. Pithos makers from
Thrapsano on Crete can make 10-16 jars a day, excluding firing days, and teams working there before World War II made approximately 425-500 jars annually (Voyatzoglou
1984, pp. 132, 141). We may estimate that the Palace of Nestor only had 70 to 140 pithoi72 at the time of its destruction, enough to keep a potter busy for no more than a few weeks. These pithoi would have required relatively infrequent replacement; their size and resulting immobility would have protected them from breakage (Whitelaw 2001, p.
64). The nature of the relationship between the palace and the producers of coarsewares is not entirely clear, although in light of the minimal quantities under discussion, we should probably not envision the potters as fully supported by the palace. On the basis of distribution patterns of coarse ceramics throughout Messenia, Galaty envisions “localized exchanges of coarseware pottery, perhaps in the context of reciprocal or market exchanges,” and he suggests that, “Mycenaean administrators may have ignored local
71 Based on the number of whole vessels identified in the pottery section of Blegen and Rawson 1966; parts of well over 7,000 vessels are mentioned as having existed in LH IIIB contexts at the palace in discussions of individual rooms, but most of these were fragmentary, and it seems likely that many or most would not have been complete at the time the palace was destroyed. The frequency of fabric type estimates are based on the numbers of different pot types described in the pottery section as having been recovered; pithoi and cooking pots, for example, can be assumed to have been made of coarse wares, while miniature kylikes were finewares. 72 These calculations are based on the information presented in the published descriptions of individual rooms; the presence of specific pottery forms is more carefully noted in the descriptions of rooms than in the summary of the pottery, though the exact number is not always clear.
201 production of non-wealth items, such as ceramic coarsewares” (1999a, p. 9). The palace, then, might have acquired coarse pottery through “purchase” (trade for grain or metal;
Halstead 1992, p. 71), an unrecorded tax, or forcible appropriation (Galaty 1999a, p. 17); alternately, they may have been given to the palace as gifts.
The material from rooms 18 through 22, and perhaps the other palatial finewares, must have been acquired in different ways. Most and perhaps all of the pots from the pantries appear to come from one workshop and probably even from a single potter. A variety of indications point toward a single producer, although no one indication is conclusive by itself. The paste is consistent, the motor habits are consistent, there is a level of metrical standardization, and as I discuss on pp. 206-207, the fingerprint evidence does not require more than one producer.
The idea that one individual could produce the more than 3.5 metric tons of pottery73 (almost 6,700 pots) recovered from the pantries may be surprising but is consistent with ethnographic observations. Arnold gives a variety of rates at which wheel-thrown pots may be manufactured; his low estimate is 50 per day, mid-range is
225, and the high is 500 (1985, pp. 202-212). 6,700 pots produced at the rate of 50 per day would require 134 days; at 225 pots per day, 30 days; and at 500 per day, only 14 days. If we include a thousand additional fineware pots from elsewhere within the palace, then the time required for production would be 154 days, 35 days, or 16 days, depending on the rate of production. If we figure in a 10% breakage rate during firing
(Hasaki 2001, p. 111), the time required for the production of the pottery from rooms 18
73 This figure should be considered approximate. It includes all relevant fineware pottery in Apotheke 2 of the Hora Museum and much but not all of the material on display in the museum. Weights of dirty sherds were reduced by 10%. Because some pottery from room 22 was discarded at the time of excavation, the original amount may have been slightly higher. See Figure 3.3.
202 through 22 would be 149 days, 33 days, or 16 days; the time required for the production of all the palatial finewares would be approximately 171 days, 39 days, or 18 days.
Although these numbers are approximate and the range between low and high estimates is significant, all are well within the capacity of a single individual.74
Traditional production that has recently been studied in Greece tends to fall between Arnold’s slowest and mid-range rates. At Kentri on Crete, potters would fire once every 8 to 10 days, producing 300-600 vessels of various types (Blitzer 1984, pp.
147, 152), or between 30 and 75 vessels per day. At Vounaria in Messenia, a potter would fire a kiln load of 500 to 1,000 small and medium sized vessels about once a week
(Matson 1972, pp. 219-20), or between 70 and 140 vessels a day.
74 Whitelaw 2001, pp. 65-67 reaches a similar conclusion using a different method. Using a regression calculation of vessel production times, he comes to the conclusion that the vessels consumed by the palace in a year would require modern ethnographic potters approximately 1,768 hours (or 221 working days at 8 hours apiece); he doubles this time because the palatial ceramics were not made in a market context and he expects that they were, therefore, made with less concern for efficient use of time. In light of the fact that many of the pots do bear traces of very swift production, I would consider this doubling to be unnecessary, and would even suggest that less time might have been needed, as the palatial potter appears not to have needed to maintain the level of quality that a potter working in a market context must. I would agree with Whitelaw’s estimate of the palace’s annual consumption as approximately 12,000 vessels, though I would disagree with some of the figures by which he reached this estimate. He follows Blegen and Rawson’s publication in giving a total of 8,540 vessels in use in the palace at the time it was destroyed (p. 52), then adds “several thousand stirrup jars” for scented oil production (p. 62), giving the approximate figure of 12,000. He envisions an average breakage rate of once a year per pot (p. 62). I find that Blegen and Rawson substantially underreport the minimum number of pots from many contexts (though not from rooms 18-22), suggesting that more pots were in use at the time of the palace’s destruction; on the other hand, if a large number of palatial pots (such as the approximately 6,700 from rooms 18-22) were used relatively infrequently (see Chapter 5 for the approximately monthly frequency of feasts), their breakage rate should also be lower than Whitelaw estimates. In short, annual palatial consumption of 12,000 vessels strikes me as a reasonable, though necessarily rough, estimate. His estimates of the total output of potters elsewhere in the region, on the other hand, may be too high. He uses the number of vessels found in houses at Mycenae (Panaghia Houses, West Houses, House of the Sphinxes), to estimate that a household would use 50-100 pots per year (p. 64), and from this, he estimates that the polity would require 104 to 208 full-time potters or an equivalent level of labor from part-time potters (p. 67). I doubt that the houses at Mycenae are representative of households throughout the Mycenaean world; an average household probably had fewer pots. A variety of ethnographic comparanda would indicate that yearly replacement of pots typically occurs at a substantially lower rate, averaging 2 to 12 vessels per household per annum (Arnold 1988, p. 155). Hence, the number of full-time potters (or the equivalent labor in part-time production) is likely to have been substantially lower than that proposed by Whitelaw, perhaps only 10 to 20 individuals.
203 The range of ceramics produced is also consistent with the output of a single producer. Van der Leeuw found that ethnographically attested potters using wheels typically produce 10 to 25 forms, some in multiple sizes (van der Leeuw 1984, pp. 62-
63). Twenty-one forms are found in rooms 18 through 22 (see Table 4.3). A chronologically and geographically closer comparison may be found at LM IA Kommos, where the vast majority of items from a single kiln dump consisted of table wares (71%); most others comprised serving or cultic wares (20%), in thirteen different shapes (Shaw et al. 1997, pp. CXIX, 29). Pantries 18 through 22 contain 85% table wares and 15% serving or cultic wares.
It is possible, then, that a single potter produced most or all finewares from the palatial destruction level. If true, we would expect a high level of paste standardization, evidence of consistent (if not necessarily entirely invariable) motor habits, relatively high levels of metrical standardization, and fingerprints that are consistent with those of a single producer. Because high-volume producers exploit large clay outcrops, workshops tend to produce relatively consistent pastes (van der Leeuw 1984, p. 61). It is unfortunate that a thorough program of petrographic analysis of palatial pottery has not been undertaken, but in hand sample the finewares from rooms 18 through 22, at least, appear to be consistent. Galaty’s publication of the chemical compositional data for some
Messenian finewares indicates that they form a unified group. Histograms of log strontium and log titanium from finewares reveal unimodal distributions (1999a, p. 48),75 and he suggests that “in all probability, finewares were produced at one workshop with clays mined from a single clay bed”(1999a, p. 47), though it is also possible that multiple
75 In marked contrast to coarsewares, which exhibit bi- or tri-modal distributions.
204 workshops used the same clay bed or that multiple beds yielded clays with similar chemical signatures.
Regular motor habits are also detectable. Minor variations do exist, but they tend to fall within the range of variation observable in the output of individual modern potters.
As discussed previously, handles of bowls are attached with the right hand, while the left provides support; the handles are affixed with a swipe outwards and slightly downwards on each side (Fig. 6.18). Vertical handles, such as those on jars, jugs, dippers, and kylikes, are not strictly vertical; they are typically rotated between 5 and 10 degrees clockwise. Even rim shapes are highly consistent by vessel type. Although these criteria are heavily intuitive, my judgment that consistent motor habits are displayed is based on close examination.
Figure 6.18. The arrows show the motion of the finger as the handle was attached.
Regularity of motor habits also may lead to metrical standardization; hence, metrical standardization increases with a decrease in the number of producers (Blackman et al. 1993). More producers create more variable, or less standardized, output; fewer producers create less variable, or more standardized output. Galaty uses kylix stem diameters as a basis on which to argue for a high degree of metrical standardization in
205 Messenian fineware production (1999a, pp. 47-48), as most kylix stems range from 1.5 to
2.5 centimeters in diameter. He suggests that “were kylikes produced at several different workshops, there would likely be more variation in kylix stem diameter and a flatter histogram” (1999a, p. 47). This argument is highly problematic, insofar as stem widths are circumscribed by practical considerations; narrower stems would presumably not have supported the kylix bowl, and wider ones would have increased the risk of breakage in the kiln. Furthermore, the degree of standardization does not actually seem on the basis of visual inspection of the histogram to be very high: but, as he fails to provide any numeric measure of the scale of variation, it is impossible to compare his data with measures of standardization published elsewhere. Many complete (or nearly so) vessels from the palace allow a more rigorous study of metrical standardization than was possible for him, since his samples largely came from surface contexts. Standardization is a complex issue affected by a variety of factors, as is discussed in more detail below. For the moment, let us merely note that the levels of standardization that I have observed are comparable to those known to have been achieved by a single potter in a single production event at Tell Leilan, Syria (Blackman et al. 1993, p. 73), and are thus consistent with my hypothesis that a single producer manufactured the Pylos finewares.
The fingerprint evidence is also consistent with such a hypothesis. The number of fully legible prints is unfortunately low, because the clay was wet, and because of the wet-wiping and trimming steps in the production process, each of which obscured prints.
Of 57 reasonably legible prints, 40 can be identified as coming from fingers and seven
206 from palms (10 are of uncertain origin); in no case can there be shown to be multiple prints from the same part of the hand that do not match.76
Despite the inexperienced nature of the potter who created the pottery in rooms
18-22, it is tempting to identify him as Brithawon, the potter named in the tablets as wanakteros (royal). Palaima has asked, “Why were a particular potter and fuller singled out in the surviving Pylos tablets…as connected with the wanax and how might their craft specialties have been important for the functions of the wanax in Mycenaean society?”(1997, p. 410). His answer is that these individuals “can be viewed as having participated in the social process of distinguishing the rank and status of the wanax”
(1997, p. 412); a key function of the wanax was the provision and perhaps oversight of feasts (Palaima 1997, pp. 411-412; see also chapter 5). “Public ceremonies of this sort were a chief means for the Mycenaean wanax not only to perform an important religious duty, but also to display his charisma and thereby assert and reinforce his power”
(Palaima 1995b, p. 132). If a potter was named wanakteros because of his critical role in assisting the wanax with his key functions, then presumably he created the pottery used for feasting, the purpose for which, as I have argued, the contents of room 18 through 22 were used. If this same potter was well paid in the form of a land grant, we should expect that he must have supplied a significant quantity of pottery. Indeed, the potter who produced the finewares in rooms 18-22 would have supplied several times as many vessels as any other producer did.
76 A more extensive search for prints could clearly affect this result, either by showing that more than one person was involved or by providing more evidence for the prints of one individual. Given the huge mass of material, a significant corpus of prints probably does exist, though discovering it would be a time- consuming process.
207 Though one individual may have thrown the pots, potting entails a wide variety of production tasks beyond work at the wheel: digging, transporting, and wedging clay, attaching handles, loading, firing and unloading a kiln, and transporting finished wares.
Often, some or all of these tasks are performed by assistants or apprentices, including wives or children (Voyatzoglou 1984, pp. 130-132; Matson 1972, p. 221; Blitzer 1984, p.
145; London 1990, pp. 62, 69). Whether women in the Bronze Age might have been potters, or at least assistants of some sort, is subject to some debate (Voutsa 2001, p.
159). Hankey suggested that the conservatism of Late Cypriot potters may have resulted from the reluctance of female practitioners to adopt nontraditional techniques (1983, p.
169). She identified the sex of potters as female on the basis of a few ethnographic parallels, including the case of modern Cypriot potters. Walz argued that the ethnographic parallels were improperly applied (1985, pp. 127-9), and in a terse survey of evidence for the sex of potters in the Eastern Mediterranean in times from the Late
Bronze Age through the Classical period, including Mycenaean Greece, found that most evidence pointed to male practitioners (1985, pp. 129-130). London (1987) points out that modern Cypriot potters are in fact both male and female, and that in each case assistance is provided by family members of either sex; division of labor is basically pragmatic, based on factors that are largely gender-independent. All named Mycenaean potters at Pylos are male, though a woman at Knossos (Ap 639,7) is identified as ke-ra- me-ja, which could represent her occupation (Lindgren 1973, p. 77; Kopaka 1997, p.
528).
In the material remains at Pylos, there is a hint that handles, at least, may have been attached by the same individual who threw the pots, though assistants could
208 certainly have undertaken other tasks. Among the fragmentary fingerprints are 29 that can be identified from their location as belonging to the individual who attached the handles to their pot. Another 12 fragmentary prints can be identified from their locations as likely to have belonged to the fingers of the potter himself; they are unlikely to have resulted either from a supplementary production process such as handle attachment or from carrying the vessel since they are located inside the pots, well beneath their rims.
Because ridge widths of fingerprints vary with both age and sex (Cummins and Midlo
1961, p. 28; Roche, Siervogel, and Roche 1979; Krishnan and Reddy 1994; Acree 1999), as well as from individual to individual, we would expect that if two people were involved in production, one throwing the pots and one attaching handles, there could be a difference between the ridge widths of prints of the potter and of the handle-attacher.
This is not the case. A comparison of the ridge width values for the fingertips shows that there is no statistically discernable difference between the average ridge widths of the potter and the handle-attacher. This determination is based on use of the
Mann-Whitney test, which gives a P-value of 0.86.77 This value does not prove that the potter and handle-attacher were the same individual, but it does mean that we cannot prove that they were different individuals. A single individual both throwing the pots and adding the handles is not improbable, since at a similar production level, Matson describes a Vounaria potter making and adding his own handles (1972, p. 221).
77 The Mann-Whitney is appropriate for the evaluation of two independent samples each of which contains at least 10 members; it is non-parametric, and does not assume that either sample is normally distributed (Fletcher and Lock 1994, p. 88). This is necessary because a Kolmogorov-Smirnov test against the normal curve suggests that the sample of handle-attachers is unlikely to be normally distributed. All statistical tests were performed in NCSS 2001.
209 IDENTIFICATION OF SPECIALIZATION
Craft specialization is a fundamental issue in the characterization of any society.
Among Mycenaean craftsmen, the producer of palatial finewares may have been among the most economically specialized, but the identification and characterization of specialization is not straightforward. Specialists may be identified by the amount of time dedicated to their craft, the proportion of their subsistence they obtain from it, the existence of a recognized name or title for a specialty, or a claim on society for some form of payment or goods in exchange for production (Rice 1984, p. 47). One frequently cited correlate to producer specialization is product standardization.
Mycenaean potters did have a recognized title. The interpretation of ke-ra-me- u/ke-ra-me-wo (plural ke-ra-me-we) as “potter” is among the most solid and widely accepted personal identifications (Aura Jorro 1985, p. 345; Lindgren 1973, p. 77). There is no documentation of the form of payment received by most potters. We do know that
Brithawon received some sort of payment in land (Killen 1984, pp. 244-245), but
Gregersen demonstrates that any such payment is a function not of a profession in general but is “related to the individual craftsman or his individual production rather than to broader professional identity”(1997, p. 401). In other words, Brithawon’s level and kind of remuneration may well be unique among Pylos’s potters.
The time dedicated to the craft by Mycenaean potters was probably limited by the weather. Seasonal production is typical of traditional Eastern Mediterranean potters today, even in cases where the market might sustain more production. In some cases, the seasonal limitation is based on competing economic (primarily agricultural) activities; e.g., potters from Thrapsano on Crete work only the three summer months of the year and
210 engage in agriculture the rest of the time (Voyatzoglou 1984, p. 131). In many cases, however, a major impediment to working year-round is moisture. The April to October potting season is well attested throughout the region, at Vounaria in Messenia (Matson
1972, p. 220), Kentri on Crete (Blitzer 1984, p. 145); farther afield, on Cyprus (London
1990, p. 52); at Akköy in Turkey (Tekkök-Biçken 2000, p. 97); and at Ballâs in Egypt
(Nicholson and Patterson 1992, p. 28) where the season can extend a few weeks earlier or later. During the off-season, traditional potters may engage in workshop or kiln upkeep and repair (Nicholson and Patterson 1992, p. 40), and in gathering clay and fuel (Blitzer
1984, p. 155 n. 10).
Clay mining may, however, be inhibited by rain (Nicholson and Patterson 1992, p. 28), and vessels that are not thoroughly dried before firing may break; wet wood impedes firing, and rain falling on a hot kiln may cause vessels to shatter (London 1990, p. 52) or fissures to appear in the kiln (Ionas 2000, p. 175). The problem of damp pots cracking can be mitigated by slow, careful firing (Vitelli 1984, p. 1124) or through the use of indoor drying racks (Underhill 2003), but even so, year-round production was probably impossible. Whether potters worked full-time or part-time during the potting season is likely to have varied from individual to individual. It is difficult to know even if the potter who produced the finewares from the pantries worked full-time; if he supplied only the palace, he would probably not have needed to do so, but if he supplied other consumers, he might have.
To what extent this potter derived his subsistence from potting in general or from the palace in particular is also unclear. Killen has argued that those craftsmen with land grants only owed the palace part-time service (1979), as opposed to those who provided
211 full-time service and receive rations. Whether the land grant would have been a sufficient source of income is unclear. Those who received land grants were a privileged minority (Shelmerdine 1999, p. 23; Killen 1984, p. 277, n. 19), but perhaps an advantage to holding a land grant was that it provided a significant income in addition to what was obtained from other sources. Perhaps the potter was able to retain some output for transfer to non-palatial consumers (Galaty 1999a, p. 18); the range of time he might have dedicated to producing for the palace is broad. If he spent 16 days a year producing for the palace, he might have supplied many consumers beyond the palace; if he spent 171 days a year producing for the palace, given seasonal restrictions upon potting activity, he may have had time to produce very little else. We also do not know whether the potter worked the land he was granted himself, or whether others worked it for him as tenants, sharecroppers, or slaves. He may never have engaged in agriculture, or, alternately, he may have potted for the palace in order to obtain the use of a significant quantity of land that was the real focus of his labor.
Standardization of attributes, whether mineralogical or metrical, has long been associated with craft specialization. Routine tasks may be expected to create motor habits that lead to more standardized (less variable) output (van der Leeuw 1976; Rice
1981; Kvamme et al. 1996; Longacre 1999). Rice (1987, p. 204), however, warned that such an equation was premature, given the limited ethnographic testing that had been implemented at the time. More recent work has identified other factors that modify levels of standardization and that might prove confounding variables. These include the potter’s use of measures to reduce variability (Arnold 1991); technical choices (such as handbuilding versus wheel-throwing versus use of molds; Arnold 1991); intentional
212 production of unique (highly variable) elite goods (Earle 1982) or conversely, of highly standardized goods to meet market demand, facilitate portability, or to demonstrate skill
(Roux 2003, p. 770; Feinman et al. 1992, p. 240; Underhill 2003, p. 208). Yet other confounding factors include levels of experience, training, or skill (Longacre et al. 1988, p. 105; Underhill 2003); care exercised in production (Pool 1992, p. 300); quality control through disposal of substandard goods (Costin and Hagstrum 1995, p. 622; Vitelli 1984, p. 121); and the number of individuals whose output is considered (“cumulative blurring” of multiple potters each with slightly different motor habits, Blackman et al. 1993).
Further complications may be created when the scholar, unfamiliar with the variety of size classes created by the original producer, bases statistics on members of multiple classes (Costin and Hagstrum 1995, p. 631-32).
In the case of the products found in rooms 18-22, we may dismiss many of these confounding variables. That the potter used measures to reduce variability appears unlikely. Measurement should result in significantly lower variability, as expressed by the C.V.,78 for those attributes the potter seeks to standardize (Underhill 2003, p. 207).
Chinese potters of the Guizhou province, for example, measure only the orifice of a pot
(Underhill 2003, p. 208), with the result that the C.V. value for the rim diameter of Wan bowls is notably lower than those for other attributes (Table 6.1).
Similar results have been obtained elsewhere. A Spanish potter who states that his goal is to produce standardized pots (Roux 2003, p. 770) obtains a high level of standardization in all variables except base size (Table 6.2); Roux suggests that “the
78 Coefficients of variation, defined as the standard deviation divided by the mean, then multiplied by 100 to give a percentage; the coefficient of variation is typically used as a representation of intra-group variability.
213 Variable # Pots # Potters Mean (cm) SD C.V. (%) Height 562 6 4.630 0.425 9.183 Rim diameter 562 6 14.079 0.461 3.272 Base diameter 562 6 6.157 0.790 12.824 Height/rim diameter 562 6 0.330 0.036 10.775
Table 6.1. C.V. values for Wan bowls, made by potters of the Guizhou province, after Underhill 2003, p. 249.
Variable # Pots # Potters Mean (cm) SD C.V. (%) Height 100 1 79.3 2.4 2.9 Rim diameter 100 1 100.1 2.6 2.5 Base diameter 100 1 50.0 2.3 4.6 Maximum diameter 100 1 121.0 2.1 1.7
Table 6.2. C.V. values for pitchers, made by a Spanish potter, after Roux 2003, p. 779.
variation in the base diameter could be related to the absence of visual reference when manufacturing the base” (2003, p. 777).
In cases where some of those attributes that were visible to a potter as he or she worked (rim diameter, height, maximum diameter) are far more standardized than attributes that were not visible (base diameter), it is reasonable to hypothesize that the potter intentionally standardized his or her production. Conversely, if more visible attributes are not far more standardized than less visible ones, it may be possible to reject the hypothesis that a potter was intentionally trying to standardize his products. Tables
6.3 through 6.7 demonstrate that the rim diameters of some ceramic forms from rooms
18-22 at Pylos may be slightly more standardized than are other attributes, but that the
214 differences are relatively small in comparison with the preceding cases.79 Hence, it is possible that the potter who produced these vessels was not intentionally standardizing his production, or that if he was, he did so ineffectively.
Various techniques, such as use of molds, can create different levels of standardization. We can control for variability in technique by comparing the pottery from the pantries only with data from other wheel-thrown populations. We may also reject the hypothesis that the vessels, as elite goods, were intentionally made variable in an effort to encode social or political symbols. The fact that the vessels from Pylos are unpainted and were not carefully manufactured (see above) is not in accord with a model that highlights the time-consuming production of unique products. Quality control through the disposal of substandard vessels is also clearly not a factor that has contributed to a restricted range of variation; instead, the carelessly repaired holes and tears and the asymmetry of many vessels attest to low quality control standards. Nor does the variation reflect the inclusion of multiple classes of vessels, since in Chapter 4 it proved possible to differentiate emic vessel types. We also know that the number of individuals whose work is represented in the pantries at Pylos is very low, perhaps only a single individual.
The level of variation displayed by the vessels under consideration is, then, likely to reflect in part a low level of specialization, skill, or experience. Roux (2003, p. 780) would claim that C.V. values above 6% indicate small-scale or very-small scale
79 It is possible that we should consider slightly higher rates of standardization in rim diameter, as compared to other attributes, to be normal given that the potter has a better visual grasp of the rim size, when he throws a pot, than he does of other attributes.
215 Variable # Pots Mean SD C.V. (%) Height (in cm) 80 5.79 0.53 9.16 Rim diameter (in cm) 80 15.92 1.11 6.97 Base diameter (in cm) 78 5.29 0.52 9.80 Height/rim diameter 80 0.364 0.03 8.17 Wall slope 78 0.273 0.025 9.15 Volume (in cc) 67 479 102 21.34
Table 6.3. C.V. values for standard bowls from rooms 20-22 of the Palace of Nestor.
Variable # Pots Mean SD C.V. (%) Height (in cm) 82 4.375 0.489 11.2 Rim diameter (in cm) 80 11.30 0.681 6.0 Base diameter (in cm) 81 4.08 0.491 12.0 Height/rim diameter 80 0.386 0.037 9.6 Wall slope 80 0.304 0.034 11.3 Volume (in cc) 50 164 35 21.3
Table 6.4. C.V. values for teacups from rooms 20-22 of the Palace of Nestor.
Variable # Pots Mean SD C.V. (%) Height (of bowl; in cm) 27 6.86 0.56 8.17 Rim diameter (in cm) 27 12.65 1.33 10.60 Base diameter (in cm) 25 4.63 0.48 10.30 Height/rim diameter 27 0.546 0.056 10.30 Wall slope 25 0.447 0.076 17.04
Table 6.5. C.V. values for flat-based dippers from rooms 20-22 of the Palace of Nestor.
216 Variable # Pots Mean SD C.V. (%) Height (in cm) 29 16.5 1.9 11.6 Rim diameter (in cm) 33 17.0 1.22 7.2 Base diameter (in cm) 29 7.8 0.65 8.4 Height/rim diameter 26 0.97 0.078 8.1 Average wall slope 26 0.893 0.12 13
Table 6.6. C.V. values for standard kylikes from rooms 18-20 of the Palace of Nestor.
Variable # Pots Mean SD C.V. (%) Height (in cm) 46 19.8 2.2 11.2 Rim diameter (in cm) 45 23.0 2.5 10.8 Base diameter (in cm) 46 9.1 0.6 6.6 Height/rim diameter 45 0.87 0.065 7.5 Average wall slope 45 0.72 0.08 11.0
Table 6.7. C.V. values for large kylikes from rooms 18, 20 of the Palace of Nestor.
production (less than 6,000 pots per year per potter) on the basis that she found this to be true of modern traditional potters. However, the ages and experience levels of the potters are not addressed. Not only are modern life expectancies typically higher than ancient, the demographics of potting populations seem to have changed. The observation that the only remaining potters are elderly, or that only a few of the younger generation are taking up potting, is common in the ethnographic literature (Hampe and Winter 1962, pp. ix-x;
London 1987, p. 320; Underhill 1991; Galaty 1999a, p. 37; Tekkök-Biçken 2000, p. 96).
Hence, modern traditional potters are probably, on average, more experienced than were ancient potters who worked at a similar level of specialization. It is therefore likely, in
217 the case of the potter(s) who produced the vessels from the palace pantries, that we have a combination of high levels of specialization and low levels of experience.
STATUS OF PRODUCERS AND CONSUMERS
In the field of economic anthropology over the past three decades, scholars have created descriptive models to classify “modes of production” (Peacock 1981, 1982; van der Leeuw 1984; Clark and Perry 1990; Costin 1991; Costin and Hagstrum 1995). They have then proceeded to assign various industries in various cultures to each classification.
The problem is that the predictive value of their paradigms has been assumed rather than tested. When the fit between the available data and the classification system has been poor, scholars either have tweaked the models to fit their evidence (as Underhill 1991), adding or subdividing categories, or they have attempted to shoehorn their data into the existing models.
In the case of the ceramics here under consideration, no model fits well. In some cases, models rely upon data that are not available for Pylos, a practical rather than a theoretical problem. Even so, it is possible to demonstrate that those models are inadequate to accurately describe production at Pylos. The models are, however, not entirely without value insofar as consideration of each parameter used as a criterion raises a number of issues; many of these factors individually demand closer consideration than they have previously received, and their relationships with each other are also worthy of consideration.
Here, I address Costin’s model, since it is relatively recent, incorporates earlier models, and is widely accepted and used. Costin (1986, 1991; see also Costin and
218 Hagstrum 1995) recognizes four parameters of production: context, concentration, constitution, and intensity. On the basis of these parameters, she establishes eight classes of producer: individual producer, dispersed workshop, community, nucleated workshop, dispersed corvée, individual retainer, nucleated corvée, and retainer workshop.
Context is intended to reflect the nature of the demand the producer meets, and, on that basis, Costin groups producers into “attached” specialists, who produce elite goods for elite consumers, and “independent” specialists, who produce utilitarian and domestic goods for distribution within a non-elite context. The failure of this distinction to be applicable in the case of Pylian ceramics has been discussed at length by Knappett
(2001); the basic problem is that the equation of elite consumers with elite goods and non-elite consumers with utilitarian goods is assumed by Costin to be absolute; it fails to account for the elite commission of utilitarian goods, as was likely the case for pottery in rooms 18-22, and it also fails to incorporate scenarios in which non-elite persons commission the production of what are regularly elite goods.
Costin’s second parameter, concentration of production, describes the spatial relationship between producers and consumers. Are producers dispersed throughout the community, with consequent minimal transport cost, or are producers nucleated in a single location, in which case consumers or distributors must transport goods over longer distances? This dichotomy is problematic insofar as it assumes transport to be the responsibility of the distributor or consumer, since ethnographically, producers transporting goods at least as far as fairs, festivals, or markets is well attested (for India see Roux 2003, p. 769). This parameter is also not particularly useful for my current study since the locations of workshops, and their spatial relationships with each other and
219 with consumers, are largely unknown. From the Mycenaean period on the Greek
Mainland, we have no recognized potters’ workshops (Hasaki 2002, p. 215) and only a few kilns (Hasaki 2002, p. 214-218).
Costin’s third parameter concerns the constitution of production groups: these may range from a single individual or small group of relatives working in the home to a large number of unrelated individuals employed in a large non-domestic facility (a
“factory” or “workshop”). There certainly is a correlation between the relatedness of workers and the location of the work. But unrelated slaves or employees may participate in production within the household, or members of an extended family may work together in staffing an industrial concern. Similarly, the size of a production facility need not correspond exactly with its location in reference to households; even large factories may serve as residences for their employees, as was the case for nineteenth century
Cuban cigar factories (Frank 1994). Because of the preceding problems, it is not possible to determine where the royal potter of Pylos lived and worked, or how such spaces were related to each other. We can, however, estimate the size and, very roughly, also the composition of his production group (see below).
The fourth parameter, the intensity of production, refers to “the relative economic exclusivity of production-related activities (i.e., part-time vs. full-time)” (Arnold 1991, p.
364). Though exclusivity is the factor that is typically included in preliminary discussions, most scholars, when they discuss intensity, are in fact interested in another, often (but not necessarily always) closely correlated factor: viz., time spent on a specified economic task (e.g., Underhill 2003). That these factors are not identical should be obvious; a “full-time” specialist who is able to support him or herself and any dependents
220 by working at a task 30 hours a week year-round invests less time in pottery production than a “part-time” specialist who works at pottery production 70 hours a week for six months of the year and engages in other activities the remainder of the year. Lacking information regarding actual time spent in pottery production, most scholars would expect the “full-time” specialist to be the more “intensive” producer and to manufacture the more standardized forms. Further investigation of such matters could prove to be highly informative, insofar as it would allow us to learn more about the value a society placed on labor in general, and on various activities in particular.
The extent to which an individual’s labor is invested in a single economic activity is not a factor that is easily measured from archaeological evidence. Seasonal weather patterns would tend to restrict the potting season, a restriction that meshes well with labor requirements for picking olives, but we do not know if all ancient potters engaged in agricultural labor when they were not producing pottery. We do not know whether any ancient potter was able to produce sufficient income to rest or engage in leisure activities when he was not potting.
Time spent on an activity is a more straightforward and archaeologically accessible parameter, and it is discussed above under “specialization.” Even so, this concept should be applied with care, as its significance largely depends on how broadly we define an economic task. For example, one potter who spends 10 hours a day, 5 months a year potting and the remainder of his time engaged in other tasks might be described as a less intense producer than one who spends 10 hours a day, 7 months of the year potting. If, however, the former only throws pots during his potting time, with family members or other assistants digging and processing the clay, adding handles, and
221 decorating and firing the pots, while the latter undertakes all these tasks himself, the former should perhaps be seen as a more intense producer than the latter. He spends more time at the wheel (and should, all other factors being equal, manufacture more standardized pots).
In short, none of Costin’s parameters should be carelessly applied to the potter who produced the wares in rooms 18-22 at Pylos. He is not “attached” nor is he
“independent.” The spatial relationship between his workshop and other workshops is unknown, and in any case has little bearing on the consumer’s need to travel to acquire pottery. The producer’s enterprise appears to have been relatively small-scale in terms of the number of individuals employed, but his workshop does not need to have been located in his home.
Without the use of these parameters, assigning production to categories such as
“individual specialization” or “nucleated workshops” or “individual retainers” (Costin
1991, pp. 8-9) becomes impossible. The producer of the material from rooms 18 through
22 does not seem to have been working in an elite or administered setting. Palatial oversight of his work seems to have been minimal. For this reason, he cannot be categorized as an individual retainer or a member of a nucleated corvée. He may not have worked full-time or in a highly specialized facility, so he cannot be categorized as a member of a retainer workshop (contra Galaty 1999a, p. 75). Nor (contra Galaty 1999a, p. 47) should we identify him as working in a nucleated workshop, as the workshop may not have been producing for “unrestricted regional consumption” (Costin 1991, p. 8).
Costin’s theoretical model is, then, not particularly useful for us. In its stead, we can create a more nuanced portrait of a producer who is remunerated by, but not
222 necessarily closely overseen by, a palatial consumer, and who enjoyed significant social status.80 He lacked experience, yet held the most important position in the polity for a potter; how he gained such a post is unclear. He did not earn it by creating beautifully painted, symmetrical pots. Did he inherit his position from his father, because he had somehow gained rights to the best clay beds, or because of personal ties to the wanax?
Or did he gain his position because he was willing and able to create large numbers of vessels in a short period of time, which was the primary interest of the palatial administrators?
80 Potters are typically near the bottom of the socioeconomic scale (Nicholson and Patterson 1992, p. 28, Rice 1987, p. 172), though Thompson argues that Classical period vase-painters in Athens were of “comparatively high economic and cultural status”, since the furniture they depict is tasteful and elegant, and they dedicated valuable offerings to Athena on the Acropolis, including relatively expensive inscribed bases for works of sculpture (1984, pp. 8-9).
223 Chapter 7: Conclusions and New Directions
I have argued for the use of a lifecycle approach to archaeological objects; this approach is not new, and its use is based primarily on methodological rather than theoretical concerns. It allows us to examine the stages of an object’s biography individually, their relationships, and the relationships among the decision-making processes and activities of the people who interacted with the object. The contents of rooms 18-22 of the Palace of Nestor provide a particularly interesting case both because they form a relatively complete and contemporaneous assemblage and because they appear to have undergone the entire lifecycle as a group, to have been produced, stored, used, and deposited together.
These finewares contain approximately 5% calcium carbonate inclusions and range widely in color from orange to buff to green, with even a single vessel occasionally exhibiting regions of each of the three colors. The relationship between these vessels and the finewares found outside the palace in Messenia is unclear; while greenish sherds are found throughout the region, they tend to be soft and powdery, in contrast with the hard, even vitrified palatial examples. Galaty did find the palatial finewares to be petrographically and chemically similar to those found outside the palace (1999, pp. 49,
70-71, 77), so the difference may be one of firing or post-firing history.
The pots would have been formed by a process that is well known to students of
Greek ethnography. The clay would have been dug and transported to the potter’s workshop. It would have been prepared cursorily, probably only by removing by hand any obvious debris and not by sieving or levigation. Wedging must have followed, then
224 wheel-throwing “off the hump”. Bowls, some teacups, and the occasional dipper or kylix bowl would have been pared to thin the walls, and stems of all but the smallest kylikes would have been thrown separately, then added after they had dried to leather-hard.
Handles and spouts would have been formed and affixed; most vessels would have been wet-wiped, and a few forms, such as tiny dippers and small jugs, would have been painted. The pots would have been stacked inverted in a kiln, then fired and slowly cooled.
The potter who undertook this process appears to have been inexperienced, working quickly, and unconcerned with quality control. The potter’s lack of experience is revealed by the presence of vessels that exhibit slumping, or vertical compression from gravity that results in a horizontal shelf, a problem characteristic of the output of inexperienced potters. The speed with which the pots were thrown is demonstrated by the presence of “spiral screws”, deep ridges left by the potter’s fingers as he formed the vessels. Many vessels exhibited traces of tears or holes that had been cursorily repaired before firing, and many are highly asymmetrical, indicating that poorly made vessels were not discarded.
The absence of a potter’s workshop from the immediate vicinity of the palace and the relatively minimal Linear B record regarding pots and potters are more compatible with the archaeological record than has traditionally been thought. Kilns and their affiliated workshops are typically sited at the margins, not the core, of settlements for reasons of safety, access to raw materials, and comfort. The four potters mentioned in the
Linear B record would have been easily capable of creating the masses of pottery used by the palace, and in fact, it is unlikely that the palace provided the primary means of
225 support for more than one potter. The finewares from the pantries are consistent with what we might expect to have been made by a single individual, revealing manufacture with consistent motor habits and paste, a reasonable level of metrical standardization, and fingerprints that need not have come from more than one producer. Depending on how quickly the potter was able to work, he could have formed the contents of rooms 18-22 in as few as 16 days or as many as 149 days, and the finewares from the entire palace in as few as 18 or as many as 171 days.
It is not possible to affiliate the potter and his workshop with any particular class of producer within contemporary economic anthropological models, typified here by that of Costin (1986; 1991). Because the goods were not elite, the producer cannot be described as having been attached, but because the potter received significant compensation from the palace, he cannot be considered to have been independent.
Whether producers were concentrated in a single location or disbursed throughout the polity is currently unknown, since no LH IIIB workshops or kilns have yet been discovered in Messenia, so we cannot identify production as being either nucleated or disbursed. While we know that the number of individuals engaged in production in this workshop was small, perhaps only one, we do not know what the geographic relationship between the space in which he or they lived and that in which he or they worked was.
Furthermore, the degree of exclusivity of production is unknown; while potting was a seasonally restricted activity, whether producers engaged in leisure activities or in other economically productive tasks during the off-season remains unclear. However, the number of unanswered questions about the potter’s production should not diminish the richness of the picture we are able to paint, of an inexperienced individual working
226 quickly and intensively to meet the needs of the palace, by which he is probably granted land-tenure in remuneration for his labor.
The palace provided remuneration in order to secure a large supply of vessels for use at a feast. The assemblage should be contrasted with the much smaller assemblage from another pantry, room 60, which appears to contain pottery in daily use, including basins, bowls, cups, kylikes, jugs, kraters, ladles, and tripod “incense burners”. The fabric of the pottery from rooms 18-22 is much finer the distinctive sandy red ware that characterizes the pottery from room 60, and the manufacturing techniques are slightly different; kylikes from room 19 have both the tops and the bottoms of the handles attached to the vessel’s exterior, while the kylikes from room 60 have the bottoms of the handles attached to the exteriors and the tops attached to the interiors. The palace contains vessels of four basic fabrics, one fine and three coarse. The vessels from room
60 are made from one of the coarse fabrics; the remaining two fabrics are primarily used for pithoi.
It is clear that the palace sponsored major feasts on a regular basis. Remains of the bones of sacrificed animals and of broken tablewares have been found, and the Linear
B tablets record the acquisition and disbursement of food and drink for feasts. These feasts appear to have been held approximately once a month. The Linear B tablets cover a period of three to five months and mention from four to six feasts, for an average frequency that might fall between twice monthly and four feasts in five months. Because many events within the palatial system did occur on a monthly basis, and because some months were named after festivals, an approximately monthly frequency seems likely.
227 Many or most of these feasts were held in locations other than the palace. None of the Linear B tablets points toward a location at Pylos, while many refer to other locations. The wall paintings from the throne room of the Palace of Nestor depict a feast held outdoors, not in a throne room or in a paved courtyard such as court 88. Even the presence of masses of new pottery at the palace does not imply that the feast took place at the palace; most of the pots were stored tied together in stacks and bunches, which would have allowed them to be carried by a pack animal or in a small cart.
Two different kinds of Pylian feasts are recorded in the Linear B tablets. The first kind was held at many locations at the same time, was provisioned at least in part by the palace, and entailed allocating resources to towns in proportion to the taxes they paid.
This type of feast appears to have been held for the entire populace, or very nearly so, as the quantities of wine disbursed would have been sufficient for every member of the region’s population to have consumed some. The tablets that record this type of feast each log single items that are disbursed. The second kind was held at a single location and was often provisioned at least in part by individuals or groups other than the palace; the tablets that record disbursements for feasts of this type list many different items.
Attendance at the latter type of feast must have been more limited; the quantities of food and wine provided were much lower. While the mechanisms by which participation was restricted are unknown, it is possible that some feasts were gender-specific, and pragmatic concerns must have prevented some individuals from attending feasts that were held some distance from their homes. It is also possible that some people may have been excluded from feasts on the basis of age grade or social status.
228 The degree to which the people who worked to present a banquet were valued and included must also have been variable. Iconographic and archaeological evidence suggest that lyre-players held relatively high social status. Bakers held mid-level status, and those who processed grain appear to have held lower levels of status. We have indirect evidence that there may have been servers, but their status is unknown.
Among banqueters, social status would have been marked by differences in behaviors, serving wares, and foods. A few banqueters may have been served by others, and although all participants may have eaten from similar clay vessels, the service wares from which a few received their food and drink may have been made of metal. Manners may have varied by social class. The greatest markers of elite and non-elite participants may, however, have been the food they consumed; the Mycenaeans had a strongly class- differentiated cuisine.
Haute cuisine tends to emerge as a form of conspicuous consumption in cultures with high levels of social differentiation, urbanization, and agricultural surplus, and without an ethos of simplicity. There are a variety of indications that the elites of Pylos did have a haute cuisine: they had access to a wide variety of ingredients and actively sought more, they had specialized personnel and elaborate food preparation tools and techniques, and the presence of nonfunctional miniature vessels in tombs indicates that food and its preparation had symbolic value.
While common cuisine probably relied heavily on grains as a base for porridges and soups, the palace utilized a large staff to grind grain, probably for bread. Other elements of haute cuisine probably included alcoholic beverages (such as wine, mead, or beer); pastries; meats; sauces and gravies; certain fruits, nuts, and herbs; perhaps oils; and
229 perhaps certain fish or seafoods. Some of these items would have been consumed only by elites, others would have been consumed more frequently by elites than by commoners; in many cases, elites would also have had access to higher quality ingredients and more skilled preparers. Even non-elites may have had occasional access to higher quality food or different types of food in the specific case of feasting.
Feasts provided benefits to both the elite and the non-elite members of society.
Sponsors of feasts created obligations on the parts of the recipients, hence converting economic capital to social capital. Indeed, elites appear to have used feasts as a mechanism by which they maintained the legitimacy of their status; elites themselves were fulfilling obligations, not merely indulging in vanity or engaging in political maneuvering, by their sponsorship of feasts. Commoners, on the other hand, benefited not only from being fed but from their inclusion in a social bond, contributing to a sense of identity; the sameness of their tablewares would have served as a visual reminder of that bond. The pottery from rooms 18-22, then, played a critical role in the construction of social identities at Pylos.
The significance of this pottery is underscored by its storage within the main building of the Palace of Nestor. The storage system can be reconstructed on the basis of architectural remains, the patterns in which vessels were deposited, and the use of mathematical tessellation. Room 19 was the most densely packed, with kylikes stored on shelves that skirted three sides of the room. Those shelves must have been relatively deep, reaching significantly farther into the middle of the room than the posts on which they were supported, with at least four rows of kylikes between each wall and the interior
230 of the room. Among the methods by which the kylikes might have been stacked, the most likely is horizontal pairs with crossed stems.
Room 18 was significantly less densely packed, with a variety of serving shapes found clustered by type. Some types, such as bowls, were found stacked; others, such as tiny amphoras and small jugs, were found with their handles aligned as if they had been tied together. Because many of the vessels that had been strung together were found immediately in front of the door, where they cannot have been placed on a shelf or the floor, they are likely to have been suspended from the doorframe or the ceiling. Room 18 does present a puzzle: the pottery from the LH IIIB level was all found within a relatively limited area at the northwest end of the room, making it uncertain what the remainder of the room contained. One possibility is that the southeast end of the room had contained more pottery but was cleared out for later reuse of the area, but if that had been the case, we would expect that other locations such as the doorway between rooms 18 and 20 would have been cleared as well. Another alternative is that perishable furniture, or vessels such as baskets or wooden platters, were stored there and did not survive. A third possibility is that metal vessels were stored there and were removed either in anticipation of the palace’s demise or scavenged afterwards.
Room 20 also contained primarily serving vessels, stacked by type along its walls.
It is uncertain whether shelves were in use in this room at the time of the palace’s destruction; the excavators offer conflicting information about whether traces of carbonized wooden shelving were found. Rooms 21 and 22 contained large numbers of unpainted tablewares. Room 21 contained 1,099 shallow bowls along its southeast wall and 1,024 “teacups” along the northwest wall. Stone slabs along the northwest wall
231 appear to have served as bases for piers supporting shelves. Room 22 contained more shallow bowls and “teacups” as well as dippers: along the southeast wall were primarily bowls and dippers, in addition to 33 “teacups”; along the northwest wall were primarily dippers, in addition to a few bowls and several “teacups”. Near the southeastern wall was a flat stone that might indicate that shelving was used in this room too. In both rooms 21 and 22, bowls were clearly stacked, typically 10 high, tied together through their handles.
Dippers were also found with handles aligned, suggesting that they too had been tied together.
This practice of storing pottery by type contributes to an analysis of how
Mycenaeans classified their own pottery. Such a classification system, which can be considered to be a “folk” classification (in contrast to “devised” classifications such as
Furumark 1941 and Mountjoy 1986, 1993), can be reconstructed from the patterns in which pottery was stored, the Linear B ideograms and names for and descriptions of vessels, and the variation in the pots themselves. Some vessel names refer to the functions or shapes of the pots to which they refer, indicating that these are basic attributes of Mycenaean vessel taxonomy. Variations in ideograms suggest that both proportion and features (feet or bases, stems, and handles) are important axes of delineation. Adjectives used to describe vessels indicate that size, workmanship, decoration, and material are lower-order means of differentiating vessels.
I began an evaluation of ancient categories by asking to what extent the categories recognized by Rawson represent original categories. The first question was whether she had divided folk categories. An exclusion matrix (Fig. 4.2) allowed me to determine which categories were properly divided on the basis of first order criteria (proportion and
232 features). A few of her categories could not be differentiated on the basis of these criteria and were, therefore, combined. Then, the resulting categories were analyzed to determine whether any should be split; none were divided on the basis of first-order criteria, but an analysis of the sizes of vessels suggested that some categories could be subdivided by size. Single variables were graphed, and when the resulting histograms were multimodal, each peak was considered to represent the mode of a separate category.
The result is a typology (Table 4.3) that reflects the Mycenaean vessel typology and is consistent with the horizontal distribution pattern of vessels within the pantries.
Although the LH IIIB vessels from the pantries primarily come from a single floor level, close examination of the notebooks and photographs from the excavation suggests that in room 18, a second floor level sits above the main one but below the collapsed mud brick superstructure of the building. The stratigraphy can be reconstructed as follows: above the LH IIIB floor is a thin black stratum, probably representing burned shelves; above and adjacent to the black stratum is a thicker yellow stratum, representing an accumulation of windborne particulates; at the top of the yellow layer is the later floor, on which a “shrine” sits; above the “shrine” is a thick red stratum representing burned and collapsed mud-brick; next to the surface is the plow zone.
This stratigraphy can be elucidated in light of the sequence of decay visible in modern mud brick buildings in the region. The palace appears to have burned and then abandoned with the walls nearly intact. After an unknown period of time, a person or people returned and scavenged LH IIIB vessels and a table of offerings, which they used to form the small shrine. At some point shortly thereafter, the mud brick walls collapsed or slowly disintegrated, filling the room with red soil. Interestingly, two bowls from the
233 level of the shrine preserve distinctive wear patterns, in contrast with the remainder of the pottery from the pantries, which appears unworn, reinforcing the conclusion that this assemblage served a different function from the remainder of the materials from the pantries.
The fact that the palatial structure appears to have collapsed gradually, rather than dramatically as the palace burned, reopens the question of whether the palace was ruined intentionally. If the palace had collapsed as it burned, then we might reasonably have concluded that it had been emptied of its valuable contents before it was destroyed, suggesting deliberate destruction. If, however, the palace remained largely intact after the fire, it is possible that the destruction was accidental, and that the valuable goods were salvaged post-destruction. Hence, in the future, we will need to find new approaches to evaluating whether the palace was burned intentionally or accidentally.
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267 APPENDIX I
SOILS RECOVERED FROM SHERDS FROM ROOM 19
The excavators did not describe the soils they excavated beyond using such adjectives as “yellowish” or “reddish”. In the time since this excavation, it has become standard practice to provide Munsell values to represent the colors of soils. Fortunately, a number of lots from room 19 remained unwashed, and it proved possible to establish
Munsell values for a few soil samples obtained from the unwashed lots. These values are presented here. All soils seemed to the touch to have high sand and clay content.
268
Tag Information Munsell value
Area R Room 2 [New 19] S. corner; 7.5YR 4/6 strong brown zembilis 1-4, part of 5; MR pp. 116, 118; July 16/52
Area R Room 2 [New 19] S. corner; 5YR 5/6-5/8 yellowish red zembilis 1-4, part of 5; MR pp. 116, 118; July 16/52
Area R Room 2 [New 19] S. corner; 10YR 6/3 pale brown zembilis 1-4, part of 5; MR pp. 116, 118; July 16/52
Area R Room 2 [New 19] E. corner; 5YR 5/6-6/6 yellowish red - reddish yellow barrel 11, 41 kylikes
Area R Room 2 [New 19] E. corner; 7.5YR 4/3-4/4 brown barrel 11, 41 kylikes
269 APPENDIX II
POTTERY DEPOSITION PATTERNS BY TYPE
Marion Rawson drew a plan of each room as she excavated (1955). On each plan, she wrote in the “lot” number, and she included in her notebook a summary of what pot types were included in each lot. It was, therefore, possible to reconstruct the distribution of pot types through the pantries. The reconstructions I present here are based on
Rawson’s initial determinations of which types the pots were; because she attributed various types to the vessels as she excavated, and the attributions are based on initial impressions, they may actually be more reliable than the more detailed typology she eventually published (Blegen and Rawson 1966; see Chapter 4). It should be noted that it was not possible to reconstruct every pot-type distribution (Rawson’s numbers 5, 19, 24,
30, 31, and 51 were impossible). Also, the Rawson type numbers given in this appendix are not all consecutive, because not all of Rawson’s pot types were actually found in the pantries.
It is possible that some details would change with a reexamination of the materials; lot numbers are still associated with most of the pottery, and it would be possible (if time-consuming) to determine which pots should be associated with each of the emic categories reconstructed in Chapter 4. Nonetheless, I am confident that the overall picture would change relatively little, and the following plans demonstrate the extent to which individual pot types are localized, as well as the fact that the character of
270 rooms 19, 21, and 22 (storage of vast numbers of vessels of a limited number of shapes) is distinctly different from the character of rooms 18 and 20 (storage of smaller numbers of vessels of a broader range of shapes). The similarities of distributions of type 29 kylikes of any given size, regardless of stem length, also suggests that Rawson’s decision to eliminate stem length as a criterion for sorting kylikes was an appropriate choice.
On each plan, a heavy circle represents the known location of a vessel, a lighter circle represents an approximate location, and a question mark represents a possible location. The current room numbers on the following plans are as shown below.
271 TYPE 1: BASINS
TYPE 3: MINIATURE HANDLELESS BOWLS
272 TYPE 4: SHALLOW ANGULAR BOWL
TYPE 9: SPOUTED BOWLS
273
TYPE 12: “TEACUPS”
TYPE 13: CUPS WITH RING BASES
274 TYPE 18: CUPS WITH TWO HIGH HANDLES, RAISED BASE
TYPE 20: MINIATURE DIPPER
275 TYPE 21: SMALL SEMIGLOBULAR DIPPER
TYPE 23: DIPPER WITH RAISED BASE OR FLAT BOTTOM
276 TYPE 25: LARGE DIPPER WITH ROUNDED HANDLE
TYPE 26: MINIATURE KYLIX
277 TYPE 27: ANGULAR ONE HANDLED KYLIX
TYPE 29: KYLIKES – MEDIUM WITH SHORT STEMS
278 TYPE 29: KYLIKES – MEDIUM WITH MEDIUM STEMS
TYPE 29: KYLIKES – MEDIUM WITH LONG STEMS
279 TYPE 29: KYLIKES – LARGE WITH SHORT STEMS
TYPE 29: KYLIKES – LARGE WITH MEDIUM STEMS
280 TYPE 29: KYLIKES – LARGE WITH LONG STEMS
TYPE 29: KYLIKES – GIANT
281 TYPE 33: TANKARD
TYPE 34: SMALL NARROW-NECKED JUG
282 TYPE 35: SMALL WIDE-NECKED JUG
TYPE 36: LARGER WIDE-NECKED JUG
283 TYPE 42: NARROW-NECKED LOW-STEMMED JUG
TYPE 46: SMALL WIDE-MOUTHED AMPHORA
284 TYPE 47: SMALL NARROW-MOUTHED AMPHORA WITH PEDESTAL BASE
TYPE 62: STEMMED KRATER
285 TYPE 77: LARGE LID
286 APPENDIX III
FOODS AVAILABLE FOR MYCENAEAN CUISINE
The following table presents a list of food items that would have been available to
Mycenaean culinary personnel. Foods are listed by type, with any Linear B or archaeological evidence for the use of that food, and with a basic list of references. The table is intended to illustrate the wide variety of foods available, not to be comprehensive either bibliographically or in terms of the number of foods listed.
287
Food class Food item Linear B Evidence Archaeological Evidence References Meat: Dabney, Halstead, and Thomas Ass LH IIIA2 Tsoungiza 2004, p. 79 Badger Tzedakis and Martlew 1999, p. 65 Brothwell and Brothwell 1998, p. 37; Dabney, Halstead, and Thomas 2004, p. 79; Isaakidou et al. 2002, LH IIIA2 Tsoungiza; LH p. 88; Palaima 1989; Sloan and IIIB Nichoria, LH IIIB Duncan 1978, p. 63; Tzedakis and Bovine 109, *23 C- Midea, LH IIIB Pylos Martlew 1999, p. 64-65, 124 LH IIIB Midea, LH IIIB Nichoria, LM III C Isaakidou et al. 2002, p. 88; Sloan Deer/Red Chamalevri, LH IIIB and Duncan 1978, p. 63; Tzedakis Deer 104 Cn Pylos and Martlew 1999, p. 65, 125 Brothwell and Brothwell 1998, p. 37; Dabney, Halstead, and Thomas 2004, p. 79; Sloan & Duncan 1978, Dog LH IIIA2 Tsoungiza p. 63 Donkey Cherry 1990, p. 163 Dormouse Brothwell and Brothwell 1998, p. (wild) 37 Eggs (bird, reptile; perhaps especially Dalby 1996, p. 64, 65; Vickery quail) LH III Thebes 1936, p. 35 Brothwell and Brothwell 1998, p. 37; Sloan and Duncan 1978, p. 63; Equids 105 Ca S- LM IIIC Chamalevri Tzedakis and Martlew 1999, p. 64 Fowl (many, including duck, goose, pigeon, quail, moorhen, capon, Bottéro 1995, p. 250, 252; Dalby mallard) 1996, p. 63 Brothwell and Brothwell 1998, p. 37; Dabney, Halstead, and Thomas 2004, p. 79; Isaakidou et al. 2002, LH IIIA2 Tsoungiza, LH p. 88; Sloan and Duncan 1978, p. IIIB Nichoria, LH IIIB 63; Tzedakis and Martlew 1999, Goat 107 *22 C- Mc Midea, LH IIIB Pylos pp. 64-65, 106, 124 Brothwell and Brothwell 1998, p. Hedgehog 37 Locusts et Brothwell and Brothwell 1998, p. al. insects 68
288 Brothwell and Brothwell 1998, p. 37; Dabney, Halstead, and Thomas LH IIIA2 Tsoungiza, LH 2004, p. 79; Isaakidou et al. 2002, IIIB Nichoria, LH IIIB p. 88; Sloan and Duncan 1978, p. Midea, LH IIIB/C 63; Tzedakis and Martlew 1999, Pig/Boar 108, *85 C- Thebes, LH IIIB Pylos pp. 64-65, 106, 121, 124 LM IB Chania-Splanzia, Tzedakis and Martlew 1999, p. 65, Platoni LM IIIC Chamalevri 106 Brothwell and Brothwell 1998, p. 37; Cherry 1990, p. 163; Sloan and Rabbit/ LH IIIB Nichoria, LH Duncan 1978, pp. 63, 70; Tzedakis Hare IIIB Midea and Martlew 1999, pp. 65, 80 Brothwell and Brothwell 1998, p. 37; Isaakidou et al. 2002, p. 88; LM III Chamalevri, LH Sloan and Duncan 1978, p. 63; IIIB Nichoria, LH IIIB Tzedakis and Martlew 1999, pp. Sheep 106 C- D- Midea, LH IIIB Pylos 64-65, 106, 124 Brothwell and Brothwell 1998, p. Snake 56 Brothwell and Brothwell 1998, p. Tortoise/ 56; Sloan and Duncan 1978, pp. Turtle LH IIIB Nichoria 70, 72 Seafood: Fish (shad, flatfishes, gadoids, redfishes, jacks, mullets, pilchard, tuna, Brothwell and Brothwell 1998, pp. mackerel, LN Gerani Cave, E-MH 57-58; Riley 1999, pp. 56-117; shark, Lerna, LH III Thebes; LH Tzedakis and Martlew 1999, pp. etc.) IIIB Midea 80, 125; Vickery 1936, p. 35 Moluscs Brothwell and Brothwell 1998, pp. (mussels, 63-66; Riley 1999, pp. 56-117; snails, LH IIIB Nichoria, LH Sloan and Duncan 1978, p. 72; clams, IIIB Midea, LH III Tzedakis and Martlew 1999, pp. etc.) Mycenae 62, 125; Vickery 1936, p. 29 Crusta- ceans Riley 1999, pp. 56-117 Cephalo- pods (Squid, cuttlefish, octopus) Riley 1999, pp. 78,116 Eels Riley 1999, p. 77
Dairy (cow, sheep, goat, mare): Milk
289 Chadwick 1973, p. 51; Palaima Cheese *156 Un 1989, p. 88 Sour milk Butter
Sugars: Brothwell and Brothwell 1998, p. MM Chamalevri, LH IIIB 73; Dalby 1996, p. 47; Tzedakis Honey 135 Fs Gg Mycenae and Martlew 1999, pp. 48, 51, 133 Brothwell and Brothwell 1998, p. Carob 80 Date "honey" (imported) Brothwell and Brothwell 1998, pp. ? 80, 84 Brothwell and Brothwell 1998, p. 81; Renfrew 1973, p. 136, Ventris Fig syrup and Chadwick 1956, p. 50 Grape/ must/other Brothwell and Brothwell 1998, p. fruit con- 81; Palmer 1994; Renfrew 1973, p. centrate Un 267.8 131 Tamarisk Brothwell and Brothwell 1998, p. "honey" 84
Brothwell and Brothwell 1998, pp. Fungi 85-93
Cereals: (in form of porridge, bread, cakes, pastries, Tzedakis and Martlew 1999, p. soups, 120; Zohary and Hopf 1988, pp. etc.) LH IIIB Thebes 13-82 Hopf 1971, pp. 267-268; Tzedakis and Martlew 1999, p. 130; Barley MH,LH Athens; M/LBA Renfrew 1973, pp. 68-81; (two and 120 or 121 F- Kastanas; LH IIIC Chadwick 1973, p. 50; Zohary and 6-row) perhaps E- Mycenae Hopf 1988, pp. 52-63, 192 Tzedakis and Martlew 1999, p. 126; Renfrew 1973, pp. 40-67; Wheat Chadwick 1973, p. 50; Vickery (Triticum 120 or 121 F- MH Orchomenos; LH 1936, p. 33; Zohary and Hopf species) perhaps E- IIIB Midea 1988, pp. 16-52, 192 MM Chamalevri, LBA Tzedakis and Martlew 1999, pp. Emmer Kastanas, LH IIIC 41, 130; Zohary and Hopf 1988, wheat Mycenae pp. 14, 17, 24, 37-45, 192, 207-9 Zohary and Hopf 1988, pp. 24, 45- Spelt EBA-LBA Kastanas 51, 192 Tzedakis and Martlew 1999, p. M/LBA Kastanas, LH 130; Zohary and Hopf 1988, pp. Einkorn IIIC Mycenae 17, 24, 28-37, 192
290 Millet LBA Kastanas, Renfrew 1973, pp. 99-103; Zohary (Setaria) Macedonia and Hopf 1988, pp. 77, 80 Millet LBA Kastanas, (Panicum) Macedonia Zohary and Hopf 1988, pp. 76-78 Brothwell and Brothwell 1998, pp. 100-101; Renfrew 1973, pp. 87-98; Achilleon, Thessaly Renfrew 1966; Vickery 1936, p. (aceramic N); EM Debla, 33; Warren and Tzedhakis 1974, p. Crete; EBA Kastanas; 334; Zohary and Hopf 1988, pp. Oat (wild) MH Orchomenos? 71-76, 192 Perennial rye-grass Renfrew 1973, p. 175; Zohary and (weed?) MH Orchomenos, Boeotia Hopf 1988, p. 63-71 Chadwick 1973, p. 50; Renfrew 1973, p. 205; Zohary and Hopf Flax 128 G- at MYC EH Lerna 1988, pp. 114-19
Vegeta- bles: Hansen 2000; Hopf 1971, p. 267; Tzedakis and Martlew 1999, p. MH Athens; LM IB 114; Renfrew 1973, pp. 104-106; Pulses: Armenoi Zohary and Hopf 1988, pp. 83-112 Tzedakis and Martlew 1999, pp. Lentils LM IB Chania-Kastelli, 101, 124, 129; Renfrew 1973, pp. (Lens LH IIIB Midea, LH IIIB 113-115; Zohary and Hopf 1988, esculenta) Mycenae pp. 14, 85-92 Renfrew 1973, pp. 118-119; Chickpeas Tzedakis and Martlew 1999, p. (Cicer 125; Zohary and Hopf 1988, pp. arietinum) LH IIIB Midea 14, 98-102 Horsebean /Broad Tzedakis and Martlew 1999, pp. bean LH Iolkos, LM IB 101, 125, 130; Renfrew 1973, pp. (Vicia Chania-Kastelli, LH IIIB 107-109; Renfrew 1966; Zohary faba) Midea, LH IIIC Mycenae and Hopf 1988, pp. 102-107 Bitter Renfrew 1973, pp. 116-117; vetch Tzedakis and Martlew 1999, pp. (Vicia LH IIIB Midea, LH IIIB, 125, 129, 130; Zohary and Hopf ervilia) LH IIIC Mycenae 1988, pp. 14, 107-108 Field peas (Pisum sativum Renfrew 1973, pp. 110-112; var. Zohary and Hopf 1988, pp. 14, 92- arvense) EN Sesklo, EN Ghediki 98 Tzedakis and Martlew 1999, pp. Grass peas 125, 129; Renfrew 1973, pp. 117- (Lathyrus LH IIIB Midea, LH IIIB 118; Zohary and Hopf 1988, pp. sativus) Mycenae 109-110 Dwarf chickling (Lathyrus EH, MH Lerna, LM IB Renfrew 1973, p. 174; Tzedakis cicera L.) Chania-Kastelli and Martlew 1999, p. 100 Lathyrus clymenum LB Akrotiri Sarpaki 1992
291 Root/ Tubers: Daisy (Composi- tae, 3 species) Shay and Shay 1978, p. 47 Goosefoot Shay and Shay 1978, p. 47 D'Andrea 1982, p. 54; Shay and Mint Shay 1978, p. 47 Onions D'Andrea 1982, p. 63 Orchid Shay and Shay 1978, p. 47 Parsley (Umbelli- ferae) Shay and Shay 1978, p. 47 Wild carrot? Renfrew 1973, p. 171 MN, LN Gerani Cave, Tzedakis and Martlew 1999, p. 82, Greens: MM IIB Monastiraki 83, 96 Asparagus (wild, cultivated) Shay and Shay 1978, p. 43 Chadwick 1973, pp. 131, 247, 412, Beet/ 447; Zohary and Hopf 1988, pp. chard? PY Eo276 ??? 170-171 D'Andrea 1982, pp. 38-39; Shay Borage and Shay1978, p. 47 Cabbage? Zohary and Hopf 1988, p. 170 Palmer 1999, p. 484; Sarpaki 2001, Celery *9 MY Ge 604 pp. 227, 240
*70 G- (probably EH Sitagroi, LBA Coriander refers to seed) Thera/Therasia Renfrew 1973, p. 171 Daisy Shay and Shay 1978, p. 47 Dock Shay and Shay 1978, p. 47 *80 G- at KN, Fennel MYC Palmer 1999, p. 476 Goosefoot Shay and Shay 1978, p. 47 Grape Renfrew 1973, pp. 125-131 Lettuce? (Egypt) Zohary and Hopf 1988, p. 170 Lily Shay and Shay 1978, p. 47 Mallow Dalby 1996, p. 24 Mint Palmer 1999, p. 476 Renfrew 1973, p. 166; Shay and Mustard LH Marmariani, Thessaly Shay 1978, p. 47 Shay and Shay 1978, p. 47; Myrtle D'Andrea 1982, p. 60 Nettle leaves Shay and Shay 1978, p. 47 Onion D'Andrea 1982, pp. 63-64 Pink Shay and Shay 1978, p. 47 Shay and Shay 1978, p. 47; Zohary Poppy and Hopf 1988, pp. 123-125; 192
292 Tzedakis and Martlew 1999, pp. MM IIB Monastiraki, LM 96, 108; Zohary and Hopf 1988, Fruits: IB Chania pp. 128-166 Renfrew 1973, pp. 136-139; Apple? Zohary and Hopf 1988, pp. 151- (wild) 154 Black- Renfrew 1973, pp. 147-148; berry/rasp Zohary and Hopf 1988, pp. 179- -berry 180 Carob Shay and Shay 1978, p. 43 Cherry Zohary and Hopf 1988, pp. 158- (wild) 159 Neo. Nea Nikomedeia, Renfrew 1973, pp. 141-143; Shay Cornelian Neo. Sitagroi, LH III and Shay 1978, p. 54; Zohary and cherry Nichoria? Hopf 1988, p. 181 Cucumber (Cucumis) (Nimrud; 3rd millennium Renfrew 1973, p. 153; Zohary and ? BC east Iran) Hopf 1988, p. 168 Date? (as Zohary and Hopf 1988, pp. 146- import) 150 Renfrew 1973, pp. 134-136; LBA Kokovatos; LM IIIB Tzedakis and Martlew 1999, pp. Sternes Akrotiri (Chania), 41, 99, 124; Zohary and Hopf Fig *30 F- LH IIIB Midea 1988, pp. 142-145 Dalby 1996, pp. 47-49; Hopf 1971, p. 267; Tzedakis and Martlew LH III Nichoria, LH IIIB 1999, pp. 41, 124, 131; Renfrew Grape Mycenae, LH Tiryns, , 1973, pp. 125-131; Renfrew 1995; (wild and LH Sparta, LH IIIB Zohary and Hopf 1988, pp. 136- cultivated) Midea 142 Hackberry ? Zohary and Hopf 1988, p. 178 Haw- Renfrew 1973, p. 150; Zohary and thorne? Hopf 1988, p. 177 Brothwell and Brothwell 1998, p. Medlar? 135 Melon (Cucumis) BA Tiryns Zohary and Hopf 1988, p. 168 Myrtle berry D'Andrea 1982, p. 60; Shay and (flavor) Shay 1978, p. 47 LM IA Therasia Thera, Hamilakis 1996; Renfrew 1973, LM III Knossos, LBA pp. 131-134; Tzedakis and Iolkos, LH III Nichoria, Martlew 1999, pp. 37, 124, 131; LH IIIB Midea, LH IIIB Vickery 1936, p. 15; Zohary and Olive 122 F- U- Mycenae Hopf 1988, pp. 131-136 LN Sitagroi, LN Dikili Tzedakis and Martlew 1999, p. 41; Pear (wild Tash, LN/EH Dhimini, Renfrew 1973, pp. 139-141; and MM Chamalevri, BA Zohary and Hopf 1988, pp. 154- cultivated) Kastanas 156 Plum? Zohary and Hopf 1988, pp. 156- (wild) 158 Pome- Tzedakis and Martlew 1999, p. granate 150; Renfrew 1973, pp. 152-3; (import?) LB III Ulu Burun Shay and Shay 1978, p. 47; Zohary
293 and Hopf 1988, p. 150-151
Straw- berry tree LN Lerna Renfrew 1973, p. 152 "Sweet courgette" MM IIB Apodoulou Tzedakis and Martlew 1999, p. 89 Tsikouda (Pistacia terebinthu s L.) Sarpaki 2001, p. 213-215 Watermel on Zohary and Hopf 1988, pp. 167- (Citrullus) (2nd millennium Egypt) 168
Renfrew 1973, pp. 154-160; Zohary and Hopf 1988, pp. 128- Nuts: 166 Mason 1995; Renfrew 1973, pp. 154-155; Shay and Shay 1978, p. M/LBA Kastanas, LH III 54; Zohary and Hopf 1988, pp. Acorn Nichoria 175-176, 192 Hazel nut (wild) Zohary and Hopf 1988, p. 165 Sweet chestnut Zohary and Hopf 1988, p. 164 Beech mast Shay and Shay 1978, p. 47 Renfrew 1973, pp. 156-157, Almond Paleo-Neolithic Franchthi, Tzedakis and Martlew 1999, p. 41; (wild, Neo. Knossos, MM Zohary and Hopf 1988, pp. 160- cultivated) Chamalevri 163 Renfrew 1973, p. 156; Zohary and Walnut Hopf 1988, pp. 163-164 Pistachio (or lentisk Renfrew 1973, pp. 157-159; or EN, LN Sesklo; BA Zohary and Hopf 1988, pp. 165- terebinth) Kastanas 166, 177 Pine kernels Dalby 1996, pp. 81-82
Zohary and Hopf 1988, pp. 113- Oils: 127 Chadwick 1973, p. 50; Hamilakis BA Palaikastro, LM IB 1996; Renfrew 1973, p. 131-134; Chania, LM IIIB Tzedakis and Martlew 1999, pp. Olive oil 130 F- Armenoi, LH IIIB Thebes 41, 108, 115, 116, 120 Lard/ animal fats *134, *190 Ilievski 1966 Radish Palmer 1995, p. 242; Zohary and oil? Fr 1215? Hopf 1988, p. 125-126 Castor oil Sesame Hamilakis 1996, p. 21; Zohary and oil? Hopf 1988, pp. 126-127
294 Hamilakis 1996, p. 21; Renfrew Linseed 1973, pp. 120-124; Zohary and oil EH Lerna Hopf 1988, pp. 114-119 Hamilakis 1996.21; Renfrew 1973.161-163; Zohary and Hopf Poppy oil? 1988.123-124 Nut oils (almond, Palmer 1995, p. 240; Renfrew beech, Fr 1194? Fr 1207? 1973, pp. 154-160; Zohary and etc.) et al. Hopf 1988, pp. 176-177
Palm oil? Fr 1203? Fr 1208? Palmer 1995, p. 242 Shep- herd's Purse? (Catal Huyuk) Renfrew 1973, p. 169
Herbs/ spices/ condi- ments/ preserva- tives Anise LBA Thera/Therasia Renfrew 1973, p. 178
Asafoe- tida? D'Andrea 1982, p. 32; Shay and Basil Shay 1978, p. 45 Bay D'Andrea 1982, p. 35-37; Shay and Laurel Shay 1978, p. 47 Black Cumin? (Egypt) Zohary and Hopf 1988, p. 173 Carda- mom MY Ge 604 Sarpaki 2001, pp. 206, 240 Capers Shay and Shay 1978, p. 47 Chamo- mile D'Andrea 1982, p. 40 Chervil? Dalby 1996, p. 25 Chive? Dalby 1996, p. 50; D'Andrea 1982, p. 42-43; Palmer 1999, p. 476; Renfrew 1973, p. 171; Sarpaki *70 G- at PY, KN, EH Sitagroi, LBA 2001, pp. 215-216, 246-247; Coriander MYC Thera/Therasia Zohary and Hopf 1988, p. 172 Palmer 1999, p. 476; Sarpaki 2001, Cumin (or *81 ku-mi-no at pp, 216-217, 248; Zohary and caraway?) MYC (Egypt) Hopf 1988, p. 172-173 Cyperus (rotundus, longus, or esculentus Chadwick 1973, p. 50; Palmer probable 124, 125?, 126? ku- 1999, p. 471; Zohary and Hopf import) pa-ro at PY, KN (Egypt) 1988, p. 171
295 D'Andrea 1982, pp. 44-45; Zohary Dill? (Egypt) and Hopf 1988, pp. 172-173 Chadwick 1973, p. 50; D'Andrea *80 G- at KN, 1982, pp. 46-48; Palmer 1999, p. Fennel MYC 476; Sarpaki 2001, pp. 219, 245 Renfrew 1973, p. 188; Zohary and Fenugreek Hopf 1988, pp. 110-111 D'Andrea 1982, pp. 49-51; Zohary Garlic? (Egypt, Mesopotamia) and Hopf 1988, p. 169 Juniper berries? Malia Sarpaki 2001, pp. 230-231 Zohary and Hopf 1988, pp. 168- Leeks? (Egypt, Mesopotamia) 169 Lovage? Marjoram Shay and Shay 1978, p. 45 D'Andrea 1982, pp. 54-56; Palmer 1999, p. 476; Sarpaki 2001, pp. MY Ge 602, 603, 219-220, 249; Shay and Shay Mint 605, 606 1978, p. 45 Mustard D'Andrea 1982, p. 57-58; Renfrew seed LH Marmariani, Thessaly 1973, p. 166 Oak, toasted MM II Monastiraki Tzedakis and Martlew 1999, p. 146 Zohary and Hopf 1988, pp. 169- Onion (Egypt, Mesopotamia) 170 Oregano D'Andrea 1982, pp. 66-68 Parsley, parsley D'Andrea 1982, p. 68; Shay and seed Shay 1978, p. 47 LH IIIB Mycenae, LH Pine resin IIIC Thebes Tzedakis and Martlew 1999, p. 187 Renfrew 1973, pp. 161-163; Poppy Sarpaki 2001, pp. 231-234 Shay seeds LBA Thera, Tiryns and Shay 1978, p. 47 D'Andrea 1982, pp. 70-72; Sarpaki 2001, pp. 228-230, 240; Shay and Shay 1978, p. 47; Shelmerdine Rose (PY Fr as aromatic) 1998, p. 108 D'Andrea 1982, pp. 73-75; Shay Rosemary and Shay 1978, p. 43 D'Andrea 1982, pp. 76-78; Rue LH IIIC Mycenae Tzedakis and Martlew 1999, p. 164 Palmer 1999, p. 476; Sarpaki 2001, ka-na-ko re-u-ka in pp. 206-208, 244; Zohary and Safflower Ge at MYC Hopf 1988, p. 174 D'Andrea 1982, pp. 80-81; Sarpaki 2001, pp. 203-205; Zohary and Saffron *33 Np at KN Hopf 1988, p. 173 D'Andrea 1982, pp. 82-84; Sarpaki 2001, pp. 220-221, 256; Sage PY Fr tablets Shelmerdine 1998, p. 107
Salt
296 Fr 1200, Fr 1202, Salvia et al. Palmer 1963, pp. 241, 242 Savory Shay and Shay 1978, p. 43 Palmer 1999, p. 476; Sarpaki 2001, *31 sa-sa-maat pp. 226-227, 249; Zohary and Sesame MYC (Egypt) Hopf 1988, pp. 126-127 Sarpaki 2001, pp. 210-212, 243; Terebinth MM II Apodoulou, LB III Tzedakis and Martlew 1999, pp. resin *123? at KN, PY Ulu Burun 149, 150 Dalby 1996, pp. 26-27; D'Andrea 1982, pp. 84-86; Shay and Shay Thyme 1978, p. 43 Vinegar (wine, squill, other fruits?)
Bever- ages: Water Mead McGovern 1999 Tzedakis and Martlew 1999, p. 144; Renfrew 1973, pp. 125-131; Wine 131 Fs U- EM IIB Myrtos Chadwick 1973, p. 50 Ale (barley, MM IIB Apodoulou, Tzedakis and Martlew 1999, pp. emmer, probable; LH IIIB/C 162, 183; Renfrew 1973, pp. 67, acorn) Thebes 154 Alcoholic cider Renfrew 1973, p. 138 Fruit juices Milk (sheep, goat, cow) Palm wine? (import) Forni 1975, p. 74 Birch/ maple/ beech "wine"? Forni 1975, pp. 71, 74
297 APPENDIX IV
ROOM NUMBER CONCORDANCE
The excavators used one numbering system for rooms when they excavated and another in publication (1966). In addition, before individual rooms had been identified, spaces were identified as “compartments” or as distances along trenches. The following chart provides a concordance to identifications of spaces relevant to the Rawson 1953 excavation notebook.
New Room Original Room Other Identifications Number Number 15 13 16 12 Mylonas 1952 "compartment 2" 17 11 Mylonas 1952 "compartment 1" 18 3 Mylonas 1952 “Trench Z 2nd 5m” or “Trench Za” 19 2 Mylonas "compartment 3" or “Trench Z 1st 5m” 20 4 21 5 22 7 88 1 Court H 6 Exterior of palace NW of new room 21
298