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Home , 5th century, Cleisthenes, Euthyphro (prophet), Megacles, Messenia (constituency), Nisaea

THE SYMBIOSIS BETWEEN AND WAR: THE CASE OF ANCIENT David M. Pritchard (University of Queensland)

Introduction

This edited collection significantly advances our understanding of the two-way relationship of causation between democracy and war in world history. In particular it explores the almost entirely neglected question of the impact of the democracy of the classical Athenians on their waging of war. Today ancient Athens is not widely known for its intensification and transformation of war-making among the . It is famous instead for what is arguably the most fully developed democracy of pre- modern times and for its innovative culture, which helped lay the foundations for the arts, literature and sciences of the ancient and modern worlds. In 508/7 BC the Athenian dēmos (‘people’) rose up against a leader who was once again aiming for tyranny, expelled him and the foreign troops backing his attempt, and arrested and executed his upper-class supporters (Ath. Pol. 20.1-21.2; 5.65.5-74.1).1 They could no longer tolerate the internecine struggles of the elite and demanded an active role in the decision-making of the city. This was quickly realised by the reforms of , which made the assembly and a new popular council of five- hundred members the final arbiters of public actions and laws.2 By the early the people had consolidated their new dēmokratia (‘democracy’) by making decisions on an increasing range of public affairs and by taking over entirely the administration of justice and the oversight of magistrates (e.g. Ath. Pol. 25.1-26.2; Plutarch 15.1-2).3 Admittedly Athenian leaders were still members of the upper class, struggling for pre-eminence with each other.4 Now, however, their rivalries were played out in agōnes or political debates, with the final decision to support this or that politician resting with predominantly non-elite assembly goers and councillors.5 To win over such notoriously boisterous and censorious audiences, politicians were forced to negotiate and articulate the self-perceptions, norms and perceived interests of lower-class Athenians.6 Out of this dynamic of mass adjudicators and elite

1 Forsdyke 2005, 133-42; Ober 1996; 32-52; 2007; Pritchard 2005a, 141-4. Contra Raaflaub 1998a; 2007a. 2 Hansen 1991, 33-6; Ostwald 1986, 15-28; Meier 1990, 53-81. 3 Hansen 1991, 36-8; Pritchard 1994, 133-5. 4 For the social background of Athenian leaders, see, for example, Ober 1989, 104-26. 5 For this performance dynamic and its concomitant popular culture, see Ober 2000; Pelling 2000, 1-17; Pritchard 1998a, 38-44; Roisman 2005, 3-6. 6 E.g. Suppliant Women 483; Aristophanes Acharnians 37-9; Republic 492b- c. Hansen 1991, 146-7; Tacon 2001.

Page 1 performers in competition with each other emerged a strong popular culture, which supported the liberty and political capability of every citizen, the rule of law and the open debating of policies and ideas.7 We now know several other Greek poleis (‘city-states’) experimented with popular government in the course of the sixth .8 Thus the invention of democracy can no longer be attributed to Athens.9 However, in contrast to the other of the Greek world the Athenian example avoided the or civil strife, which destroyed so many others and, with the exception of short periods of oligarchy in 411 and 404, enjoyed two of continuous operation.10 In addition the handled a significantly larger amount of public business, while its strong budgetary position meant it could spend around 100 talents per annum on pay for assembly goers, councillors, jurors and magistrates, which allowed a wider social spectrum of citizens to be politically active.11 As a

7 For the detailed popular ideology of Athenian democracy, see Balot 2006, 48-85; Brock 1991; Raaflaub 1989; Robinson 1997, 45-62. This chapter employs terms such as ‘the upper class’ and ‘the lower class’ and other pairs describing vertical social differentiation strictly as synonyms for ‘the wealthy’ and ‘the poor’. Although classical Athenians had a variety of ways for dividing up the citizen-body practically and conceptually, the one which was used most often was between hoi plousioi (‘the wealthy’) and hoi penetes (‘the poor’). Surviving comedy and public oratory assume that the first of these social classes was marked out primarily by their lives of skholē (‘leisure’) and hence their lack of the need to work, distinctive clothing and footwear, particular but not always highly esteemed attitudes and actions, and exclusive pastimes, such as athletics, hunting, horsemanship, pederastic homosexuality and mannered drinking parties. Their lifestyle, liturgies and other significant contributions to public life made them conspicuous amongst the city’s residents. The classical Athenians classed the rest of the citizen-body, from the truly destitute to those sitting just below the upper class, as ‘the poor’. Classical sources suggest that what the varied members of this second social class had in common was the requirement to work and a way of life that was frugal and moderate. See especially Gabrielsen 1994, 43-73; Markle 1985, 266-71; Prichard 1999a, 51-63; 2004, 212-3; Rosivach 1991; 2001; Vartsos 1978 – all with primary sources. 8 Keane 2009, 90-5; Robinson 1997, 65-122. The reliability of the surviving evidence for political arrangements in half of the 17 early democracies which Robinson identifies has been called into question (Hansen 1999). 9 But its invention can still be attributed to the Greeks, for while there have long been attempts to push democracy back to the Levant and Mesopotamia (e.g. Isakhan 2007; Jacobsen 1943; 1957; Keane 2007, 101-26), they founder for want of evidence for the broad membership and political preeminence of the assemblies in these early city-state cultures (e.g. Barjamovic 2004; Cartledge 2009, 55-6; Robinson 1997, 16-25). 10 For the other democracies of classical , see O’Neal 1995. For the ubiquity of violent regime-change as a result of civil strife and foreign intervention, see Hansen 2006a, 125-6; Hansen and Nielsen 2004, 124-9; and especially Gehrke 1985. 11 For studies of political participation in , see, for example, Phillips 1981; Sinclair 1988. Hansen costs the democracy’s honorary decrees and its payment of assembly goers, councillors and jurors at 92 to 112 t. per in the (1991, 98, 150, 189, 241, 254-5, 315-6). There had been pay for the city magistrates in the later fifth century until the oligarchic regime of 411 stopped this practice (e.g. Ath. Pol. 29.5; Pseudo-Xenophon 1.13; 8.56.3, 67.3). Since the surviving sources from the late fifth century onwards do not mention the restoration of

Page 2 consequence the ideological and practical development of the Athenian democracy was very much fuller than any other of pre-modern times. Indeed no subsequent democracy has ever enjoyed the same extraordinary levels of engagement and participation among its citizens.12 For example, the frequent assembly-meetings of classical Athens were attended by several thousand, while in the fourth century two thirds of the city’s 30,000 citizens willingly served for one or two on the Council of Five Hundred.13 Not without reason Athens has been an inspiration for modern democrats since the nineteenth century.14 George Grote and other leading liberals of Victorian assiduously employed this example of a prosperous and stable democracy to build political support for extending the right to vote.15 Athens today is celebrated as the ancient predecessor of our democracies and its participatory politics increasingly studied for new ways to address current political challenges. Classical Athens was also the leading cultural centre of the Greek world. The disciplines of the visual arts, oratory, drama and literature were developed to a far higher level of quality in this city than any other, with many of the works produced there becoming canonical for Graeco-Roman antiquity. Admittedly these innovations were dependent on the extraordinary wealth of classical Athens and its upper class and the ability of both to spend significant sums on festival-based agōnes or contests and publicly displayed art. Between 430 and 350 khorēgoi (‘chorus-sponsors’) and the city’s magistrates, for example, spent a total of 29 talents on each celebration of the City , while public and private spending on the full program of - based festivals probably added up to 100 talents per year.16 But ever since Johann Winckelmann – the eighteenth-century founder of Classical Archaeology – this so- called cultural revolution has been interpreted primarily as the product of Athenian

pay for magistrates, Hansen plausibly concludes that they did not receive a misthos in the 330s (e.g. Hansen 1991, 240-1; contra Gabrielsen 1981). A century earlier Athens may not have provided pay for assembly goers, which was introduced only around 400 (Loomis 1998, 20-2), but this was offset by the sizeable salary bill for magistrates, whose number had grown enormous to meet the administrative tasks of the empire. At this time there were probably 700 magistrates at home and the same number again working overseas (Ath. Pol. 24.3 with Hansen 1980 and Meiggs 1972, 215). Therefore around 430 the running costs of the democracy were probably not significantly lower than what they would be a century later (Kallet 1998, 46). 12 Hansen 1992, 24. 13 For participation in the assembly and its near-weekly meetings, see Hansen 1991, 124-36. For participation in the council and the volunteering of individual citizens to be candidates in the sortition of councillors from their , see Lysias 31.5, 33; Hansen 1991, 247-8; Pritchard 2004a, 210 n.9; Rhodes and Osborne 2003, xvii. 14 Dawson 1995; Hansen 1992; Rhodes 2003, 29-33: Vidal-Naquet 2000. 15 Dawson 2000; Keane 2009, 84-8; Ober 2008a, 67-70; Roberts 1994, 231-55; and especially Demetriou 1999, 1-159. 16 For these cost-estimates of the City Dionysia and the festival program, see Wilson 2008 and Pritchard 2010 respectively.

Page 3 democracy.17 Certainly the new requirement for elite poets, politicians and litigants to compete for the favour of mass audiences drove rapid innovations in oratory and drama.18 For example, the celebrated plays of Athens were performed in front of thousands of citizens at festival-based contests. While the eponymous selected and paid the poets, the training and costuming of the performers were the responsibility of chorus sponsors (e.g. Ath. Pol. 56.3).19 These elite citizens had a great deal riding on the performance of their choruses.20 Victory translated into political influence and support, while the generous financing of choruses could be canvassed during legal trials to help win over lower-class jurors.21 For the sake of their careers poets too wanted to be victorious (e.g. Aristophanes Wasps 1043-50). Although the judging of choral contests was formally in the hands of magistrates, they were guided by the vocal and physically active responses of the largely lower- class goers (e.g. Aristophanes Birds 444-7; Frogs 771-80; Plato Laws 659a-c, 700a-1b).22 Since the regular attendance of ordinary citizens at dramatic and choral agōnes continually enhanced their appreciation of the different forms of performance, sponsors and poets found a competitive advantage by pushing the boundaries of the genre, whether it be , comedy, satyric drama or .23 This common dynamic of mass adjudicators and elite performers in competition did not constrain Athenian historians, philosophers and treatise-writers of the later fifth and fourth centuries, who wrote only for upper-class readers. Therefore they were free to express anti-democratic biases and elite preoccupations.24 However, we now have a better understanding of how their works were critical responses to the democracy, shared some of its ideological assumptions and were facilitated in part by

17 E.g. Boedeker and Raaflaub 1998b; 1998c; de Romilly 1996; Despotopoulos 1996; Dawson 1995, 4-5; Ober 2008a, 81-2. Contra Samons 2001. 18 For the impact of this performance dynamic on oratorical practice in fifth-century Athens, see Yunis 1998, especially 228-32. Yunis writes (231): ‘Where so much daily depended on competitive speechmaking before mass audiences of average, anonymous citizens;…and where, finally, politicians and litigants had such enormous incentive to find the best way of putting their case and the need for efficient public communication was becoming distressingly obvious – here the conditions that would favor the development of rhetoric were all in place. This was a new situation.’ 19 Wilson 2000, 50-101. 20 Ober 1989, 231-3; Wilson 2000, 109-97. 21 For the political advantages, see, for example, Plutarch 3.1-3. For so-called festival liturgies as a plus in legal proceedings, see, for example, Lysias 3.46, 12.38, 18.23, 20.31, 21.1-6, 25.12-13, 30.1. 22 Csapo and Slater 1995, 301-5; Wallace 1997, 98-106. 23 Revermann 2006, especially 113-15. For the competition-driven innovations of each of these four genres, see Burian 1997, 206; Bremer 1993, 160-5; Seaford 1984, 44; Zimmermann 1996, 53-4 respectively. 24 Ober 1989, 43-52; 2008a, 78-9; Pritchard 1998a, 40.

Page 4 its championing of personal liberty and open debate.25 Finally the visual arts of classical Athens greatly influenced the artists and architects of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, while echoes of its surviving literature continue to resound in our own cultures today.26 Certainly never praised and not widely known is the contemporaneous military revolution.27 During the fifth century Athens ‘widened, amplified, and intensified’ the waging of war, regularly attacked other democracies and was ‘a constant source of death and destruction’ among the Greeks.28 More than any other polis this city invented or perfected new forms of combat, strategy and military organisation and was directly responsible for raising the scale and destructiveness of Greek warfare to a different order of magnitude. In so doing the Athenian dēmos overcame popular prejudices which elsewhere tended to stifle military innovations. By the time its dēmokratia was consolidated Athens was the dominant military power in the eastern Mediterranean and had long moved large forces over hundreds of kilometres for campaigns which lasted months or, in the case of sieges, up to a few years.29 War now dominated the politics of the city and the lives of thousands of upper- and lower- class citizens. Foreign policy was the mainstay of political debate, with war and peace being a compulsory item on the agenda of the kuria ekklēsia or main assembly- meeting of each prytany (Ath. Pol. 43.4; Aristophanes Acharnians 19-27).30 Fifth- century Athenians waged war more frequently than ever before: they launched one or more campaigns in two out of three years on average and never enjoyed peace for more than a .31 They also directed more public money to war than to all other polis-activities combined, spending, for example, between 500 and 2000 talents per year on their armed forces during the .32 By the 450s military service was also perceived as the duty of every citizen, which the Athenian dēmos appears to have taken very seriously.33 They passed laws stripping political rights from those found guilty of draft-dodging or desertion (e.g. Aristophanes Knights 443; Wasps 1117-21; Pseudo-Xenophon 3.5), conscripted whole swathes of the citizen-

25 Ober 1998a; Roberts 1994, 71-96; Rowe 1998. 26 Greenhalgh 1998, 317-23; Hardwick 2003. 27 Eyres 2006. 28 Quotations from Hanson 2001, 4, 24. For the lack of a so-called democratic peace between the democracies of fifth-century Greece, see Robinson 2001; 2006 pace Russett and Antholis 1992; Weart 2001. 29 Raaflaub 1999, 141-4. 30 Hansen 1991, 133; Raaflaub 2001, 319. 31 Garlan 1995, 53; Raaflaub 1999, 141; Russett and Antholis 1992, 427. 32 Pritchard 2010. 33 E.g. Aeschylus Seven against Thebes 10-20; cf. 415-16; Euripides Children of 824-7; Thucydides 1.144.4, 2.41.5, 2.43.1.

Page 5 body, on several occasions, to man the ships (e.g. Thucydides 3.16.1, 17.1-3; 7.16.1; Xenophon Hellenica 2.6.24-5) or march against a neighbouring city (e.g. Thucydides 2.31.1-3; 4.90.1, 94.1-2) and continued to accept the high numbers of citizens which were regularly killed in action.34 For example, in 460/59 one of the city’s ten tribal subdivisions lost 177 members in battles by land and sea in mainland Greece, , Egypt and Phoenicia (IG I3 1147; cf. 1147bis). Even more extraordinary is the impact of the Peloponnesian War and the plague during its early years on Athenian demography: in 431 there were most probably 60,000 citizens living in , but, after twenty-five years, only 25,000 adult citizens were left.35 This chapter analyses this military revolution of fifth-century Athens and evaluates what contributions this edited collection makes to our understanding of the symbiosis between democracy and war in world history. It divides into eight parts. Part one studies the character of Athenian war-making in the century before the democracy to set benchmarks against which the military changes of the fifth century can be measured. Part two canvasses the post-508/7 increases in the scale and frequency of Athens’ campaigns and the participation-rate of its citizens as soldiers. In addition this part clarifies what was innovative about the numerous military reforms of fifth-century Athens and identifies as two major causes of its military revolution the large public income from the Athenian Empire and the demographic advantage which the city had over its rivals. Part three explains that although there is a prima facie case that democracy is the third major cause of this revolution in military affairs, disciplinary and cultural factors have discouraged sustained analysis of democracy’s impact on war. The next two parts of this chapter make clear how the collection as a whole suggests that the democracy of classical Athens affected its war-making in a pair of divergent ways. Part four details how the dynamic of mass adjudicators and elite performers in competition led to a pronounced militarism, which encouraged lower- class Athenians to be soldiers in larger numbers and to start wars much more frequently. But part five explains how the foreign-policy risks of this pro-war culture were reduced by the open debating of proposals for war, which also facilitated military innovations and efficiency and helped develop the initiative of the Athenians on the battlefield. Part six employs the military record of fourth-century Athens to determine the importance of democracy relative to the two other major causes of the of the previous century’s revolution in military affairs. Part seven acknowledges the

34 For these laws, see Balot 2004a, 419; Hamel 1998a; Pritchard 1999a, 84-6. For the conscription of large numbers of citizens, including the lowest of the four Solonian telē, in such military emergencies, see Gabrielsen 2002a, 206-8. 35 Hansen 1988, 14-28; cf. Akrigg 2008, 29-33.

Page 6 limits of this volume’s treatment of the impact of military affairs on Athenian democratisation and, in light of the collapse of our longstanding understanding of this relationship, proposes new directions for research into the causes of democracy’s emergence and consolidation in ancient Athens. Part eight, finally, canvasses the value of ancient Athens as a case study for political scientists and policymakers. In particular it spells out how explanations of Athenian foreign policy can help identify underlying assumptions about contemporary democracy and the waging of war and suggest new ways for thinking about their interaction.

1. Athenian War-Making before Democracy

The intense and innovative warfare of fifth-century Athens represented a qualitative change from the city’s past military record. The traditional oration which was delivered at the public funeral for the fallen soldiers of the classical period made out that the Athenians had waged war with the same intensity and modus operandi from the age of the heroes to the present.36 In reality nothing could have been further from the truth: before the late-sixth-century reforms of Cleisthenes, Athens did not have a publicly controlled army or any institutional means for mobilising soldiers, while the small numbers of Athenians who bothered to march out for battle did so very infrequently. Admittedly the military ventures and public events of archaic Athens are poorly documented because knowledge of them was only conveyed by word of mouth for around a century before Herodotus and Thucydides wrote elements of these oral traditions down. While private individuals and families had good reason to recall past wars as proof, for example, of ancestral courage, much tends to be lost in this oral transmission of history from one generation to the next.37 Nevertheless it does seem significant that from the attempted coup of Cylon, in the later seventh century, to the assassination of , in 514/3, we know of less than twelve recorded campaigns.38 ‘This catalogue of Athenian military ventures,’ Frank Frost concludes, ‘for a period of something over a century is surprisingly modest for a people who were supposed to have been so fond of fighting and for

36 For analysis of this common feature of the genre, see Loraux 1986, 132-71; Pritchard 1996, 148; 1999a, 25-6 – all with ancient testimonia. 37 For this fragility of oral tradition, see Thomas 1989, especially 123-30. 38 For the testimonia of these ventures, see Frost 1984; Sealey 1976, 140-5. My tally counts the coups of Cylon and Pisistratus, in 546/5, as two ventures each. Pace Frost (1984, 291) I believe the Pisistratids involved citizen in their campaigns until 514/3 (see below). Thus I include their campaigns against (Herodotus 5.94-5) and (1.64.2; Ath. Pol. 15.3) but not those against the Spartans and Alcmeonids after the assassination of Hipparchus (Herodotus 5.62-3).

Page 7 whom the evolution of tactics was supposed to have been so politically significant’.39 War does not seem to have dominated public life in sixth-century Athens. What campaigns there were usually had a limited goal: the winning of new agricultural land either on the borders of Attica (e.g. Ath. Pol. 14.1; Herodotus 1.59.4, 139.2) or in colonies overseas (e.g. Herodotus 6.36). A good example of this limited style of war- making is the venture which led to take the island of Salamis from neighbouring city of .40 He rekindled Athenian interest in do so by performing a ‘nationalist’ poem in the city’s marketplace and promised its land to those wishing to volunteer for the campaign (Plutarch Solon 9.2). Five-hundred Athenians did come forward, with the portion charged with capturing the island’s settlement fitting on one ship (9.3). The same type of war-making was waged by the other mainland cities of sixth-century Greece.41 They went to war infrequently and for the sake of contested border land. Their campaigns took days or weeks to decide, were normally settled by a solitary clash of hoplite and, due to a lack of military capacity, usually did not result in the subjugation, occupation or taxation of the defeated city.42 Indeed even in the classical period those cities which did not aspire to be regional or imperial powers, such as Athens, and Thebes, persisted with this limited style of land warfare.43 Before Cleisthenes the military campaigns of Athens were not initiated or supervised by the city’s rudimentary political institutions nor led by leaders who had been publicly appointed.44 During the first tyranny of Pisistratus in 561/0, for example, , the son of Cypselus, accepted the invitation of some of the Chersonese to lead them in their wars against their neighbours (Herodotus 6.34- 7).45 Once he had done so, however, he did not consult with the city’s Council of the Areopagus or nor seek appointment as a general or the city’s polemarkhos

39 Quotation from Frost 1984, 292. 40 See 19.252; Diogenes Laertius 1.46-8; Polyaenus 1.20.1-2; Pausanias 1.40.4; Plutarch Solon 8-10. Along with Frost (1984, 289), I prefer the more detailed version of the actual fighting for the island at Plutarch Solon 9.2-10.1 to the other involving youths cross-dressing (8.4-6; Polyaenus 1.20.2). 41 For good general descriptions of archaic warfare, see Hanson 2001, 5-7; Raaflaub 1999, 134-8. The territorial goal of traditional Greek warfare is best established by de Sainte Croix 1972, 218-20; Hanson 2000, 214-18; van Wees 2004, 28-30 – all with ancient testimonia. 42 The exception is archaic Sparta, which reduced the defeated Messenians to a state of slavery (Cartledge 2001a, 299-307 for the ancient testimonia) and turned itself into an armed camp to maintain their subjugation (see especially Finley 1968). Cf. van Wees 2003; 2004, 28-33. 43 Connor 1988, 6-8; Garlan 1995, 55. 44 Van Effenterre 1976, 4. 45 Frost 1984, 291; de Souza 1998, 285-6; Gabrielsen 2007, 254-5.

Page 8

(‘war-leader’).46 Instead Miltiades sought personal reassurance from the Delphic oracle that he should become the tyrant of these Thracians and, ‘having gathered together everyone of the Athenians who wished to be part of the naval expedition’ (6.36.1), simply sailed to the Chersonese where he and his relatives conducted wars for two generations as they saw fit (1.136.2-3; 6.35.2-41; Pausanias 6.19.6). Miltiades and the other Athenians who initiated and led naval expeditions appear to have relied on the standard fifty-oared ships of the period, which were frequently painted on Attic pots and which individual aristocrats privately maintained in order to compete in overseas games, visit guest friends, engage in trade and initiate or join overseas military ventures (cf. Herodotus 5.41, 47; 8.17).47 Vincent Gabrielsen puts it beyond doubt that the older view that Athens of the sixth century had a publicly controlled navy must now be ‘abandoned altogether’.48 According to this view, Attica was divided into forty-eight naukrariai or so-called ship-providing districts, in each of which wealthy men serving as naukrakoi supplied and commanded a warship for the city.49 But Gabrielsen explains how the association of naukrariai and ships only appears in lexicographers from the second century of our era and is probably based on their false inference that the term’s prefix can only signify a naus or warship (e.g. Pollux 8.108). By contrast, Athenian writers of the classical period believed the naukrakoi to be financial magistrates of one kind or another and never linked them or the funds which they managed to the navy (Ath. Pol. 8.3, 21.5; Herodotus 5.71.2). The employment of volunteer soldiers in these expeditions of Miltiades and Solon could be put down to their essentially discretionary character: they were acquisitive rather than defensive and hence the city was under no pressure to raise adequate forces quickly. But such an interpretation is ruled out by the decidedly ineffectual responses of archaic Athenians to actual invasions of their territory, which suggest that Athens before the democracy simply lacked an institutional mechanism

46 For the ad hoc recognition of individual aristocrats as the commanders of military ventures before the creation of the magisterial board of generals in 501/0, see Anderson 2003, 149-50; Ostwald 1986, 22 n.72; Rhodes 1981, 264-5 with bibliography. While classical-period writers assumed the polemarch was one of the city’s oldest magistracies (e.g. Ath. Pol. 3.2; Thucydides 1.126.8), surviving sources shed no light on what roles he may have played in the campaigns of the sixth century (Gabrielsen 2007, 251; Singor 2000, 109). At the , in 490, the polemarch served bravely, but the real commanders of the army were the board of generals (Herodotus 6.109-111, 114; Ath. Pol. 22.2; Meiggs and Lewis 1969, no. 18; Hamel 1998b, 79-83). Much later his duties were confined to religious and legal affairs (Ath. Pol. 58). 47 Gabrielsen 1994, 24-6; 2008, 57; Haas 1985, 39-41; Humphreys 1978, 166-8; Morrison and Williams 1968, 73-117. 48 Gabrielsen 1985; 1994, 19-24. Quotation from Gabrielsen 1994, 20. Contra Van Wees 2004, 96, 203-4, 305 nn.4-8. 49 E.g. Rhodes 1981, 151-2 with bibliography.

Page 9 for mustering soldiers in any circumstances.50 The Athenian aristocrat Cylon, for example, some years after his victory at the Olympics of 640, endeavoured to establish himself as tyrant (Herodotus 5.70.1; Plutarch Solon 12.1-9; Thucydides 1.126).51 With a small force of Megarians and ‘friends’ he invaded Attica and seized the Acropolis unopposed (Thucydides 1.126.5). Learning of this, Thucydides writes, the Athenians came to the rescue pandēmei or in full force (7-8), which has understandably been interpreted as a formal mobilisation.52 After all, Thucydides and Xenophon do employ this adverb or panstratriai to describe those mobilisations of the fifth century in which Athenian generals compelled the regular corps of the armed forces and all other able bodied men to take part in the invasion of neighbouring territories (e.g. Thucydides 1.105.5-6; 2.31.1, 3; 4.90.1, 94.1-2; Xenophon Hellenica 1.1.33-4).53 At 1.126.7, however, as he also clearly does in the previous chapter, Thucydides is not using pandēmei in this sense: those who brought aid in response to Cylon’s taking of the Acropolis were simply the Athenians in the surrounding fields who had independently decided to oppose the would-be tyrant. In addition Thucydides tells us that they quickly tired of the siege’s toils, leaving it to the city’s to complete (7-12). The siege ended of course in sacrilege: in spite of a promise of safety, the besiegers executed Cylon’s soldiers after they had surrendered, including those who had taken sanctuary at an altar on the way down from the Acropolis. ‘The Alcmeonids and their sustasiōtai or partisans’, Herodotus confirms, were held ‘responsible for this slaughter’ (5.70.2; cf. Thucydides 1.127), which suggests that the leader of this aristocratic faction, , who was most probably the at the time (Plutarch Solon 12.1), was forced to rely on his family-members, other upper-class supporters and lower-class dependents for the necessary manpower to carry on with the siege.54 Nearly a century later, in 546/5, the Athenians responded no more effectively when Pisistratus made his third attempt at tyranny (Ath. Pol. 15.2, 17.4; Herodotus 1.61-2, 64).55 Against him, Herodotus writes (1.62.3), they marched out panstratiēi (‘with the whole army’), but his narrative confirms that this, again, was not a formal mobilisation: the Athenians let Pisistratus and his sons stay at Marathon long enough for them to marshal a formidable force, only mobilising when the would-be tyrant and his army began to move towards the city (2). The Athenians who joined in the defence came not from across Attica but

50 Anderson 2003, 149; Frost 1984, 293-4. 51 Frost 1984, 286-7; Lavelle 2005, 36-41; Rhodes 1981, 79-84, 151-2; Singor 2000, 111. 52 E.g. Ober 2008b, 56, 58; van Wees 2008, 22-5. 53 Van Wees 2006, 373-4. 54 Frost 1984, 286-7. 55 Frost 1984, 291; Lavelle 2005, 134-54.

Page 10 only ‘from the city’ (1.62.2, 63.1) and, as they fled in panic after little fighting (1.63.1-64.3), were most probably considerably smaller than Pisistratus’ force, which possibly numbered up to 5000.56 That the Alcmeonids immediately went into voluntary exile suggests that they alone had taken the initiative in trying to stop a rival aiming for tyranny (1.64.3; 6.123; cf. Isocrates 16.25-6). This picture of privately raised armies parallels what else we know of public life in sixth-century Athens.57 Before 508/7 the Athenian assembly is attested to have met only once (Ath. Pol. 14.1; Herodotus 1.59.4-5) and to have had only two minor political functions: the election of magistrates and the review of their performance ( Politics 1274a16-17).58 Instead politics consisted largely of a contest between the leaders of two or three elite factions for acknowledged preeminence, which only rarely drew in lower-class Athenians. While leaders certainly got ahead by winning magistracies for themselves or their relatives and other upper-class supporters, their rivalry was pursued in the main outside of the formal institutions of government. They sought distinction among their peers through conspicuous consumption in the form of religious dedications, family tombs and chariot-racing (e.g. Herodotus 6.35-6, 103; Thucydides 1.126.3), through the provision of public sacrifices as the head of a genos and other religious benefactions, especially in relation to their city-protecting deity, Polias, and, finally, through the performance of megala erga (‘great deeds’) as leaders in war (e.g. Herodotus 1.30, 59).59 At times they negotiated private alliances between each other, often sealing them with marriages of convenience (e.g. 1.61). As the struggle to be first was not adjudicated by the dēmos or any other third party and the city lacked any neutral armed force to prevent contenders resorting to violence, this could be a high-stakes contest, which regularly resulted in the covert murder of rivals, attempts to become a tyrant and the expulsion of one or another leader and his clan from the city.60 This style of politics eventually broke down with Pisistratus’ definitive defeat of his rivals in 546/5, which allowed him to firmly establish tyranny for himself and his sons. They now monopolised the waging of war and taxed the Athenians to help pay for mercenaries, including Scythian archers and Thracian , whom they

56 Lavelle 2005, 139-42. 57 See Anderson 2003, 43-84, especially 67-74; Forsdyke 2005, 79-143; Frost 1981; Osborne 1996, 215-25; Pritchard 1994, 114-18; 2005a. 58 Anderson 2003, 59, 63, 234-5 n.30. 59 In archaic Athens the genos was not a ‘clan’ or ‘faction’ but a small descent group, such as the Eumolpidai of the , which was recognised for its privileged connection to a local cult to which it provided sacred personnel (Bourriot 1976, especially 1367-85; Kearns 1985, 205-7). 60 Anderson 2003, 150; Forsdyke 2005, 80-100; Singor 2000, 108; van Wees 2008.

Page 11 employed on their campaigns (Thucydides 6.54.5-6).61 But they did not prevent individual Athenian hoplites from joining their expeditions and, on one occasion at least, gave the go ahead for an Athenian outside of their family to lead an overseas expedition (Herodotus 6.39-41). Aristotle’s suggestion that Pisistratus disarmed the city’s small number of hoplites immediately after his final return is clearly unreliable (Ath. Pol. 15.3-4): it contains anachronisms and contradicts earlier literary and archaeological evidence.62 However, the apparently did little to improve the city’s military efficiency or capacity, because, in 508/7, two years after their expulsion, the Athenians could not prevent King Cleomenes, who had ‘no great force’ (5.72.1), from invading Attica and taking the Acropolis and, once they had managed to force him to leave, quickly sought a military alliance with Persia out of a sense of vulnerability to the reprisals from Sparta which they anticipated (5.72-3).63 The phalanxes of Athens before the democracy were small. The limited objectives and results of campaigns and the reliance on volunteers point to armies of hundreds rather than thousands of hoplites (Plutarch Solon 7.3; Thucydides 6.56.2, 58.1-2).64 Since the main goal of archaic warfare was to capture new agricultural land, some of these volunteers were probably non-elite Athenians who were seeking to improve their personal circumstances. Nonetheless upper-class Athenians of the period were no less acquisitive than the lower class, could easily afford hoplite weapons and armour and were under the strongest moral and social pressure to be soldiers.65 It was through constantly bearing toils, dangers and expense in the agōn of battle or sport and especially gaining victory that an archaic aristocrat proved his

61 Gabrielsen 2007, 254; Pritchard 1999a, 133-4; Singor 2000, 115-19 pace Frost 1984, 291; van Effenterre 1976, 3-4. For the tyrants’ hiring of Scythian archers and Thracian peltasts, see Vos 1963, 70-80 and Best 1969 respectively. 62 For several reasons Aristotle’s suggestion that Pisistratus deprived the Athenian hoplites of their weapons by stealth during a city-wide ‘military review’ in the sanctuary of Theseus in 546/5 must be rejected (Ath. Pol. 15.3-4). Firstly, the existence of such a mechanism for mustering troops is improbable in light of the otherwise disorganised nature of Athenian warfare in this period. Secondly, this sanctuary was built only after the Persian Wars (Rhodes 1981, 210-11). Thirdly, Aristotle directly contradicts Thucydides 6.56.2 and 6.58.1-2 where uses a very similar ruse to disarm hoplites in 514/3. Fourthly, we have numerous Athenian pots of the second half of the sixth century with images of contemporary hoplites and horsemen (e.g. Lissarrague 1990). The popularity of such images is not easy to explain if Pisistratus had disarmed the Athenians. Finally there is a black-figure cup of 550 or thereabouts in the private collection of Stavros Niarchos (inv. no. A31; Bérard 1989, 108 fig. 152). Among the participants of the Panathenaic procession which it depicts are three hoplites (Shear 2001, 128-9, 155-6). 63 Forsdyke 2005, 139; van Effenterre 1976, 4. 64 Foxhall 1997, 131; Singor 2000, 110. 65 Solon complained of elite acquisitiveness and introduced reforms to moderate it (Balot 2001, 73-98). For this strong obligation for the elite to be soldiers, see Dickie 1984, 250; Gabrielsen 1994, 25-6; 2002b, 87; van Wees 2004, 37-45, 55-60.

Page 12 aretē or courage (e.g. Olympian 6.9; cf. 10.91). Thus a majority of Athenian hoplites probably belonged to the upper class, which on the basis of analogy with the classical period would have numbered no more than 5 percent of free males.66 Indeed Henk Singor concludes from his research on the pre-classical that ‘the typical hoplites of ’ were ‘generally those belonging to the elite of society’.67 This small number of Athenian hoplites and the apparent infrequency of the military ventures which sixth-century Athens initiated call into question the traditional explanation of democracy as the outgrowth of a massive expansion in the number of non-elite soldiers in the city’s army (see part 7 below). How the aristocrats of sixth-century Athens represented their activities as hoplites can be seen in the imagery on archaic black- and red-figure pottery and in their ostentatious burials. While the finely painted pots of the period were no doubt consumed by elite and non-elite Athenians, their pictures evoked the social milieu and outlook of the upper class.68 Military scenes on such vessels, dating from the mid-sixth to the early-fifth centuries, have been superbly analysed by François Lissarrague.69 They show how elite Athenians articulated age, gender and social distinctions around the norm of the heavily armed soldier and employed the values and commonplaces of epic poetry to represent their own martial deeds.70 A good example of this epic influence concerns the scenes of a hoplite killed in action or his corpse being carried back to the city.71 Homeric heroes succinctly explain how they will gain everlasting renown and eternal memory of their youthfulness by dying bravely in battle (e.g. 12.318-28; 22.71-3, 304-5; cf. 22.362-4).72 By his ‘beautiful death’ a hero gains a categorical confirmation of his aretē, which, along with his everlasting youth, is reflected in the beauty of his corpse (e.g. 22.71-3, 369- 71).73 Attic painters sometimes represent this aretē of the Athenian hoplite killed in action by painting in a lion, which is one of the animals that Homer uses as a symbol

66 Van Wees 2008, 20. While we lack any reliable figures for calculating the relative size of the elite in this period, upper-class Athenians clearly numbered close to, but less than, 5 percent of the citizen-body in the later fifth and early fourth centuries (Hansen 1991, 90-4, 109-15; Pritchard 1999a, 56-8; 2004, 212, 212-3 n.23; Taylor 2007, 89). 67 Singor 2000, 107. 68 This was most probably the case for the classical period (see Pritchard 1999b; Vickers 2002). For this approach to images as evidence of mentality (called iconology), see Lissarrague 1990, 1-12; Sabetai 1997, 330-1; Sparkes 1996, 135-9. 69 Lissarrague 1990; Pritchard 1999a, 126-31. 70 See especially Lissarrague 1990, 233-40; cf. Balot 2004a, 411. 71 Bassi 2003, 38-8; Lissarrague 1990, 71-96. These scenes date approximately from 570 to 480 (Lissarrague 1990, 71-2, 233). 72 Vernant 1991, 50-74. 73 Vernant 1991, 62-4.

Page 13 of a hero’s martial excellence (e.g. Homer Iliad 5.782; 18.161, 11.611).74 Additionally they evoke his attainment of the ‘beautiful death’ of the heroes by giving him alone of the painted figures long hair and – along with his bearer – a so- called Boeotian shield. Homer repeatedly draws attention to the long hair of his warrior heroes (e.g. Homer Iliad 3.43; 2.443, 472; 18.359), with the Boeotian shield consistently given to a named hero in Attic imagery.75 An elite citizen of sixth- century Athens was also styled as an epic hero by his grave, whether he had died on or off the battlefield: its high mound, walled enclosure and funerary sculpture depicting him as a hoplite, athlete or in some other normative role of the elite was modeled on the standard monumental tomb of epic poetry, which helped guarantee the eternal renown and memory of the hero (e.g. Iliad 7.86-91; 23.245-8; Odyssey 4.584-5; 11.75-6).76 Similarly the epigrams of elite Athenian tombs – like those of the fallen soldiers, Croisos, Tettichos and Xenocles – drew heavily on the vocabulary, imagery and concepts of epic poetry.77 2. The Transformation of War in Fifth-Century Athens

The small-scale and unexceptional warfare of the Athenians was transformed in the first instance by the reforms which Cleisthenes developed and introduced immediately after 508/7 (Ath. Pol. 20-1; Herodotus 5.66-73).78 These reforms effectively integrated Athens and its countryside for the first time.79 Each free male of Attica was now registered as a citizen of Athens in his local deme and groups of these villages and suburbs from across Athenian territory were linked together in ten tribes, which served as the subdivisions of the new popular council and a publicly controlled army of hoplites. The new registers of citizens in the were used to conscript hoplites for each tribal corps.80 This was the city’s first-ever mechanism for mass

74 Lissarrague 1990, 75-6; Vernant 1991, 50. For an example of such an image, see Lissarrague 1990, 82-5, no. 79 (National Archaeological Museum [Athens], inv. no. 433). 75 For the long hair of heroes, see Lissarrague 1990, 75; Vernant 1991, 65-7. For this signification of the Boeotian shield in Attic imagery, see Lissarrague 1990, 76; Vos 1963, 33, 36. 76 For gravestones stones with hoplites, see, for example, Richter 1961, nos. 27, 45, 46, 65-7; cf. Richter 1944. For athletes, see, for example, Measham, Spathari and Donnelly 2000, cat. nos. 24, 30, 43; Richter 1961, nos. 26, 28. For the elite burials of sixth-century Athens in general, see Kurtz and Boardman 1977, 68-90. For the appropriation of epic in the funeral ceremony and tomb, see Balot 2001, 76-7; Houby-Nielsen 1995; Humphreys 1980, 103-5. 77 For the epigram of Croisos and its epic appropriations, Friedländer 1948, no. 82; Anderson 2003, 27-9. For Tettichos, Friedländer 1948, no. 135; Anderson 2003, 153. For Xenocles, Friedländer 1948, no. 87; Robertson 2003; cf. 1997. 78 For these reforms, see Meier 1990, 53-81; Ostwald 1986, 15-28. 79 Anderson 2003, 13-42; Pritchard 2005a, 137-40. 80 E.g. Aristophanes Peace 1173, 1179-86; IG I3 138.1-2, 5-6; cf. [Demosthenes] 50.6-7, 16. Christ 2001, 398-403; Hansen 1986, 65-9.

Page 14 mobilisation and the standard way for raising hoplites until the second quarter of the fourth century.81 As Athens and its surrounding territory were around twenty times larger and more populous than the average-sized polis, this mechanism gave the Athenians an enormous military advantage.82 Demography would be one of the three major causes of the military revolution of fifth-century Athens.83 Again for the first time Cleisthenes formally integrated the Athenian dēmos into politics by making laws and public actions dependent on the approval of the assembly and the new popular Council of Five Hundred.84 Within several years the people were making the final decisions about activities which were once pursued privately by elite Athenians, such as foreign affairs (e.g. Herodotos 5.66, 96-7). Certainly it took several more for the institutions of democracy and its core concepts to be fully elaborated.85 However, as the reforms of Cleisthenes made the Athenian dēmos the final arbiters of public policy and framed the future development of their , Josiah Ober is surely right to view them as the true beginning of dēmokratia at Athens.86 To lead the new publicly controlled army effectively the Athenians created, in 501/0, a board of ten generals, who were drawn (like other newly created magistrates) one from each Cleisthenic tribe.87 Certainly these reforms massively increased the military capacity of the Athenians and their readiness to initiate campaigns: in 506 their army defeated those of Chalcis and Boeotia in back- to-back battles (Herodotus 5.74-7), in 498 they sent 20 ships to help the Ionian Greeks revolt from the Persian Empire (5.97) and, in 490, at the battle of Marathon they deployed 9000 heavily armed soldiers, which was a hoplite army far larger than any other Greek polis at the time.88 Interrelated events of the late and early set in train a second phase of Athenian military innovations. To help win an ongoing war against Aegina and ready for the likely return of the Persians the Athenian people decided, in 483/2, to direct a windfall of locally mined silver towards the massive expansion of their new publicly controlled navy (Ath. Pol. 22.7; Herodotus 6.87-93; 7.144.1-2; Thucydides 1.14.1-

81 Christ 2001, 412-6; 2006, 49 n.15, 52. Contra van Wees 2001, 46, 59-61; 2006, 371-6. 82 For these measurements, see Hansen 2006a, 77-84; Hansen and Nielsen 2004, 70-3; Ober 2008b, 84-6. 83 Brock and Hodkinson 2000, 9; Ober 2008b, 60; Pritchard 2005b, 18. 84 Anderson 2003, 43-84. 85 Ober 1998b, 70-4. 86 For third-party support of Ober on balance in his ongoing debate with Raaflaub about whether the reforms of Cleisthenes or marked the true beginning of Athenian democracy, see, for example, Cartledge 2007, 164-5; 2009, 57-62; Farrar 2007, 171-5; Pritchard 2005a, 142-5 with bibliography. 87 Fornara 1971; Hansen 1991, 34-5. 88 Herodotus 5.74-7, 97-103 ; cf. 7.158; Nepos Miltiades 5.

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2).89 The 200 which they possessed at the end of this shipbuilding represented ‘the largest fleet of polis-owned warships yet seen’.90 Three years later the Great King launched his expedition to subjugate the Greeks of the mainland as the Persians had recently done to those of and the Hellespont. The final destruction of this huge Persian force, in 479, and the inability of the Spartans to effectively lead the liberation of the Ionians saw the Athenians invited to found the so-called , which initially was a voluntary alliance of city-states contributing ships and soldiers or annual tribute to Athenian-led expeditions (e.g. Thucydides 1.94-7).91 For its first few decades the league campaigned frequently to expel Persian forces from strong points and naval bases across the Aegean, destroy the Phoenician fleet and liberate Greek cities (e.g. 1.97-8).92 At the same time the Athenians began a long process of eroding the independence of their allies, who, by the early , were obliged to pay annual tribute and subject to relevant laws of the Athenian dēmos and had long been forcefully prevented from pulling out of the Athenian arkhē or empire.93 This tribute and other imperial revenues allowed the Athenians to employ vast numbers of lower-class citizens as hoplites and sailors and to pioneer new forms of warfare.94 This unprecedented supply of money was clearly another major reason for the military innovations and success of fifth-century Athenians. Most of the military innovations which the Athenians invented or perfected sat uneasily with their own prevailing definition of courage. Since the hoplite continued to be the norm for generalisations about military affairs in fifth-century Athens, this virtue was defined in terms of the tactical requirements of phalanx-based battle.95 Therefore courage, which was usually called aretē or andreia in popular literature, required a soldier to remain steadfast (e.g. Aristophanes Peace 1177-8; Euripides

89 Gabrielsen 1994, 31-6. 90 De Souza 1998, 286. 91 Meiggs 1972, 42-9; Rhodes 2006, 15-19. 92 Meiggs 1972, 68-83; 93 Meiggs 1972, 152-74; Rhodes 2006, 20-1, 41-51. Contra Fornara and Samons 1991, 76- 113. 94 The following discussion of Athenian military innovations draws on Hanson 2001, 7-17; Pritchard 2005b, 18-21; Raaflaub 1991; 1999, 141-4; 2007b. Payment for sailors began with the second Persian War (e.g. Ath Pol. 23.1; Plutarch Cimon 9.4; 10.4), while hoplites possibly began to be paid at the same time, in the 450s, when pay was introduced for the city’s councillors and jurors (Ath. Pol. 27.3-4; Plato Gorgias 515e); see, for example, Gabrielsen 2007, 257-8; Pritchett 1971-91, volume 1, 3-29; van Wees 2004, 237, 316 n.27. 95 For the ideological centrality of the hoplite in classical Athens, see Pritchard 1998a, 33-53; 1999a, 76-161; Roisman 2005, 106-9. For the character and tactical requirements of phalanx-based battle, see, for example, Cawkwell 1989; Goldsworthy 1997; Krentz 1985a; 1994; Pritchard 1999a, 105-7; van Wees 2004, 184-91. Contra Luginbill 1994.

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Electra 388-90).96 As a consequence a brave man ‘stands beside a shield’ (Euripides Phoenician Women 1003) and does not ‘flee from the spear’ (Aeschylus Persians 1025; cf. Lysias 14.15-16). In doing so he was without fear (Lysias 14.15) and voluntarily accepted the possibility of ‘a sudden wound of the spear’ (Euripides Heracles 159-64) or death (e.g. Phoenician Women 999-1002; Lysias 2.14-15; Thucydides 2.42.4). For classical Athenians such possibilities had to be faced, as battle was full of kindunoi or dangers.97 Although this definition of aretē primarily as steadfastness clashes with our own more active view of courage, it dovetails with what was required of every hoplite in battle.98 With hand-to-hand fighting confined to the first two ranks, the majority of heavy infantrymen played only a passive role. But their steadfastness was clearly a precondition of victory. The front ranks took solace from knowing that others could relieve them if they were injured or exhausted.99 No less importantly with a mass of hoplites behind them they could not easily take flight before they had defeated their opponents.100 Despite this characterisation of courage as a passive behaviour, classical Athenians still recognised that victory also depended on ‘the bravery and aggression’ of the front ranks ‘to keep on attacking the enemy until he finally broke’.101 This is put beyond doubt by the aristeia or first prize for aretē, which the Athenians awarded to the bravest fighter of individual battles throughout the classical period.102 This prize was so standard that Plato treated it as a regular part of military affairs (e.g. Republic 468b-c; Menexenus 240e-1a), while Sophocles anachronistically linked it with warriors of the heroic age (e.g. Antigone 194-7; Ajax 434-40, 443, 468, 1300; Philoctetes 1425-9). To determine the winner of this agōn in bravery (cf. Sophocles Ajax 1239-40), generals consulted widely (Plato Symposium 220d; Laws 943c; Plutarch 7.3). According to our sources (Sophocles Ajax 434-40; Philoctetes 1425-9; Herodotus 8.11, 71), those judged first in aretē stood out as a

96 Aretē is the favoured term for courage in the funerary epigrams of Athenian soldiers (e.g. IG I3 1179.3, 8-9; 1162.48) and the oration traditionally delivered at their public funeral (e.g. Lysias 2.6, 12, 20, 40, 64-5, 69-70; Plato Menexenus 240d, 243c; Thucydides 2.36.1, 42.2), where it is also used occasionally to describe non-martial aspects of the normative behaviour of a citizen (e.g. Thucydides 2.40.4, 37.1-2, 42.2; cf. Demosthenes 60.3; Hyperides Funeral Oration 19). Comedy, tragedy and oratory prefer andreia and other synonyms for courage. See Balot 2004a, 407-8; Pritchard 1999a, 86-7. 97 E.g. 2.169; Euripides Suppliant Women 572; Lysias 2.3, 47, 77, 61, 78; 14.7; 16.12-13, 17, Thucydides 2.39.1, 43.4, 62.1. 98 Lendon 2005, 51-5; Pritchard 1999a, 96-9. 99 Cawkwell 1989, 388-9; Krentz 1985a, 59. 100 Goldsworthy 1997, 24. 101 Goldsworthy 1997, 24. 102 E.g. Aeschines 2.169; Herodotus 8.17, 93; 9.74, 104; Isocrates 16.29-31; Plato Symposium 220d; Plutarch Alcibiades 7.2-3. Christ 2006, 110-11; Hamel 1998b, 64-70.

Page 17 result, not of their steadfastness, but of their ‘great deeds’. Thus the first prize for bravery suggests that megala erga constituted a secondary requirement of courage for the classical Athenians. Imperial income enabled the Athenian dēmos not only to launch large fleets but also to train their sailors regularly for weeks or months before any engagement.103 So trained each crew could manoeuvre their ship autonomously or as part of a formation in order to break through or outflank the lines of an enemy’s fleet.104 As the Athenians quickly acquired more tekhnē or skill as sailors than any other Greeks (e.g. Thucydides 2.85.2-3), they pioneered a highly mobile form of combat in which they attempted to win by ramming and hence disabling as many enemy ships as possible (e.g. Aeschylus Persians 408-20). This represented a decisive change from traditional sea warfare where the agōn or battle had long been decided by the hand-to-hand struggles of hoplites and lightly armed troops on the decks (e.g. Thucydides 1.49.1-4; 7.62.3-4).105 In this ‘Athenian way of fighting at sea’ sailors clearly could not meet two of the prevailing criteria for courage.106 As they worked together to turn their ship’s ram into their offensive weapon (e.g. Xenophon Estate-Management 8.8), they did not have the opportunity to display ‘great deeds’ individually. More significantly they employed flight as a tactic. Athenian triremes quickly backed away from the ships which they had rammed to prevent the enemy’s hoplites from boarding. If they were overwhelmed by the size of the opposing fleet, they normally attempted to flee to friendly shores or to outrun their pursuers (e.g. Thucydides 2.84.4, 90.5-6, 91.1), only returning to battle if they could counterattack effectively (e.g. 2.91.1-92.2). The revenues of their empire also allowed the Athenians to develop specialised corps of cavalry and archers. Thus in the later 440s or early they trebled the number of their horsemen to create Greece’s largest cavalry-corps outside of (Aeschines 2.172-4; 3.5, 7), while they had expanded their archery corps to 1600 members by 431 (Ath. Pol. 24.3; Thucydides 2.13.7-8).107 As other cities usually hired mercenaries from peoples who had strong traditions of fighting as a horsemen and archers whenever they wanted to employ such combatants, the early- fifth-century decisions of the Athenian dēmos to establish these two corps in the first

103 For this training, see, for example, Plutarch Cimon 11.2-3; Pseudo-Xenophon 1.19-20; Thucydides 1.80, 142.6-7; 2.84-86, 89; Xenophon Memorabilia 3.5.18. 104 Morrison 1974; Morrison and Coates 1986, 25-45. 105 Strauss 2007, 229-36. For the use of agōn to describe a sea battle, see, for example, Aeschylus Persians 405; Thucydides 2.89.8, 10. 106 Pritchard 1999a, 115-17. Quotation from Strauss 2007, 231. 107 For approximate dates for the establishment and subsequent expansion of each corps, see Spence 1993, 9-17 and Plassart 1913, 195-7 respectively.

Page 18 place represented a clear military innovation.108 However, Athenian cavalrymen and archers clearly also fell short of the popular standard of courage; for they faced lower personal risks than hoplites or sailors, as they launched their javelins or arrows at the greatest possible distance from their enemies, took to flight if they were pursued and only turned back to the offensive when their pursuers had given up.109 Before Philip the Second of Macedon siege warfare was rudimentary in the eastern Mediterranean: besiegers tried to starve a city into capitulation by blockading its harbour and using counter walls to cut access to its khōra or rural hinterland.110 Since this could take more than a year to be effective, the Athenians of the early fifth- century were forced to abandon sieges for want of sufficient resources (e.g. Herodotus 6.135; 9.75). But imperial income allowed them to conduct sieges successfully, from which they gained a reputation for exceptional expertise in this form of warfare (e.g. Thucydides 1.102.2). The Athenians treated the inhabitants of a besieged city which surrendered differently to hoplites whom they had captured on the battlefield: they typically executed the men and sold the women and children into slavery, probably leaving the elderly and babies to die of starvation, exposure or attack by wolves and dogs (e.g. Xenophon Agesilaos 1.21-2).111 In doing so they were no more or less brutal than others dealing with captured cities and were acting according to a nomos or custom which had been long recognised even if it had not been regularly practiced.112 The Athenians also set themselves apart by building fortifications which were unprecedented in their scale and for linking an astu (‘urban centre’) to a relatively distant port.113 Immediately after the Persian Wars the entire population of Athens mobilised to quickly build the walls of the city and the (Thucydides 1.89.3- 103.8). In 458/7 the Athenian dēmos resolved to build two walls from the city, one to the northern edge of the port and the other to the eastern end of the Bay of Phalerum, probably completing these six kilometres of new walls in just one year (1.107.1,

108 Hunt 2007, 110, 136. 109 For the horsemen’s mode of combat, see, for example, Diodorus 15.85.2-8; Lysias 16.13; Plato Symposium 221a; Thucydides 2.79; 5.10.9-10; Xenophon Hellenica 7.1.20; Pritchard 1999a, 112-3; Spence 1993, 34-163. For the archers’ combat, see, for example, Euripides Heracles 195- 203; Thucydides 2.79.9; 3.97.1; 4.32.4, 43.1-2; 6.69.2; 8.71.2; Pritchard 1999a, 108-9. 110 Hanson 2001, 11-12; Strauss 2007, 237-9; van Wees 2000, 94, 101-4. 111 E.g. Diodorus 12.73.3, 76.3-4; Thucydides 5.3.4, 11.3, 32.1. 112 E.g. Homer Iliad 2.691; 9.665-8; 11.623-5; Odyssey 9.39-61; Xenophon Hellenica 1.6.14; Memorabilia 4.2.15. Connor 1988, 15 n.59; de Sainte Croix 1954, 14-16; Krentz 2002, 31-2 pace Ober 1996, 62. 113 Hanson 2001, 10-1; Raaflaub 1999, 142; Rhodes 2006, 41-2; Strauss 2007, 239-40. Thucydides implies that the Athenians pioneered the building of ‘long walls’ between Megara and its port of before doing the same in Attica a few years later (1.103.4, 107.1).

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108.3-4; Diodorus 11.81.1-83.3).114 Finally, in 446/5, they started to build another wall between city and port, parallel to the existing one to the north (Aeschines 2.174; Andocides 3.7). ‘The construction of such an elaborate system of fortifications in such a brief period is a staggering achievement, especially when it is remembered that the Athenians were at war for most of the period and consequently capable of diverting manpower into constructive work only during the brief periods afforded by peace.’115 Such fortifications enabled the Athenians to respond to any invasion of their khōra in a novel way: instead of sending out their hoplites for a clash of phalanxes they could withdraw their rural population and moveable property within the fortified Athens–Piraeus complex, transport livestock to islands which they controlled and rely on the imported grain and tribute guaranteed by their control of the sea (Pseudo-Xenophon 2.16). This new option was first pursued at the beginning of the Peloponnesian War as part of the so-called island strategy which the city’s preeminent politician championed (Thucydides 1.143.4-5).116 Thus, in 431, when the combined army of the ravaged Attica, Pericles overcame spirited opposition and convinced his fellow citizens to remain within the walls. Such opposition is easy to understand: the Athenians felt orgē or great anger at the sight of Attica being laid waste and many of them wanted to march out to stop it (2.11.6-7, 20.2-3, 21.2-22.1), while some of Pericles’ political rivals probably construed this policy as cowardice (e.g. Plutarch Pericles 33.6).117 The general intensification and expansion of war-making by fifth-century Athens depended on the unprecedented service of non-elite citizens as hoplites and sailors and their unflagging willingness to fight and risk their lives for the city.118 Soldiering under the democracy was no longer a predominantly elite pastime but was opened up – like politics – to every stratum of the citizen-body. The most reliable estimate of the massively expanded number of hoplites derives from what Pericles says of the city’s manpower, in 431, on the eve of the Peloponnesian War (2.13.6-7; cf. Diodorus 12.40.4). He assured his nervous countrymen that they had 13,000 hoplites and another 16,000 guarding the forts and the city’s walls that were drawn ‘from the oldest and the youngest and all of the metics who were hoplites (apo te tōn presbutatōn kai tōn neōtotōn kai metoikōn hosoi hoplitai ēsan – Thucydides 2.13.7)’. The last figure has always been perceived as disproportionate to the number of

114 Garland 1987, 22-6. 115 Garland 1987, 25-6. 116 For this grand strategy, see Krentz 1997; Ober 1996, 72-85; and the chapter by Spence in this volume. Archaic Miletus provides a precedent for some elements of this strategy (Herodotus 1.17). 117 For the refusal to take the field as evidence of cowardice, see part 4 below. 118 Ober 1998b, 78.

Page 20 active-service hoplites and accounting for this reserve force has been the subject of indeterminable debate.119 Every attempt to breakdown the 16,000 into its constituent groups or reconcile the two figures has shortcomings and no scholarly consensus has ever emerged.120 As a result the calculation of total hoplite numbers can only be based on the 13,000 active-service infantrymen, which is a figure that finds some corroboration in what Thucydides reports about the first military ventures of the war (2.31.1-2; cf. 1.61.4). A good way to estimate what percentage of Athenians were hoplites is to combine this 13,000 with the population figure which Mogens Herman Hansen has estimated for 431 and his choice of the most appropriate Coale–Demeny life table for approximating conditions.121 As Mark Golden and others have shown, Hansen’s population figures and choice of life table remain valid and effectively unchallenged.122 For the number of citizens living in Attica at the outbreak of the Peloponnesian War Hansen does not rely on the military figures of Pericles but works backwards from the better documented situation for the fourth century. A variety of administrative and military figures point to a population of approximately 30,000 adult citizens living in Attica during the second half of the fourth century.123 From this total Hansen deducts the likely population growth for its first fifty years and hence arrives at a figure of around 25,000 adult Athenians at the close of the fifth century.124 Finally he estimates how many citizens there needed to be in 431 to order to end up at this figure for 400, while at the same time absorbing the huge losses of population which Thucydides and Xenophon report for the period of the Peloponnesian War. The result is approximately 60,000 adult male citizens living in Attica at the outbreak of hostilities.125 What percentage of the population our 13,000 hoplites represent depends obviously on the number of Athenians available for military expeditions. Notwithstanding a recent argument to the contrary, the so-called youngest and the oldest, who were not liable for active military service, were most probably citizens of 18 to 19 and 50 to 59 years of age respectively.126 The neōtatoi are clearly the precursors of the ephēboi or the eighteen- and nineteen-year-old cadets

119 E.g. Gomme 1956, volume 2, 33-9; Hansen 1981, 19-20; A.H.M. Jones 1956, 161-6. 120 E.g. van Wees 2004, 241-3. 121 Hansen 1981; 1986; 1988; 2006b, 19-60. Hansen (1986, 11-12) argues for the life table at Coale and Demeny 1966, 128, which has an annual growth of population of 0.5 percent. 122 Golden 2000; Osborne 1987; van Wees 2001, 52. 123 Hansen 1986; 1991, 90-4. 124 Hansen 1988, 26-8. 125 Hansen 1991, 55. His figure finds some corroboration in the independent population- estimate of Rhodes 1988, 271-7. 126 Christ 2001, 404; Hansen 1988, 23. Following A.H.M. Jones (1957, 164), van Wees suggests that the ‘the oldest’ extended down to forty years of age (2004, 242).

Page 21 of the next century.127 We know too that men in their fifties were not required to fight at the battle of Chaeronea, in 338, despite the gravity of the military crisis (Lycurgus 1.39-40), while Aristophanes writes of grey-haired members of the phalanx and cases of famous Athenians serving in their forties are well documented.128 Those available for active service then appear to have been 20 to 49 years of age. As they constitute 72.7 percent of all males aged between 18 and 80+ years on the relevant life table, the estimate of their number is 43,620.129 Therefore the 13,000 hoplites of 431 probably represented 29.8 percent of militarily active citizens. Traditionally scholars have argued that the type of military service an Athenian performed depended on the Solonian telos or income class to which he belonged.130 As a consequence service as a hoplite has been interpreted as compulsory for every citizen whose plots of land produced at least two-hundred measures of produce annually, which qualified him for membership of the zeugitai (‘yoke-men’) or third lowest of Solon’s income classes (Ath. Pol. 7.3-4). Likewise the top two classes are supposed to have provided the city’s trierarchs and cavalrymen and the thētes or lowest class its sailors and lightly armed troops. This argument goes back to the German-language scholarship of the nineteenth century.131 However, as a result of two scholarly developments of recent years this association of Solonian classes and forms of military service needs now to be abandoned entirely. The first of these developments is the culmination of the comparative study of ancient Greek , which suggests that an Athenian would have needed much more than a subsistence-level farm to qualify as a zeugitēs.132 Hans van Wees has undertaken by far the most thorough and careful estimate of the minimum area required, which is some 8.7 hectares.133 As the most generous assessment of the amount of arable land in Attica is only 96,000 hectares, there was not even enough land for the 13,000 active-service hoplites of 431 to qualify for this income class. Moreover, when we estimate how much agricultural land the members of the other three classes probably owned, what emerges is that the top three Solonian telē would have furnished less

127 See Winkler 1990, 29 with primary sources. 128 E.g. Aristophanes Lysistrata 595. Demosthenes was 46 years-old when he fought as a hoplite at Chaeronea (Aeschines 3.253; Plutarch Demosthenes 20.2), while fought at least twice as a hoplite in his mid-40s (Plato Apology 28c; Symposium 220b-1c; Plutarch Alcibiades 7.4). 129 Hansen 1986, 9-13; 1988, 21 n.9. 130 E.g. Hansen 1991, 45-6; Garlan 1995, 65; A.H.M. Jones 1957, 161, 180; Murray 1993, 194-5; Ober 1996, 58; Okál 1960, 101; Spence 1993, 180-2. De Sainte Croix 2004, 8, 20; Gabrielsen 2002a, 214; Vartsos 1978, 232-3. 131 Rosivach 2002a, 33-9; cf. Rosivach 2002b; 2005. 132 Foxhall 1997, 130-1. The first to realise how this finding called into the question the association of zeugitai and hoplites was Raaflaub (1999, 138, 150-1 n.49). 133 Van Wees 2001, 47-54; cf. van Wees 2002, 65-70; 2004, 55-7.

Page 22 than one half of the hoplites Athens had ready for action at the outbreak of the Peloponnesian War.134 The second development undermining any military function for the Solonian classes is philological. Several scholars have pointed out that the common interpretation of zeugitēs as a synonym for a hoplite rests solely on a Roman-period source (Plutarch Pelopidas 23.2), which describes a unique feature of the Spartan army (cf. Thucydides 5.58.2-3; Xenophon Lac. Pol. 11.5-10).135 In addition Vincent Rosivach has argued that the two Athenian sources which purportedly show that members of the lowest Solonian telos were never regular hoplites are essentially ambiguous (Antiphon fragment 61 Thalheim; Thucydides 6.43.1); for both, he suggests, may be using ‘thētes’ to denote either members of the so-named telos or hired labourers, which is the term’s other contemporary and common meaning (e.g. Plato Politicus 290a; Aristotle Politics 1278a12-13).136 While the first of these passages is clearly ambiguous, as its single line provides no context for clarifying how the word is being used, there has long been agreement among scholars that thētes in the second passage refers to members of the lowest census class who had been equipped as hoplites at public expense.137 In spite of this consensus Rosivach’s suggestion does have some merit: on closer inspection the historian could indeed be using thētes in the alternate sense. At 6.43.1 Thucydides catalogues how the hoplites whom Athens sent on the expedition of 416/5 to Sicily included 1500 Athenians who had been conscripted (ek katalogou) and another 700 thētes epibatai tōn neōn or thētes serving as marines on the ships. We know that classical Athenians regularly made a distinction between those who undertook military services because they had been conscripted (ek katalogou) and others who did so without compulsion (e.g. Diodorus 11.84.4; [Demosthenes] 50.6-7, 35; Lysias 16.13-14), whom they called hoi ethelontes or volunteers (e.g. Plato Menexenus 245a; Thucydides 1.60; 2.96.2-3).138 Moreover, at the time of the so-called Sicilian Expedition Athenian hoplites may have normally volunteered for service as marines, as a fragmentary inscription of around 430 refers to a recruitment of ethelontes epibatas or volunteer marines in

134 Van Wees 2001, 51-5. 135 Gabrielsen 2002b, 88; Rosivach 2002a, 34-9; van Wees 2006, 352-60. This interpretation of zeugitēs goes back to Conrad Cichorius (1894) and has been defended by Whitehead (1981). 136 Rosivach 2002a, 34. See also Aristotle Politics 1317a25-6; 1319a28; 1329a36; 1321a5-8; Euripides Cyclops 76-81; Electra 205; Isocrates 11.38; 14.48; Plato 4c; Republic 359d; Gabrielsen 2002a, 212-14 with primary sources. 137 E.g. de Sainte Croix 2004, 21; Gomme 1956, volume 2, 42, 80, 271; Hansen 1991, 45-6; Jordan 1975, 195-200; cf. Gabrielsen 2002a, 204; 2002b, 92; van Wees 2001, 46; 2006, 371. 138 Christ 2001, 399; 2006, 49; Gabrielsen 2002a, 204; 2002b, 92.

Page 23 accordance with a pre-existing law (IG I3 60.9-16).139 Since Athenian military volunteers received a daily misthos and a thēs or hired labourer worked voluntarily for pay, thētes as a term could conceivably have been used as a very loose synonym for hoi ethelontes. All of this makes it possible that Thucydides may have been drawing a distinction between different modes of recruitment rather than Solonian telē at 6.43.1. If this was the case, however, one wonders why he ignored the normal term for volunteers for one with very different connotations. A likely explanation lies in the role which the Sicilian Expedition’s departure played in his oeuvre (6.30-32.2, 43-44.1).140 In this unusually long description of a naval force’s embarkation and composition Thucydides used selection of ‘details and foci, significant silences, and the careful choice of terms’ to substantiate the judgement, which he had expressed earlier (6.24.3-4), that lower-class Athenians voted for this risky expedition because they believed it would secure misthos for themselves for the foreseeable future.141 The passing over of ethelontes for thētes clearly helped reinforce this negative view: the first term suppresses the fact that volunteers received a misthos, making it possible to construe their service as a commendable act of patriotism, whereas the second term strongly implies that voluntary combatants served primarily for pay. Finally we have the clear counter example of the city’s cavalry corps, which was formed in the second quarter of the fifth century and expanded from 300 to 1000 upper-class members sometime in the later 440s or early 430s (see above). Although the classical Athenians used ‘hippeis’ interchangeably to describe either members of the second highest telos (e.g. Ath. Pol. 7.4; Thucydides 3.16.1) or cavalrymen (e.g. Aristophanes Knights 225, 550; Xenophon Cavalry-Commander 1.2, 3), this income class manifestly played no part in the recruitment of horsemen.142 By law they had to be drawn from ‘the most able in wealth and physical capacity’ (Xenophon Cavalry- Commander 1.9-10) and sanctions were available to compel those unwilling to serve, despite their meeting of these criteria (10-11). Like chorus-masters (e.g. Antiphon 6.11), however, cavalry-commanders seem to have attracted sufficient volunteers by pointing out to potential recruits the adventure and advantages of service and to their fathers how joining the corps would actually cut down the amount of money which

139 Citizens serving as epibatai had a relatively high social status and were drawn from among those who normally served as hoplites; see, for example, Aristotle Politics 1327b9-11; Lysias 6.46; Plato 183c-4b; Laws 706b-c; Thucydides 3.98.4, 95.2; IG I3 1032; Gabrielsen 2002a, 211; Jordan 1975, 195-200. In 412/11, possibly as a consequence of the heavy losses in Sicily, Athens was forced to conscript regular hoplites for service as marines (Thucydides 8.24.2). 140 Steiner 2005. 141 Quotation from Steiner 2005, 411. 142 De Sainte Croix 2004, 25-6.

Page 24 their sons were already spending on horsy pursuits, leaving legal sanctions as a last resort (9-12; cf. Ath. Pol. 49.1-2; Aristophanes Clouds 14-16, 119-20).143 If service as a hoplite was not a compulsory requirement of those who belonged to the zeugitai-class, some have suggested that it was no less voluntary than membership of the cavalry corps.144 What limited evidence we have lends this support: a hoplite may have been conscripted for individual campaigns, but he probably volunteered to be registered in his lēxiarkhikon grammateion or deme- register as a hoplite in the first place if he had the desire and the personal resources to be part of the city’s phalanx (e.g. Lysias 16.14). Admittedly a young man whose father was or had been a hoplite or who came from a prosperous family would have encountered social pressure within his village to be a hoplite himself.145 However, as only 5 percent or so of sixth-century Athenians had been militarily active (see part 1 above), the thousands of lower-class citizens who flocked to the city’s phalanx after 508/7 did so in spite of having no family history of fighting for the city. Fighting in the phalanx entailed serious personal risks and was clearly much more dangerous than service as a cavalryman or lightly armed soldier.146 It also required a citizen to have some travel money to supplement his military pay and to purchase his own armour and weapons, which could cost months of wages.147 In these circumstances the growth of hoplite-numbers to 30 percent of the citizen-body by 431 at the latest is truly remarkable and not easily accounted for. The Athenian commitment to building and maintaining a massive war fleet made soldiering possible for the majority of citizens who were too poor to be hoplites.148 Typically rowers were not conscripted for each expedition but volunteered their services to the upper-class commanders of individual triremes.149 Naval service was demanding and could also be very dangerous.150 Throughout the century a changing proportion of sailors in the fleet were resident aliens (e.g. Thucydides 1.143.1; 7.63.3-4), allies (e.g. 1.121.3; 7.13.2)

143 Spence 1993, 181-2. 144 De Sainte Croix 2004, 26; Ober 2007, 97; Pritchard 2005b, 20; Vartsos 1978, 233-4. 145 Christ 2006, 54. Gabrielsen sees a comparable social pressure on the sons of liturgists to perform agatha for the city themselves (1994, 43-67). 146 Krentz 1985b. 147 Connor 1988, 10, 10-1 n.30; Garlan 1995, 65; Hunt 2007, 116; Ridley 1979, 520-1. 148 For fifth-century Athens’ building of ships and investment in other naval infrastructure, see Gabrielsen 1994, 131-45; Raaflaub 1998b, 22-3. Some subhoplite citizens also served in the city’s new archery corps; see the chapter by Trundle in this volume. While hoplites and the upper- class members of the expanded cavalry were organised into tribal units, no other wings of the armed forces fought or were mustered according to tribes (Pritchard 1995; 2000, 112-14 pace N.F. Jones 1987, 53-7). 149 E.g. Aristophanes Acharnians 545-54; Thucydides 6.31.3; cf. Demosthenes 50.7, 14-16. Morrison and Coates 1986, 107-27; Gabrielsen 1994, 105-10. 150 Gabrielsen 2002a, 211.

Page 25 and slaves (e.g. 7.13.2).151 But the largest portion, numbering thousands per expedition, appear to have been Athenian (e.g. Pseudo-Xenophon 1.2; Thucydides 1.142.6; 8.74-7). 3. The Important Problem: The Apparent Impact of Democracy on Athenian War-Making

A striking feature of the history of fifth-century Athens is the timing of this military revolution: the intensification and transformation of war by the Athenians directly follow the popular uprising of 508/7 and coincide with the flowering of Athenian culture, which was clearly brought about in large part by democracy. The near contemporaneity of these developments opens up some challenging possibilities. The military hyperactivity of fifth-century Athens may be another product of popular government and hence the dark side of its cultural revolution. Indeed this shaping of military affairs by civilian life may have been profound in classical Athens where the army literally was the democracy under arms; for those who participated so actively in its politics and determined its military policies also served as its generals, hoplites and sailors. On the other hand, as the public activity which dominated the lives and politics of classical Athenians, war could have impacted significantly on the consolidation of their democracy. In other words there possibly was a causal symbiosis between democracy and war in ancient Athens. Among contemporary witnesses of Athenian war-making perceptions of the positive impact of democracy on military performance were more widespread than is usually assumed. Herodotus put down the unexpected Athenian victories of 506 over Boeotia and Chalcis to the . The personal liberty and isēgoria (‘equal right of speech’) which were consolidated by the reforms of Cleisthenes turned the Athenians into the world’s best soldiers (Herodotus 5.78-9; cf. Isocrates 16.27). In his funeral speech of 338/7 Demosthenes similarly argued that the parrhēsia (‘freedom of speech’) of the Athenians guaranteed their strong feeling of shame about cowardly behaviour and hence undergirded their unsurpassed resolve on the battlefield (60.25- 6). Thucydides subjected Athenian military performance to much closer analysis. In a frequently cited passage of his History ambassadors from Corinth sketched out the general characteristics of the Athenians as soldiers as part of their efforts to convince the Spartans to strike against Athens before it was too late. For the Corinthians Athens had won so much and was such a menace to Sparta and its allies because of the flexibility and innovations of its citizens, their ambition for greater power, and their subordinating of private interests to the long-term good of the city (Thucydides

151 Amit 1962; Gabrielsen 2002a, 208; Hunt 1998, 83-101.

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1.70-1). Thucydides is normally assumed to have viewed these as innate ‘national’ characteristics of the Athenians.152 But Josiah Ober (chapter 2) demonstrates that Thucydides, in fact, used the famous funeral speech of Pericles to canvass practices of the democracy which supported more or less directly the agility, ambition and common-good seeking which the Corinthians attributed to their enemies (e.g. 2.37.2, 39.1, 40.2-3). Ober also shows how Thucydides’ accounts of Athenian campaigns during the Archidamian War illustrate the ways in which these politically produced dispositions affected the foreign-policy deliberations of the dēmos and the battlefield performance of their generals, sailors and soldiers (e.g. 3.1-50, 4.1-41). That democracy itself may be the third major cause of the Athenian revolution in military affairs finds support in a number of groundbreaking political-science studies to have appeared in the last several years. In particular Dan Reiter and Allan Stam put beyond doubt the general superiority of democracy in waging war. Drawing on the database of all modern wars compiled by the US Army, they demonstrate statistically that modern democracies have enjoyed far greater military success than other types of regime, winning over 90 percent of the wars which they have initiated and around 80 percent of all wars which they have fought.153 The main reason which Reiter and Stam propose for this military success is institutional: since citizens of a democracy are able to vote leaders out of office and usually do so if a war is lost or too many of their loved ones are killed in action, governments select wars which seem easily winnable and only initiate them if there is broad public support.154 This selection is supported by rigorous public debates among politicians and in civil society, which bring to the fore relevant information for decision-making and arguments for and against alternate options for foreign policy.155 Another reason which Reiter and Stam suggest is that the individual endeavour and meritocracy which democracies foster produce soldiers with greater initiative and leadership-skills than those of other regime-types.156 Independent studies, on balance, corroborate their finding of a democratic advantage in modern war-making.157 In addition other political scientists have recently shown how show that while modern democracies

152 E.g. Connor 1984, 36-47. 153 Reiter and Stam 2002, 11-57. 154 Reiter and Stam 2002, 3-4; cf. Russett 2009, 21-2. 155 Reiter and Stam 2002, 23-4. 156 Reiter and Stam 2002, 58-83. 157 E.g. Gelpi and Griesdorf 2001; Goemans 2008; Rioux 1998. Downes 2009 criticizes them for not including in their statistics wars which ended in a draw. When this is done, however, Reiter and Stam point out, there remains a clear advantage for democracies: between 1816 and 1987 they won 59 percent of the wars which they fought, drew 20 percent and lost 22 percent, whereas autocracies, for example, won 43 percent, drew 14 percent and lost 44 percent (Downes, Reiter and Stam 2009, 195-6, 201-2).

Page 27 may rarely fight each other, they have frequently fought colonial wars or attacked weak non-democratic neighbours.158 Finally Edward Mansfield and Jack Snyder prove statistically and via case studies that modern states undergoing a democratic transition start wars much more frequently than either consolidated democracies or authoritarian governments.159 This research directly challenges the so-called Realist School which has dominated the theory of international relations since the Second World War and whose antecedents can be traced back to Thomas Hobbes’ interpretation of Thucydides.160 Proponents of this school assume that every state rationally calculates its foreign policy on the basis of what will maximise its security, power and economic wellbeing, regardless of the type of political regime it may have. In addition these recent studies confound two pieces of popular wisdom about democracy. The first of these popular views is that democracies are particularly bad at prosecuting wars.161 Expressed most famously by Alexis de Tocqueville, the nineteenth-century commentator on American democracy, this assumes that the liberty of a democracy undercuts military discipline, while the fear its leaders have of the voters and the complexity of its decision-making mean the tough policies necessary for security are not always introduced quickly enough or at all. Secondly, this evidence of democratic bellicosity contradicts a cherished view of our post-war era that democracies are intrinsically peace-seeking: they abhor violence in international relations, prefer non-violent forms of conflict resolution and fight wars reluctantly, doing so only in self-defence.162 In recent decades political scientists have developed this second popular belief into a general theory, which postulates that democracies rarely fight each other and hence should be promoted on a regional basis for the sake of peace and security.163 This theory has had an enduring influence on foreign policy in the , since the early 1990s, and was used by President George W. Bush to justify retrospectively his 2003 invasion of Iraq.164 These widely held beliefs go a long way to explain why the relationship of democracy and war in any period of world history has attracted relatively little scholarly attention.165 In this regard historians of have not been an

158 E.g. Ferejohn and Rosenbluth 2008; Müller 2004. 159 Mansfield and Snyder 2005. Contra Narang and Nelson 2009. 160 Keohane 1986. For the link to Thucydides via Hobbes, see Crane 1998, 61-71. 161 Merom 2003, 244; Reiter and Stam 2002, 2-3, 146-7. 162 Keane 2004, 17-20; Mansfield and Snyder 2005, 1-2, 23-4; Merom 2003, 244-5; Reiter and Stam 2002, 2-3, 146-7, 150. 163 E.g. Maoz and Russett 1993; Russett and Oneal 2001. 164 Carothers 2006, 64; Russett 2005, 395-8; Russett and Antholis 1992, 415. 165 For this lack of attention, see Merom 2003, 3-18, 250; Reiter and Stam 2002, 2.

Page 28 exception: they have assumed warfare to be a coherent subject of study in its own right and hence explicable without reference to political and social factors.166 As a consequence most of our military studies have focussed on the organisation and battlefield record of a particular wing of the Athenian military or the general contribution of a class of soldier to Greek warfare.167 Others have studied the battles and strategies of particular wars or the general evolution of military practices in the Greek or Graeco-Roman world.168 Nonetheless some examples of a broader approach have appeared: good work has been done on the social background of Athenian soldiers and the transformative impact of Athenian democracy on traditional military ideology.169 Promising too have been important articles by three scholars, who address directly the relationship between Athenian politics and war. Victor Hanson considers the effect of democratic decision-making on Athenian military performance.170 To his credit Kurt Raaflaub has overcome the prevalence of Realist assumptions in our discipline in order to probe deeply the interplay between the imperialism of fifth-century Athens and ‘the political situation and psychology’ of its lower-class citizens, while Pierre Vidal-Naquet first sketched the intertwined of Athenian politics and warfare from the sixth to the fourth centuries.171 However, the work of each scholar leaves something to be desired: Hanson largely postulates rather than proves the impact of democratic decision-making, Raaflaub relies on a straightforward military determinism which no longer seems valid (see part 7 below) and, in view of its publication forty years ago, the sketch of Vidal- Naquet is somewhat out of date.

166 For a critical survey of the modern historiography of ancient warfare, see Hanson 2007. Hanson writes (2007, 19): ‘Often the parameters of present investigations simply reflect old controversies of the nineteenth century while fruitful new fields of enquiry are left unexamined. For example, there are dozens of new treatments of traditionally narrow topics such as the hoplite push or the battle of Marathon while we still have no…wider enquiry into the role of ancient political organization – oligarchy, democracy and autocracy – on military efficacy.’ 167 For studies of different wings, see, for example, Bugh 1988, Morrison and Coates 1986; Plassart 1913; Vos 1963. For general studies of a type of fighter, see, for example, Best 1969; Gaebel 2002; Hanson 1991; Trundle 2004. 168 See most famously the four-volume study of the Peloponnesian War by Donald Kagan (Kagan 1969; 1974; 1981; 1987). For histories of military practices, see, for example, Lendon 2005; van Wees 2004; and especially Pritchett 1971-91. 169 On the social background, see, for example, Ridley 1979; Spence 1993, 164-230; van Wees 2001; 2007. For the democratisation of military ideology, see, for example, Loraux 1986; Pritchard 1998a; 1998b. 170 Hanson 2001, especially 16-24. 171 Raaflaub 1994; 1996; 1998a; 2007b. Vidal-Naquet 1968. Quotation from Raaflaub 1994, 138. For the prevalence of the Realist School’s assumptions in , see Lendon 2002, 375-6.

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This lack of scholarly attention is a cause of some concern. The end of the Cold War has presented established democracies with a range of new security challenges, which have become more complex since the terrorist attacks of September 2001. Today governments are under strong public pressure to intervene in civil wars or failing states and are wrestling with how to reconcile open government, due legal process and personal liberty with the perceived demands of counterterrorism. In addition the United States and some of its allies are promoting democracy militarily in the Middle East and further a field. These deployments are exposing our soldiers to the risks of death, injury and post-traumatic stress, costing enormous sums but reaping mixed results.172 In these circumstances we should understand better than we do whether our democratic institutions are properly designed for the optimal development and execution of foreign policy and whether our democracy-promotion efforts are well conceived. The impact of democracy on Athenian war-making appears then to be an important problem for ancient historians: it concerns a striking feature of Athenian history and its investigation would fill a gaping hole in our knowledge base and potentially stimulate critical thinking about issues of real contemporary relevancy. The primary purpose of this edited collection is the exploring of this important problem from multiple perspectives. Taken together the chapters of its contributing ancient historians, archaeologists and classicists suggest that the political regime of classical Athens affected its war-making in two general but quite divergent ways. The democracy’s common dynamic of lower-class audiences and upper-class performers competing with each other led to a pronounced cultural militarism which encouraged the dēmos to become hoplites or sailors in ever larger numbers and to initiate wars very frequently. This was partly counterbalanced by the regime’s highly competitive and public debating of war and peace which normally reduced the foreign-policy risks of this militarism, facilitated military innovations and efficiency, and helped develop the initiative of the Athenians on the battlefield. Significantly the political debates, legal trials and dramatic competitions of classical Athens were the main forums for systematising and broadcasting the agreed communal identities and shared culture of its citizens, which have often been called ‘civic ideology’.173 As lower-class citizens had the strongest influence on the

172 Russett 2005, 395-401. 173 Among other things they have been called ‘civic ideology’ (e.g. Goldhill 1986, 57, 70), ‘Athenian identity and civic ideology’ (Boegehold and Scafuro 1994), ‘the Athenian imaginary’ (Loraux 1986), ‘the Athenian image of Athens’ or ‘conventional Athenian ideology’ (e.g. Mills 1997, 48, 75, 83), and ‘a civic ideology…defined by public discourse’ (Ober 1994, 102) or in ‘public conversations’ (e.g. Balot 2004a, 406).

Page 30 democracy’s speeches and plays, civic ideology reflected their evaluations of themselves and others, particular points of view and perceived self-interests. Thus this ideology can be described as ‘popular thinking’ or ‘popular culture’ and Athenian plays and public speeches ‘popular literature’.174 Poor Athenian audiences understandably had a generally positive view of the military contributions of their own social class and hence showed preference for those public speakers and playwrights who employed the epic values and terminology of soldiering, which had been the preserve of Athenian aristocrats before the democracy, to describe the soldiering of rich and poor alike. Because lower-class citizens continued to be ashamed of their poverty, which rendered them unable to perform agatha or benefactions for the city and prone to behave immorally, this extension of traditional military ideology down the social scale made military participation particularly attractive to them as a source of public recognition and praise. But this ascription of aretē to non-elite Athenians serving as hoplites or sailors put them under new social pressure to initiate and join military campaigns. Like other behavioural norms of the ancient Greeks, courage had to be regularly proven by actions and recognised by others, while those who perceived themselves as agathoi or courageous felt aiskhunē or a sense of shame to be accused of cowardice. A classical Athenian could be derided as a coward not only if he fled a battle in fear but also if he failed to endorse a war which seemed to be a necessity. As a consequence politicians regularly exploited ordinary citizens’ fear of shame to build popular support for their campaigns, even if this risked pressuring the dēmos into voting for foreign-policy options which were ill-conceived and potentially disastrous for the city. In addition this extension of aretē distorted the Athenians’ judgement of their own military record. The knowledge which most citizens had of the city’s history was based on their own experiences and the events which public speakers evoked in support of their proposals. Since military defeats were commonly put down to cowardliness (e.g. Demosthenes 60.21; Euripides Orestes 1475-88; Lysias 2.64-5; 10.28), the military setbacks of the Athenians tended to be slowly forgotten or, if rhetorically necessary, actively falsified. The result was that the Athenian dēmos viewed their military history as an almost unbroken series of victories, which caused them to overestimate the likely success of proposed wars and to downplay their potential human-costs. The open debating of foreign policy in the democracy may not have tempered the willingness of the Athenian dēmos to be soldiers and to start wars but it did normally reduce the risk that they would endorse poorly conceived foreign-policy proposals. In the assembly politicians were free to make contentious arguments and

174 E.g. Pritchard 1998a, 40; 1999a, 2-12; 2009, 216.

Page 31 their intense rivalries with each other ensured that any proposal for war met opposing arguments and alternative options. This performance dynamic also promoted the efficient prosecution of ongoing campaigns, as politicians closely scrutinised the military expeditions which their rivals had successfully proposed and volunteered suggestions for their improvement (e.g. Thucydides 4.27). Lower-class Athenians welcomed this intense rivalry between politicians, because they remained suspicious of the motives of their political and military leaders and would personally be in harm’s way if a campaign which they were serving on proved to be poorly conceived.175 This adjudication of the frequent debates of foreign policy by the Athenian dēmos constantly consolidated their general knowledge of foreign affairs, developed their ability to weigh up their sense of shame against practical considerations and hence improved the overall quality of the decisions which they made between different foreign-policy proposals. In addition this high-order deliberative capacity of ordinary Athenians enabled them to see the merit of innovative solutions to military problems which strictly contradicted traditional morality or popular prejudices and to take more initiative as combatants than their non-democratic rivals (e.g. Plato Laws 706b-d).

4. The Cultural Militarism of the Democracy The ideological democratisation of war which took place in fifth-century Athens can be observed most clearly in its regular public funeral for the war dead in which the epic concepts and language of soldiering and traditional mortuary practices of the upper class were extended to every citizen who had fought and died for the city (see part 1 above).176 This funeral probably dates back to the second quarter of the fifth century and was held every year when Athenians were killed in action (Thucydides 2.34.1, 7-8).177 Its procession carried the ashes of the fallen from the marketplace, where they had been honoured for three days (2), to the public cemetery in the Ceramicus which was judged ‘the most beautiful suburb of the city’ (4-5; cf. Aristophanes Birds 395-9). An empty bier was carried for those dead sailors whose bodies could not be retrieved, while the remains of the others were housed in ten caskets (one for each tribe) which were made of cypress (Thucydides 2.34.3-4). This wood figured in the palaces of epic heroes and was thought to guarantee the

175 For this suspicion, see, for example, Aristophanes Wasps 650-724; Peace 632-48, 668-9; Lysistrata 103, 490-1; Lysias 27.6-8; Ober 1989, 165-74; Okál 1960, 109-16; Roisman 2005, 120- 4; and the chapter by David Konstan in this volume. 176 The following description draws heavily on Pritchard 1996, 137-8; 1999a, 224-33; and especially Loraux 1986, 15-42. 177 Loraux 1986, 56-7; Parker 1996, 132-5; Pritchett 1971-91, volume 4, 100-24.

Page 32 immortality of memory.178 At the public cemetery the coffins were placed in ‘a beautiful and grandiose tomb’ (Plato Menexenus 234c), which was thought to be beyond the reach even of a wealthy family (Xenophon Hellenica 2.4.17). Such tombs were adorned with statues of lions and friezes depicting groups of generic hoplites and cavalrymen vanquishing their enemies, both of which signified the aretē of those being buried.179 They also had epigrams explaining that the dead had put their courage beyond doubt and left a deathless memory of it (e.g. IG I3 1179.3, 8-9; 1162.48). Finally, each tomb displayed a complete list of the year’s casualties, including citizen sailors, which was organised by tribes (1142-93).180 That these casualty lists gave the same space to the name of every citizen, regardless of what his military rank and social class had been, reinforces the impression that the principle of democratic equality, which was central to the Athenians’ assessment of their own political capacities and rights, strongly shaped their honouring of the war dead.181 Certainly this was how contemporaries saw it: a tragic fragment of the later fifth century had mythical Athenians who had died in battle for the city get a koinon or common tomb and isēn or equal glory with many others (Euripides Erechtheus fragment 360.32-5 Collard, Cropp and Lee), while Demosthenes argued that the city judges ‘all’ of the war dead ‘equally’ worthy of tēs autēs timēs or the same honour (18.208). Elsewhere compound words with isos and the idea of sameness were regularly employed to describe or justify the particular political equality of Greek democracy.182 The epitaphios logos or funeral oration which was traditionally delivered after the burial of the war dead usually devoted much more space to the patriotic myths and unfailing aretē of the Athenians and their ancestors than to the achievements of those who were actually being buried. Nonetheless these orations did spell out why the dead had gained what they called ‘the most becoming’ (Thucydides 2.44.1) or ‘the most beautiful’ death (Plato Menexenus 248c). Their death in battle for the commonwealth or its worthy ideals resulted in ageless praise and ageless renown.183

178 Loraux 1986, 349 n.26. 179 See, for example, Parlama and Stampolidis 2001, no. 452; Pritchard 1999a, 91-2; Stupperich 1994; and the chapters by Polly Low and Robin Osborne in this volume. For the lion as a symbol of aretē in Homer, see part 1 above. 180 Elsewhere I gather the evidence for the inclusion of subhoplite citizens on these lists (Pritchard 1999a, 234-40), despite commonly expressed doubts (e.g. Hanson 1996, 306; Raaflaub 1994, 141-2; 1996, 156; Strauss 1996, 313, 320-1). 181 Pritchard 1999a, 231-2 pace Low 2003, 109; Rhodes 2003, 81. 182 E.g. Aristotle Politics 1301a26-34; Euripides Suppliant Women 353, 407-8, 430-1, 438-41; Herodotus 3.142; Plato Menexenus 239a; Thucydides 6.38.5; Raaflaub 1996, 140. 183 E.g. Demosthenes 60.32; Hyperides Funeral Oration 27-8; Lysias 2.79; Plato Menexenus 247d; Thucydides 2.43.2, 44.4

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It gave them a deathless remembrance not only of their aretē but also of their youthfulness, because their premature demise had spared them the ravages and disability of old age.184 The funeral oration notoriously omitted or falsified military setbacks of the Athenians which would have confounded their preferred view of themselves as courageous and victorious.185 Sumio Yoshitake (chapter 14) carefully considers whether this high praise of the fallen represents another of the genre’s falsifications. For Plato the equal attribution of aretē to the war dead was patently false; in his Menexenus he has Socrates remark sarcastically that a battlefield death is clearly a fine thing, as the dead soldier gets a fine tomb befitting of a great man, even if he is poor, and commendation, even if he is phaulos or morally reprehensible, and praise for ‘things which he did and did not possess’ (234c-e). But Yoshitake shows how the oration’s universal recognition of aretē was much more justified than Plato here makes out. The classical Athenians had a surprisingly passive conception of courage: they believed the primary requirements of the agathos anēr or courageous man were, firstly, to remain steadfast in battle and, secondly, to accept the possibility of personal injury or death when fighting for the city (see part 2 above). A sizeable number of those whom the city buried would not have met the first of these requirements, because many hoplites were killed after their phalanx had been routed, while taking to flight was a standard tactic in sea battles. Every dead hoplite or sailor, however, clearly met the second requirement; for they had demonstrably accepted the risk of life and limb in military service. By constantly stressing the mortal danger which the dead had faced and using the braving of kindunoi or dangers as a synonym for aretē the funeral orations implied that the dead’s meeting of this second requirement by itself justified the recognition of them as courageous men. Those who died on the battlefield were not the only Athenian combatants to be described positively in the epic values and terminology of soldiering. In the surviving funeral orations, for example, the battles which are narrated reveal the Athenians as a whole and not just the war dead to be agathoi andres (e.g. Lysias 2.27, 52, 70; Plato Menexenus 245e-6a), who surpass all other Greeks in aretē.186 Alternatively they make flattering generalisations about decades of Athenian war-making (e.g. Demosthenes 60.11). A good example is the summary of the Athenian empire by Lysias: as a result of their ‘very many toils (ponōn), conspicuous contests (agonōn)

184 E.g. Hyperides Funeral Oration 27-30, 42-3; Lysias 2.78-81; Demosthenes 60.32-3. 185 For analysis of this feature of the genre, see Coventry 1989, 8; Loraux 1986, 132-71; Pritchard 1999a, 22-3; Thomas 1989, 231. 186 E.g. Lysias 2.24, 33, 40, 44, 48-53, 57, 58, 61-2, 67-8; Plato Menexenus 239d, 240e-1a, 243a, 243c-d; Demosthenes 60.6, 17-18, 21-3.

Page 34 and outstanding dangers (kindunōn)’, the Athenians made Greece free, ruled the sea for seventy years and brought political equality to their allies (2.55-6). Thus Plato’s specific comments on this aspect of the genre seem to be considerably more accurate, as Socrates tells his young companion (Menexenus 235a-b): ‘They laud the city by all means, those who died in war and our ancestors, all men who went before, and praise us too who are still alive. Being so praised by them, I for my part, Menexenus, am made to feel very noble.’ Critically the funeral oration makes no distinction between hoplites and sailors: victory at sea reveals Athenian aretē no less than on land.187 Nor was this extension of traditional martial values to sailors confined to the public funeral. For example, in his Persians of the late 470s Aeschylus may have characterised the Athenians as hoplites and the Persians as archers (e.g. 26, 29, 85, 147-8, 237-8, 278-9, 556, 926, 1020-2, 1025), but he still emphasized the aretē of the Athenians who served as sailors in the city’s victory at Salamis (e.g. 357-60, 386-401).188 An epigram commemorating this victory praises ‘the courage of these men’ who ‘both as foot- soldiers and on swift-moving ships protected the whole of Greece so that she would not witness the day of slavery’ (IG I3 503/4.1-4; cf. Palatine Anthology 7.258). Likewise Aristophanes sees ‘hard toil’ in fighting land battles, besieging cities and rowing (Wasps 684-5), while the Athenian general Phormio, apart from describing a sea battle as an agōn (Thucydides 2.89.8, 10; cf. Aeschylus Persians 405), thinks it involves ‘dangers’ (11) and courage (3; cf. 2.86.4, 8-9) on the part of sailors. This attribution of aretē to sailors as a class was probably justified by the popular beliefs that military victory, firstly, was a consequence of courage and, secondly, secured by the efforts of every Athenian combatant rather than by the general alone.189 It sat very awkwardly, however, with the hoplite-based definition of courage, most of whose requirements sailors could never meet (see part 2 above). That upper-class speakers and playwrights nevertheless chose to affirm sailors’ aretē reminds us how Athenian popular culture was shaped by lower-class citizens and was, in fact, a sprawling cultural mélange in which incongruous and even

187 E.g. Lysias 2.33, 40, 42-3, 47-8; Plato Menexenus 240e-1a, 242d-e, 243c-d. The surviving deliberative oratory of the fourth century does the same (e.g. Demosthenes 2.24; 3.23-6; 4.3-4; 9.36, 40; 13.21-35). Roisman concludes (2005, 127 n.69): ‘…the oratorical corpus provides no evidence for the inferior ranking of rowing in comparison to hoplite or cavalry service.’ 188 Pritchard 1998b, 125-6; 1999a, 240-1. For this falsifying characterisation of the two sides, see Pritchard 1999a, 42-3, 124-5; Rosenbloom 2006, 48-9; and the chapter by Margaret Miller in this volume. 189 For this first widely held belief, see, for example, Demosthenes 60.21; Hyperides Funeral Oration 15; Lysias 2.4-6, 20, 64-5; Plato Menexenus 240d; Pritchard 1999a, 97-8. For the second belief, see, for example, Aeschines 3.183-5; Euripides Andromache 693-8; Plutarch Cimon 8.1-2; Pritchard 1999a, 232-3.

Page 35 contradictory ideas could subsist side by side.190 A large proportion of those participating in the democracy’s public forums served regularly as sailors, while other audience-members, even if they normally fought as hoplites, cavalrymen or lightly armed troops, sailed on the city’s warships either to get to distant battlefields or, occasionally, as conscripted sailors during naval emergencies. This second group may have identified primarily as one or another type of land-based soldier but there is some evidence which suggests that they possibly also thought of themselves as sailors when they were on board a warship.191 In view of these self-perceptions of their audiences upper-class public speakers and poets simply could not afford to deny or question the extension of aretē to sailors if they wished to win their own agōnes. This positive representation of the military contributions of lower-class citizens contrasted markedly with the widely agreed evaluation of their social circumstances.192 Poor Athenians may have taken control of public life and civic ideology under the democracy but they were still ashamed of their poverty (e.g. Thucydides 2.40.1-2).193 Poverty was considered a disability, like old age or a physical handicap (e.g. Lysias 24.16-17), which resulted in socio-political disadvantages (e.g. Aristophanes Wealth 218-21; Demosthenes 21.141-2) and, at times, shameful acts and criminality (e.g. Aristophanes Wealth 565; Assembly- Women 565-7, 667-8; Lysias 31.11). Poor citizens understandably longed to be wealthy one day.194 This negative view of their personal circumstances made warfare psychologically satisfying for a poor citizen. ‘In the military, Athenian men were able to meet the masculine expectations of courage, strength, fraternity, order, self-control, discipline, self-sacrifice, loyalty, and service to the state, and to defend Athens’s cherished ideals of justice and democracy.’195 In addition soldiering put lower-class citizens on the same level as upper-class citizens and the heroes of epic poetry. By reason of his military service a poor Athenian was recognised as khrēstos politēs (‘a useful citizen’) or khrēsimos tēi polēi (‘useful to the city’).196 Thus fifth-century

190 For this fractured character of Athenian popular culture, see Mills 1997, 72; Ober 1989, 126, 224; Pelling 2000, 1-17; Pritchard 1998a, 44; 1999a, 12. 191 Three surviving , for example, describe an individual hero who is clearly a hoplite as a nautēs or naubatēs simply by reason of the fact that he has boarded a ship in order to be transported to or from a distant battlefield (Euripides Andromache 457; Sophocles Ajax 902; Philoctetes 246, 901). 192 Pritchard 2005b, 22-3. 193 Dover 1974, 109-12; Pritchard 1999a, 61-3; Rosivach 1991. 194 E.g. Aristophanes Birds 592; Wealth 133-4; Thesmophoriazousai 289-90; Wasps 708-11. 195 Roisman 2005, 105. 196 E.g. Aeschines 1.11; Aristophanes Acharnians 595-7; Euripides Suppliant Women 886-7; Lysias 16.14; Sophocles Ajax 410; cf. Aristophanes Knights 943-4.

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Athens gave its vast numbers of non-elite citizens compelling economic and cultural reasons to serve as hoplites or sailors. But this flattering treatment of the soldiering of lower-class Athenians proved to be a double-edged sword. While a source of pride, it put them under new social pressure to authorise, and participate in, wars. Poor citizens may have welcomed the funeral orators’ characterisation of their aretē as unsurpassed by any other people, but they also believed it was necessary to constantly prove their possession of this virtue on the battlefield and to be reminded of their duty to display it. Courage had heavy requirements and some individuals naturally struggled to meet them. Thus the Athenian dēmos saw war as a way to put their aretē beyond doubt and welcomed the regular calls to emulate the courageous exploits of their mythical and historical ancestors (e.g. Lysias 2.4-66; Plato Menexenus 239b-46a). In addition Athenian boys of both social classes were sent to the lessons of the grammatistēs or letter teacher where they memorised the exploits of Homer’s warriors, which, their fathers believed, would help turn them into agathoi andres or courageous men (e.g. Euripides Suppliant Women 911-17; Hyperides Funeral Speech 8-9).197 To be accused by others of falling short of the aretē of the ancestors or of acting cowardly caused aiskhunē or an intense feeling of shame.198 Although the Athenians associated courage and cowardice primarily with personal behaviour in battle, they also employed these terms less frequently to describe individuals who made important decisions in the lead up to a war. If someone, for example, who fled from the fray of battle out of fear could be called a coward, on the basis of analogy so too could a similarly motivated individual who refused to serve if he was conscripted or who failed to initiate a war which was necessary.199 Critically this extension of the terms’ application allowed Athenian politicians to regularly exploit the people’s fear of shame (also called aiskhunē or aidōs) when trying to gain support for a proposed war (e.g. Aeschines 2.137-8; Thucydides 6.13.1). Since they claimed that their military ventures were indispensible, they could warn the dēmos that rejection of what they proposed would be very shameful and make plain their cowardice and degeneration from the high standards of their forebears (e.g. Demosthenes 1-4, 6, 8-9). Such arguments had the potential to shut down scrutiny of foreign-policy proposals which were excessively dangerous or poorly conceived.200

197 Pritchard 2003, 306-18. 198 Roisman 2005, 65-7, 105-6, 111. 199 For cowardice as the antithesis of bravery on the battlefield, see, for example, Aristophanes Clouds 354-5; Peace 1186-90; Euripides Suppliant Women 914-9; Plato Menexenus 246b; IG I3 1179.6-13. For these extensions of its meaning, see, for example, Euripides Children of Heracles 700-1; Phoenician Women 999-1005; Suppliant Women 314-23; cf. Electra 983. 200 Balot 2004b.

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Peter Hunt (chapter 9) attributes the decidedly rose-coloured view which the Athenian dēmos had of their military history to the high value which they placed on military performance and explains how this view adversely affected their foreign- policy decisions. We have already seen that the Athenians welcomed representations of their courage as outstanding and rehearsals of the courageous exploits of their ancestors. They did so not only because they demanded positive recognition of their soldiering but also, Hunt argues, because everyone agreed on the importance of military preparedness and fighting courageously in light of the external threats which Athens faced. Critically the knowledge which the vast majority of Athenians had of their shared history was based on their own memories, private conversations and the events which they heard public speakers evoke to meet various rhetorical ends.201 In this oral transmission of history episodes which contradicted prevailing values and self-perceptions were slowly forgotten or knowingly suppressed.202 Since military failure was traditionally attributed to cowardice, the defeat of an Athenian army was such an event which public speakers tiptoed around or, if that was not possible, actively falsified in order to preserve the idea of Athenian aretē. While this flattering characterisation of Athenian war-making was reiterated across the public forums of the democracy, the falsification of history in its defence was most pronounced in the funeral oration which normally praised the city, consoled the bereaved and encouraged others to meet the Athenian standard of courage by rehearsing a long list of Athenian military achievements.203 Since this was the fullest account of the past which most Athenians would have encountered, its lack of candour about defeats encouraged them to imagine their military history as a series of isolated victories. Hunt concludes that this lopsided impression of the city’s military record, like the dēmos’ reluctance to admit war’s human costs, distorted their assessment of the likely success and dangers of proposed military ventures.204 As a consequence the Athenians were unrealistically optimistic about military success and hence initiated wars more often than they otherwise would have done. Polly Low (chapter 13) carefully evaluates what each element of the Athenian commemoration of the war dead signified and why their public tombs were mentioned so rarely in political debates. Athenian politicians evoked war-memorials of one kind or another as evidence of their ancestors’ aretē, which, they regularly added, could only be matched by contemporary citizens if they accepted their

201 Thomas 1989. 202 Thomas 1989, 1-13, 197, 200-1. 203 Mills 1997, 50, 52; Pritchard 1999a, 19-26; Thomas 1989, 200, 206, 236. 204 For the reluctance of the Athenian people to be reminded of fellow citizens killed in the prosecution of their wars, see the chapters by David Konstan and Polly Low in this volume.

Page 38 proposals for starting wars (e.g. Demosthenes 3.23-5; 13.26; 19.271-2; 22.72-8). Alternatively they used them to criticise their fellow citizens for privileging the contributions of generals to victories (e.g. Aeschines 3.183-9; Demosthenes 20.112- 13). At face value the public tombs could have supported such arguments. They strongly evoked the aretē of earlier Athenian soldiers and how the principle of democratic equality shaped the dēmos’ assessment of individual combatants. In spite of this apparent rhetorical utility these monuments were rarely mentioned (e.g. Demosthenes 18.208; 57.37; Lycurgus 1.142). Instead politicians referred to the numerous dedications, buildings and religious celebrations which had been set up across the city to commemorate its victories.205 Low convincingly argues that the tombs of the war dead were passed over, because they complicated the rosy picture of Athenian military performance which the dēmos preferred and were strongly associated with the unsettling lupē (‘grief’) and penthos (‘mourning’) of the bereaved.206 It was at these tombs that relatives made the customary lamentations and offerings for their loved ones.207 As defeat was commonly taken as proof of cowardice, the fact that these tombs honoured those who died in defeat no less than those in victory rendered them much more problematical than other memorials as examples of Athenian courage.208 The reticence of Athenian politicians to evoke these tombs, Low concludes, bears out both the fragility of the Athenians’ view of themselves as unsurpassed in aretē and how discussions of the human costs of battle could weaken arguments for waging a war. Tragedy and comedy’s portrayal of war was certainly more varied than the other genres of Athenian popular literature. Whereas politicians preferred triumphal accounts of the city’s military history, spoke constantly of Athenian courage and avoided mention of war’s human costs, Aristophanes, for example, staged three comedies ostensibly advocating or praising peace, while Euripides in Trojan Women and his other tragedies about the aftermath of the focussed directly on the suffering of the defeated and the casualties and war crimes of the victors. These apparently anti-war plays have regularly been interpreted as an important counter weight to the pronounced militarism of Athenian popular culture: they provided, it is

205 For these victory-commemorations, see Garlan 1995, 53-4; Hölschler 1998, 163-8; Raaflaub 2001, 323-8. 206 For these emotions of the bereaved, see, for example, Demosthenes 60.32; Lysias 2.71-6; Plato Menexenus 247c-8c; Hyperides Funeral Speech 41. 207 See, for example, Demosthenes 60.37; Lycurgus 1.142; Plato Menexenus 249c; Thucydides 2.46.2; and the chapter by Patricia Hannah in this volume. 208 For this public burial of victors and vanquished alike, see, for example, Demosthenes 18.208; Isocrates 8.87-8; Lysias 2.63. Lysias uses the tombs of those soldiers whom the Athenians had killed as evidence of Athenian aretē (e.g. 2.2, 63).

Page 39 said, direct criticism of the Athenians’ brutal treatment of cities, such as Melos, which they had captured by siege and the high value which they placed on waging war.209 Theatre goers may have been moved by Euripides’ portrayal of the suffering of Trojan women and children, but, as Sophie Mills (chapter 6) points out, the tragic poets ensured that their audiences felt safely distanced from any unpleasantness on stage. Hence their dramatisations of unsettling topics were pushed back to the age of the heroes and set outside of Athens.210 Popular settings for such tragedies were Thebes and Sparta, against which fifth-century Athens was regularly at war.211 Plays set in these cities did not normally, as Euripides does in his Andromache (e.g. 324-5, 435-59, 491, 595-601, 724-6), explicitly denigrate Thebans or Spartans.212 Nevertheless the genre’s sustained representation of both as morally flawed and prone to commit injustice and impiety provided justification for the belligerence which the Athenian dēmos maintained against these peoples.213 In Trojan Women Euripides pushed drama further away by putting the criticisms of war into the mouths of a group whom the Athenians normally viewed as doubly morally inferior, namely barbarian women. The accumulation of these distancing tendencies, Mills argues, would have discouraged theatre goers from linking this tragedy with recent events. Their interpreting of Trojan Women as direct criticism of their own foreign policy was made still less likely by the genre’s very different characterisation of Athenian war-making. Mills puts it beyond doubt that the tragic poets simply confirmed the rosy view of Athenian foreign policy which was articulated most fully in the funeral orations. Indeed Euripides’ Children of Heracles, Erechtheus and Suppliant Women are ‘straight’ dramatisations of canonical myths of these speeches, which differ from the epitaphic tradition only by having democratic kings deliberate the pros and cons of military aid before taking the field (e.g. Children of Heracles 253-87, 410-573; Suppliant Women 399-582).214 Such portrayals served as mythical paradigms not just for Athenian aretē and interventionist foreign policy but also for the democracy’s new conception of courage as a virtue which required deliberation.215

209 E.g. Gregory 1991, 98-100; Griffin 1998, 44; Rauflaub 2001, 329-41. 210 Pritchard 1999a, 33-5. 211 Vidal-Naquet 1990; Zeitlin 1990. 212 For Euripides’ treatment of Sparta in general, see Poole 1994. 213 E. Hall 1989, 164; 1993, 113; Konstan 2007, 195; Loraux 1986, 68-9; Mills 1997, 52, 92; Pearson 1936, 38-9. 214 For their ‘straight’ treatment of these myths, see, for example, Mills 1997, 85-128; Zeitlin 1990, 146 pace Loraux 1986, 108-9; Raaflaub 1994, 105-6; 2001, 335. 215 See also chapter by Ryan Balot in this volume.

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In the first two of his so-called anti-war plays Aristophanes made the case that the outbreak of the Peloponnesian War was a mistake for which Athens was mainly responsible, rehearsed some of its human costs and reminded his audience of peace’s many benefits. But David Konstan (chapter 7) makes clear that Acharnians (426/5) and Peace (422/1) were not the general critiques of Athenian war-making which many have assumed. These comedies do not blame the dēmos for a conflict which is characterised as unjustified; rather, they portray poor Athenians as ever ready for military action and as performing their military service diligently (e.g. Aristophanes Acharnians 540-56, 598-617). Konstan suggests that this picture is consistent with old comedy’s generally positive evaluation of war-making: Aristophanes indicates, for example, that soldiering and military spending were standard practice (e.g. Birds 1368-9; Knights 1350-3), that the veterans of Marathon were models of courage (e.g. Acharnians 696-7; Knights 781, 1334), that the city owed its safety to the navy and its sailors (e.g. Acharnians 162-3; Birds 378-80; Wasps 1070-3) and that the empire was normally a just hegemony which protected its subjects (e.g. Knights 1320; Peace 929-36). In these two plays Aristophanes, in fact, took care to absolve lower-class Athenians of responsibility for the Peloponnesian War, blaming instead their politicians for its outbreak and needless prolongation (Acharnians 515-19; Peace 668-9; cf. Knights 1356-7). His protagonists suggest that for undisclosed personal reasons Pericles advocated the embargo on Megara, which pushed Sparta into war, while his successors kept the war going, for the sake of enriching themselves, by enflaming the people’s hatred of the enemy (Acharnians 497-626; Peace 605-69). While these plays had no discernible impact on the city’s foreign policy, their depiction of politicians hoodwinking the people, which appears to have been a commonplace which old comedy shared with contemporary political debate (e.g. Knights 716-18, 779-80, 801-4, 826-7; Wasps 650-724; Lysias 16.17), presumably encouraged lower-class citizens, when sitting in the assembly, to scrutinise their leaders’ proposals for war as thoroughly as possible.216 Konstan considers, finally, how the third of Aristophanes’ so-called anti-war plays reveals the limits of the genre’s questioning of foreign policy. As the city was grimly determined to fight on after its enormous losses in the disastrously ill- conceived Sicilian expedition (e.g. Thucydides 8.1), Aristophanes, it seems, felt that a call for peace on the part of able-bodied citizens, as he had done previously, might be viewed as cowardly defeatism and hence played it safe by making his advocates for peace Greek women, whose perceived lack of courage and political capacity made it possible for men in the audience to discount their advice as comic license or bland

216 Heath 1997; Pritchard 1999a, 66-7, 73.

Page 41 utopianism.217 In addition his Lysistrata of 412/11 confirms that not even comedy could overcome the Athenians’ deep aversion to acknowledging their own losses, as its eponymous heroine is prevented from making what would have been the genre’s only explicit reference to Athenian casualties (588-90; cf. 37-8; Peace 647-56).218 Tragedy and comedy, when viewed as a whole, did not counterbalance the manifestly pro-war bias of Athenian popular culture. Sometimes their productions served as ‘safe’ opportunities to represent war’s human costs or peace’s advantages.219 But these genres also confirmed aretē and military service as norms, reinforced the characterisation of Athenian war-making as essentially just, helped besmirch the enemy’s morality and reminded the dēmos of the importance of open debate for sound foreign policy. In so doing both oiled rather than hindered the Athenian war machine. Three of the volume’s chapters explore the complex and ever-changing relationship between depictions of Athenian soldiers on privately purchased works of art and the treatment of military affairs in the democracy’s popular culture. Robin Osborne (chapter 10) shows how the private funerary sculpture of the later fifth and early fourth centuries was, at first, constrained by, and, then, helped transform, the norms for recognising the military achievements of individual Athenians. For most of the fifth century the principle of democratic equality strongly shaped how the Athenians thought of soldiering. They believed that every combatant was equally responsible for victory and hence were reluctant to single out generals for special honours. Likewise the funeral orations and epigrams for the war dead distributed aretē equally, while the reliefs on their public tombs depicted, not individuals, but groups of generic hoplites and cavalrymen vanquishing their enemies. In the late fifth century this egalitarianism became less rigid: the casualty lists now singled out individuals for special mention and some wealthy families commissioned funerary reliefs in which their loved ones were depicted as soldiers. In both instances, however, care was taken not to represent any individual as more courageous than others. The lists included, not proofs of outstanding individual aretē (as a near- contemporary casualty-list of Thespiae did, for example, by noting sporting victors), but the military offices which some had held at the time of their death (e.g. e.g. IG I3

217 For this perceived lack of courage and political capacity, see, for example, Aeschylus Agamemnon 1401; Aristophanes Lysistrata 516-20, 587-8; Lysias 2.5; Pritchard 2004b, 183-4. 218 Ehrenberg 1951, 310-11. 219 Raaflaub 2001, 341.

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1186.79-80), while the reliefs showed soldiers standing quietly instead of acting courageously in the fray of battle.220 For Osborne this barrier against singling out individuals for aretē was first punctured in 394/3, when the Athenians, after a decade of relative quiet, sustained heavy casualties in the first battles of the Corinthian War. In response the dēmos revived the practice of publicly burying the war dead (IG II2 5221). But one bereaved family, not thinking this enough, set up their own relief for their son, Dexileos, who, while fighting as a cavalryman, had died at the tender age of twenty years.221 They believed his death confounded longstanding doubts about the aretē of cavalrymen, which had grown much stronger because of the corps’ support of the violent oligarchy of the Thirty a decade earlier.222 If his death could be marked by a fighting horseman on a public tomb, they believed that they were entitled to represent him similarly on his own relief. Nonetheless they apparently sought to mitigate negative reactions to the relief; for its inscription indicates that their son was only a child during the Thirty’s reign and had been one of five horsemen who had fallen in the same battle.223 This work of art encouraged many other families to commemorate the aretē of loved ones on funerary reliefs. Osborne readily acknowledges this change in mortuary practice was only one part of the democracy’s long-term re-assessment of citizens’ individual contributions. But his chapter makes abundantly clear that cultural change does involve individual choices and individual events and often proceeds in fits and bursts. By providing a funeral and collective tomb for the war dead and honouring them annually through contests and sacrifices fifth-century Athens appropriated the traditional obligations of close relatives to bury their kin and assiduously tend their graves.224 In these public rites the bereaved were pushed to the margins.225 The funeral orators may have noted in passing their lupē and penthos, but consistently urged them to restrict these troubling emotions as best as they could by remembering the aretē which the war dead had put beyond doubt and the material support which the city would give those relatives whom they had left behind.226 The involvement of the bereaved was limited to the leaving of offerings for their dead relatives during the

220 This later-fifth-century list from Thespiae describes one of the war dead as a victor at the Pythian Games and another as a victor at Olympia (IG VII 1888 stele B.10-11; Low 2003, 107-8). Victory in a sporting agōn as in battle was thought to depend on courage (Pritchard 2009, 224-6). 221 Museum, inv. no. P1130. 222 Low 2002; Pritchard 1999a, 110-15; Spence 1993, 216-30, 223 Rhodes and Osborne 2003, no. 7B. 224 Garland 1985, 104-10; Humphreys 1980, 98-101. 225 Loraux 1986, 22-8. 226 E.g. Demosthenes 60.32-7; Hyperides Funeral Oration 41-3; Lysias 2.71-6; Plato Menexenus 247c-8d; Thucydides 2.44.

Page 43 public ekphora or pre-burial display of their remains and the lamenting of their own relatives beside the grave (e.g. Thucydides 2.34.2, 46.2). Red-figure loutrophoroi apparently were popular offerings for the war dead.227 Fragments of such ritual water vessels have been found in a recent excavation of a collective tomb, while another fragment depicts the casualty lists which graced these monuments.228 Patricia Hannah (chapter 12) explores what the most common scenes on these so-called warrior loutrophoroi signified and how these vessels were traditionally used in a family’s preparing of a corpse for burial and as grave-markers or -goods. These serve as rare evidence, she suggests, for the decidedly mixed emotions of the bereaved and their ongoing sense of obligation, despite the public funeral, to perform the rites which a family traditionally undertook for its dead. For Hannah this series also reflects basic military realities; for the changes in its iconography of a hoplite’s kit vividly illustrates the shift towards lighter and less extensive armour over the course of the fifth century, which was probably brought about by the desire of increasing numbers of poorer citizens to serve as hoplites. In 1975 Konrad Schauenberg published a red-figure oinochoe or wine jug which depicted an essentially naked man, firmly grasping his penis in his right hand, on the point of anally penetrating a Persian archer.229 Between the two figures an inscription was added: ‘I am Eurymedon. I stand at the ready in a bent-over position.’ Eurymedon was of course the river where Athenian sailors and hoplites achieved back-to-back victories over the Persians in 466 or thereabouts (Plutarch Cimon 12.1- 13.2; Thucydides 1.100.1-2). Many have interpreted this wine jug as a crude evocation of how the Athenians of the time were accounting for their military success against the Great King: they were manly and courageous, while the Persians were naturally effeminate and cowardly.230 Margaret Miller (chapter 13) carefully critiques this longstanding interpretation. As part of this morality-based explanation of Athenian military success Athenian pottery-painters and tragic poets sought to portray the Athenians essentially as hoplites and the Persians as archers.231 But on this oinochoe the Greek lacks any hoplite-arms and is marked out iconographically as a sailor. He also falls well short of the standard of the respectable citizen: his scanty goatee and sideburns, unkempt hair and tribōn (‘poor man’s cloak’) are the normal attribute of lowly figures, such as labourers and slaves, on finely painted pots, while

227 Stupperich 1994, 97. 228 Blackman 1998, 8-11; Bradeen 1967, 324-5; Stoupa 1997. 229 Schauenberg 1975; Museum for Art and Industry (Hamburg), inv. no. 1981.173. 230 Cartledge 1999, 56-61; E. Hall 1993, 110-13. 231 See Bovon 1963 and n.183 above.

Page 44 his attempted buggery of an older and foreign man confounds the mannered homosexuality of the Athenian upper class. This decidedly unsympathetic view of sailors was not shared by the Athenian dēmos. While they may have preferred the heroic language of land battle for lauding their combatants, we have already seen how they publicly recognised the aretē of sailors. For Miller this wine jug gives us a rare glimpse of the dismissive attitude which some upper-class Athenians of the time presumably had of the city’s burgeoning navy and its personnel. While not directly attested for the , the existence of such a minority view is very likely: in the later fifth and fourth centuries upper-class critics of the democracy disparaged sailors or considered sea power morally corrupting, while, in the early 450s, a minority of Athenians were seeking to overthrow the democracy and opposed its building of long walls down to the sea (Thucydides 1.108.4-7).232 But evoking this minority view was clearly not a commercial success, as this wine jug’s scene is unparalleled. The upper- and lower- class customers of the pottery workshops may have preferred images of hoplites rather than warships, but few, it seems, wanted scenes denigrating sailors.

5. The Democratic Debating of Foreign Policy

Ryan Balot (chapter 3) explains that the open debates of the Athenian democracy normally reduced the risk which its cultural militarism posed to the soundly based determination of foreign policy. Athenian politicians were free to be contentious and their intense rivalries with each other guaranteed that any proposal for war would meet with opposing arguments and alternative proposals. As a consequence the Athenian dēmos, when weighing up foreign-policy proposals, were also encouraged to consider what was in their longer-term interests and the practical value of just international relations. The failure of in 427, for example, to convince the Athenians to execute every last Mytilenean (Thucydides 3.36-50) and of Demosthenes, before the mid-, to shame them into accepting his risky proposals for war against Philip of Macedon show how soundly based calculations of self- interest did regularly carry the day.233 Balot suggests that this ability of the Athenians to balance fear of shame against strategy saw them develop forms of combat which strictly broke the conventions of phalanx warfare, while their direct involvement in

232 For the criticism of sailors and sea power by critics of the democracy, see, for example, Plato Laws 706b-7b; Plutarch Themistocles 19.4; Pseudo-Xenophon; Ceccarelli 1993; Strauss 2000, 266-7. 233 For this lack of success of Demosthenes and the strategic shortcomings of his military proposals, see, for example, Badian 2000, 26-37; Cawkwell 1962a, 135-40; 1962b, 377-8; 1963, 53.

Page 45 the city’s decision-making made them more innovative and flexible than the combatants of oligarchies and autocracies. Significantly Balot shows how the Athenians actually invented a second and more nuanced standard of courage and new mythical paradigms which reflected the democracy’s wide-ranging debates of foreign policy. The truly courageous, it could now be argued, were those who went to war after open debate, whereas those thoughtlessly risking their lives only displayed rashness (e.g. Demosthenes 14.8-9; Hyperides fragment A4 Burtt; Thucydides 2.40.2-3). On the tragic stage Theseus and other heroes of Athenian mythology deliberated thoroughly before taking the field, balancing the demands of courage, strategy and justice (e.g. Euripides Suppliant Women 160-348).234 These abstract representations of the practical integration of courage and deliberation by the Athenian people weakened further the potency of shame as a motivation for war and hence consolidated their capacity to make well- considered decisions about foreign policy. Admittedly the intense competition of Athenian politics and the suspicion which the dēmos had of their political and military leaders could be a mixed blessing when it came to the actual conduct of campaigns which the democracy had authorised. While this performance dynamic helped ensure that wars were prosecuted efficiently, it also led to the legal prosecution, ostensibly for bribery or treason, of one or two of the city’s stratēgoi or generals on average in any one year.235 As many of these trials ended in death-sentences, Athenian stratēgoi, because of their fear of such punishment, endeavoured to carry out as closely as possible the directives which the dēmos gave them for their campaigns.236 Such prosecutions may occasionally have deprived the city of competent leadership which it sorely needed (e.g. Diodorus 13.101-2; Xenophon Hellenica 1.7.1-35) or caused generals not to take the best course of action out of fear (e.g. Thucydides 7.11-15, 48), but they did, at least, effectively address the so-called principle–agent problem which bedevils collective enterprises.237 Thus the popular courts helped guarantee that the advantages which the Athenians gained from the open debate and constant review of foreign policy in the assembly were not lost through a failure to implement decrees in the field. Iain Spence (chapter 4) argues that the Athenian decision of the later 440s or early 430s to create Greece’s largest cavalry-corps outside of Thessaly represents another prime example of this soundly based and innovative decision-making of the Athenian dēmos. In doing so lower-class Athenians overcame, in this instance, not a

234 See also the chapter by Sophie Mills in this volume. 235 Hamel 1998b, 122-60; Hansen 1991, 218-20. 236 Hamel 1998b, 159. 237 Ober 2008b, 15-16.

Page 46 feeling of shame, but their own expectations of the upper class and popular prejudices against members of the armed forces’ smaller corps. Spence details how this trebling of regular horsemen to one thousand was only made possible by significantly reducing the private costs which individuals bore so that less affluent members of the upper class could be convinced to join up (Xenophon Cavalry-Commander 1.9-12). The democracy achieved this by providing a katastasis or setting-up loan for a horseman’s purchase of his war-horse and a misthos or daily wage to cover, among other things, the sitos or grain for his and his groom’s mounts. In the late 430s this military pay alone probably consumed more than one tenth of the city’s annual income.238 Such an enormous subsidy ran counter to the popular belief, which the dēmos otherwise acted on (e.g. Pseudo-Xenophon 1.13, 2.9-10), that elite citizens were obliged to support public services as generously as possible.239 In supporting this policy they also had to downplay slurs about the aretē of horsemen. We have already seen how cavalrymen fell well short of the prevailing definition of courage: they employed flight as a tactic and faced significantly lower personal risks than hoplites. Since lower-class Athenians never fought as regular members of this corps and presumably welcomed a convenient foil against which their own battlefield- behaviour measured up favourably, they allowed public speakers and playwrights to cast aspersions on the aretē of those who chose service as a horseman rather than as a heavily armed soldier.240 Clearly the decision of the Athenian people to treble the size of the cavalry- corps, along with their perception of it as a strategic asset (e.g. Andocides 3.5, 7; Sophocles Oedipus at Colonus 694-719), were soundly based. Spence explains, for example, that the ability of the Peloponnesian forces to penetrate so deeply into

238 Xenophon’s Cavalry-Commander confirms that Athens of the mid-fourth century spent ‘nearly 40 talents yearly’ on a daily misthos of 4 obols for each of its 1000 horsemen (1.1-2, 9-10, 19, 23; 9.3). What survives of Against Theozotides by Lysias suggests that this pay-rate dates back to the last years of the previous century. The speech attacks this politician for two motions which he proposed to the Athenian assembly, probably in 403/2. A surviving fragment shows that the subject of one proposal was the misthos of the cavalry-corps (fragment 6.73-9 Gernet-Bizos with Loomis 1995): ‘...concerning war this Theozotides put forward the motion that the horsemen would receive as pay (misthophorein) 4 obols instead of 1 drachma and the mounted archers 8 obols instead of 2 drachmas.’ Lysias tell us that this proposal was carried (79-81). On the basis of this fragment the salary bill of the cavalry, before 403/2, appears to have been more than one half higher than in Xenophon’s day and, if pay for the cavalry was halved as it was for the other wings of the armed forces in 412 (Thucydides 8.45.2), it would have been more than three times higher during the first three phases of the Peloponnesian War (Loomis 1998, 45-6). At the beginning of the Peloponnesian War the public income of Athens was 1000 talents (Xenophon Anabasis 7.1.27). 239 E.g. Aristophanes Lysistrata 652-4; Demosthenes 28.24; 42.22; [Demosthenes] 45.66; Isaeus 5.35-6; Lysias 27.10 240 E.g. Aristophanes Knights 1369-72 with Christ 2006, 57-8; Demosthenes 9.49; Lysias 14.7, 11-12. 14-15; 16.12-13; Plato Symposium 221a.

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Attica, during their invasion of 446, revealed the shortcomings of the city’s defence of its khōra (Thucydides 1.114.2), while the expanded cavalry-corps did effectively harass the Spartans and their allies and hence reduce the destructiveness of their invasions of Attica during the Peloponnesian War (e.g. 2.22; 7.27.5).241 Indeed he plausibly suggests that the corps’ expansion may have been part of deliberate preparations for the island strategy whose implementation Pericles oversaw at the beginning of this war (see part 2 above). Certainly this sophisticated strategic thinking on the part of the Athenian people was reflected in the abstract discussions of dunamis (‘military power’) and its requirements in the plays and speeches of the late fifth and fourth centuries.242 But Spence suggests, in conclusion, that it appears even earlier in the blatantly anachronistic treatment of the Persian Wars by the historians (e.g. Herodotus 7.139, 235; Thucydides 1.72-4). Archers and other psiloi or lightly armed soldiers also failed to meet the hoplite- based conception of courage in classical Athens, because they too typically employed flight as a tactic and discharged their arrows, javelins or spears at the greatest possible distance from the enemy (see part 2 above). As only a small fraction of lower-class Athenians ever served as archers, the dēmos also welcomed their playwrights and politicians’ condemnation of them as cowards.243 In addition service as a psilos was strongly associated with so-called barbarians, whom the Athenians believed to be completely incapable of acting courageously. There was, from the mid-sixth century, a long history of hiring Thracians and Scythians as lightly armed soldiers at Athens (see part 1 above), while we have seen how the Persians were represented as archers in the tragedies of fifth-century Athens and on its finely painted pots. As was the case with the city’s cavalrymen, Matthew Trundle (chapter 5) makes abundantly clear that these popular prejudices did not prevent classical Athenians from deploying lightly armed troops and doing so in innovative ways. Athens, for example, broke from the other cities of by establishing its own corps of toxotai (‘archers’) in the late 480s, doubled its size mid-century, began publicly recruiting foreign peltasts in the , armed rowers as psiloi for raiding parties around the same time and began using peltasts as its main force on distant and year-round campaigns in the first decades of the next century. In every instance, Trundle establishes, these developments addressed clear military problems or gave the Athenians a tactical edge over their enemies. Thus we have here further examples of the soundly based and innovative decision-making of the Athenian people with

241 Spence 1993, 81-5. 242 Ober 1978; Pritchard 1998a, 55; 1999a, 214-23. 243 E.g. Aristophanes Acharnians 161-3, 703-12; Euripides Heracles 157-8; Sophocles Ajax 1120-4, 1142-6; cf. Demosthenes 9.49; Pritchard 1998a, 49-50; 1999a, 108-10.

Page 48 respect to foreign policy. This is particularly evident, Trundle concludes, in the reformed ephēbeia of the later 330s and , in which the city’s future hoplites, who had sworn to uphold the traditional requirements of courage, were nonetheless trained to fight, when necessary, as archers, peltasts and javelin-throwers (Ath. Pol. 42.2- 5).244 Alastair Blanshard (chapter 8) examines the effect of the democracy’s law-court on the way in which the Athenians conducted and judged their military activities. His close analysis of several surviving speeches from the fourth century strongly suggests that the law-courts played roles which were no less significant than the assembly in the people’s control of foreign policy and popular culture and their endorsement of military innovations. Decisions about war and peace may only have been taken in the assembly, but military affairs still figured prominently in the law-court. Lower-class jurors, for example, adjudicated the dokimasia or pre-appointment scrutiny of each magistrate, in which a candidate’s fulfillment of military obligations was carefully checked (Ath. Pol. 55.3).245 In addition litigants normally brought up past military service either to prove their own good citizenship or to besmirch that of their opponents (e.g. Aeschines 2.167-9; Lysias 10.28). Blanshard reminds us that litigants knew that their opponents would exploit every opportunity to characterise them as having fallen short of community standards of military service and faced serious consequences, especially as defendants, if they lost their cases.246 Consequently litigants, like politicians debating foreign policy, often complicated the simple application of popular morality to a given set of facts by introducing other considerations which, they believed, their lower-class audiences would recognise as valid (e.g. Lysias 9). In so doing they often reinforced existing popular anxieties about one or another military practice or drew attention to some new problem with the armed forces. Indeed Blanshard details how two major military reforms of the fourth century directly addressed problems which had been canvassed earlier in a law-court (e.g. [Demosthenes] 50). While a direct link between these reforms and speeches cannot be established, legal agōnes, it seems, played an important part in building majority support for military innovations. Not all litigants, however, could sidestep questions about their military morality by pointing to such problems. In these circumstances, Blanshard concludes, upper-class defendants had no option but to deny any aspersions against them, demonstrate their aretē and endorse explicitly the prejudices of the jurors, even if they were directed against their own social class.

244 For this so-called ephebic oath, see Rhodes and Osborne 2003, no. 88. 245 Hansen 1991, 218-20. 246 Hansen 1991, 192-3.

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6. Athenian War-Making in the Fourth Century Together the chapters of this edited volume provide what is a strong case that democracy was a major cause of the intensification and transformation of Athenian war-making in the fifth century. In addition they go a reasonably long way to illuminating the substance of this causal relationship by detailing how particular aspects of the Athenians’ popular culture and political practices may have impacted on specific features of their military affairs. However, they do not attempt to judge the importance of democracy relative to the other two major causes of the Athenian military revolution, namely demography and imperial income. By treating fourth- century Athens as a separate unit of study this ambiguity can be effectively addressed. Social scientists have shown how the comparison of one example of a particular phenomenon with several causes with another example where one or more of these independent variables are absent helps determine the relative weight of the causes in the first unit of study.247 Athens of the fourth century was a democracy, possibly had the same-sized citizen-body as in the sixth century, but lacked the enormous imperial income of the fifth century.248 Traditionally the population-losses during the Peloponnesian War and the collapse of the income-bearing empire were thought to have caused a wholesale decline in its war-making.249 It has long been argued that the dēmos of postwar Athens initiated fewer wars and were reluctant to serve personally when they did so. As a result, mercenaries had to be employed in increasingly large numbers and soon formed the core of the city’s armed forces. The massive reduction in state income often prevented Athens from launching the fleets which were required to defend its strategic interests. In making this interpretation ancient historians of the twentieth century took at face value the negative comments which Demosthenes made about Athenian warfare in his assembly speeches of the late and 340s. As part of his efforts to convince the dēmos to wage war against Philip of Macedon Demosthenes repeatedly suggested that their military behaviour fell short of the high standard of their fifth-century ancestors and hence was a cause of shame (e.g. Demosthenes 1-4, 6, 8-9).250 Over the last quarter of a century the close study of the actual performance of fourth-century Athens has largely overturned the bleak view of wholesale decline:

247 King, Keohane and Verba 1994, 91-6. 248 Hansen reliably calculates the citizen population of Athens in the second half of the fourth century as 30,000 (see part 2 above), which is the conventional estimate of its size around 490 (e.g. Vidal-Naquet 1968, 170). 249 E.g. Austin and Vidal-Naquet 1977, 135-8; Davies 1978, 198-9; de Sainte Croix 1981, 293, 607 n.37; Mossé 1962, 315-22. For discussion of this traditional interpretation, see Burckhardt 1995, 108-10; Harding 1988, 61; 1995, 105-6 – all with bibliographies. 250 Roisman 2005, 115-6.

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Athens recovered quickly from the Peloponnesian War, strengthened its democracy, became a cultural innovator again and restored its record of military innovation and success.251 This work has corroborated the earlier doubts which were occasionally expressed about the reliability of Demosthenes as a reporter of military affairs.252 In particular Leonhardt Burckhardt has demonstrated exhaustively that for the Athenian armed forces ‘mercenaries were only an important supplement’.253 Admittedly these foreign troops had long served as lightly armed specialists who fought alongside the regular army and were increasingly employed for sieges and year-round campaigns, in which citizens found it difficult to participate because of their social responsibilities.254 Additionally the acute population losses of the later fifth century did make it necessary for upper-class trierarchs, despite the smaller size of fourth- century fleets, to hire non-citizen rowers for their crews. But the backbone of the armed forces of Athens remained its citizens. Throughout the fourth century Athenian hoplites and horsemen regularly fought pitched battles in central Greece where their fighting was decisive for the outcome (e.g. Xenophon Hellenica 3.5.18-22; 4.2.16-23, 3.15-20).255 Athenians also kept coming forward for naval service in reasonably large numbers (e.g. [Demosthenes] 50.29; Xenophon Hellenica 5.4.61).256 The Athenian dēmos, in fact, waged war more often in the fourth century than previously: they campaigned incessantly from 396 to 386 and then from 378 to 338 with only year- long interruptions.257 In this century Athens manifestly ‘still ruled the waves’: it normally could put to sea the fleets which were necessary to protect its shipping-lines to the , which were vital for its grain-supply (Demosthenes 18.301-2; Xenophon Hellenika 5.4.61), and was widely recognised as Greece’s leading sea power (e.g. Demosthenes 6.12; 8.45; Diodorus 15.78.4; Xenophon Hellenica 7.1.1).258 Clearly too the highly competitive debates of the democracy helped fourth-century Athenians to identify and effectively address foreign-policy challenges.259 An early example is their securing of allies to fight the Spartans during the . The Corinthian War ended badly for the Athenians: the Persians and Spartans joined forces to capture their grain

251 E.g. Cartledge 2001b; Eder 1995. 252 E.g. Cawkwell 1963, 53. Burckhardt 1995, 129-33; 1996, 211-29. 253 Burckhardt 1995; 1996, 76-153. Quotation from Burckhardt 1995, 128. 254 E.g. Demosthenes 8.9; 23.113; [Demosthenes] 50.21-2; Isocrates 15.111-12; Xenophon Hellenica 4.5.11-18. 255 Burckhardt 1995, 118-20; Hanson 2000, 7; Harding 1995, 11-2; Lonis 1979, 17-21. 256 Burckhardt 1995, 120-6. 257 Austin 1994, 528; Cawkwell 1962b, 383. 258 Burckhardt 1995, 112; Cawkwell 1984; Harding 1988, 68-71; Heskel 1997, 137. Quotation from Cawkwell 1984, 342. 259 See especially the chapter by Alastair Blanshard in this volume.

Page 51 ships and hence forced them to accept the King’s Peace of 387/6 (Xenophon Hellenica 5.1.31). This recognised the Greek city-states of Asia as Persian subjects, insisted on the autonomy of the other Greeks, which checked the ongoing efforts of the Athenians to reconstitute their fifth-century empire (e.g. Andocides 3.15, 36; Xenophon Hellenica 3.5.10), and promised massive military retaliation against any state which broke the peace.260 Since the Spartans used this autonomy clause to continue their aggressive interventions in the affairs of other poleis (e.g. Xenophon Hellenica 5.2.1-10, 20-31), Athens needed to address its military vulnerability as a matter of urgency and to do so within these new constraints. Thus it struck bilateral alliances with maritime centres which explicitly acknowledged the King’s Peace (e.g. IG II2 34-5, 41) and, after a failed attempt on the part of the Spartan, Sphrodias, to capture the Piraeus in 378/7, invited peoples which were not Persian subjects to become members of the so-called Second Athenian League (43).261 The Athenians promised not to impose a garrison, imperial magistrate and phoros (‘tribute’) on those who joined, to respect their constitution and to abstain from purchasing or expropriating their properties (43.15-45). This renouncing of the policies of their earlier arkhē with respect to new allies addressed the fear which many Greeks understandably still had of Athenian intentions and signalled to the Great King that league-members would indeed be ‘free and autonomous’ (19-20). These promises, which were largely kept, proved effective: membership quickly swelled to around sixty or seventy states (79-134; Aeschines 2.70; Diodorus 15.30.2), whose harbours and military contributions helped the Athenians to restore their naval supremacy by forcing Sparta to the negotiating table (e.g. Xenophon Hellenica 6.2.1-2, 3.18-19).262 Unsurprisingly an important area of reform throughout the fourth century was the financing of war. The Athenians, for example, when they were carefully preparing for all-out war against Sparta in 378/7, reformed their collection of the eisphora or extraordinary war and, in the course of the ensuing hostilities, gained the approval of their league’s sunedrion or council to collect regular suntaxeis or contributions from its members.263 Another significant reform in this area was the reorganising of the recruitment of trierarchs in 358/7.264 Such financial reforms helped to ensure that Athens once again could spend more on its armed forces than all

260 For this revival of Athenian imperialism, see especially Seager 1967. 261 For this prospectus, see Rhodes and Osborne 2003, no. 22. 262 For the extent to which Athens kept these promises, see especially Cargill 1981, 129-60. 263 For the reform of the eisphora and its regular levying in the fourth century, see Austin 1994, 546-8; Brun 1983, 28-73; Christ 2006, 147-9, 165-6. For the suntaxeis, which were probably first paid in the late 370s, see Austin 1994, 552; Brun 1983, 91-3; Cargill 1981, 124-8; Gabrielsen 2007, 267-8. 264 Gabrielsen 1994, 182-99.

Page 52 other public activities combined. In the 370s and , for example, the Athenians directed no less than 500 talents of public and private money each year on average towards their armed forces.265 Mid-century the Athenians also introduced a new age-based system for conscripting hoplites to tackle the perceived unfairness of the old one (e.g. Lysias 9), while in 336/5, a few years after their defeat at Chaeronea, they took the disconnected and chronically underfunded exercises of some wealthy eighteen- and nineteen-year- old Athenians and transformed them into a state-sponsored and two-year training programme for the city’s future hoplites.266 For each recruit in this reformed ephēbeia or cadetship the city provided elements of the hoplite panoply, daily maintenance and probably also accommodation (Ath. Pol. 42.2-4). First-year ephēboi or ephebes were stationed in the Piraeus where they trained in a variety of combat roles, while second- year cadets patrolled Attica and manned its guard posts (3-4). Tellingly the proportion of Athenians who chose to take up this demanding training was considerably higher than the 30 percent who were available for active service as hoplites at the beginning of the Peloponnesian War (see part 2 above). The lists of those who had completed their two years of ephebic service on honorary decrees of the 330s and 320s point to around 500 nineteen-year-olds doing so every year.267 As there were around 990 nineteen-year-old Athenians in any one year of the later fourth century, it seems that about 50 percent of the newly registered demesmen were now choosing to serve as heavily armed soldiers.268 It is not easy to say whether the ephebic reform alone was responsible for this large increase in the participation-rate of Athenians as hoplites or whether it consolidated a gradual increase which had occurred over the previous century. But this high rate of participation in the ephēbeia of these decades certainly proves that fourth-century Athenians were no less willing than their fifth-century ancestors to fight and die for the city. Clearly the war-making of fourth-century Athens was not qualitatively different from its previous record: the Athenian dēmos served as hoplites and sailors in large

265 Pritchard 2010. 266 For the introduction of a new age-based system for conscripting hoplites, see Christ 2001. For the Athenian ephēbeia, see especially Burckhardt 1996, 26-75; Rawling 2000, 237-40. For the activities of the mid-fourth-century ephebes, see Aeschines 1.49; 2.167; Xenophon Ways and Means 4.51-2. Along with Sommerstein (1997, 53-9 with references), I believe there is no evidence of an integrated program for ‘ephebes’ in fifth-century Athens. Contra Barringer 2001, 47-53; Winkler 1990, 26-31. 267 Hansen 2006b, 33-8; Pritchard 2003, 329; Rhodes and Osborne 2003, 453-4. 268 This figure of 990 derives from the 30,000 which Hansen establishes for the number of adult Athenians living in Attica in the later fourth century and his choice of the most appropriate Coale—Demeny model life table on which nineteen-year-olds are 3.3 percent of all males aged between 18 and 80+ years (Hansen 1986, 9-13).

Page 53 numbers, started wars more frequently than before, undertook military reforms, and successfully kept wars away from their city and its countryside for most of the period.269 That this renewed military success occurred in spite of the smaller population-base and the lack of imperial income strongly suggests that it was indeed democracy which was the most important cause of the military revolution of fifth- century Athens.

7. The Other Direction of the Causal Symbiosis: The Effects of Military Affairs on Athenian Democratisation

The chapters of this edited collection explore the impact of the Athenian democracy on war-making but they leave to others the substantial opportunities for new research into the other direction of this causal symbiosis, namely the impact of military affairs on Athenian democratisation. For nearly a century ancient historians agreed that the emergence and consolidation of Athenian democracy were caused by extensions of military participation.270 Our discipline accepted the testimony of Aristotle that the sudden appearance of phalanx-based battles in the mid-seventh century compelled elites to involve in their military ventures prosperous non-elite citizens, who quickly demanded more popular forms of government in recognition of their new military contributions (e.g. Aristotle Politics 1297b16-28).271 Also widely accepted was the proposition of Aristotle and other philosophers that the fifth-century consolidation of Athenian democracy was a consequence of the demands of subhoplite citizens for greater political rights, whose military service had been made possible by the creation of a large navy (e.g. 1274a11-14, 1304a22-4).272 In the last decade, however, the purported evidence for this straightforward military determinism has been increasingly called into question. Aristotle may be the recognised founder of Comparative Politics but his reliability as a source for early Greek history is now seriously doubted.273 Among others, his comments on the so- called hoplite revolution are internally contradictory and historically inaccurate. The recent identification of mass fighting in the eighth-century poetry of Homer strongly suggests that the hoplite phalanx resulted – not from a destabilising revolution – but from slow, incremental changes in tactics and weaponry.274 We have also seen how in

269 Harding 1995, especially 119-25. 270 Gabrielsen 2002a, 209-10 with bibliography. 271 E.g. Bryant 1990; cf. Hansen 2006a, 116; Krentz 2007, 61-5 with bibliography. 272 The work of Raaflaub (see part 3 above) and many of his American colleagues on Athenian warfare has relied heavily on this proposition (e.g. Hanson 1996, 291-4; Scheidel 2005, 6- 8; Strauss 1996, 313-9). Contra Ober 1998b; 2007, 97-101. 273 E.g. van Wees 1995; 2002, 72-7; 2004, 77-83. 274 Krentz 2007, 65-76; Snodgrass 1993.

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Athens, before 508/7, hoplites remained predominantly upper class, while any major impact of military activity on political change is unlikely in view of the infrequency and small scale of sixth-century campaigns (see part 1 above). Finally the linking of democracy and sea power has been shown to be a purely ideological construction, which was forged for polemical purposes by Pseudo-Xenophon, Plato and other philosophical critics of the Athenian democracy.275 There is simply no evidence that non-elite Athenians ever believed their legal and political equality were a result of their ability to contribute militarily to the city.276 With this discrediting of military determinism ancient historians and political scientists can no longer explain why Athenian democracy emerged and went from strength to strength. As Athens is the most fully developed democracy of pre-modern times and our best documented example of a participatory or in any period of world history, new research into this process of democratisation seems a matter of some urgency for our discipline. A good place of departure for this research would be the democratic revolution of 508 and the reforms of Cleisthenes. The latter may have brought democracy and strong state structures to Athens for the first time, but they were not (as is regularly suggested) the product of upper-class ‘social engineering’ and hence ‘a vision from above, not below’.277 Our sources put it beyond doubt that his reforms were only enacted because of the unprecedented collective actions of the Athenian people: they were made possible by the popular uprising of 508/7 (Ath. Pol. 20.1-4; Herodotus 5.66, 96-7) and only survived because of the immediate commitment of ordinary Athenians to the new democracy (Herodotus 5.66, 96-7) and its defence militarily (74-7). This activism on the part of non-elite citizens presupposes that they already had a common identity as Athenians and strong political aspirations, which would have taken much of the sixth century to form and consolidate. With few exceptions historians have not investigated why ordinary Athenians formed these perceptions.278 As a consequence much more research is required on the possible long-term factors behind this new imaginary. These include the growing worship of Athena as a city-protecting goddess, increasing economic prosperity, the perceived designs of neighbours on Attica and non-elite participation in the emerging legal and political institutions of the city.279

275 Ceccarelli 1993; Gabrielsen 2002a, 209-10; J.M. Hall 2007, 159-9; Ober 1998b, 76-7; Pritchard 2005a, 145. 276 Ober 1998b, 76; Pritchard 1999a, especially 244-5. 277 E.g. Anderson 2003, 43-84; Ostwald 1986, 15-28. Quotation from Anderson 2003, 81. 278 E.g. Forsdyke 2005, 90-132; Pritchard 2005a, 154-7; cf. van Wees 2008, 25-35. 279 For this perceived threat and possible military reasons for the reforms of Cleisthenes, see Anderson 2003, 148-51; Siewert 1982; Scheidel 2005, 5-6; van Effenterre 1976.

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Although the new Athenian navy of early fifth century can no longer be taken as the direct cause of the democratic consolidation, the military hyperactivity of fifth- century Athens is likely to have had an indirect and multifaceted impact on its political development. The two decades of fighting after the Persian Wars clearly affected the and society of Athens, probably causing political changes in turn.280 With imperial income the Athenians built the massive port facilities and hired the thousands of workmen which were required to maintain their warships. The needs and salaries of these ship-builders encouraged the development of secondary businesses, while the bringing in of ever-larger amounts of cargo to service this military-led expansion quickly made the Piraeus the busiest trading port of the eastern Mediterranean. New urban jobs in turn attracted large numbers of impoverished citizens from the countryside, making it easier for more citizens to attend the city-based meetings of the democracy.281 The sheer number of campaigns and the complex task of running a league greatly increased the volume of public business, forcing the convening of assembly- and council-meetings more regularly. Coming on top of the socio-economic changes, this intensification of politics presumably developed the democracy practically and ideologically. At the same time the regular political participation of large numbers of non-elite citizens is likely to have given the Athenian dēmos the confidence and general knowledge to take further control of the city and its magistrates. The likelihood of this indirect impact of war on democracy is clear enough but the long dominance of military determinism means no ‘comprehensive and well- documented study’ of this democratic consolidation has ever been undertaken.282 Likewise very few have paid any attention to the consolidation and reform of Athenian democratic institutions in the balance of the fifth century and throughout the next.283 Thus there remain significant opportunities for new research not only into the democratisation of Athens but also into the consolidation of the democracy and its subsequent institutional innovations throughout the classical period. In taking up these lines of enquiry ancient historians can draw on a rich body of political-science literature; for while they have generally shied away from the problem of democracy’s impact on war-making, since the so-called third wave of democratisation in the 1970s political scientists have studied systematically the preconditions for the emergence of modern democracies in different regions, the political and social actors in these

280 Frost 2005, 161-74; Pritchard 1994, 121-36; Raaflaub 1998b; cf. Gabrielsen 2001. 281 Pritchard 1994, 127-9 with bibliography. 282 Quotation from Raaflaub 1998b, 348. 283 E.g. Ober 2008b, 245-9; Rhodes 1980.

Page 56 transitions, and the internal and external causes of democratic consolidation.284 Drawing on such theory would enable ancient historians to test more easily the validity of the discipline-based or apparently common-sense assumptions which they would bring to this topic.285 It would also provide us with new hypotheses or help us improve pre-existing ones about Athenian democratisation and generally allow the development of explanations which go beyond the military determinism of our ancient sources.

8. Ancient Athens as a Valuable Case for Political Science The interplay of democracy and foreign policy is of clear importance today. Established democracies face increasingly complex security challenges and are generally committed to the promotion of democracy worldwide. The United States and coalitions of its allies have deployed their armed forces to Afghanistan and Iraq ostensibly for the sake of democracy, while many first-world states individually or as part of the European Union continue to provide practical support for emerging democracies and the pro-democracy campaigners of non-democratic regimes.286 For example, the Australian government has sent soldiers, police and government advisors to East Timor and the Solomon Islands to shore up new democracies on the verge of internal collapse and helps train the politicians and public servants of neighbouring countries in parliamentary procedures, electioneering and public finance.287 The results of these democracy-promotion efforts are decidedly mixed. In Iraq and Afghanistan the United States and its allies have found it extremely difficult to forge the national cohesion and shared identity, which are commonly considered preconditions of democracy, and to prevent intense sectarian violence. The adoption of democracy-promotion by President Bush as the retrospective justification for the 2003 invasion of Iraq has also exacerbated the backlash against democracy in the Middle East and further afield.288 The democracy-promotion efforts of Australia closer to home may be more successful but are indicative of the weakness of many neighbouring states, which are threatened by insubordinate militaries or not consolidated sufficiently. While there are good humanitarian and security reasons for

284 E.g. Gill 2000; Landman 2000, 61-90 with bibliography. 285 For the utility of social-science models and theories in our discipline, see Morley 1999, 53- 96; 2004, 1-31; Ober 1996, 13-17. 286 Russett 2005. 287 The funding of the Centre for Democratic Institutions at the Australian National University, for example, which provides much of this training, comes directly from the foreign-aid budget (http://www.cdi.anu.edu.au/about_cdi/about_cdi.htm). 288 Carothers 2006; Khouri 2007.

Page 57 supporting these democracies, ‘Australia remains a long way from having a clear idea how to help our small weak neighbours build stable effective governments’.289 At the same time established democracies face deepening problems internally, which threaten their long-term viability and their effectiveness at the making of policy.290 Contemporary voters display unprecedented levels of political apathy and disdain towards politicians and the operation of parliament. Growing numbers of young citizens are not registering to vote and the membership of political parties is in steep decline. In recent years these problems have been compounded by assertive executives, which have sought to stifle parliamentary scrutiny and discredit voices of criticism in civil society and the media.291 Since the open debates and electoral contests which underwrite the superiority of democratic decision-making require an actively engaged citizenry, the addressing of this ‘democratic deficit’ is a matter of some urgency.292 A good way to deepen our thinking on these contemporary problems lies in the so-called lessons of history.293 The track records of past democracies can help us identify and test our own assumptions about democracy and war and suggest new ways for thinking about their interaction. Athens was of course smaller than an averaged-sized modern state and had a direct rather than representative democracy which was based on different social relations.294 These differences make it impossible to project conclusions about Athens directly onto contemporary affairs. On the other hand, this city-state had the only fully developed democracy of pre-modern times, whose richly documented history allows us to analyse its operation thoroughly. The canonical status of its drama and oratory means hundreds of its literary works have survived, while its so-called epigraphical habit of recording decrees on stone has given us a huge archive of its political activity.295 As a result, historians of what is by far the best documented community of the Greek world can undertake what Clifford Geertz famously described as ‘thick description’: we can give well rounded descriptions of Athenian politics and war over three centuries, test empirically a complex theory on their causal symbiosis, and detail the so-called causal mechanisms of proven hypotheses. Such a case study – as Comparative Politics shows – has great heuristic value for researchers. Proven explanations of Athenian democracy and war-

289 White 2006, 31. 290 Keane 2006. 291 E.g. Hamilton and Maddison 2007; Marr 2007; Merritt 2007. 292 Reiter and Stam 2002, 160-1. 293 Morley 1999, 133-61; Rhodes 2003, 88-9. 294 For a judicious discussion of the differences and similarities between ancient and modern democracy, see Robertson 1997, 13-16, 25-33. 295 Brock and Hodkinson 2000, 4-5; Hedrick 1999; Rhodes 2003, 25-6.

Page 58 making can be suggestive hypotheses for researching contemporary case studies and serve as a good point of comparison for identifying unique features of our own system of government. The relationship of Political Science to Ancient History then is not a one-way street: Athens can help build theory on modern democracies at war. But Athens does more than stimulate better thinking and new lines of research on our political and security challenges: it has the potential to give us novel ways to try and address them. The poleis of existed in a highly competitive international environment where political or military failure frequently resulted in a combination of regime-change, loss of independence, loss of territory and the not infrequent annihilation of entire communities.296 In this world Athens was clearly a runaway success: its democracy was more fully developed and longstanding than any other and largely avoided the stasis which destroyed so many democracies. Athens also outperformed others militarily: it dominated the eastern Mediterranean in the fifth century and remained a major regional power and military innovator in the next. Therefore its democratic institutions and practices were proven successes. Since the 1970s ancient historians have increasingly pointed this out: while rightly abhorring its patriarchy and chattel slavery, they have nonetheless suggested that the democracy of the Athenians provides us with well tested possibilities for addressing current political challenges.297 In treating Athens as a model for political reform they are of course following in the footsteps of George Grote.298 In recent years political scientists have taken up this suggestion: Athens is now seen as a good comparison for advancing our understanding of modern democracy, while its institutional inventions are treated as viable solutions to the problems of voter disengagement.299 Likewise, Athens should offer us possible solutions to our security challenges, even if its potential as a military model has been almost completely ignored.300 Thus by investigating how, for example, the open debates and general democratic design of classical Athens contributed to its military success, ancient historians could make available to political scientists and governmental policymakers thought-provoking alternatives and possible solutions to current security

296 Hansen and Nielsen 2004, 87, 120-3; Hansen 2006a, 128. 297 E.g. Balot 2006, 51-7; Euben, Wallach and Ober 1994; Farrar 2007, 184-9; Finley 1973; Ober and Hedrick 1996; Ober 2008a. Contra Osborne 1994. For discussions of this trend among ancient historians since the 1970s, see Demetriou 1998 with bibliography; Rhodes 2003, 50-2. 298 Demetriou 2000, 272-3. 299 E.g. Carson and Martin 1999, s.v. ‘Athens’; Manin 1997, 8-41; Schwartzberg 2004. 300 An interesting exception are the increasing numbers of democratic-peace-theory- proponents who recognise that the Hellenic city-state system was ‘the only other well documented state system with a larger number of democratic regimes’ (Russett and Antholis 1992, 415) and hence can be used as a valuable point of comparison for developing their theory; see, for example, Robinson 2001; 2006; Russett 2009; Russett and Antholis 1992; Weart 2001.

Page 59 challenges.301 Admittedly these conceptual and practical contributions of Athens to the modern world may be modest. However, in light of the relative lack of scholarship on democracy and war in any period of world history and the complexity of the foreign-policy challenges we face, they will undoubtedly be valuable. 302

301 Pritchard 2006. 302 Early drafts of this chapter were delivered as papers, in 2009, at the second conference of the International Society for Cultural History, which was convened by the University of Queensland; in 2007, at the Australian National University, the University of Melbourne and the Lebanese American University (Beirut) and for the Sydney Democracy Forum at the University of Sydney; in 2006, at the War, Culture and Democracy in Classical Athens Conference, convened by the University of Sydney; the Institute for Classical Studies (London) and Columbia University; and, in 2005, at the twenty-sixth conference of the Australasian Society for Classical Studies, conveyed by the University of Otago, the University of Wales (Swansea), the University of Cambridge and Nagoya University. I am grateful for the helpful comments of the audience- members. For their valuable comments on early drafts or generous responses to my questions special thanks go to Ryan Balot, Jumana Bayeh, Alastair Blanshard, Hugh Bowden, Lyn Carson, Eric Csapo, Michael Edwards, Vincent Gabrielsen, Graeme Gill, Margaret Harris, Christopher Hilliard, Christopher Hobson, Ian Hunter, John Keane, Josiah Ober, Robin Osborne, Kurt A. Raaflaub, P.J. Rhodes, Vincent Rosivach, Bruce Russett, Henk Singor, Iain Spence, Martin Stone, the late Robert Tannebaum, Hans van Wees and Sumio Yoshitake. I would also like to acknowledge the research assistance of Atticus Cox and Todd Gillen. An earlier version of four parts of this chapter was published as Pritchard 2007. The translations of the Greek are my own.

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