Congratulations to Ms. Higgins.  I hope to follow her example and add something of my own to public consumption of Classical history.

Fomenko suggests several ways in which this is apparent in history.  Celestial mechanics – the relatively predictable movement of planetary bodies – can be used to pinpoint events in history that refer to eclipses, horoscope readings, or other celestial events.  Diacu, himself a professor of celestial mechanics at the University of Victoria in Canada, works his way through the proofs that Fomenko offered and found that his information was, for the most part, valid.  Two major historical events are used for these proofs:  the Peloponnesian War and the First Council of Nicaea.

Thucydides, the Athenian admiral who fought in the 30-years-long war between Athens and Sparta, traditionally dated to the fifth century BCE (431 to 404 BCE) noted several celestial events during that time, portents of the terrible waste of the war and the displeasure from the gods about that war.  Fomenko suggests that the eclipses and visible stars Thucydides mentions actually occured some time in the tenth century AD, when the movements of the planets would have been aligned to facilitate such observations.

Fomenko also notes that the original transcripts of the First Council of Nicaea (traditionally dated to AD 325) are not extant; however, the letters that the Emperor Constantine wrote to the bishops who did not attend still exist.  Constantine notes several observations of the stars during this time, most probably to strengthen the veracity of his decisions with regard to codifying Christian religious texts and doctrines.  Fomenko suggests that the ecumenical council actually occured sometime in the twelfth century AD.

With regard to celestial mechanics, I have very little professional training to weigh in with a substantially researched opinion.  I read these sections pleasantly skeptical.  There is something to say for even considering the option that the dates we were all made to remember may not be exact at all, but only relative (and perhaps not even that).  I am certainly willing to entertain the idea.

However, when Diacu came to the section of his book dealing with comparative sequencing of chronologies and the hypothesis of Fomenko that because one series of reigns is similar to another they must be identical, my pleasant skepticism became flagrant disbelief.

Fomenko’s work, summarized by Diacu in Chapter 7 – “Overlapping Dynasties”, lacks even the suspension of disbelief science fiction balances on.  Fomenko suggests that the First Roman Pontificate from roughly AD 141-314 and the Second Roman Pontificate (AD 314- 532) have been conflated and are actually the same set of popes because, primarily, the lengths of their reigns were similar (in addition to other similar historical events during corresponding papal reigns).  He also suggests that the Carolingian kings – including Charles Martel and Charlemagne – and the Third Roman Empire from the third to the sixth centuries – including Theodosius and Odoacer – are also identical.

By chance, after reading through this section, satisfactorally dismissed by Diacu, I remembered an assignment that Timothy Barnes (a renowned scholar of Late Antiquity) handed out to one of my senior undergraduate classes.  We were tasked with providing three lists of Roman emperors from the same time period.  The first identified emperors of the East and West from the death of Theodosius to the death of Valentinian III.  The second listed Western emperors recognised in Rome.  The third detailed Western emperors that were part of the imperial college.

These lists are provided below:

List #1:  Eastern and Western Emperors from the Death of Theodosius to the Death of Valentinian III

Theodosius I 378-395 AD

WEST:  Honorius 393-423; Valentinian III 425-455

EAST:  Arcadius 395-408; Theodosius II 408-450; Marcian 450-457

List #2:  Western Emperors Recognised in Rome

Honorius 393-423; Priscus Attalus 409-411; Constantius III 421; Johannes 423-425; Valentinian 425-455; Petronius Maximus 455; Avitus 455-456; Majorian 457 or 458-461 (in conjunction with Leo I – both were recognised as consul in the East and the West in 459); Libius Severus 461-465; Anthemius 467-472; Olybrius 472; Julius Nepos 473-475; Romulus Augustulus 475-476

List #3:  Western Emperors Part of the Imperial College

Majorian 457/458-461; Interregnum (?); Anthemius 467-472; Julius Nepos 473-480

As you can tell, there is a great deal of overlap here.  In addition, the lists differ based on who was recognised where and what institution (if we can use the anachronism) they were each associated with.  Another example to use could be the lists of rulers during the Crisis of the Third Century.  Limiting what variables with which one includes one man’s name over another is how mathematics narrows its scope and, to a certain extent, how historians try to sift through the ocean of information (or lack thereof).  However, just because one emperor was not identified by Rome when another one was, that does not mean that this emperor did not exist. Fomenko’s proofs rely on the mathematician’s disregard of some names or events and the inclusion of others without historical rationales.

Florin Diacu rightly summarizes his journey into the heart of Fomenko’s research:  “Fomenko’s chronology results seem to fall into three categories:  good, mediocre, and blunders.  The first have enough credibility to merit serious attention; the second are set on a shaky foundation, but their overall framework is worth investigating; the third have damaged his academic reputation and continue to harm him” (Diacu, pp.247-248).  Diacu the polymath appreciates the value of constantly questioning the assumptions of academia about ancient and medieval history, but Diacu the mathematician deconstructs Fomenko’s work with the critical eye of a comrade.  The idea is a brilliant example of thinking outside the box; the proof would not support a matchstick house.

If we had this piece of information, we could be sure; but since we don’t have it, we can never be sure.  The circular argument continues.

In an article recently brought to my attention written by a Medievalist blogger, Jonathan Jarrett, and the online publication of the scholarly article in contention, I felt it was important to draw readers’ attention to the very plain fact that all earlier discussion on this topic was based on press releases rather than the actuall scholarly article itself. 

Mr Jarrett makes fine points about issues concerning the variability of temperature in the historical record, the margin for error being much larger than was originally reported – not by any insidiousness on the part of the academics but rather on the misunderstanding and sensationalist tendencies of the hoi polloi – and the fact that the authors of the article are discussing the fact that fired-clay ceramics absorb moisture and that this can be measured. 

Drs Moira A Wilson, Margaret A Carter, Christopher Hall, William D Hoff, Ceren Ince, Shaun D Savage, Bernard Mckay and Ian M Betts are not suggesting that this dating technique will make all other dating techniques obsolete or that its accuracy can be pinpointed to within the year.  They are publishing work done that confirms that the moisture absorption of water into ceramics can have the potential for archaeological implementation.

A lesson to everyone to respond to the article itself and not the reports about its content alone.

The article itself is, as Mr Jarrett comments, a piece of not inconsiderably scientific detail, however sorely lacking in an example of the basic arithmetic for all us plebs.  However, as I stated in my original post, nowhere do the authors of the article comment on the effectiveness of this technique on glazed and painted pottery fragments which are just as prevalent as the ‘ruder’ varieties.  Considering pottery was the ancient world’s most recycled material, akin to the plastic bags we now feel guilty about throwing out but do nonetheless, I think that there would have been much more value in experimenting with these kinds of pot fragments as well.  True, no new technique can be implemented immediately and yield fantastic results, but a new technique with such a limited scope leaves something to be desired.

It will be interesting to reflect in ten years’ time on the archaeological papers that are published and used the rehydroxylation technique to see just how useful it is to field archaeologists and their lab technicians.

This man carefully and conscientiously studied history in a variety of ways and then deconstructed each aspect point by point, bringing out the details that many historians and scholars had missed because of assumptions and biases within their discipline that precluded such an approach.

One of Foucault’s most famous works, The History of Sexuality, in 6 books (3 of which he completed before his death in 1984), catalogues the nature of human society’s approach to sexuality throughout the ages and how it has interlocking attributes within structures of power.  However, a short excerpt of another work, The Spectacle of the Scaffold, is what has recently restored my attention to this enigmatic and fascinating writer.

Foucault suggests that the spectacle of a public execution that went out of practice in the eighteenth, nineteenth and twentieth centuries because it was inhuman, ineffective, or simply went out of fashion (depending on who you talk to) has severely limited our perceptions of the visibility and exercise of power.

Throughout history, the purpose of a public execution had multiple layers.  First, it was meant to punish the individual for crimes against ‘the Crown’ (this can also be the State, the Nation, the People, etc – basically any socially binding and recognised force of law).  Second, it was meant to deter others from committing similar crimes and the severity of the punishment was directly proportional to the severity of the crime against the Crown.  Third, it was meant to demonstrate the power of the Crown in society – both in its presence and its action against the criminal.  And fourth, the publicity of the punishment made the audience a player on this stage wherein the power of the Crown, the vitality (and eventual death) of the criminal, and the audience’s power to react were played out.

The intricacies of these events were sometimes neither clear nor conscious, particularly to the participants, but it was a vital element in the nature of society’s approach to crime.  When punishment was taken behind closed doors – into a prison, into a private death chamber – the people as a player in state punishment ceased to exist.  This removal of punishment as a visible manifestation of power has driven underground society’s concepts of punishment, justice, and social cohesion.  Foucault suggested that this turn away from the transparent observation and participation of power has prohibited society from appreciating punishment on a societal level.

Punishment, he argues, is the collective action of society against those who threaten its framework and stability.  If punishment is no longer societal and instead has a personal association, the display of power is no longer that of a latent agreement between the people and the Crown.  It is the ambiguities of this situation that drew my attention, and so I offer you this:  if the people cannot agree that the force of law is just and powerful through the observation of justice and power in action, what does that say about society’s understanding of justice and power in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries?  I believe this is the question (one of many) that Foucault himself left hanging for his readers to contemplate themselves.

Sergio Luzzatto, professor of modern history at the University of Milan, has produced a truly excellent book that examines Italy’s very unique experiences during the Second World War.  Unlike Germany today, surviving the guilt of a generation past and renewing faith in their role as a contributing European partner, Italy has been caught between the guilt of allowing Mussolini to act as an ally of Nazi Germany and the frustrations and anxieties of a conquered state despite their contributions to the victory in Europe.  Mr Luzzatto addresses this paradox quite literally through the body of the man who was the focal point of this internal conflict.

From the opening quote describing the massacre of partisans in the Piazza Loreto in 1920, so similar in the emotions harboured in that same place after 1945, Luzzatto draws attention to both the continuity between pre- and post-war Italy and also to the gradual developments leading to the rise and fall of Benito Mussolini and the Fascists.

The layout of the book is quite simple and is composed of seven chapters as follows:

1) Tough to Eradicate
2) The Ox of the Nation
3) An Unquiet Grave
4) Mussolini, Dear Departed
5) The Executioner
6) The Quality of Mercy
7) The Return of the Remains

It begins with the various assassination attempts against Mussolini during his rise to power and his time as the head of state, continuing on to his death and the defacement of his body in 1945, to the theft of his body and subsequently the state’s decision to put it into hiding rather than publicly bury it, to the Italian people’s gradual analysis of their sentiments towards Mussolini and the Fascists and how, over time, they were able to come to terms with their history and bury their guilt and their rage along with the body of Il Duce himself.

As an ancient historian myself, who must be so careful with the primary sources used when analysing historical events, I found Luzzatto’s use of tabloid newspapers and magazines refreshingly new.  His clear understanding of their value was what kept me reading the book, since it was this informal and unedited poll of public opinion that shows how the ripples of war affected Italy long after 1945.  This is something that does not exist on anything approaching the same level of continuous publication from the ancient world.

It is this recognition in no uncertain terms of the complex nature of Italy in the twentieth century that is brought to light so effectively by the author and with such flowing language by the translator.  The text does feel repetitive at times when the author is, for example, drawing attention to all the insults heaped on the body of Il Duce in the press.

However, it is the simple structure that mirrors the progression of acceptance by the Italian people of both their history and their future that is most profound.  Professor Luzzatto has made a profound contribution to the future of Italy by mapping it out, chapter by chapter.

Having recently finished reading much of archaeologist Serge Lancel’s book, Carthage:  A History, for my own research, I felt that a review was due for this piece of work based on its scope and its accessibility.

This book consists of an overview of this city as it relates to the socio-political dynamic of the Ancient Mediterranean.  At once an ancient colony that developed its own identity fused with Libyo-Phoenician culture, a commercial maritime power, and a powerful threat to Roman expansionist aims, Lancel presents Carthage as a linchpin or hinge of history it is own right.  The author’s archaeology background figures highly into the structure and layout of this book, beginning with the foundation of the city in the 8th century BCE and the earliest material remains available for study.

His exploration of the city continues with the material evidence that points to a developing international trade of wine and oil, identified using the pottery sherds found in the tophet (roughly a kind of garbage dump, where vast quantities of artefacts have collected over time) and those found throughout the ancient Mediterranean.  Lancel points to the fact that despite Greek being the international language of commerce, it was Carthage who established themselves as a central hub or distribution centre for some of the most sought after items on the market.

Lancel’s ability to sum up the First and Second Punic Wars in less than half a dozen pages without losing the thread of events or the emphasis on their importance is laudable.  In fact, his clarity draws attention to the general importance of the wars with Carthage to the history of the ancient Mediterranean world.  One of the most spectacular pieces of data, something that is nearly always omitted from Roman histories of the Punic Wars, is the fact that, ten years after the treaty of Scipio Africanus, the Carthaginian Senate petitioned Rome to allow them to repay the balance of the war indemnity in full.  Not only that, but shortly thereafter Carthage was regularly ensuring that supplies of grain reached the Roman expeditionary forces.  Lancel is careful to note that, although the Second Punic War was a dire and hard-fought affair, Carthage was able to recover much faster than Rome had anticipated.  No wonder Cato continued to shout ‘Kartago delenda est!’

Serge Lancel excavated the Hannibal Quarter on the Byrsa in Carthage during the 1970s and has subsequently published his team’s findings in two volumes.  Carthage is a sort of historical supplement to that archaeological work and acts as the first of a pair of books about the famous city, the other being Hannibal (Paris, 1995).  The entire text is based largely upon this archaeological work, as well as the earlier work done by Pierre Cintas among others.  As the book moves from the foundation of Carthage into its commercial and maritime exploits, Lancel moves from a solely archaeologically-based analysis of culture and begins to incorporate the Latin and Greek primary source material (Livy and Polybius primarily).

This book is an incredible piece of work, accessible in nearly all respects – a rarity for archaeological texts – and comes ‘straight from the horse’s mouth’, in a manner of speaking.  Serge Lancel, one of the world’s most renowned archaeologists highly decorated in France, produced a useful guide to the intricacies that dogged the development of Carthage and what eventually brought about its downfall at the hands of Rome.  His analyses of the interactions between Carthage and other Mediterranean powers, most particularly Rome, speaks to those gaps in the historical record left by Livy and Polybius that most scholars bemoan as hopelessly lost.  Lancel has shown that literary sources used in conjunction with the archaeological record available can produce a much more rounded scope.  However, it can only be Lancel’s expertise and engaging writing style (effectively transmitted into English by Antonia Nevill) that makes this archaeological work a work of scholarly strength.

Champion writes that Agelaus’ speech introduced symploke into Polybius’ Histories, the moment when “the affairs of east and west became inextricably intertwined”.  A study of the speech itself, the point of no return, and the character of Philip of Macedon will illuminate what Polybius considered authoritative evidence.

Polybius writes that the historian must record the spoken word, that he must refrain from embellishing the truth as tragic poets do, and that he must choose “the most suitable arguments for his historical agents’ speeches”.  According to Champion, this means that Polybius chose the most significant parts of these speeches and that what was written in his Histories was not verbatim the speech of the historical figure.  He also believes that Polybius, because he separated deliberative speeches, exhortations, and ambassadors’ speeches means that there was a focus on oral transmission of information over contemporary written texts.  Champion emphasizes that Polybius lived in a “semi-oral predominantly non-literate society” and that the value placed on oral information was in fact higher than that of written texts.  Part of the reason Polybius so vehemently attacked Timaeus throughout his text was because the latter was responding to written subjects and not using any personal experience.  Thus, the historian is better able to convey the intention of a historical speech than the exactness of one. 

The way Polybius represents Philip V in Agelaus’ speech is indicative of this use of historical speeches in the Histories to show intent rather than accuracy.  It is also why Polybius is so careful to outline why his characterizations of historical figures are more precise than are those of other authors.  He gave accounts of their actions before drawing these conclusions, emphasizing his preference for empirical knowledge and oral diffusion of information.  Polybius also generalizes based on stereotyped ethnic identities to comprehend why specific persons in the Histories think and act as they do. 

Champion concludes that Polybius believed in his authority because of his own empirical knowledge, interviews with witnesses, and “extensive knowledge of the arts and politics of war”.

Davidson argues that, unlike the historical interpretation that ‘gaze’ is a “substantial unitary reality”, gaze in Polybius is presented through characters and readers and hence identifies multiple gazes.  This competition of narratives is especially evident in Book III.  Generals’ speeches also represent an element in the “struggle over the interpretation of events” where, for example, Scipio’s analysis of Hannibal’s Alpine crossing evolves into expressing the obstacle, not as the mountains, but as the fear his crossing invoked in the Roman people.  The focus of the Histories is on the differing realities and the development and tension of those realities.  His basic reasoning lies in the fact that Polybius writes about dangerous deeds, not danger itself, because perceptions lead to greater surprise and reactionary tactics by the opponent.  There are the perceptions of the combatants themselves, of third parties assessing the situation, and Macedon and Greek states considering each other.  On top of that, Polybius’ readers are looking at all these in turn, reinforcing his belief that one can only understand what one examines from every angle. 

Davidson proceeds to discuss the ‘didactic arena’, the simile of readers as spectators in something resembling a boxing match.  Polybius often describes war as a fighting contest between:  the two opponents, the blows exchanged, the opponent him-/herself, and between the spectators and each opponent.  As combatants are aware that they are on show so too is military warfare a show of superiority, and that show of strength can be the obstacle, irregardless of its reality.  Davidson believes Polybius chose to focus on the perceptions because they are the more powerful.  Finally there are levels in the narrative that enhance these perceptions:  the military action level, (the event), the signifying action level, (the perception of that action), and the pathological level involving the response to the perception.  Polybius’ focus is again on the second of these, emphasizing how the ‘daring’ of a person accomplishes a specific perception with the intention to weaken or dumbfound the opponent, ensuring victory through demoralization. 

According to Davidson, Polybius believed that demonstrations of power were the key in warfare.  Hence, he sees the Romans exacting a pre-emptive imperialism, holding off the ambitions of others with their own perceived might.  He concludes with a brief sketch of Polybius, and expresses hope that his examination of the gaze in Polybius can be applied to other ancient authors.

When reviewing Robert Drews’ book Basileus:  The Evidence for Kingship in Geometric Greece, it is made uncomfortably clear that there is no universal standard for structuring an argument of this size (ie. more than essay length, although there is an argument to be made here as well).  Mr. Drews offers his readers a new theory to the debate on Dark Age kings in Greece but does so by a most circuitous route.  The structure of his book is simple but not effectively so.  His thesis, using a modern definition, that ‘kings’  did not exist in the ninth century BCE is not coherent or even visible throughout.

Mr. Drews suggests that the term basileus only came to mean ‘king’ in the sense of a single monarchical leader very recently and that during the Heroic and Dark Ages this word meant something entirely different.  He does not explicitly state his definition for the word ‘king’ but does plan to redefine basileus in a ninth century context.  As a result of this redefinition, Mr. Drews presumably will also describe what and how these basileis ruled in the Geometric Period. 

His book is divided into six sections – introduction, chapters II to IV, conclusion – and the main body of chapters addresses; first, the evidence available for basileis in this period; second, Mr. Drews redefines basileus; and third, he traces the changing responsibilities of magistrates from the Mycenaean Age down to the Classical Period.  In his introduction, he briefly outlines the historiography of the debate on this subject, which is vital in order to appreciate the innovation of his own contribution.  Hermann Bengtson believes kingship (modern definition) disappeared prior to the colonization movements of the eighth century BCE, an approximate date that Chester Starr generally agrees with, adding that there were some colonies that had kings but that this was a fading phenomenon.  Russell Meiggs does not believe kings survived past the end of the ninth century, while Raphael Sealy sees monarchy lasting well into the seventh century.  The next consideration is what these men were kings of who disappeared sometime between the ninth and the seventh centuries in Greece.  Were they ‘kings’ of a polis?  Were they leaders of loose coalitions, reminiscent of the alliance of Achaean basileis who agreed to go to Troy and retrieve Helen?  Juri Andreev argues that a basileus of the ninth century ruled over a village or a deme, types of communities that would later evolve into Classical poleis.  This is the argument upon which Mr. Drews himself will base part of his upcoming text.

Mr. Drews does clearly outline how he plans to prove or disprove the argument for ‘kings’ as such in the Geometric Period.  He states that the evidence used in the past was from four ‘weak’ sources:  the Iliad and the Odyssey, Strabo and Pausanias, Corinthian and Athenian kinglists, and the fact that Archaic officials between 720 and 500 BCE were called basileis, all attesting to monarchic traditions in the recent past.  Instead, Mr. Drews will presumably attempt a reanalysis of the Homeric sources, and include Hesiod, Herodotus, and Thucydides.  In addition, he will also consider the foundation myths of numerous Greek cities throughout Attica, the Peloponnese, Ionia, and the Mediterranean.

Chapter II deals exclusively with the evidence for ‘kings’ in the Geometric Period and from this, Mr. Drews reaches the conclusion that the sources do not support the theory that basileis were exclusive rulers in Greece at this time.  A series of foundation myths pervade many of the major settlements along the coast of Asia Minor that allude to a common ancestry.  The “standard genealogy of Codrus”, provided by Hellanicus (F.Gr.Hist. no.323a), fr. 23 , is as follows:  Deucalion, Hellen, Aeolus, Salmoneus, Tyro-Poseidon, Periclymenus, Boros, Penthilus, Andropompus, Melanthus, Codrus [pp.11-12].  The Ionians themselves believed their origins lay at Pylos and that their twelve cities were representative of the twelve sons of Neleus [p.11].  There is also an Athenian Neleus claimed on the mainland who connects Ionia and Attica with origins at Pylos [p.11].  Each of the major cities listed in Mr. Drews’ introductory table of contents is addressed in turn, some of which attribute more than one Codrid or Neleid king ruling simultaneously [pp.14-36] .  There is also a case where the descendents of the founding son of Neleus who were quickly forced to rule jointly with other aristocrats at Mytilene [p.30].  The majority of evidence for founders and their immediate progeny ruling as ‘kings’ in the Aegean and Asia Minor are a series of conflicting myths and stories told by ‘weak’ sources:  Pausanias, Plutarch, and Nicolaus of Damascus.  Mr. Drews concludes that there is no sustaining evidence for kings in this region in the ninth century because none of the sources that attest to basileis recognize them as exclusive leaders beyond the realm of the Heroic Age [p.34-36].  What is interesting to note here is that, although Mr. Drews’s writing suggests that the Heroic Age was a chronologically datable part of ancient Greek history, he rejects evidence of kings in myth as unhistorical. 

There are only two cities in the Western Mediterranean that Mr. Drews scrutinizes for ninth century kings, Tarentum and Syracuse, and he determines that they did not exist there either [p.39].  Where the evidence at Tarentum supports his theory that a group of basileia ruled there ca. 515 BCE, in Syracuse there is a dearth of material for kings apart from a vague association with a Thracian wine mentioned by Athenaeus, Julius Pollux, and Aelian [p.38-39], all of whom wrote in the second and third centuries CE, nearly a thousand years after the time in question.

In the case of the Isthmus and the Peloponnese, there are a variety of competing kingship traditions at Corinth, Arcadia , Messenia, and Lacedaemon [pp.47, 68-69, 73, 76, 82], all stemming in one way or another from the Children of Heracles.  Mr. Drews clearly draws attention to this break from the traditions of Ionia, where origins at Nelian Pylos were predominant [p.40].  He is also perfectly willing to use the theory of a Dorian or Heraclid Invasion without openly accepting it with any of his own research contributions.  In most cases, the literary evidence for kings in this region is slight or unsubstantiated; however, Argos presents an interesting case that Mr. Drews investigates further.  It is likely that by the sixth century BCE, Argos was a democracy with a basileus established in the fifth century who probably headed the army [p.58-59].  The best known of these was Pheidon, who Herodotus called a tyrant for his hubristic nature [p.61].  Pausanias refers to a basileus named Damocratidas who existed after the Messenian Revolt in the third quarter of the seventh century and there is also mention of a basileus named Eratus in the late eighth century.  The evidence thus suggests that there was a single basileus in Archaic Argos who acted under the orders of the ruling damiorgoi (chief magistrates) as a military commander and perhaps held that position for life [p.62]. 

But did Argive kings rule in the Geometric Period?  The heroic dynasts were all destroyed in myth and Plato reflects that the cataclysmic loss of these Heraclids in Argos and Messenia inspired Lycurgus to control Sparta’s two kings with laws [p.64].  Plato therefore “cannot have believed that kingship there continued long after the heroic age” [p.64].  The major problem arose when Theopompus, “writing when Macedon was a great power, was obliged to come up with something more serious” to legitimize Macedonian monarchic rule [p.67].  He chose to link a Macedonian kinglist to Argos and disrupted the chronology Herodotus gives for Pheidon by placing him much earlier in history than did Herodotus himself [p.68].  The validity of this list is further confused by the third century Peripatetic, Satyrus, who also gives a Macedonian ancestor story closely tied to that of Argos but with unreasonably long reigns of more than fifty years for each king [p.69-70].  Mr. Drews states that the sources available identify an advisory Argive basileia between 720 and 450 BCE, in the Archaic Period but not in the Geometric, and believes that the creation of kinglists by Theopompus and Satyrus supports this [p.71].  However, it is unclear how he has interpreted the kinglists as evidence when he suggests that they are mere fabrications with political implications.

The final section in Chapter II is devoted to Central Greece.  In Athens, there are two competing kinglist dynasties, one of Cecrops and another of Melanthus and Codrus [p.86].  The second of these acts as Mr. Drews’ focus throughout the Athenian evidence, noting that it included decennial archons in its latter half.  The kinglist is as follows:  Melanthus, Codus, Medon, Acastus, Archippus, Thersippus, Phorbas, Megacles, Diognetus, Pherecles, Ariphron, Thespieus, Agamestor, Aschylus, Alcmaeon; and included the seven archons down to approximately 683 BCE:  Charops, Aesimides, Clidicus, Hippomenes, Leocrates, Apsander, Eryxias [p.87].  Mr. Drews states that this list was treated seriously throughout the Renaissance but has recently been reexamined.  He includes an extensive historiography of this reexamination because the emphasis of the debate rests on when the list was compiled and how seriously that can determine its validity [p.88].  The names in the list after Codrus are nothing more than names; they do not figure anywhere else but in the Parian Marble Kinglist, which Herodotus and Hellanicus appear to have referred to [pp.91 and 93].  No one in Classical Athens knew of any decennial archons in their history, and nor had they heard of the Melanthid kings (the first of the two competing lists) [pp.92-93].  It appears that the second kinglist seen above, covering a period of about four hundred years, was set up in the Athenian Agora in the 420s BCE and that, although Athenian ‘kings’ existed in the Late Helladic period, the last one to survive in popular memory was Codrus .  There can be no further discussion about the veracity of any of the names that follow his.  Thus, concluding with what many see as the centre of the ancient Greek world, Mr. Drews concludes his extensive collection of evidence with the following statement:  “There is no credible evidence for kings in the poleis of Geometric Greece” [p.97].

Mr. Drews’ structure in this section is based on a geographical survey that does not maintain a standard movement pattern but changes by region from an east-west geographical analysis to west-east to north-south etc.  This lack of consistency is disconcerting when the reader attempts to understand the flow of the argument.  Mr. Drews does not even offer a map by region for the reader to refer to when this confusion arises.  The irrelevance of the choice of a geographical foundation for the survey is not made clear until much later in the text.

In Chapter III, Mr. Drews traces the linguistic descent of the word basileus from Homer and the Mycenaean Age down to the Classical Period.  Asserting that the Homeric stories tell of Proto-Geometric and Geometric Greece, he first identifies the initial argument about the changing meaning of the word as it exists between the Iliad and the Odyssey [p.98-100].  In the Iliad, scholars believe that basileus has a meaning stronger than simply ‘nobleman’ but not yet entirely separate from it, while in the Odyssey, the term comes to mean more specifically ‘the king’ [p.100].  Mr. Drews’ says that the earlier confusion over the term basileus “depends on the notion that there is a true meaning for a word, which from time to time will reassert itself against false meanings” and that as a result of a lack of evidence that the Homeric word ever meant ‘king’, the theory must be abandoned [p.101].  He instead chooses to reexamine Homer’s use of the term and finds that most often the basileis were ‘leaders of men’, sometimes synonymous with ‘fosterlings of Zeus’ [p.101].  A few of these basileis are exclusive ruling ‘kings’ – Priam, Agamemnon, and sometimes Nestor – but many are not hereditary monarchs simply because their fathers are still alive and ruling.  Examples of this second type are Achilles, Ajax, and Alexander (Paris) [p.101].  Among the Trojans, the basileis are a group of leaders who do not rule and Priam is the commanding anac.  Mr. Drews draws the conclusion that the basileis were a group of leaders but neither single nor exclusive [p.102]. 

Mr. Drews discounts Gschnitzer’s suggestion for a basileus as ‘der Erste’ since it cannot stand without a definite article that would make it exclusive and because it lacks overtones of high birth [p.102].  He also rejects the possible choice of the Latin dux because, although it has an elevated meaning, it is used in a military context inappropriate here [p.102].  He instead chooses the phrase ‘highborn leader’ in English to describe the basileis of ninth century Greece.  His evidence lies in Homer, Hesiod, and the Hymn of Demeter.  In the Iliad, a basileus never has a place attributed to the title except in regards to Agamemnon in two places (7.180 and 11.46)  [p.103].  It is also never applied to a deity, presumably because the term was not majestic enough in Homer’s time to refer to a god [p.104].  And yet, basileus is potentially as lofty a title as anac in the Iliad [p.104].  However, there is a slight shift in meaning in the Odyssey when the term comes to be used with a genitive as a ‘nomen gentis’ (ie. the basileus of a place) [p.105].  In Hesiod, the meaning of the word changes again.  Hesiod rarely uses it to refer to an exclusive ruler and chooses it instead when discussing a group of leaders [p.105].  Mr. Drews identifies two passages in the corpus that refer to ‘the basileus’; in Theogony 486, it is attributed to Cronus; and in Works and Days 668, Zeus [p.106].  However, he includes in this last citation references to Theogony 886, 897, and 923 and also includes another unidentified example of an exclusive basileus in Theogony that names Memnon [p.106].  So in fact there are six references to a singular basileus, but Mr. Drews only sees fit to explicitly note two.  The five references to qemistopoloij basileusi in the Hymn to Demeter are never eked out in the book and the example Mr. Drews gives from the mid-seventh century BCE is of Tyrtaeus referring to the Spartan dual basileis [p.107].  From Alcaeus, Sappho, and Theognis, basileus comes to mean an exclusive leader by the late seventh and early sixth centuries [p.107].  In the Classical, Hellenistic, and Roman periods, the word still does not mean an exclusive ruler in Greek and it is only in the modern language that it is used as English speakers use ‘king’ [p.108].  Thus Mr. Drews concludes that there is no historical or philological basis to think that basileus ever meant ‘king’ until much later in Greek history [p.108].

From this follows a weak transition where Mr. Drews describes an imperative need to appreciate the innovation of basileia and prytaneis in, presumably, the late Archaic and early Classical Periods [p.109].  From Linear B tablets dating to approximately 1200 BCE where a ‘PA-SI-RE-U” was a minor official in the Mycenaean palace system, these officials became a group or council of leaders during the Dark Ages when that system had collapsed [p.110-111].  In the eighth century, around 750 BCE, there developed a need or desire for more defined leadership and thus, throughout the Archaic Period, the basileis became more exclusive with demarcated procedures and responsibilities [p.115].  It is this development that Mr. Drews will outline in the fourth chapter “The Hereditary Basileis of the Archaic and Classical Periods”.

Although this transition into the fourth chapter is much more stable than the shift to discussing the ‘innovative’ prytaneis, he has left one vitally important question unanswered.  Where did the impetus for leadership definition come from?  He offers a suggestion that it was due to influence from the Phoenicians and other eastern models, but does not seem to feel that anything more is required [p.115].  Like his lack of specific definition for ‘king’ in this book, he leaves the reader to assume that there was some kind of socio-cultural development or adjustment underway at this time.

Chapter IV represents the pith of Mr. Drews’ argument as he traces the line of magistrates in the major city-states of Greece.  Insofar as he recognizes that the term basileus was not universally implemented throughout Archaic and Classical Greece, he argues that there was no single basileus holding power at the beginning of the seventh and sixth centuries BCE [p116].  He also admits unabashedly that very little is known about the responsibilities of either the collegial basileis or the single basileus [p.117].  At Megara, a basileus was a military general; at Athens, a judicial authority; and Aristotle adds religious connotations to the milieu [p.118].  Mr. Drews estimates that the single basileus “must have enjoyed unprecedented power and prestige” and that the remarkable nature of this new form of office encouraged a new term for it:  monarchos [pp.118-119].  This term quickly developed into a pejorative in Herodotus (6.92) and in Aristotle (Pol. 1305a and 1310b) [p.119].  The collegial basileia had military and diplomatic duties in Argos, where their survival into the fifth century BCE is attested, as well as in Sparta and most likely Tarentum as well [pp.120-121] (as a colony of Sparta, it would probably have adopted the governmental structure of the metropolis).  Similarly, the governance at Thera and Cyrene likely followed the example of their Spartan metropolis [p.124].

To conclude, Mr. Drews reasserts his belief that in the Geometric Period, Greek poleis (or the precursors of poleis) were not ruled by exclusive ‘kings’ but by basileis with a variety of responsibilities and authority.  The term basileus only began developing exclusive connotations throughout the Archaic Period, a process that did not reach fruition until the modern age.  It was the college of basileis, or ‘highborn leaders’, that Mr. Drews believes Homer and Hesiod recognized and that shortly thereafter a time of great change initiated the shift in the meaning of the word [p.130].  In the eighth century BCE, the formal polis structure was developing to eventually include electoral powers within a citizen assembly, political privilege based on wealth, and a council and magistracies that were filled by a governing class [p.130].  It was not a ‘king’ that this development replaced but the basileis of the Dark Ages before poleis emerged as autonomous communities [p.131].

Perhaps the single most egregious omission in Mr. Drews’ book on kingship in Geometric Greece is the recognition that there are a variety of poleis under consideration in this analysis and that each have their own distinct chronology.  Chapter II, although it presents readers with an incredible amount of data on the subject of basileis in the ninth century, does not differentiate these chronologies and instead surveys ancient Greece geographically.  This is an ineffective and deceiving way to address such a manifold historical development.  Mr. Drews’ decision to separate his analyses from his conclusions is also misleading since it gives his readers a difficult time of trying to accurately critique the substance of his thesis.  This choice of structure also makes Mr. Drews himself look like an amateur, something he certainly is not, because it results in an apparent lack of focus throughout the majority of the book (Chapter II covers 86 of a total 137 pages of the text) .

The introductory section of the book state that the use of such ‘weak’ sources as the Homeric epics, Strabo, Pausanias, kinglists, and assumptions from Archaic usage of the word basileus have led previous scholars astray in their conclusions about the existence of kings in the ninth century [p.5].  And yet, he includes these sources not only throughout his analysis but also in a decisive way.  The heroic age is considered a chronologically datable era of Greek history and the Iliad and the Odyssey are perhaps the sources used most often by Mr. Drews.  He does, however, use Herodotus only after alluding to the conventions and customary traditions available in The Histories that can give clues to the way the late Archaic and Classical Greeks understood their own histories.

Mr. Drews’ book therefore should not be used as a resource for academics, particularly those new to the profession, as it misrepresents aspects of his evidence that are vital to understanding the value of his argument.  Without the awareness that chronologies vary between regions and communities in the main body and without any explicit definitions or structural layout in the introduction, it is impossible to truly appreciate this book as a resource for Geometric Greek history.  Considering the tentative nature of studying the historically datable in this period and the continuous debate over standards and models, these are aspects that Mr. Drews should have clearly identified with specific regard to his work to then allow scholars to place it in a larger framework for the study of ancient Greece.

Supplementary Bibliography

Fitzgerald, Robert (transl.).  1975.  Homer.  The Iliad.  New York:  Anchor Press/Doubleday

Barnes, Jonathan (ed.).  1984.  The Complete Works of Aristotle, Vol. 2.  The Revised Oxford Translation.  Bollingen Series LXXI.  Princeton:  Princeton University Press

www.perseus.tufts.edu

The entertaining question of whether or not John Boardman’s book The Greeks Overseas can be used as a book of history is rather redundant.  This is a history class, we are using his book in this class, ergo there must be something redeemably historical about it.  But what?  Clarifying questions seem not to have prohibited continued discussion on this subject, so let us examine a section of the text and determine how to regard it in Boardman’s sense and as an historical text. 

The third chapter, ‘The Eastern Adventure”, includes a section on Phrygia, Lydia, and Persia, three powers in Anatolia and Asia Minor throughout the Archaic period in Greece up to the Persian Wars.  One of the most notable elements of Boardman’s treatment of these sections is his almost exclusive focus on the movement of pottery and other goods across the Aegean at this time.  Partly because evidence of other sorts is lacking, Boardman goes into extensive (though not complete) detail about what material remains available for consideration:  pottery, coins, votive figurines, fibulae, seals, architecture etc.  He also tries to include telling sections from Herodotus to give an ancient perspective on the archaeological finds and to justify his own conclusions about the nature of the artifacts.

The history of this section appears to be the interaction between these regions of the eastern Mediterranean from the end of the Dark Age in Greece around the eighth century BCE right up to the visibility of Persian ambitions under Cyrus in the 500s.  Arguably, the interaction of peoples over time can be considered a feasible definition for the ambiguous term ‘history’, known in the ancient Greek world merely as ‘inquiry’.  Trade is the most readily recognizable feature of this period or, to avoid such a specific term, the diffusion of goods beyond the geographic source of their manufacture.  However trade is a much more compelling term since it alludes to a connection between peoples in the Mediterranean, one that curiosity demands warrants further investigation.

Boardman first states that contact between Greece and the Near East resumed again in the ninth century BCE, as Greece was coming out of its ‘dark’ age (p.35), even though there is enough evidence to suggest that settlements along parts of the coast had Mycenaean origins .  By the eighth and seventh centuries, due to restored colonization and expansion, the Greek hold on Asia Minor was much stronger (p.84).  He begins, naturally, with the renewal of settlement at the most famous site along the coast:  Troy (VIIb1, p.84).  This is an excellent place to start as it focuses the restoration of contact through one of Greece’s most universally recognized myths, that of the Trojan War.  In the Bronze Age, the link between Greece and Troy was forged from a protracted and bloody war, one that permanently fired itself into the minds of the Greek people.  And yet at this time, Troy was a much smaller affair, controlled in the eighth century by Aeolians from Lesbos due to the pottery found there by Carl Blegen in 1958 (p.84).  Lemnos was also reoccupied at this time, providing stable access to the Hellespont, and included a good harbour for trade (p.85).  Lemnos also had mythic origins, supposedly having been settled by the Tyrsenoi, who are also considered to have settled Italy and become known as the Etruscans (p.85).  However there is no clear evidence of any connection to the Greeks, mythical or historical, before the eighth century, despite the cemetery nearly mentioned only briefly by Boardman (p.85).

Throughout the eighth and seventh centuries, several islands in the eastern Aegean continued colonizing movements to Asia Minor.  Boardman writes:  “In all these operations the Greeks are immediately concerned with the people occupying the coastal areas, and not the major power of the hinterland – Phrygia – which was more occupied with its southern and eastern frontiers” (p.85).  There are sections of Herodotus that link the Greek world with Phrygia, but there was also a clear delineation between the two powers .  If we cannot consider Greece a power yet, it is certainly a trading force to be reckoned with at this time.

Phrygian pottery and fibulae begin showing elements similar to Greek Geometric styles, and there develops an ‘orientalization’ to Greek materials at this same time (pp.88, 92).  The clearest diffusion is in Ionia, where artisans begin copying distinctly Phrygian styles while avoiding those aspects of Phrygian art influenced by Assyria (p.88).  This is a surprising but telling aspect of the cultural sharing going on in the eighth century.  There was a social connection of some sort between Ionia and Phrygia, but it did not extend any further inland than that.  This presumes a level of comfort, or at least interest, in the coastal Greeks’ immediate neighbours, a curiosity not unfamiliar to students of the Classical period where inquiry reigned supreme in many facets of Greek society.  Boardman does state that this cultural interaction was not likely imported directly to the Greek mainland as of yet (p.91), showing that trade was still geographically local and had not reached international proportions in the eighth century. 

Without providing any material evidence, Boardman includes the expulsion of the Phrygians from southern Anatolia by the Assyrians shortly after trade resumed in the eighth century and the simultaneous migratory shifts throughout Asia Minor between Cimmerians, Scythians, and Thracians (p.91) .  Lydia, to the south of Troy, was now able to establish itself, and influence extended into less tangible aspects of Greek culture.  The interchange of artistic styles and trends continued, but religion and cult behaviour along with a more recognizable trade system also developed.  It was the famous king Croesus who subjugated eastern Greece, and Boardman declares that it was “a tribute to Greek and especially Ionian resilience and opportunism that despite this their general prosperity and trade flourished as never before” (p.96).  Throughout the seventh century, Lydia continued to extend her power, and evidence from Smyrna shows how totally the city was sacked, when the old city walls were surmounted with a huge siege mound and a variety of arrowheads were discovered there (p.96).  Contact had now become a much more immediate aspect of life on the coast, even though so little information about Lydian culture has survived (p.97). 

It was also during Greek contact with Lydia that cultural criticism finds its way into the historical record.  The seventh century poet Sappho complains about her students who went to Sardis, the Lydian capital, and were exposed “degenerate or effeminate habits” (p.97).  This is particularly telling of the extent to which cultural interaction can affect a people and their history; after only a century, Greeks were evolving a sense of ‘us versus them’ that would come to full fruition during the Persian invasion in the sixth century BCE.  Luxury goods were the order of the day from Lydia.  Musical novelties such as the seven-string lyre, dress styles, fine ivories, and perfume were now exchanged for goods from Athens, Sparta, and eastern Greece (pp.97-99).  This was also when dedications to Greek sanctuaries from foreign kings became more widespread, with the “finest dedications sent by Lydian kings to Greek sanctuaries [being] made for them by Greek artists” (p.99).

Wealth as well as other material goods was being exchanged in the seventh century which included the innovation of currency, most often attributed to Lydia (p.99).  The amount of gold and other offerings made at Delphi and Ephesus by Croesus underlies the extreme wealth in Asia Minor at this time (p.99).  Disposable wealth had been a rarity for centuries, and now currency could be dedicated at sanctuaries, proving the recognition of worth in this format.  Gold and silver were both mined in Asia Minor at this time – silver from the river Pactolus and gold evidenced from the workings found at Sardis – pointing towards a more stable society who could afford such uses of manpower (p.101).  Another series of finds in the form of engraved ivory and stone seals belies a more central administration that had developed by this time that required official identification (p.102).  These socio-political considerations would have made their way to Greece the same way that trade goods had, through cultural diffusion. 

It was with the Pythian oracle’s fateful prophecy to Croesus and his failed attempt to attack a growing eastern empire that Greece came into direct contact with perhaps the most important cultural influence for the Classical world:  the Persians.   Everything that had been exchanged through international contacts throughout the preceding centuries would come to a head and define the Greeks as ‘Greeks’ in the fifth century BCE.  When Lydia fell, the Ionian states along the coast became a satrapy in the realm of the Persian King of Kings.  There is evidence in Ionia of this major upheaval:  Sardis was besieged and taken and the temple of Hera on Samos is burnt down and the Samian cemetery was pillaged (p.102).  And yet, trade continued and the presence of Greeks in Ionia seemed not to unnerve the Persians right away.  The evidence given by Boardman of this is almost exclusively from the literary works of Herodotus, but there are a few pieces of archaeological evidence that make his histories more than hearsay.  Inscriptions at Susa after 522 BCE tell of Greek masons, carpenters, and sculptors who built Darius’ new capital and Greek architectural styles spread as a result of this sensational undertaking (p.102-103).  It is the tomb of King Cyrus that most clearly explains how intensively Greek influence had permeated the Persian empire, as his tomb reflects architectural and artistic styles unique to Greece (pp.103-104). 

Boardman concludes his chapter with the following reflections on contact with Persia.  “Greek ventures overseas had at last brought them face to face with a major power which was stimulated or goaded by their presence within its territory to march against the mother country” (p.109).  The archaeology he has outlined represents the development of Greek history around massive human upheavals in the eastern Mediterranean – migrations of peoples, Greek commercial expansion , and Persian imperial expansion – and that, once they had repulsed the enemy, the Greeks were much more vigorous in their own ambitions, culminating in the conquests of Alexander the Great (p.109).

Evidence from this area of the eastern Mediterranean outlines the way that trade and ‘international’ connections allowed the Greek world to evolve into the mighty realm it would become in the Classical period – from weak connections restored after the Dark Ages, to the diffusion of goods and artistic styles, to the interaction between cultures and how they influenced each other.  Boardman’s text takes a relatively clinical look at these developments through the material remains available to scholars of both archaeology and history, but the product is useful for both.  He inserts unsubstantiated literary evidence where there is nothing tangible extant, but this is hardly different from the historian who surmises details from time periods without a rich archaeological record.  His is an exercise in humility for anyone who sees only written records as valid.  Boardman provides the opportunity to see history from the other side of the puzzle, and allows historians to see where their suppositions are obvious and where the material record can support the continuity they hope to achieve.

Bibliography

Boardman, John.  1999.  The Greeks Overseas, 4th edition.  London:  Thames and Hudson Ltd., pp.84-109

Morkot, Robert (editor).  1996.  The Penguin Historical Atlas of Ancient Greece.  London:  Penguin Books