From Homer To Solon

From Homer to Solon
- 978-90-04-51363-1
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Mnemosyne
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history and archaeology
of classical antiquity
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Benet Salway (University College London)
volume 454
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- 978-90-04-51363-1
From Homer to Solon
Continuity and Change in Archaic Greece
Edited by
Johannes C. Bernhardt
Mirko Canevaro
leiden | boston
- 978-90-04-51363-1
Cover illustration: Homer (Inv. 6023) and Solon (Inv. 6143) by concession of the Ministry of Culture –
National Archaeological Museum of Naples – photos by Giorgio Albano
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Bernhardt, Johannes Christian, editor. | Canevaro, Mirko, editor.

Title: From Homer to Solon : continuity and change in archaic Greece / edited by
Johannes C. Bernhardt, Mirko Canevaro.
Other titles: Continuity and change in archaic Greece Description: Leiden ; Boston
: Brill, [2022] | Series: Mnemosyne supplements, 2352-8656 ; vol 454 |
Includes bibliographical references and index.
Identifiers: lccn 2022001514 (print) | lccn 2022001515 (ebook) |
isbn 9789004513624 (hardback) | isbn 9789004513631 (ebook) Subjects: lcsh:
Greece–Civilization–To 146 b.c. Classification: lcc df77 .f74 2022 (print) |
lcc df77 (ebook) | ddc 938–dc23/eng/20220118
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issn 2352-8656
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Contents
Preface vii
Notes on Contributors viii
Introduction 1
Johannes C. Bernhardt and Mirko Canevaro
part 1
Approaching Early Archaic Greece
1 Archaeological Approaches to the Archaic Era 29

John Bintliff
2 A Comparative Approach: Early Archaic Greece and Medieval

Iceland 37
Peter Zeller
3 The Homeric Roots of Helotage 64

David M. Lewis
4 Homer and the Vocabulary of Manumission 93

Sara Zanovello
5 ‘Bought, Not Wed!’ Hesiod and the Aristocratic ‘Peasants’ 115

Jan B. Meister
part 2
Citizens and City-States
6 Hippotrophia as Citizen Behaviour in Archaic Greece 139

Alain Duplouy
7 Putting the Citizen in the Citizen-State: Participating in the Early Cretan

polis 162
Gunnar Seelentag
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vi contents
8 Inside and Outside the Community: The Role of Political Thinking in

the ‘Rise of the polis’ 203
Tanja Itgenshorst
9 What Are Early Greek Laws About? Substance and Procedure in Archaic
Statutes, c. 650–450bc 227
Edward M. Harris and David M. Lewis
part 3
Leaders and Reformers
10 Against the Rules: The Plurality of Oikists and New Perspectives on

Greek ‘Colonisation’ 265
Sebastian Scharff
11 Turannoi in Archaic Greece: A New Phenomenon or a New Name for an

Old Phenomenon? 301
James Taylor
12 Tyrannical and Civic Reception of Homer—A Problem of Sources 330

Lars Hübner
13 Social Mobility vs. Societal Stability: Once Again on the Aims and
Meaning of Solon’s Reforms 363
Mirko Canevaro
14 A Failed Tyrant? Solon’s Place in Athenian History 414

Concluding Remarks: Archaic Greece and the Consciousness of

Community 462
Index Locorum 471

Index of Names and Places 487
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Preface
This volume stems from the panel ‘Mass, Elite, and the Order of the Polis in
Archaic Greece’ organized in June 2014 by the editors as part of the Celtic Con-
ference in Classics held at the University of Edinburgh. It was a very successful
panel, in which links and common interests among the participants sparked
important discussion about Archaic Greece. Two originally planned papers by
Olivier Mariaud on the social history of the Ionian cities and by Adam Rabinow-
itz on the late-Archaic symposium could unfortunately not be included in the
publication due to other commitments. As well as papers delivered during the
course of that panel, the volume features additional papers gathered through
wider dialogue with other conference participants (David M. Lewis, Sara Zan-
ovello) who joined in the discussion, and additional commissioned papers
(Lars Hübner, Sebastian Scharff, Peter Zeller). The resulting collection of schol-
ars is remarkably international, and the volume attempts, through a focused
exploration of specific issues, to bring together developments in scholarly tradi-
tions (British, French, German, Italian) that have not always succeeded in creat-
ing a meaningful dialogue about the history of Archaic Greece. Due to the addi-
tion of new contributions, a different focus than that of the conference seemed
appropriate for the structuring of the volume and led to the present title ‘From
Homer to Solon. Continuity and Change in Archaic Greece’. In conclusion,
there remains only the pleasant duty of thanking various people: Anton Pow-
ell, who unfortunately passed away in the meantime and will be sorely missed
by all researchers on Archaic Greece; Douglas Cairns for accepting our original
proposal and including our panel in the programme of the Celtic Conference in
Classics; Alice Rae for her invaluable help in preparing the manuscript and for
editing the language of several papers; the anonymous reviewers, who provided
most valuable advice on how best to finalise the manuscript; Alberto Esu for
preparing the indices; and, above all, the participants in the conference and
the contributors to this volume for their patience throughout the publication
process. Finally, we want to thank Christian Mann—it was thanks to him that
the editors of this volume first met, now almost a decade ago, and started dis-
cussing all things Greek (and Archaic in particular), and this volume, like the
conference from which it originates, is the product of an ongoing dialogue that
started in Mannheim under his tutelage.
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Notes on Contributors
PhD 2012 at the University of Freiburg, is an ancient historian and digital man-
ager at Baden State Museum Karlsruhe. He has published on Hellenistic history
and museum studies, including Die Jüdische Revolution (De Gruyter 2018).
John Bintliff
is Emeritus Professor of Classical and Mediterranean Archaeology at Leiden
University and Emeritus Professor at the University of Edinburgh. He is the
author, among others, of The Complete Archaeology of Greece (Wiley-Blackwell
2012) and The Death of Archaeological Theory? (Oxbow 2011).
Mirko Canevaro
is Professor of Greek History at the University of Edinburgh. He has published
extensively on the history of the Greek polis, particularly on Demosthenes
and Athens (oup 2013, De Gruyter 2016) and Aristotle’s Politics (L’Erma di
Bretschneider 2014, 2022).
Alain Duplouy
is Reader in Greek archaeology at the Université Paris 1 Panthéon-Sorbonne. He
has published extensively on pre-Classical elites, citizenship, and the making
of the Greek city (Les Belles Lettres 2006, 2019; oup 2018).
Edward M. Harris
is Emeritus Professor of Ancient History at Durham University. He is the author
of Aeschines and Athenian Politics (oup 1995), Democracy and the Rule of Law in
Classical Athens (cup 2006), and The Rule of Law in Action in Democratic Athens
(oup 2013).
Lars Hübner
PhD 2018 at the University of Hamburg, is an ancient historian and high school
teacher at Margaretha Rothe Gymnasium Hamburg. He has published on
Archaic Homeric reception and intentional history, including Homer im kul-
turellen Gedächtnis (Steiner 2019).
Tanja Itgenshorst
is Professor of Ancient History at the University of Fribourg (Switzerland). She
has published on the Roman Republic (particularly on the Roman triumph)
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notes on contributors ix
and Archaic Greece (e.g. on political thought: Denker und Gemeinschaft, Schön-
ingh 2014).
David M. Lewis
is Lecturer in Greek History and Culture at the University of Edinburgh. He
works on ancient slavery and ancient Greek labour history and is author of
Greek Slave Systems in their Eastern Mediterranean Context, c. 800–146 bc (oup
2018).
Jan B. Meister
is snsf Eccellenza Professor at the University of Bern. After his dissertation
on the Roman emperor’s body (Steiner 2012) he recently published his second
book on elites and concepts of nobility in Archaic and Classical Greece (Steiner
2020).
Sebastian Scharff
is an ancient historian at Münster University. He has published on interstate
relations in Greek antiquity (Steiner 2016) and the cultural history of Greek
athletics (Steiner 2016, cup forthcoming 2022).
Gunnar Seelentag
is Professor of Ancient History at the Leibniz University Hannover. He special-
izes in Archaic and Early Classical Greece as well as the Roman Principate of
the first two centuries. Among his recent publications is an edited volume on
competition and institutionalisation in Archaic Greece (Steiner 2020).
James Taylor
received his PhD from Durham University in 2017, specialising in Archaic Greek
society and the phenomenon of tyrannis. He now teaches history at a school in
Hertfordshire, England.
Sara Zanovello
is CPD Research Manager of the Law Society of Scotland. She holds a joint-PhD
from the Universities of Padova (Law School) and Edinburgh (Classics). She is
author of From Slave to Free. A Legal Perspective on Greek Manumission (Ediz-
ioni dell’Orso 2021).
Peter Zeller
is Assistant Professor at the University of Tübingen. His doctoral thesis was
about the early period of Archaic Greece (Verlag Antike 2020). Now his main
field of research is the climate history of Greek and Roman antiquity.
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Introduction
Johannes C. Bernhardt and Mirko Canevaro
Everything we describe at all could be otherwise. There is no order

of things a priori.
wittgenstein, TLP 5.634
∵
1 The Archaic Period
The position of the Archaic period within master narratives of Greek history
has always been a peculiar one. The term ‘Archaic’ itself originated in the field
of art history in the second half of the nineteenth century, used to identify
works of art as pre-Classical.1 When Helmut Berve first borrowed it, in his
Griechische Geschichte of 1931, to mark the specific stage of Greek history that
we still call ‘Archaic’, he contrasted it with the Classical period as an age of
aristocracy that came to an end with the rise of the polis in the fifth cen-
tury bc.2 Against this view, Victor Ehrenberg argued in 1937 that, in fact, the
beginnings of the polis can be found already in the eighth century, and the
Archaic period should be defined as the period of its slow development—
development, that is, into the prototypical Classical polis.3 Although we do
find more complex and nuanced conceptions in the early scholarship on the
Archaic period, the pitfalls of these approaches have persisted—scholars have
often viewed the Archaic period in light of what followed, and research ques-
tions, as they have long been formulated, have been fundamentally about how
the Classical period came into being.4 Teleology is, as it were, in the DNA
1 ‘Archaic’ was used to designate an artistic epoch in its own right for the first time by Brunn
1867: 172; 1897: 263; see for the wider context also Most 1989: 5–10; Walter 2013: 99–101; Lange
2013: 142–146.
2 Berve 1931.
3 Ehrenberg 1937; 2011.
4 An exception—and potentially an alternative route, albeit one not taken—in the early study
of the Archaic period can be found e.g. in the complex and sophisticated works of Heuss
(1946; 1981).
© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004513631_002 - 978-90-04-51363-1

2 bernhardt and canevaro
of the field of Archaic Greek history, and has made itself felt throughout, and
despite the variety of the approaches to the period.
It is, in a sense, no surprise that the study of the Archaic period should
display from the beginning—and maintain until recently—such tendencies.
The key problem here is one of evidence. The textual sources, after a prom-
ising start with the rich yet problematic evidence of Homer and Hesiod, are
limited to fragmentary poems, a few handfuls of individual legal texts, and a
modest number of inscriptions. These texts are notoriously difficult to read
and interpret, raising considerable problems in terms of tradition, dating and
contextualisation, and never provide a clear sequence of events and devel-
opments.5 Scholars have often turned to later accounts by historians such as
Herodotus, or to the reflections of theoreticians such as Aristotle, to integ-
rate the fragmented picture provided by the Archaic evidence, yet these texts
rely in fact on dubious information (twisted by the vagaries of oral tradition
and intentional history) and are shaped by ideas and concerns of their own
times (as well as being often extremely Athenocentric), so they more often than
not hamper rather than facilitate our understanding of the Archaic period.6
Archaeological surveys, studies on settlements, and the constant refinement
of archaeological methods have produced a rapidly growing corpus of material
evidence, which, however, does not speak on its own, as it were, and cannot
supply a narrative unless it is integrated with the textual sources, or used as a
corrective for interpretations derived from them.7 The relative lack of sources
for the Archaic period (and the problematic nature of the sources that we do
have), vis-à-vis the abundance of sources for the Classical period, has fostered
an approach that sees the Archaic period, whatever the object of the enquiry, as
inherently ‘formative’, and attempts to identify when and how a world like that
represented in Homer or discovered through archaeological studies and sur-
veys, which appears socially, politically, culturally and economically so differ-
ent from the one with which we are familiar from later sources, developed into
the world of Athens and Sparta, of Thucydides, Sophocles and Demosthenes.
So the issues addressed, with different (and increasing) levels of sophistication,
are for example the ‘rise of the polis’,8 the transformation of the elite from the
5 On the problems with the historical interpretation of literature and inscriptions see e.g. Zim-
mermann 2011; Jeffrey 1990; Effenterre and Ruzé 1994/5.
6 On the problem of oral tradition see in particular Vansina 1965; 1985; Thomas 1989; 1992. On
intentional history see e.g. Gehrke 2001; 2014; Foxhall, Gehrke and Luraghi 2010.
7 On the archaeological material Snodgrass 1987; 2006; Lang 1996; Bintliff 2012; Wittke 2015;
Knodell 2021.
8 From Ehrenberg 1937 to e.g. Davies 1997.
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introduction 3
Homeric basileis into aristocrats,9 the emergence of written law and the polit-
ical and social changes it reflects,10 the emergence of Greek chattel slavery,11
and of helotage,12 and the beginnings of political theorisation.13 The research
questions are almost invariably framed as a variation on the same theme: how
did something that we can observe fully formed in the Classical period come
into being during the Archaic period. And thus, in constructing narratives of
Archaic history that cannot fully rely on Archaic evidence (and must therefore
be injected with considerable doses of theory to provide them with a frame-
work for development and interpretation),14 the only solid point of reference
ends up being the Classical aftermath—the notional end-product of the devel-
opment that is being reconstructed.
All this is particularly evident in the ‘master narrative’ of Archaic history that
has affirmed itself—and has held sway—in the second half of the twentieth
century. Here, the teleological imperative of reconstructing Archaic history in
view of the emergence of the Classical world is combined with (and even pro-
duces) a fondness for crises and sharp turning-points: the inescapable alterity
of the world of Homer, compared with that of the Classical period, is dealt with
by postulating a series of breaking points through which the previous world dis-
appeared and the new one emerged. In this master narrative, roughly speaking,
the existence of a ‘Greek people’ was more or less taken for granted, and the
epics of Homer were taken to represent the aristocratic world of the eighth
and seventh centuries bc, a world that was widely networked (through ban-
quets, guest friendships, family relations and connections) and characterised
by a striking competitive ethos (conversely, the epics of Hesiod attracted con-
siderably less attention and were mostly read as an expression of the agrarian
and subsistence world of the peasants). This world was described as econom-
ically static, and even untouched by features such as chattel slavery that loom
so large in later periods. According to this narrative, the early emergence of the
polis was followed by a profound crisis of the pre-state social structures that had
been central to the world reflected in the epics, and phenomena such as colon-
isation were the result of this crisis. Tyranny also shattered the dominance of
the aristocracy, and the so-called Hoplite Revolution led to the political mobil-
9 See e.g. Drews 1983; Donlan 1985; Starr 1986; Mitchell 2014.
10 See e.g. Eder 1986; Hölkeskamp 1992; Osborne 1997; Harris 2006: 3–28; Gagarin 2008.
11 Finley 1978, 1981.
12 Cartledge 2011; Luraghi 2002, 2003, 2009.
13 Balot 2001; Lewis 2008.
14 On the need for theory (Theoriebedürfigkeit) see Koselleck 1972; on the relationship be-
tween archaeology and history and the need for theoretical models to structure the inter-
pretation of the material see e.g. Morris 1987; 1992; 2000; Étienne 2010; Hall 2014a.
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isation of the non-elite population. A new stage in the formation of the polis
brought about a new centrality of the community at large as well as the codific-
ation of law, until the tensions of these centuries were eventually resolved with
the final affirmation of the Classical city-states, and of Athenian democracy in
particular, at the end of the sixth century bc. To sum up, this master narrat-
ive drew the picture of an epoch marked by profound change and upheaval, in
which crises and developments led, almost as the inevitable end result, to the
Classical world as we find it in our abundant Classical sources.
Both these teleological tendencies of Archaic history, and the connected
fondness for crises and sharp turning points, have finally, in recent years, come
under intense scrutiny, and this has led to a root and branch revolution in the
study of Archaic history. Together with substantial advances in our approach
to, and understanding of, the Archaic world, recent research has suggested that
the continuities in social forms and institutions throughout the Archaic period
and into the Classical world may be as remarkable, and its explanatory power
as worth pursuing, as the traditional focus on change, on historical breaks and
sudden or less sudden developments leading almost inevitably to the ‘Classical
paradigm’.
This scrutiny has taken many forms. There have been, for example, efforts
to revise traditional periodisations, collapsing the notional boundaries of the
so-called Dark Ages (which have also become less dark thanks to archaeolo-
gical research e.g. in Tiryns, Lefkandi, Nichoria, Mitrou)15 as well as those
between the Archaic and the Classical periods.16 The result has been a new
appreciation of long-term continuities: for instance, archaeological research
has stressed the continuities between the so-called Dark Ages and the early
Archaic period (despite the demographic growth of the eighth century bc);17
the increased interest in the intentionality of Greek constructions of the past
and processes of ethnogenesis has led us to abandon the notion of a ‘Great
Migration’; the emergence of a Panhellenic identity is now understood as a pro-
tracted process extending into the late Archaic and early Classical periods.18
Our readings of Homer’s and Hesiod’s epics as evidence of historical societ-
ies have also changed as a result: while these epics have long been read as
representations of life worlds fundamentally different from that of the later
Archaic period, new studies have stressed the overarching commonalities in
15 On Tiryns see Maran 2019; on the ‘brightening’ of the ‘dark ages’ see in general Badisches
Landesmuseum 2008; Stein-Hölkeskamp 2019: 37–49; Ulf and Kistler 2020: 30–42.
16 See e.g. Seelentag 2015; Ma 2016; 2018.
17 See Morris 2009 and Bintliff in this volume.
18 See e.g. Gehrke 2011; 2014; and, on ethnogenesis and the formation of Panhellenic identity,
Ulf 1996; Hall 1997; 2002; Cartledge 2002; Luraghi 2008; 2014; Vlassopoulos 2015.
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introduction 5
the development of what was (still) an agrarian society, as well as the long
continuities in social norms all the way down to the formation of the polis,
when they were eventually formalised and written down.19 The very notion of
an ‘aristocracy’ of birth has been largely abandoned: in the Homeric context,
the social-anthropological model of the big men has found many adherents,
and Duplouy, for example, has argued that the widely held idea that Archaic
social and political power developed into a more or less fixed aristocracy does
not find support in the evidence, and that the elite of the Archaic poleis was a
fluid entity whose members defined their status (as the Homeric basileis before
them) through competitive performance.20
Approaches influenced by New Institutional Economics have emphasised
the dynamism of the Archaic economy, the path-dependence of its institu-
tional underpinnings, and a long trend of growth that seamlessly connects the
Archaic to the Classical period.21 Harris and Lewis have challenged the ortho-
doxy (established by Finley and even earlier by Meyer) that Greece became a
slave society only towards the end of the Archaic period, and that the role of
slavery was negligible in Homeric society, and stressed significant similarities
and continuities between the world of the Homeric epics and the later Archaic
and Classical periods.22 The notion of an alleged crisis of the Archaic period has
also been challenged, and even tyranny and colonisation have been recast as
phenomena better understood within the framework of the long history of elite
competition and pervasive migration.23 Van Wees has argued that warfare as
depicted in the Homeric poems is consistent with descriptions and represent-
ation of warfare in the later Archaic period, questioning the reality of a sharp
historical ‘break’, the so-called ‘Hoplite Revolution’, in favour of a picture of the
slow and continuous development of military tactics.24 Finally, the widening
of our perspective to embrace a world of more than 1,000 poleis,25 the system-
atic investigation of ethne and federal states,26 the new interest in the wider
Mediterranean framework,27 the introduction of comparative approaches,28
19 E.g. Schmitz 1999; 2004; 2014; Ulf 2009; Meister 2020.

20 Duplouy 2006; see also Stahl 1987; Stein-Hölkeskamp 1989; Fisher and van Wees 2015.
21 Van Wees 2009; Ober 2016; Bresson 2016.
22 Harris 2012; Lewis 2018; Finley 1978; Meyer 1910.
23 Osborne 1998; Anderson 2005.
24 Van Wees 1992; 2013.
25 Hansen and Nielsen 2004.
26 Morgan 2003; Beck and Funke 2015; Beck, Buraselis and McAuley 2019.
27 Horden and Purcell 2000; Malkin 2006; Broodbank 2013; Horden and Kinoshita 2014; Man-
ning 2018; Horden and Purcell 2020.
28 Luraghi 2002; Lewis 2018; Zeller 2020.
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a new attentiveness to complex networks of interaction,29 as well as to the

decidedly local nature of Greek communities,30 have significantly increased
our awareness of the diversity and complexity of the Greek world,31 so that
teleological narratives of change and upheaval have become untenable, and
have been replaced by multiple accounts of various open, parallel and slowly
developing processes and the formation of different forms of ‘statehood’ or
‘governance’.32
Looking at this—inevitably schematic and deliberately contrasting—sketch
of recent trends in the study of the Archaic period, one can identify quite
precisely an underlying theoretical problem: in the different conceptions of
continuity and change, as well as in the tension between teleology and open-
ness, lies the classic problem of contingency inherent in any analytical histori-
ography. If one understands the concept as in double opposition to necessity
and impossibility, what contingency ultimately does is define an open space of
possibility.33 Historiographically—and this is reflected in the history of scholar-
ship on Archaic Greece quite precisely—every historical phenomenon can be
conceptualised as a linear pre-history of later developments or as an opening
of new possibilities for further developments. The real question then becomes
the following: which one of these conceptualisations provides more, and bet-
ter, insights into the particular historical problem at hand? Does one subsume
individual issues under abstract hypotheses and models, which ultimately lead
to a prehistory of the Classical period, or does one use concepts and models
as heuristics, in order to investigate the Archaic period on its own terms and
to regain the open perspective of its historical actors. In this respect, a some-
what paradoxical situation has developed in the study of Archaic Greece: on
the one hand, much older research has explicitly striven to define the Archaic
period, to draw a coherent picture of it, yet this has led to a teleological mas-
ter narrative; on the other, more recent research has attempted to highlight the
contingent and open character of Archaic developments, but is still struggling
for a new synthetic image of the period. The most current research trends do
in fact create the further difficulty that the increase in complexity makes the
Archaic period as an epoch less and less tangible, and that it has become harder
and harder to discern any overarching connections and relations in the multi-
29 Malkin 2011; Taylor and Vlassopoulos 2015.

30 Beck 2020.
31 Gehrke 1986 already pleaded that historians should take a further look at the Third Greece
beyond Athens and Sparta.
32 Lundgreen 2014; 2020.
33 On the contingency problem Heuss 1985; Hoffmann 2005; Vogt 2011; Walter 2009; 2016.
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introduction 7
tude of topics and approaches. Somewhat pointedly, some have even gone as
far as posing the question whether the Archaic period can still be understood
as a distinct and distinctive epoch of Greek history.34
Recently, there have been an increasing number of experiments with new
syntheses and master narratives of the period. But there is still no sign of a par-
ticular model gaining general currency. The approaches range from attempts to
enrich the old master narrative with more recent findings,35 to critical counter-
readings based on the archaeological evidence,36 as well as strictly thematically
structured accounts37 (and companions that follow that same pattern),38 all
the way to downright counter-narratives based on the systematic deconstruc-
tion of the old master narrative.39 A number of new large-scale conceptual
frameworks have taken centre stage:40 on the one hand, it has been argued
(somewhat positivistically) that the Archaic period should be understood in
terms of economic history, within the context of long continuities of land
ownership and social status;41 on the other hand, it has been argued (in a
longue durée perspective focused on the polis) that elites and communities,
in tension with one another, should be more strongly understood as connec-
ted, and that both archaeological and literary testimonies should be read as
spaces for negotiation and as expressions of play-acting.42 Finally, some have
spearheaded a promising approach that replaces outdated notions of a tension
between aristocracy and polis with the analytical concepts of competition and
institutionalisation, which are embedded in the general grammar of Archaic
culture.43
This volume sets itself resolutely within the context of recent developments
in the study of Archaic history. It does not propose to offer a new master nar-
rative of Archaic Greek history—in fact, it takes the complexity that prevails at
the current stage of research as its starting point. Nor does it aspire to be com-
prehensive. Its aim is rather to showcase the most advanced lines of research
that have gained ground in recent years in different national historiographical
communities, bringing together scholars from a wide range of backgrounds to
34 Walter 2013; see also Davies 2009.

35 Welwei 2011; 2019; Meier 2011; Bringmann 2016.
36 Baurain 1998; Osborne 2009; Hall 2014a; Lavelle 2020.
37 Stein-Hölkeskamp 2019.
38 Shapiro 2007; Raaflaub and van Wees 2009.
39 Ulf and Kistler 2020.
40 See also Fisher and van Wees 1998; Hölkeskamp 2000.
41 Zurbach 2013; 2017; D’Ercole and Zurbach 2019.
42 Ma 2016; reminiscent of Chaniotis 1997.
43 Meister and Seelentag 2020b.
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discuss fundamental questions about Archaic history, making their work and
their approaches accessible for international debate. The fil rouge of all the
chapters of the volume is a recognition that the key historiographical issues of
the Archaic Greek world can be better tackled by casting aside the teleological
DNA of the field (and the connected focus on crises and breaks that ‘led’ to the
prototypical Classical Greek world) to investigate institutions, social structures,
and cultural habits for evidence of long-term continuity and slow, open-ended
development … from Homer to Solon, as the title of the volume goes. Some of
the issues raised here are revisited in the conclusion to the volume, while the
aim of this introduction is primarily to contextualise the essays and provide
an overview of the entire volume. It is structured in accordance with the three
sections of the volume: Approaching Early Archaic Greece (ii), Citizens and
Citizen-States (iii), and Leaders and Reformers (iv).
2 Approaching Early Archaic Greece
Many traditional master narratives of Archaic Greek history have been con-
strued as teleological accounts that attempt to explain how from point A
(Homeric society, understood as, in many ways, radically different from the
world the later world of the polis) the Greek world managed to reach point B
(the Classical world of the polis). In such accounts, the Homeric (and Hesiodic)
world is too often interpreted through lenses that only see alterity and differ-
ence, setting the narrative of Archaic history up, consequently, as one of shifts
and radical changes that led to the end result of the Classical Greek world. The
essays in the first part of this volume deal with the early Archaic period and
challenge influential ideas about, and interpretations of, early Archaic soci-
ety which postulate radical differences with the later Greek world, in favour of
stressing long-term continuities and processes of slow development. They do
so while showcasing a variety of approaches, from one that takes the archae-
ological material as its starting point, and refuses to let the historical master
narratives of the period govern how that material is read, to openly com-
parative approaches, all the way to lines of enquiry that take legal institu-
tions, statuses and prerogatives seriously from as early as the time of the
Homeric poems. Overall, what these essays show is that, if we take the tele-
ological end point of the Classical period temporarily out of the picture, nar-
ratives that see strong continuities between ‘Homeric society’ and the ‘core’
Archaic period of the seventh and sixth centuries (with slow processes of
development) do in fact fit the evidence better than ones of sudden rad-
ical shifts and innovations. They also show that Homeric society (and not
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introduction 9
the Classical period) is the natural reference point to explain Archaic develop-
ments, as their background and their (still relevant) setting.
John Bintliff (‘Archaeological Approaches to the Archaic Era’) provides an
overview of areas in which archaeological research, in productive dialogue with
historical and textual scholarship, has succeeded in unsettling old orthodox-
ies about Archaic Greece and its development. In many of these areas, deeper
engagement with the archaeological material has produced a better appreci-
ation of long-term trends, continuities and slow developments. The examples
he provides are many: the traditional picture of the end of the Mycenaean
Bronze Age as succeeded by a period of large-scale population movements has
been replaced by one of continuity combined with the gradual emergence or
crystallisation of local, district and ultimately regional social groups, as a result
of factors such as population growth, landscape recolonisation, and the growth
of political and commercial networks; likewise, the traditional picture of a ‘year
zero’ of minimal social complexity after the end of Mycenaean civilisation has
been replaced by the acknowledgement that medium-level social stratification
survived into the Early Iron Age—this, he contends, is the background of fur-
ther processes of progressive institutionalisation and polis formation, and even
of the emergence of colonisation out of elite competition.
Peter Zeller’s contribution (‘Early Archaic Greece and Medieval Iceland—
A Comparative Approach’) chooses to fill the gaps in our understanding of
early Archaic society through a fine-grained comparative analysis. Resorting
to the comparative method in approaching early Archaic history is a well-
tested strategy, yet this, in most instances, has meant primarily engagement
with ethnographic and anthropological scholarship. Zeller chooses instead to
carry out a sustained comparison with what we know of the Icelandic Free State
(circa 930–1262ad) from the Icelandic sagas.44 After careful overviews of the
scholarly fields of Archaic Greek History and Scandinavian Studies, and a use-
ful survey of the history of (and the sources for) the Icelandic Free State, Zeller
concentrates particularly on shedding light on the Homeric basileis through
Icelandic comparative lenses. The image of the basileis that he draws from this
comparison—one of a more or less stable group, whose status, however, was
subject to continuous performative requirements vis-à-vis the community—
is one that is compatible with reconstructions of elite status (e.g. in Duplouy’s
chapter) or of tyranny (e.g. in Taylor’s chapter) in the later Archaic period that
have traditionally been read as the result of radical departures from Homeric
‘leadership’.
44 This approach is fully pursued in Zeller 2020.
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David Lewis’ chapter (‘The Homeric Roots of Helotage’) tackles the thorny
issue of the origin of Spartan helotage, one which has been the object of influ-
ential comparative studies,45 yet chooses to walk a different path. He rejects
accounts of helotage that connect its origins to a war of conquest (as it is
presented by Theopompus FGrHist 115 F122),46 and chooses instead to look
at the Homeric epics for traces of an institution of slavery that can be inter-
preted as a precursor of Spartan helotage. Such an approach has been tradi-
tionally discarded because of the widespread belief—famously advocated by
Finley—that slavery played no important role in Homeric Greece.47 This con-
tention has been shown in recent studies (by van Wees, Thalmann, Harris, and
Lewis himself) to be untenable, and slavery has been acknowledged as present
and indeed central to Homeric society.48 Lewis takes this as his starting point
and makes an argument for ‘Homeric’ slavery to be the precursor of Spartan
helotage—developing into what we know as Spartan helotage as a result of
the very historical forces that shaped Spartan society more widely. His account
rejects a view of Spartan helotage as an oddity, and of slavery in general as
emerging more or less suddenly in the later Archaic period, in favour of a recon-
struction that recognises the long history of slaving practices and institutions
from the Homeric period onwards, and reintegrates helotage within this his-
tory.
Sara Zanovello’s chapter (‘Homer and the Vocabulary of Manumission’) is
the ideal companion to Lewis’, adopting the same framework of analysis but at
the same time zooming in on the specific practices and institutions of manu-
mission. Manumission in the Homeric poems has rarely been deemed a suit-
able problem for investigation precisely because scholars have long believed
that no clear-cut distinction between the free and slaves can be found in the
Homeric poems. New studies that have overturned this orthodoxy have now
made it possible to look for signs of the institution of manumission in Homer,
and Zanovello shows that the poems employ consistently a full and articulated
vocabulary of enslavement and manumission, tracking institutional practices
which already display significant sophistication and development. In view of
her analysis, it becomes necessary to read the later evidence for the legal insti-
tution of manumission not as a sign of later ‘emergence’, but rather as evidence
together of continuity and historical development.
45 Luraghi 2002; 2003; 2009.

46 Examples of such accounts are Finley 1981: 123; Cartledge 2011: 76. In rejecting such
accounts, Lewis follows Luraghi 2002; 2003; 2009.
47 This is famously the view of Finley 1978; 1980; 1981; see also e.g. Garlan 1988.
48 Van Wees 1992: 49–53; Thalmann 1998: 50; Harris 2012; Lewis 2018.
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introduction 11
Jan Meister’s paper ‘“Bought, not Wed!” Hesiod and the Aristocratic “Peas-
ants” in Archaic Greece’ presents a significant case study of the stratification of
Archaic society, whose starting point is a verse from Hesiod’s Works and Days.49
After describing the basic needs of the peasant oikos—a house, a woman and
an ox for ploughing—we read the following verse: ‘Bought, not wed be the
woman so that she can follow the oxen.’ This somewhat cryptic verse has often
been considered a later addition or a misogynistic joke, yet Meister manages
to contextualise it and argues that it offers unique insight into the peasant
world of Archaic Greece. Against the background of the practice of paying
bridewealth in the form of livestock, a young peasant could buy a slave woman
by other means, conserve his potentially growing livestock, and exploit the
woman, because of her status, also for work such as ploughing. Buying a slave
woman was therefore an ‘interim solution’ before full marriage at the age of 30.
Meister’s picture of the social practices of marriage and concubinage shows
that at a very early stage (the stage represented in Hesiod and in the Homeric
poems) we already find differentiated statuses of legitimate and bastard sons,
very much along the lines of later practices. His discussion strongly suggests
that social practices whose origin we normally connect with the rise of an insti-
tutionalised polis (with legally recognised citizens) may be better explained in
terms of continuity. It also nuances the distinction between peasant and elite
oikoi, showing (in line with what Lewis and Zanovello also argue) that slave
ownership was widespread at various levels of the social ladder.
3 Citizens and Citizen-States
The second section of this volume focuses on the key topic of the polis and its
emergence. Because the polis has long been the entity at the centre of most
(all?) master narratives of Classical Greek history, the teleological pull of the
Classical period has been particularly strong in the study of the Archaic polis,
which has been, from the very beginning, an investigation, as it were, into the
origins of the Classical polis—the formative stage in the history of an entity
whose prototypical features are those of the Classical period and which per-
sisted with unbroken vitality also under the changed circumstances of the Hel-
lenistic world and the Roman Empire.50 The central question, then, has long
49 On the wider context Meister 2020.

50 Gauthier 1993; Börm and Luraghi 2018; Chaniotis 2018.
- 978-90-04-51363-1
been when and how poleis—already found in the Homeric epics—became

properly urban centres with a politically organised citizenship. This is not the
place to provide a history of the answers given to these questions,51 and it
may suffice, in lieu of such a history, to recall Oswyn Murray’s 1987 summary
of older research trends: ‘The German polis can only be described in a hand-
book of constitutional law; the French polis is a form of Holy Communion; the
English polis is a historical accident; while the American polis combines the
practices of a Mafia convention with the principles of justice and individual
freedom.’52
Much has changed since Murray’s ironic assessment, and three strands of
research can be identified. First, archaeological studies have emphasised the
community-building function of extra-urban and poliadic sanctuaries, as well
as the roughly simultaneous emergence of the agora in the Homeric epics and
Megara Hyblaea around 700bc, which triggered the spatial differentiation of
temples, agorai and necropoleis and the formation of spaces decidedly marked
as public.53 Second, the work of the Copenhagen Polis Centre has produced a
philologically based model of the polis which takes Aristotle’s definition as its
starting point, traces an institutionally structured, politically active and clearly
defined citizenship back to the time around 650 bc, and argues for the exist-
ence of city-states whose main features are stable from the beginning.54 Third,
studies inspired by anthropology and cultural studies have argued the exact
opposite, namely that the application of a clear definition of the polis leads
to a teleological and static reconstruction; from the perspective of the histor-
ical actors, it is rather performative acts and the gradual increase in participa-
tion that established membership in the citizens’ association and therefore it
is more appropriate to speak of open and multifaceted development towards
the ‘citizen-state’.55 This approach can be productively integrated with the now
consciously theory-driven debate on the explanatory potential, for the Archaic
polis, of Bourdieu’s theory of habitus, Latour’s actor-network-theory, Berger and
Luckmann’s concept of institutionalisation or the general revival of the soci-
ology of Simmel.56 It was consolidated into a first synthesis by Alain Duplouy
51 See e.g. Vlassopoulos 2007.

52 Murray 1987: 327.
53 Polignac 1995; Hölscher 1998.
54 Hansen 1996; Hansen and Nielsen 2004: 16–19; Hansen 2006: 33–47.
55 Schmitt-Pantel 1992 was a central step in this direction. Heuss 1946: 39 coined the concept
of the ‘citizen state’ (Bürgerstaat), which can be connected with Alc. fr. 112; 426 and Thuc.
7.77.7 and leads via Walter 1993 to Seelentag 2015 and to current research.
56 For current debates see e.g. Ismard 2010; Macé 2014; Ma 2016; Blok 2017; Hölkeskamp and
Stein-Hölkeskamp 2018; Meister and Seelentag 2020b.
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introduction 13
in his 2019 study Construire la cité. Essai de sociologie historique sur les commun-
autés de l’archaïsme grec.57
Alain Duplouy’s essay ‘Hippotrophia as Citizen Behaviour in Archaic
Greece’ showcases these recent trends and is therefore placed at the beginning
of the section. It begins with a critique of the political-institutional understand-
ing of the polis, which projects Aristotelian criteria back to Archaic times. It
argues, instead, for a social and open understanding of citizenship as particip-
ation, to be demonstrated through performances and social practices—in his
own words: ‘In order to be accepted as a citizen, one had first to behave like a
citizen’. His specific focus is hippotrophia as a case study of citizen behaviour.
Instead of taking the usual classification of horse-breeding as a feature of an
aristocratic lifestyle for granted, he investigates the significance of cavalry for
the Greek poleis and argues that horsemanship was also a way to ‘perform cit-
izenship’. His evidence includes both textual sources (e.g. those about Aeolic
Cyme, where Pheidon increased participation in citizenship by enacting a law
which obliged everyone to raise a horse) and material culture, namely pictorial
representations read as idealisations of the community through the repres-
entation of expected collective and individual behaviour (e.g. the so-called
‘Black-Horse Crater’ from Eretria, amphorae from a polyandreion in Paros; the
famous Chigi vase). Hippotrophia, in Duplouy’s interpretation, had a double
meaning and could be understood both as elitist (in the agonistic context of the
Panhellenic Games) and civic (in the context of warfare), thus nuancing our
understanding of the elites as a distinct class—they should rather be under-
stood as ‘first citizens’.
Gunnar Seelentag’s chapter (‘Putting the Citizen in the Citizen-State. Parti-
cipating in the Early Cretan polis’) is a product of his wide-ranging research on
Archaic Crete and on processes of institutionalisation, and can be read as com-
plementary to Duplouy’s essay.58 Like Duplouy, Seelentag criticises the wide-
spread narrative that sees polis formation as a process of teleological develop-
ment towards Athenian democracy, thus presupposing an anachronistic under-
standing of citizenship as clearly defined already in the Archaic period. Rather
than attempting to define citizen rights, Seelentag focuses instead on social
practices that underpin belonging to the polis community. His key pieces of
evidence are four late-Archaic and early Classical inscriptions from Cretan
poleis (the first is from Axos; the second is the so-called Spensithios decree
from Datala; the third and the fourth are from Gortyn) which, although they
57 Duplouy 2019; see also Duplouy and Brock 2018.

58 Seelentag and Pilz 2014; Seelentag 2015; Meister and Seelentag 2020b.
- 978-90-04-51363-1
do not provide a fully coherent picture, allow us to identify differently con-

strued ‘circles’ of integration: full citizens who were required to own land to
contribute to the messes in the andreion; those who participated in the gym-
nasion and in sacrifices as well as in communal decision-making; citizens as
defined in opposition to foreigners, and cultivating an ideology of freedom
and of equality among themselves. This shift of focus towards social prac-
tices and partially overlapping circles of integration leads to a new model
according to which civic practices should not be understood as presuppos-
ing a priori an abstract concept of polis. They were rather the preconditions
for the establishment of the institutions of the citizen-state, and were slowly
integrated—in a process of progressive institutionalisation—into the emer-
ging polis.
Tanja Itgenshorst’s contribution (‘Inside and Outside the Community. The
Role of Political Thinking in the “Rise of the polis” ’) stems from her wide-
ranging work on political thinking in the Archaic period.59 She departs from
established paradigms of political thought as history of the mind or a develop-
ment from mythos to logos and, in order to avoid imposing anachronistic cat-
egories on the evidence, she opts for an approach that focuses on the individual
intellectuals and their respective ‘life worlds’ (Husserl). Thus, she chooses to
take into account all Archaic authors—even the poorly preserved ones—and
to interpret their poetic statements as representative of their own views. She
sees the political space as one for questions about the community and polit-
ical thinking as second-order reflection on this space. Thus, political think-
ing is characterised both by a lively interest in the community and its con-
ditions, and, at the same time, by distancing or even dissociation from the
community. Itgenshorst explains the astonishing homogeneity in the extant
statements by ‘political thinkers’ as a product of exchange, competition and
of the high mobility of intellectuals—the spread of political thinking follows
a model of peer polity interaction. Itgenshorst also questions the extent to
which authors were involved in building the political community: apart from
a few special cases (Solon and Parmenides), no causality can be established
between political thinking and the rise of the polis, even in regions where
the evidence allows us to follow the development of both. For the authors
she investigates, it seems to have been more important to be regarded as
independent thinkers than as political reformers—they did not constitute
an intellectual movement that mediated between different interest groups
and contributed to the development of the polis; they were rather ‘superar-
59 Itgenshorst 2014; Itgenshorst 2020.
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introduction 15
istocrats’ who inhabited an intellectual space both inside and outside of the
polis.
Edward Harris’ and David Lewis’ contribution (‘What are Early Greek Laws
About? Substance and Procedure in Archaic Statutes, c. 650–450 bc’) argues
against the widely held belief in the historical priority of procedure over sub-
stance in the development of written law in Archaic Greece,60 showing through
a thorough survey of all the available evidence (181 inscribed laws from Attica,
the Peloponnese, Central Greece, Northern Greece, the Aegean Islands, Asia
Minor, and Crete with a special focus on Gortyn) that it is in fact not true that
Archaic laws were primarily concerned with procedural issues. Establishing the
relative importance of substance and procedure in Archaic laws means under-
standing whether the aim of these legal texts was to regulate the relationship
between the legislative authority and the members of the community, as well
as individual behaviour, by means of permission and prohibition, or rather to
provide procedures to resolve conflicts between individuals in court. In schol-
arship, the idea that Archaic law was mainly procedural has long been part
and parcel of a picture of Archaic society as characterized by the intense com-
petition of elites—in such a context, the role of written law was to provide
institutionalized means of conflict-resolution for the elites, rather than to reg-
ulate behaviour more widely. Against these views, Harris and Lewis show that
Archaic laws are mainly concerned with regulating individual behaviour more
widely: they must be understood against the background of the fear of tyran-
nical rule, and above all as an expression of the highly unstable compromise
between elite and community—in their own words: ‘Rather than representing
merely the legacy of elite efforts to ensure the long-term survival of a gentle-
men’s agreement for sharing power, early Greek laws reflect one facet of a much
larger set of historical processes that forged the civic societies of the Classical
period’.
4 Leaders and Reformers
No topic in Archaic Greek history has been more affected by the teleological
tendencies of most master narratives than that of political leadership. This is
no surprise, as the trap of teleology—and the centrality of fifth- and fourth-
century concerns—in most reconstructions of the political action of Archaic
60 Harris shows that substantive provisions are most prominent also in Classical Athenian
law in Harris 2013.
- 978-90-04-51363-1
lawgivers, tyrants, reformers and oikists finds its origin in the very source mater-
ial available to historians. Our reconstructions of the life and action of char-
acters such as Solon, Peisistratus, Dorieus, Peisander and many others depend
heavily on much later sources—Herodotus, Thucydides, Aristotle and, through
Plutarch, Theopompus and Ephorus, just to cite the most prominent. The key
source material used by modern historians, that is, comes from the fifth and
fourth centuries bc and (whatever the evidence available then) reflects con-
cerns and a worldview that is Classical—at a considerable remove from the
times and the problems these historical characters experienced, and affected
by centuries of ‘invented’ traditions and ‘intentional’ histories. Archaic history
has been in recent decades revitalised by the acknowledgement that these
sources cannot be taken at face value, that narratives built around them need
to be abandoned, and that new narratives need to be construed starting from
earlier sources, from the archaeological material, avoiding the pitfalls of later
readings and reuses—Spartan history is a very prominent, but by no means
isolated, case of the potentially revolutionary effects of these trends on our
understanding of Archaic Greece.61 The essays in Section iv of this volume
prominently showcase such approaches, employing a (we believe) healthy
scepticism in approaching the most well-threaded sources about familiar top-
ics such as colonisation, tyranny and the Solonian reforms, and, as a result,
proposing new reconstructions and interpretations grounded in the preoccu-
pations that we find in the extant Archaic material rather than in later (Clas-
sical) sources. This results in reconstructions that nuance traditional accounts
of wider phenomena such as colonisation, problematise common dichotomies
(e.g. tyrant and lawgiver), and question widely held beliefs about large histor-
ical shifts (e.g. from Homeric basileis to Archaic tyrants) as well as narrower yet
momentous notions such as that of a Solonian crisis.
Sebastian Scharff’s chapter (‘Against the Rules. The Plurality of Oikists and
New Perspectives on Greek “Colonization”’) makes an argument for not aban-
doning the term ‘colonisation’ in reference to the Archaic period but, at the
same time, for discarding its associations of state control and for abandoning
expectations of supposed regularity (borne out of later accounts, and relev-
ant, for the most part, to later instances of colonisation). For Scharff, colon-
isation is an experimental, flexible and open process. While it has often been
assumed that a powerful autocratic oikist would lead colonisation enterprises,
Scharff shifts the focus to cases in which the sources tell us that several oikists
were involved in a new foundation (for example the failed colonial attempts
61 See e.g. Hodkinson 2000; Luraghi 2002; 2003; 2009; Kennell 2010.
- 978-90-04-51363-1
introduction 17
of the Spartan Dorieus in Libya and Sicily, carried out in cooperation with
several synktistai). He also discusses at length Thucydides’ ‘Sicilian logos’ to
show the sheer variety of patterns of colonial foundation, and also that they
were frequently collaborative endeavours—often (as in the case of Gela) the
collaborative nature of these foundations is later obliterated in favour of stor-
ies that involve only one key founder. Scharff situates colonisation enterprises
in the larger context of Archaic elite international exchange and network-
ing, cultivated in forms of ritualized guest friendship, mutual gifts and mar-
riages, and makes a case for conflict and stasis—endemic in such networks and
relations—to be the causes of many such joint colonial ventures.
James Taylor’s chapter (‘Turannoi in Archaic Greece. A New Phenomenon
or a New Name for an Old Phenomenon?’) challenges widespread understand-
ings of Archaic tyranny as a distinctive form of political leadership with little
in common both with Homeric forms of political leadership and with later
forms of sole rulership. According to such views—supported for the most part
by reference to later (Classical) evidence—Archaic turannoi were illegitimate
populist leaders who seized power, usually with the support of the lower classes
and the newly formed hoplite class, and usurped the rule of the established
aristocracies. First, Taylor shows that such views are undermined by recent
developments in scholarship (of the kind discussed in Bintliff’s chapter). He
then proceeds to question the notion that Archaic tyranny was a new phe-
nomenon, first found in the seventh century bc: he goes back to the Homeric
poems and shows that the style of leadership of the Archaic tyrants was in fact
a traditional one—the evidence suggests continuity in the forms of sole ruler-
ship between the Homeric basileis and the Archaic tyrants, rather than a sharp
break. What changed was not the style of leadership of these sole rulers, but
rather the context in which they exercised it: with the progressive institutional-
isation of polis structures, and the growing role of the community within them,
new ideas about eunomia and isonomia, a growing concern with the rule of law,
and connected mistrust for those who held office created an environment in
which traditional forms of leadership no longer succeeded in legitimising sole
rulers. Tyranny was a new label for an old phenomenon, characterised by con-
tinuity in its forms yet changed in its perception.
Lars Hübner’s paper (‘Tyrannical and Civic Reception of Homer—A Prob-
lem of Sources’) can be read as a continuation of Taylor’s, and argues that the
reception of Homer in the sixth century bc was mainly driven by tyrants. In
doing so, he opposes the idea, widespread especially in philological research,
that Homer had already found a firm place in the public space of the demos by
this time at the latest. In a detailed critique of the sources, he shows that this
notion is based exclusively on the late narrative tradition of Dieuchidas and
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Pseudo-Plato, which deals with the civic appropriation of Homer in Solonian-

Peistratid Athens and ultimately reflects ideas of the fourth century bc. If, on
the other hand, one proceeds strictly from the Archaic material—the Ibycean
Ode to Polycrates, the Homeric Narratives of Stesichorus, and the Hymn to
Apollo—a more differentiated picture emerges: it is above all tyrants like Poly-
crates of Samos who use Homer, for their own political ends, and thus also
foster its reception by the demos consistently with their ends; a genuinely civic
reception of Homer, however, can only be expected in more institutionalised
poleis such as the Western Greek colonies or Sparta. In this way he demon-
strates how closely the reception of Homer in the sixth century bc was inter-
woven with parallel and diverse socio-political developments. This adds to
Taylor’s argument the key observation that not only continuities between the
Homeric basileis and tyrants existed but were actively cultivated by the tyrants
themselves.
Canevaro’s and Bernhardt’s contributions tackle the thorny issue of the his-
torical persona of the Athenian lawgiver Solon and of its action as reformer
from different (yet equally revisionist) perspectives. Canevaro’s chapter (‘Social
Mobility vs. Societal Stability. Once Again on the Aims and Meaning of Solon’s
Reforms’) attempts to isolate a ‘Solonian programme’, and understand Solon’s
reforms in their own Archaic context, and in the light of recent developments
in our understanding of the workings of Archaic society, of the place and com-
position of the elite,62 and of Archaic morality and thought.63 After testing the
reliability of much of the later evidence that is central to modern reconstruc-
tions of Solon’s political action, Canevaro turns to his poetry and argues that
Solon’s language and his criticism of contemporary society does not reflect
the reality of an actual stasis, a specific moment of unrest. His diagnosis of
the problems of Athens rather paints a picture of a society in which societal
instability is caused by an excess of social mobility. In such a society, social
status, and therefore time, are unstable and questionable, and upwards social
mobility is mirrored by downwards social mobility because of which, at the
higher end, the kalos becomes kakos, and, at the lower, the free is reduced into
slavery. In the final part of the essay Canevaro shows, through the analysis of
a few Solonian laws and reforms which we are fairly sure are historical, that
Solon’s aim was indeed to secure social stability by making the distinct and
differential rights, prerogatives, timai of various ‘classes’ secure and enforce-
able.
62 Van Wees 2001; Duplouy 2006.

63 Schmitz 2004; Cairns 2009; 2013.
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introduction 19
Bernhardt’s paper (‘A Failed Tyrant? Solon’s Place in Athenian History’) goes
one step further and tries to draw a new model of Solon that integrates him
within the continuity of Archaic tyrants. Its starting point is that, in recent
scholarship, the ancient image of the wise founding father of democracy has
been questioned in every respect, and the proximity of Solon’s poems to tyran-
nical discourse has been repeatedly pointed out. If one interprets Solon against
the background of the elitist Homeric ethos, takes into account the military
beginnings of his career, and reads his own poems critically, the questionable
crisis of Athens proves to be above all a rhetorical tool for building charismatic
legitimacy. And the same holds true of Solon’s alleged rejection of tyrannis:
even though he dissociates himself superficially from tyrannis in several poems,
a closer look reveals that in the context of the developing polis, the actual goal
of the elite—and this is also true of himself—was tyrannis; and because Solon
attempts to reinterpret this goal in retrospect, one can go as far as conclud-
ing that he tried to seize the power of a tyrant but failed. In this perspective,
his legislation and the reorganization of society can be interpreted as further
strategies for building traditional and rational legitimacy: since many of Solon’s
laws can be traced back to the rules of the village society, their formal record-
ing must have been aimed at the peasant Athenians; the introduction of his
class system, on the other hand, was aimed at stabilizing the highly fluid elite
and granted them exclusive access to the financial offices. But in the end the
attempt to legitimize his rule failed, because everyone was dissatisfied and he
had to leave the polis. This finally leads to a reinterpretation of Solon’s famous
travels as a period of exile; the paper concludes by showing how, in the face of
this model, the myth of the democratic legislator came into being.
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part 1
Approaching Early Archaic Greece
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chapter 1
Archaeological Approaches to the Archaic Era

John Bintliff
This chapter summarises my personal view of the most significant recent

trends in the interactions between archaeologists, ancient historians, liter-
ary specialists and art historians, leading to important new insights into the
Archaic era.1
The first topic is a momentous one. Till recently, and still in some current
literature, the end of the Mycenaean Bronze Age is seen as succeeded by a
period of largescale population movements, considered on the strength of ref-
erences in much later Classical authors as ‘tribal migrations’, each tribal group
possessing a distinctive dialect or dialect combination (e.g. Doric, Ionian etc.).
The major rethinking on this scenario has focused on the late creation of such
pseudo-history and its cumulative elaboration over time to reflect more recent
territorial realities of the Archaic and Classical eras.2 It is now considered by
such authors as entirely unlikely that the Early Iron Age after the palatial col-
lapse supported spatially extensive self-conscious communities such as tribes.
Rather a gradual emergence or crystallisation would have occurred of local
then district and finally regional social groups, the result of population growth
and landscape recolonisation, rising commercial and political ties between
communities, and through which common dialect spheres could have diffused.
These processes went much faster with the more rapid rise of population and
urbanisation which we observe in the archaeological record through the Late
Geometric to Archaic eras, and the counterpart to the multiplication of rural
sites and the reappearance of cities (poleis) are the creation of widespread
shared pottery styles and the systemisation of regional (epichoric) alphabets.3
Our second theme is that of Class. The ‘Conflict of the Orders’ that is appar-
ent in the sixth-fifth century historical record for many cities in the southern
Greek polis world, has now a much better-defined protohistoric background
dating back to the immediate centuries after the end of Mycenaean civilisa-
tion. Rather than a return to a ‘year zero’ society with minimal social complex-
ity after the collapse of Mycenaean palatial civilisation, it has become clear
1 Cf. for more detailed discussion Bintliff 2012: chs. 8–10.

2 Hall 1997; 2004; McInerney 1999; Luraghi 2008; Lohmann 2011; McSweeney 2013.
3 Snodgrass 1980.

30 bintliff
that a medium-level class society survived through the Early Iron Age (a term
which is generally replacing the former ‘Dark Age’). This has been evidenced
most famously through the discovery of the Lefkandi’s ‘chieftain’s house’ or
perhaps house-replica, with its associated high-status burials, at an important
community where further elite houses have more recently been revealed.4 In
parallel, Hans van Wees has used Late Geometric ceramic scenes to portray a
society where an upper class holds sway over the peasantry through the con-
stant wearing and potential use of weaponry. With lower populations, the Early
Iron Age elite needed to control people, more than land (which was plentiful),
and force was the means.5
Ian Morris, in his innovative analysis of Early Iron Age burial customs, has
argued that they represented a polarised society with between a third to one
half of the population forming a free, elite class, holding down the other half
of dependent peasants.6 This sets an appropriate basis for the divergence by
Archaic times between those Greek states where this state of affairs became
fossilised (Sparta, Dorian Crete, Thessaly, for example), and those where the
serfs won their right to landownership, and in many Classical polis states to
legal and other rights (and in Athens to full citizen participatory access in
the affairs of the state). The point of divergence is most clear in sixth-century
Athens with the progressive policies of Solon, then Kleisthenes, to resolve class
conflict in favour of the lower classes.7
This late Archaic social conflict has sometimes been linked to Greek colon-
isation overseas. It has in the past been suggested that the countryside was over-
populated, so that the burgeoning peasantry was putting pressure on their lords
to free them to own land and remove other handicaps. The same overpopula-
tion would have been released through colonies in underpopulated landscapes
outside the south Aegean. These ideas fall down with the observation by field
survey archaeologists throughout the Aegean that the density of population,
although increasing from Late Geometric times through the Archaic centur-
ies, was far below the potential ‘carrying-capacity’ of the landscape. It was in
the subsequent Classical and Early Hellenistic centuries that we can see an
extraordinary level of rural and urban population in Greece, far above Archaic
levels. There were exceptions, for example little Thera, an island with limited
arable land, where indeed even modest growth might exhaust the food supply
available from the island itself, and this agrees with our ancient sources. Other
4 Popham-Touloupa-Sackett 1982; Lemos 2019.

5 Van Wees 1998.
6 Morris 1987; Bintliff 2012.
7 Jameson 1977–1978; Bintliff 2006.
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archaeological approaches to the archaic era 31
exceptions were Greek cities such as Miletus on the western coast of Asia Minor
(a prolific founder of colonies), threatened by expanding hinterland states such
as Lydia.
Then if not overpopulation, what could have driven such a massive expan-
sion overseas from underpopulated countrysides? The first thing that has be-
come apparent, is the inappropriate parallel with nineteenth-century West
European global colonisation.8 Colonies were almost all new city states, not set
up to feed mother cities in a dependent relationship—several went to war with
their founding city. Moreover, many of the colonists were usually drawn from
other cities than just the formal founder. One plausible explanation for most of
these new states abroad has been put forward by Jan-Paul Crielaard, who argues
that the competition between the elite clans within each city, and the spirit of
military prowess their leaders were expected to show, encouraged individual
aristocrats to take their clients on ‘heroic’ expeditions to found new societies,
where they alone would be honoured (indeed some were worshipped as semi-
divine in their foundations).9 However archaeology and our earliest epigraphic
record from Greece seem to balance this model against a rising commercial
world, in which Greek merchants responded to Early Iron Age incoming trade
from the East and West Mediterranean, with their own ventures abroad dur-
ing the Late Geometric and early Archaic era.10 The expansion of Greek trade
occurred in some cases in multi-ethnic emporia, and even permanent Greek
settlements beyond the Aegean that traditional historians have termed ‘colon-
ies’, increasingly appear to be communities of people of non-Aegean origin, not
least with a strong component of indigenous people (e.g. Pithecoussai off the
coast of north- central Italy).11
A central innovation of the Archaic era was the creation of over 1,000 poleis
or city-states in the Greek world. Many theories have been proposed to account
for this phenomenon, but in fact there are numerous other societies in the
world which have passed through a city-state phase in their political evolution,
and there ought to be an explanation of wider application. It was the histor-
ical geographer Ernst Kirsten, in a 1956 monograph devoted to the question,
who came up with the most powerful theory. He began from the observations
that poleis could be found even inside federal Greek states, as in Thessaly, and
more significantly that they were almost all remarkably small in size and pop-
ulation.
8 Snodgrass 2005.
9 Crielaard 1996.
10 Donnellaan, Nizzo and Burgers 2016; Clay, Malkin and Tzifopoulos 2017.
11 Donnellan 2016.
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32 bintliff
The surprisingly limited size of city-states was brought out later by more
detailed calculations, first by Ruschenbusch: he showed that of the 700–800
minimum city-states of the Classical Aegean for which data are available, 80 %
have populations of 2000–4000 people and maximal territories of 5–6 km
radius.12 Subsequently and more definitively, Hansen demonstrated through
his Polis Project that for Greek poleis in the Aegean and the colonial world:
60% have a territory of 5–6km radius, 80% within a 8 km radius, whilst 70%
have populations of 2000–8250 people.13
Kirsten’s theory was that the typically small city-state, or the Normalpolis
as it is known in German scholarship, was in reality an overgrown village,
a Stadtdorf. This insight is strengthened by the recent discovery by survey
archaeologists that in the southern Greek city-states, usually some 70–80%
of the total population actually lived within the city, able to commute daily
to their fields due to the limited distances involved.14 As to why large villages
develop elaborate communal political institutions, research in historical soci-
ology, biological and social anthropology can provide a satisfactory solution
which applies to city-state emergence globally. It is clear that once nucleated
communities develop to and beyond some 400–500 people, allowing a large
degree of endogamy, such towns will stimulate the emergence of corporate
institutions and an internalized political mentality.15
But what were the dynamics which led to such significant, if small-scale,
agglomerations? In the case of many, including the Archaic Aegean polis, we
know that we are dealing with a class society, where presumably an aristocrat
took the decision to gather his clients and dependents around him, alongside
quarters where other aristocrats had done the same. Such a model suits the pic-
ture from archaeology of proto-towns formed of dispersed clusters of homes
and associated burial-areas (e.g. Athens, Corinth, Knossos, Argos). Once this
nucleation gained pace with further population growth, competition within
the elite and pressure from the free dependent and unfree dependent groups
gave rise to the clash of the orders we described earlier, an emergent scenario
predictable from the path seen elsewhere in such ‘corporate communities’.
The social transformations which led to the situation by Classical times,
where some half of Greek city-states can be described as moderate democra-
cies (i.e. where half of the free male population or more had full political rights)
can also be observed through domestic house-plans. Geometric to Archaic
12 Ruschenbusch 1985.
13 Hansen 2004.
14 Bintliff 1994; 1997.
15 Bintliff 1999.
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homes for the majority were simple plans with little internal sophistication
and easy access from the outdoor world.16 Conservative societies in Greece,
such as in Dorian Crete, retained the simple house access rules as citizen fam-
ily life remained subordinate to communally controlled class activities, such as
the male communal dining institution (one such has been recently excavated
at the city of Azoria).17 However elsewhere, over final Geometric into Archaic
times, one can observe from excavated examples, that houses slowly do become
more internally elaborate and increasingly cut-off from the street, marking the
rise of the significance of the modular citizen family. By Classical times, navig-
ation and access analysis make clear that the typical citizen home is a closed
world within which easy movement privileges the women and children, whilst
the male head of household is master instead of the public world of assembly,
lawcourts and gymnasium.18.
Eastern Approaches forms another important development in Archaic stud-
ies. Although this has been spearheaded by textual scholars such as West and
Burkert, archaeologists have also looked increasingly to the east of the Aegean
to illuminate their findings. The precocious Lydian state appears to be a major
influence on social and cultural developments in Archaic Greece. Ian Morris,
in searching for factors behind the displacement of aristocrats and the rise of
the middle class of citizens to power in the polis, has portrayed a conflict of life-
styles, international elitist versus regional ‘Greek’ middle class mentalities and
politics.19 Here the traditional aristocracy would be aping Lydia and Hesiod and
his social attitudes would represent the middling, hands-on farming people.
The conflict he describes in mentality he would map onto his evidence for
Geometric-era high burial differentiation leading subsequently to more inclus-
ive burial traditions in the early Archaic Attic cemetery record, as evidence for
the impetus to the later arising citizen democracy.
Gender relations are also a focus in this Eastern Approaches perspectives.
The Eastern artistic traditions heavily borrowed from in protohistoric Greece
paired a powerful nude female with male gods and heroes. However as Archaic
society shifted from the dominance of intermarrying elite clans, where females
formed a vital social cement for society through kinship, to the ‘male club’ of
the polis, there was a major reversal in iconography. Heroic male nudity and
discrete, clothed, home-bound women became the icons of city-state society.20
16 Lang 1996; Westgate 2007; Bintliff 2014.

17 Cf. Haggis et al. 2007.
18 Beard 1991.
19 Morris 2000.
20 Bonnet/Pirenne-Delforge 2004.
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34 bintliff
Yet another Eastern diffusion, coinage (from Lydia) was a potent force for
social and cultural change, as well as in everyday economics.21 Kurke goes as
far as asserting that the adoption of coinage had an insidious effect on tradi-
tional elite-focused, gift-exchange economics, through creating a material form
of absolute equality.22 This could act as a new mentality suggesting a deep chal-
lenge to statuses which were ascribed, or gained only by privileged birth, with
real earned value or achieved status (in other words the rising middle classes).
Art continues to form a mysterious element in our understanding of the
Archaic era and its preceding centuries. Scholars complain of the iconographic
poverty of the Greek Iron Age but clearly we still do not understand the rich
abstract symbolism on ceramics and probably on decorated house and shrine
exteriors. Nonetheless till the Archaic period there are very rare human repres-
entations on vases or in sculptural form, except interestingly in Crete, where
figured art never died out. Why? The reasons for the anomaly are still largely
unclear but the greater continuity of Minoan traditions in its Early Iron Age
culture seems relevant. In any case, the complex changes in the society and eco-
nomy of the Archaic era seem to demand far more symbolic signalling, hence
the explosion of figured art in that era.
My next topic is that of crossing disciplines. The links between textual
sources and images can be a fascinating field of research. Thus Nicholson has
suggested that Pindar utilises images from the Aphaia Temple on Aegina in his
odes.23 But are all Greek vase-scenes direct rapportage of contemporary histor-
ical events? Neer clearly thinks so;24 I am very unpersuaded. This does seem to
hark back to the days in Classical Archaeology, when material culture was seen
merely to form useful illustrations to ancient texts, however unreliable the lat-
ter might be.
Finally, the elephant in the room. What is the trajectory of the other parts
of neglected Greece … the North-East and the North-West of the country, from
Iron Age through Classical times? We are finally seeing them get the attention
they deserve from archaeologists and we can expect very different pathways
from the southern Aegean polis world towards the known kingdoms of Clas-
sical times.25 One might controversially suggest that the archaic-seeming states
of the north, with their elite control and Eastern-orientated interests, represent
less fossil survivors of a pre-polis age than the truer trajectory of Greek politics
21 Van Alfen and Wartenberg 2020.

22 Kurke 1999.
23 Nicholson 2007.
24 Neer 2002.
25 Andreou 2010; Archibald 2013; Andreou 2019.
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which leads through the Classical kingdoms of northern Greece smoothly into
the Macedonian hegemony, the Successor Kingdoms and thence into the olig-
archic Roman republican empire.
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chapter 2
A Comparative Approach: Early Archaic Greece

and Medieval Iceland
Peter Zeller
1 Introduction1
The main issue with the history of Archaic Greece (c. 750–500bc) is the lack of
written sources—or, more accurately, the historical difficulty in assessing the
few contemporary texts that we do have. Except for the Homeric and Hesiodic
epics, we have only some disparate fragments of lyric poetry and (epigraph-
ical) laws. Furthermore, we have hardly any information about the authors or
the contexts of these sources, and, as a result, none of these texts can be dated
with certainty, and there is no direct historical connection between them. From
a methodological point of view, the use of earlier evidence from the so called
‘Greek Dark Ages’, or of the later written tradition (e.g. Herodotus or Aristotle),
is also problematic. We have even less information about the period before
800bc. Overall, it is very difficult to avoid circular reasoning in writing Archaic
history.2 Later authors most often have a smaller, regional focus—especially on
Athens and Sparta—and they conceptualise the Archaic period as an earlier
stage of their own present.3 Since the 1970s, the archaeological record has star-
ted to expand. But there are no findings which relate directly to one of the
preserved texts. For these reasons, the criticism, dating, and classification of
written Archaic sources is already, in itself, an act of historical interpretation.4
While contemporary research benefits from better knowledge of the material
circumstances, archaeological evidence alone can hardly help us to understand
the social and political development of Archaic communities.5 Because we
have so little historical and archaeological evidence, multitudes of assumptions
1 This paper is a condensed version of my doctoral thesis: Zeller 2019.

2 See the literature in n. 2 and e.g.: Donlan 1985; 1997; Lehmann 1985; 1996; Hilderbrandt 2007.
3 Cf. Spahn 1977: 5–28; Walter 1993: 23–27; Raaflaub 1999; Sleentag 2014.
4 Cf. Most 1989; Raaflaub 1993; 1998; 2005; Walter 1993; 2013; Ulf 2002; 2010b; Davies 2009.
5 For the relation between the archaeological and written evidence see: Morris 1987; 1997a;
1997b; 2000; Snodgrass 1993; 2007; Halsall 1997; Kistler 1998; 2004; Kistler and Ulf; 2005;
Hölkeskamp 2002; Scheidel 2003; 2004; Renfrew and Bahn 2005; Burmeister and Müller-
Schleeßel 2011; Hall 2014.

38 zeller
have emerged since the nineteenth century, which now, as a result, structure
our interpretation of the written sources and, in fact, make them available
for historical analysis in the first place.6 To summarise: the overall history of
Archaic Greece is a construct of modern scholarship. This chapter aims, first,
to show once again how modern assumptions have influenced—and continue
to influence—our understanding of the Archaic period, and, second, proposes
an alternative methodological approach that, it is hoped, relies on fewer sup-
positions.
2 Archaic Greece as a Historical Period
Modern research has often reduced the Archaic period to a comprehensive

narrative of decline and rise between the Greek Dark Ages and the Classical
period. Within this narrative, the written sources have been taken to mark
various stages of social development. Typically, this linear narrative starts with
the Homeric epics. The Iliad and the Odyssey are considered the oldest Greek
texts, and since, at least, the essential work of Moses I. Finely, they are con-
sidered sources for a more or less historical society.7 Nowadays, there are two
main approaches to dating these texts; the Iliad is normally regarded as the
older text and is commonly dated to either around 750 bc, or to the first half
of the seventh century. Traditionally, scholars have favoured 750; however, the
latter option has recently become increasingly accepted.8 In addition to the
alleged aristocratic world of the Homeric heroes, we can read the poetry of
Hesiod as evidence of rural life in the years around 700 bc. This dating is also
subject to dispute, and scholars often vary by several decades. In fact, refer-
ences within the poems themselves inform these debates, and while there is
no definitive answer to the issue of dating, all sides have specific reasons for
favouring certain dates.9 In addition to Homer and Hesiod, early lyric poetry
of the seventh century further plays a prominent role in the traditional nar-
rative of Archaic Greece. Again, while we can identify some names of authors,
e.g. Archilochus, Semonides, Terpander, Thaletas, and Tyrtaeus, we do not have
any precise dates for these individual texts, but roughly attribute them to the
6 See the literature in n. 2.

7 See the literature in n. 2 and: Finley 1954.
8 For the dating of the Homeric epics see e.g.: Burket 1976; West 1995; Latacz 2007; Fox 1009; Ulf
2010b; Reichel et al. 2011.
9 For the dating of Hesiod see e.g.: Allen and Rambaut 1915; Heitsch 1966; Millett 1984; Rosen
1997; Reichel et al. 2011.
- 978-90-04-51363-1
a comparative approach 39
seventh century.10 The so-called lawmakers, like Solon in the sixth century, and
the various inscriptions of laws, from the second half of the seventh century
onwards, complete this vague chronology.11 This timeline forms the founda-
tion for the narrative of the development of Archaic Greece, from a world
dominated by a stable and powerful aristocracy, to that of the Classical polis,
with its various institutions. While this trajectory has been criticised often, and
in detail, it continues to form the main framework of modern approaches to
the Archaic period.12 As such, the Homeric epics are often read as a ‘compen-
dium’ for aristocratic behaviour, by interpreting the central figures of the Iliad
such as Agamemnon, Achilles, and the other leaders as evidence of aristocrats
with absolute power: The poetry of Hesiod is—with its rural context—often
used to confirm this interpretation. Such approaches usually argue that early
lyric poetry, together with the symposium, the hoplite phalanx, and the so-
called turannoi, indicate a crisis within this apparently aristocratic culture.
This narrative therefore argues that social climbers started to compete with
the established basileis, and thus, the so-called hoplite phalanx resulted from
the increasing political influence of normal peasants. In short, the imagined
basileis of the Homeric epics are thought to have lost their outstanding pos-
ition from the first half of the seventh century onwards, and to have been
subsumed into more private circles (such as the symposium). This narrative
therefore argues that the Classical polis, in all its shapes, arose following these
changes. There is no doubt that there was a social change between around 700
and 500 bc; however, we do not know very much about what instigated this
change. Even the fundamental structures of social organisation remain con-
troversial in modern scholarship. As this brief summary shows, the historical
development between the Dark Ages and the Classical period was mostly—
and often still is—conceptualised as a dialectic of the ‘nobility’ and normal
peasants. The sources we have from the Archaic period are disconnected, but
modern historical approaches fit them into a specific historical framework of
social evolution. Because of their exceptional position at the ‘beginning’ of this
epoch, interpretations of the Homeric epics often drive modern reconstruc-
10 In this paper, the term ‘lyric’ refers to the non-epic poetry of the Archaic period. For the
lyric poetry and its dating see (each with more specific literature): Jacoby 1941; Gentili
1988; Meier 1998; 2002; 2003; Wees 2002; Budelmann 2009; Bagordo and Zimmermann
2011; Itgenshorst 2014.
11 For these lawmakers, the codification of law, and legal inscriptions see: Raaflaub 1993;
Hölkeskamp 1993; 2000; 2005; Gagarin 2005; 2008; Wallace 2007; Blok and Lardinois 2008.
12 See the literature in n. 2 and: Ulf 1990; 2009; Hall 2007; Rabinowitz 2009; Gschnitzer 2013;
Schmitz 2014; Seelentag 2014; 2015; Stein-Hölkeskamp 2015.
- 978-90-04-51363-1
40 zeller
tions of the Archaic period as a whole. In order to make this complex mixture of
assumptions and research manageable, we can differentiate four areas of his-
torical research: (1) the theoretical framework in which we describe order and
social change; (2) the narrative structure of the Archaic period; (3) the criti-
cism, dating, and classification of the contemporary evidence; (4) the historical
hypotheses about social structures and groups. This paper focuses on the latter,
by introducing a heuristic approach based on historical comparison. The aim
of this approach is to provide a model of social organisation and development
which is—as far as possible—independent of modern research on the Archaic
period.
3 A Historical Comparison
During the 1980s, an increasing number of scholars started to challenge the

assumptions mentioned above. They developed new methodological ap-
proaches by borrowing techniques or analysis from other sciences, such as
social and cultural anthropology. As a result, basileis are usually not described
as aristocrats anymore, but, rather, as big men or chiefs. Thus, the historical
approach to, and the modern image of, the Archaic period has changed rad-
ically, within this relatively small period.13 Nevertheless—and aside from the
methodological discussion—there remains little agreement among scholars
concerning the essential questions of social organisation and development in
Archaic Greece: how do we date and classify the written sources? In partic-
ular, inasmuch as we can discern some kind of elite within this culture, how
do we characterise it and distinguish it from non-elite elements? How stable
and powerful was this elite? We know that there was social change, but how
do we describe it? And how, and by whom, was it initiated? All these questions
remain highly controversial within discussions of Archaic Greece. One way out
of this is to compare Archaic Greece to other historical formations. Scholars like
Winfried Schmitz have already shown how successful such an approach to the
Archaic period can be.14 For an effective comparison, however, we need to find a
suitable society that must fit the following seven criteria:15 first, its history must
be better documented than that of the (early) Archaic period, or its sources
13 Cf. e.g.: Winterling 2006; Hall 2007; Bachmann-Medick 2009.

14 Schmitz 2004.
15 Reference to some basic works should suffice here: Haupt and Kocka 1996; Kaelble 1999;
Kaelble and Schriewer 2003; Siegrist 2003; Schmitz 2004.
- 978-90-04-51363-1
need to be much better suited to historical modelling. Second, there should be

evidence of its social, political, and judicial practices, and not only of its insti-
tutions. Third, we need comparable structures of settlement, a similar level of
institutionalisation, an analogous social structure, and appropriate economic
conditions, to be able to assume a basic comparability. Fourth, there must be
similar types of sources, to allow for congruent research questions and compar-
ative categories. Fifth, a suitable society should have evolved without exterior
pressure, so that we can access instances of exemplary social self-organisation.
Sixth, its history and its sources must be independent of the Greco-Roman tra-
dition, to avoid circular arguments. Finally, research in this particular field of
study must have developed as autonomously as possible from modern schol-
arship on the Archaic period. Notably, such an approach appears to assume
two historical principles on different levels. It apparently presumes that the
development of societies follows an historical regularity, and that various cul-
tural patterns evoke—under similar conditions—equal models of reaction.
This chapter does not argue for either of these points. Rather, its approach only
makes the basic assumption that it is possible to find structural similarities in
historical processes. It does not deny their general openness, or the variance
between cultures.
4 But Why Medieval Iceland?16
Iceland lies about 1000 kilometres west of Norway. While we know that the
island was settled in the second half of the ninth century ad, and that the
people came from Norway and other areas in the North, we do not know for
certain who they were. The Icelandic evidence tells us that a group of (elite)
individuals left Norway because the Norwegian king tried to expand his area of
influence. However, this could be a later account intended to disavow the Nor-
wegian crown and shape a linear history of Iceland.17 It is believed that the first
settlers met eremitic Christian monks, probably from Ireland, whom they killed
or enslaved. We have no evidence of a clearly defined elite who led the settle-
ment. The archaeological record shows a settlement pattern of small villages
with turf houses and single homesteads.18 Because Iceland was relatively isol-
16 For a first attempt see: Meier 2010.

17 Cf. Wamhoff 2016.
18 For the settlement of Iceland see: Byock 1988; 2001; Einarsson 1995; Smith 1995; Lárusdóttir
2006; Vésteinsson 2006; 2007a; McGovern, Vésteinsson and Friðriksson et al. 2007.
- 978-90-04-51363-1
42 zeller
ated, the emergent society could evolve without exterior pressure19 and form
discrete structures of social organisation—even if the Icelanders had contacts
not only with other regions in the North but also with the Mediterranean world
(e.g. Byzantium).20 The Christianisation at the beginning of the eleventh cen-
tury, seems to have barely influenced this process. While the first bishopric
(Skálholt) was founded in 1056, bishops did not appear as influential players
until 1100. The well-established leaders of the community (as discussed below),
benefited from this new religion, by exacting church dues.21 After arriving,
the settlers distributed the ground and created various institutions to organise
their community. Of high importance were frequent assemblies. People met
locally, regionally, and once a year, ‘nationwide’ at the Alþingi. This was some
form of high court and there resided legislative power in Iceland. During these
assemblies, public affairs were discussed, political decisions made, and judi-
cial disputes negotiated. None of these assemblies, however, had any power
to enforce their decisions, relying instead on the goðar (gothar): central socio-
political figures, similar to big men or chieftains. These individuals organised
and staffed the assemblies and brought their decisions among the people. Fur-
thermore, the goðar represented their followers in judicial disputes, reconciled
conflicts outside of the assemblies, and organised trade in Iceland, and abroad.
The area of influence of a goði was defined by both territory and the people
who followed him. For instance, a peasant could live in the territory of a goði
and choose to follow another, it was also possible to change the chieftain.22
The Icelandic goðar subsisted, like other peasants, on a mainly pastoral eco-
nomy and, in the early decades, they can rarely be distinguished from normal
wealthy peasants.23 These social and political structures shaped the follow-
ing centuries of Icelandic history, until around 1262–1264, when the island fell
under Norwegian rule. Scandinavian studies remain divided on how to analyse
and describe this so-called Icelandic Free State period (930–1262/64). On the
one hand, there is no society in the history of pre-modern Europe whose early
19 This is emphasised by: Schroeter 1994: 32; Sigurðsson 1999: passim; Byock 2001: 19.
20 For the contacts abroad see: Cf. Byock 2001; Waßenhoven 2006; Scheel 2015. In spite of
these contacts, the Icelandic literature seems to have evolved independently of the Greco-
Roman tradition. Cf. the literature mentioned above in this note, and Würth 1998.
21 Cf. Vésteinsson 2000; Rowe 2004.
22 It should suffice here to provide some English and German literature about the basic social
structures of the Icelandic Free State period and the goðar: Aðalsteinsson 1985; Byock 1986;
1988; 2001; Sigurðsson 1999.
23 For the economic background see: Sigurðsson 1999: 101–119; Byock 2001: 25–62; Vésteinsson
2007a; 2007b.
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years are better documented. Apart from the extensive skaldic poetry, some
historiographical texts,24 and a couple of law codes,25 we also have numerous
Sagas.26 On the other hand, the value of these texts as historical evidence is
questionable. There are two competing positions in modern scholarship on this
issue: the older approach is mosty concerned with the historiographical texts
and law codes; the other with the so-called Sagas of Icelanders and the Contem-
porary sagas. While we cannot discuss these positions in full here, it is useful to
note a few of the main points. The classic approach shows us a balanced society,
with stable and well-defined institutions from 930 onwards.27 In the so-called
Gray Goose Laws (Grágas), we can find a precise number of goðar (first 36, then
48), a defined system of assemblies, and statutory proceedings. However, we
do not know when these laws became effective, and how effective they really
were. The two manuscripts we have (partially at variance)—Konungsbók and
Staðarhólsbók—are dated to the second half of the thirteenth century.28 The
other position mentioned above, was re-established by Jón Viðar Sigurðsson
in the 1990s.29 Drawing on older methodological discussions, he analysed the
approximately 40 Sagas of Icelanders and 20 Contemporary sagas as historical
evidence for the Icelandic Free State period from the end of the first settle-
ment (about 930) to the period 1262–1264. At that time, Iceland fell under the
rule of the Norwegian crown, and the social circumstances changed radically.
These texts give us unique insight into the social practices and the develop-
ment of a pre-state society—even though there are some serious methodolo-
gical problems for approaching these texts, particularly the Sagas of Icelanders
(see below). These stories are written in prose, and we find them, in different
concentrations, throughout the whole island. The Sagas of Icelanders are bio-
graphical narratives which describe the everyday life of early Icelandic society.
Feuds, and other conflicts, structure their storylines. The focal point of these
texts is Iceland, but the protagonists travel around in the North and even reach
Byzantium. The extent of their modern printouts differs in length and reaches
24 Especially the Íslendingabók and Landnámabók.

25 In this temporal context, the Grágas.
26 The Norse sagas are generally grouped into: The Sagas of Icelanders (Íslendinga sögur), the
Short tales of Icelanders (Íslendingaþættir), the Contemporary sagas (Samtíðarsögur or
Samtímasögur), the Kings’ sagas (Konungasögur), the Legendary sagas (Fornaldarsögur),
the Chivalric sagas (Riddarasögur), and the Saints’ sagas (Heilagra manna sögur).
27 A good summary of this position can be found in Sigurðsson 1999: 9–83.
28 Cf. Naumann 1998; Sigurðsson, Pedersen, and Berge 2008; Andersen, Tamm, and Vogt 2011;
Strauch 2011; Hoff 2012.
29 Sigurðsson 1999.
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from about 25 to several hundred pages. One of the main issues with the Sagas
of Icelanders, is that there is a difference of about two centuries, between the
time they purport to record and the time they were written down. Thus, we
can only provide a conditional chronology, whether this is absolute or relat-
ive. Although most of the Sagas of Icelanders are, today, dated between the
thirteenth and the fourteenth century, they are concerned with the so-called
Saga Age, which is dated around 930–1030. The preserved manuscripts have
been dated even later, and as such there remains controversy within Scand-
inavian studies over whether these texts can be used as historical evidence.30 In
contrast, the Contemporary Sagas are concerned with the feuds and conflicts
within the elite of the thirteenth century. As such, they can be more reliably
used as historical sources. This dispute about the so-called ‘book prose’ and
‘free prose’ theory cannot be solved conclusively; some of the arguments pre-
viously advanced by scholars are nevertheless illuminating. The proponents
of the ‘book prose theory’ assume that these sagas are the exclusive product
of the time when they were recorded in writing, without a detectable link to
an earlier oral, or written, tradition. This is a convincing argument, because
the Sagas of Icelanders are a part of a political and historical discourse, which
began just after 1262.31 Furthermore, it is very difficult to explain how resili-
ently information about the Saga Age would have been passed down over two
or three hundred years. However, the proponents of the other position suppose
that the Sagas of Icelanders preserve, in one way or another, structural inform-
ation about the Saga Age. It is worth noting a number of things here. First, none
of these arguments aims to use these sagas as evidence for concrete historical
events. Nevertheless, it is possible to find some structural conformities, in the
Sagas of Icelanders, with the so-called Íslendingaþættir (short stories), and with
the older historiographical texts, that allow these texts to be used for historical
comparison. Second, there are structural differences in the social frameworks
described in the Sagas of Icelanders and the Contemporary sagas, which could
be explained as traces of an earlier phase of social development. Third, the
archaeological record of the tenth and eleventh centuries—which is different
from the evidence from later periods—confirm the descriptions of material
30 In this chapter, I limit my references to a review of some English and German literature,
which covers the basics of the Icelandic sagas and the history of research in this area:
Nordal 1957; 2000; Andersson 1964; 2006; Baetke 1974; Tucker 1989; Clover 1990; Meu-
lengracht 1993; Kristjánsson 1997; Sigurðsson 1999; Ross 2000; Würth 2000; Byock 2001;
Kristinsson 2002; 2003.
31 Cf. Wamhoff 2016.
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culture in the Sagas of Icelanders. One explanation for a possible transmission

of information over such a long period of time could lie in the fact that it was
very important to preserve information about land tenure to avoid conflicts, so
the Icelanders developed particular mnemonical techniques to preserve this
knowledge, particularly legal knowledge.32 The Sagas of Icelanders, neverthe-
less, are a product of the thirteenth and fourteenth century, and their historical
value as a source for the first centuries of the Icelandic history remains contro-
versial. As a result, it is important to consider in more detail the account that
this approach produces.
In recent scholarship, Jón Viðar Sigurðsson has been the main proponent
of the use of the Sagas of Icelanders as evidence for the Icelandic Free State
period. His approach is—despite methodological concerns—auspicious and
very suitable for historical comparison. Sigurðsson’s aim is not to write a his-
tory of law, but rather to reconstruct social structures and practices. From the
ninth to the middle of the eleventh century, Sigurðsson conservatively iden-
tifies between 50 and 60 goðar mentioned in the Sagas of Icelanders. That is,
every person directly designated as a goði, who had followers and owned tem-
porary accommodation (buð; shack or tent) at the Alþingi. Sigurðsson further
notes that this number dropped to around 30 at the beginning of the twelfth
century, and that by the thirteenth century, this figure dropped again to only
five families, who divided the whole country among themselves. This so-called
Sturlung Era was very violent and there was, for the first time in Icelandic his-
tory, war. Some of the powerful Icelandic families asked the Norwegian king
for help and Hákon Hákonarson used this opportunity to occupy the island.
Evidence for these events in the twelfth and thirteenth century can be found in
the historiographical texts and the Contemporary sagas and is largely unques-
tioned. This account of the first 180 years of Icelandic history, however, is con-
trary to the traditional argument presented above. Based on this method, Sig-
urðsson describes the social development of the Icelandic Free State period in
three stages: initially, Iceland was a dynamic society with fluid structures. Oper-
ating within the framework of regular assemblies, a group of goðar headed and
organised the community for about 150 years. Simultaneously, Icelandic society
became more and more institutionalised. From the middle of the eleventh cen-
tury onwards, the distinction between leaders and normal peasants developed,
creating social stratification. As a result, Icelandic society became more stable.
However, in the third stage (about 1200), rivalry within the elite group grew, and
32 For this complex argument see e.g.: Sigurðsson 1999: 9–38; Ross 2000; Chesnutt 2003; Sig-
urðsson and Ólason 2004; Byock and Zori 2014; Zori 2016.
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a kind of power elite evolved. This resulted in bloody altercations, and in the
destruction of the socio-political structure as it had evolved over the previous
150 years.33
5 The Icelandic Free State Period as a Historical Model34
The account above can be concentrated into a model of social organisation

and development, which can be used as a heuristic instrument for the early
Archaic period. Until around 1050, it was possible to create new chieftaincies,
by inheriting, buying, or winning them, as well as by challenging a goði to a
duel. The position of a chieftain was based on a complex network of different
resources, and was, therefore, potentially unstable. The individual’s economic,
physical, cultural, and social capital determined his social rank.35 As men-
tioned above, the economic distance between a goði and a normal peasant was
quite small. We find physical characteristics mentioned in the sagas, but the
combat strength of a person played a rather minor role. More significant were
the cultural resources at the disposal of an individual, in terms of judicial and
political knowledge, plus eloquence and rhetoric, to persuade others. The main
capital, however, came from the ability to solve common disputes. A good goði
handled such tasks and reconciled disputes.36 His social resources were crucial
for a successful, and lasting, position of leadership. If a chieftain was not able
to handle the problems of his followers—and of the community at large—or if
he acted selfishly, he could lose his distinguished status. It was, thus, possible to
transform one resource into another. For example, for a brief time an individual
could transform his physical strength into the rank of a goði by duel, but this
was not enough to be a successful leader. However, a successful arbitrator could
use his abilities to increase his economic capital, because people had to pay for
arbitration and other judicial help. Against this backdrop, there was continuing
competition for these resources, and the community played the role of a strict
controller over every single goði by its ability to dispense status as social cap-
ital.37 This publicity was something like the ‘dritte Instanz’ of Georg Simmel’s
33 Cf. Sigurðsson 1999: 39–83.

34 The empirical background for this model comes from Sigurðsson 1999, where one can find
further instances; the theoretical consolidation of this model, however, was an essential
part of my doctoral thesis.
35 The theoretical background here is Pierre Bourdieu’s theory of capital, see: Bourdieu 1983;
1985.
36 Cf. Sigurðsson 1999: 84–204.
37 Ibid.: 39–62.
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theory of competition.38 At the same time, their position as a group was very
stable, as a result of the social and political structures.
In the following decades, the creation of new chieftaincies ground to a halt,
and powerful goðar started to stretch their areas of influence. Weaker play-
ers lost their chieftaincies or were made subordinate to more potent leaders.
Around 1100, there remained as few as 30 goðar, and the rivalry between them
became more intense. From the middle of the eleventh century onwards, it
became much more difficult to compete for a leading position. New poten-
tial participants would have needed substantially more resources. With power
in the hands of fewer goðar, the influence of their followers and of the com-
munity decreased. Powerful leaders could increasingly evade public control,
as their social capital was no longer their most valuable resource. A hundred
years later, only five families dominated the entire island, and the compet-
ition within the elite grew out of control—with infamous, and brutal, res-
ults.39
To summarise, the essential elements of this model, are: (1) the period of the
Icelandic Free State possessed various institutionalised mechanisms of social
control, such as assemblies and laws, but these institutions were dependent
on the personal power and influence of individuals. In this respect, the goðar
were relatively stable as a group. (2) Otherwise, the individual leading position
of a goði was precarious, because there was no kind of absolute prestige—like
noble birth or particular laws granting exalted status to particular people or
lineages—, but their rank was bound to a number of resources. They were per-
manently in competition for these resources, but the most important one for
durable primacy was social capital, the means to represent the concerns of the
community, and the ability to solve joint tasks and conflicts. If a chieftain regu-
larly broke these rules, or if he was often unsuccessful in his attempts to resolve
disputes, he could be unseated. (3) As a result of this need to appeal to public
interests, some kind of control could be exercised by the community over the
leaders. Over the years, however, a smaller group of goðar accumulated eco-
nomic resources, followers, and power. Thus, they could disengage themselves
from this framework. The competition for this distinguished rank became an
unregulated conflict, which destroyed the social and political structures of the
community. Icelandic society had no effective instruments to curtail such a
development.
38 For Simmel’s theory of concurrence see: Simmel 1903; 1992/1908; Hölkeskamp 2014.
39 Cf. Sigurðsson 1999: 39–83.
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6 The Icelandic Free State Period as a Model for the Early Archaic
Period
Because of the problematic dating of our written sources for the early Archaic
period, chronology should not be the starting point of our historical approach.
We should read these texts, rather, as evidence from different communities,
which reflect similar social and political problems in the Greek world around
700bc. Both the epics and early lyric poetry deal—among other things—with
questions of social organisation, elite competition and conflicts. In various
ways, we can read these as part of a supra-regional political discourse.40 From
a European point of view, Archaic history starts with these texts; however, this
paper argues that we should approach them as part of a long-term develop-
ment, rather than as markers for the actual starting point of a new era.
We can date the first paved agorai to the middle of the seventh century.41
They reflect—together with law inscriptions and the construction of temples
and streets—an institutionalisation of Archaic settlements.42 Apart from this
material background, the political and judicial organisation of early Archaic
communities becomes visible only within the first written sources. These
sources give us selective insights into the mechanisms of social-control of a
number of settlements. None of these texts, however, were written for the spe-
cific purpose of describing systematically the socio-political organisation of the
communities they record. All of these texts presuppose a familiarity with struc-
tures that we do not possess. We can, however, try to reconstruct the framework
of the societies represented in the written evidence. In the epics, people meet
for assemblies (agorai), councils (boulai) and—on the shield of Achilles or in
Hesiod’s Theogony—court cases. These institutions can be analysed by using a
framework featuring the following categories of analysis: office holder, assert-
iveness, degree of formalisation, functionality, and range. We cannot discuss
these individual aspects in detail here; this schema, however, is very important
for our understanding of institutionalisation in the Archaic period.43 We must,
therefore, content ourselves with some examples: assemblies and councils are
essential elements of the story arch of the Homeric epics. In the second book of
the Odyssey, we find the most detailed account of an assembly for this period.
40 Cf. Ulf 2010b; 2012; Itgenshorst 2014.

41 Cf. Tréziny 2012; Sielhorst 2015.
42 Cf. Hölkeskamp 1997; 1999; 2000; 2002; 200; 2004a.
43 For this theoretical approach see: Berger and Luckmann 1969; Burns and Dietz 1995;
Hölkeskamp 2003; 2004b; Jessen 2014.
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Telemachus asks—like others could do—for a meeting. Heralds (kerykes) call

the people together, and all male inhabitants of Ithaca meet on the agora.
The most important players sit down on their fixed seats and the heralds take
charge of the running of the meeting. If someone wants to speak, he is given
a sceptre; significant basileis, like Agamemnon, have their own.44 Court meet-
ings are also described on the shield of Achilles and in the Theogony. The most
significant elements of these institutions are publicity, a meeting place, people
with judicial knowledge, and a competition for the best arbitrator.45 There is
no doubt that Archaic communities had political and judicial institutions, but
there is no indication of the presence of executive power proper. Thus, the
functionality and range of their proceedings, depended—like in the Icelandic
Free State period—on the power and influence of the basileis and other play-
ers.
How, best, can we characterise the basileis? The rank of the basileis is one the
most discussed and most controversial problems of the Archaic period—and
remains unsolved. There are two antithetic views on this: some view the basileis
as a durable leading elite of sorts, like an aristocracy; others see them as a fluid
group without long-term power and stability, like big men or chieftains. Both
accounts use the same sources, but reach different conclusions. Arguments
exist for both sides: the basileis did indeed lead and organise their communit-
ies, but their individual position was far from invulnerable. Again, we have to
content ourselves with two examples: Agamemnon is one of the main charac-
ters of the Iliad and the most powerful leader of the Achaeans.46 It is in his
hut that the leaders (basileis) and the counsellors (gerontes) meet;47 he has
the highest prestige (time)48 and the most followers (laoi).49 However, as the
assembly scene in the second book and his quarrel with Achilles demonstrate,
even as a powerful leader, Agamemnon does not have the power to simply force
the Achaeans—especially the basileis—to fight, or even just to stay.50 As it
was a collective decision of the basileis to sail to Troy,51 Agamemnon needs to
come to an agreement with the Greeks who followed him. Moreover, the con-
flict between him and Achilles—and the behaviour of the other Achaeans—
44 Cf. Ulf 1990: 85 ff.; Hom. Il. 2.84 f.

45 Hom. Il. 18. 497–508; Hes. Theog. 80–92.
46 Hom. Il. 9.69: βασιλεύτατός.
47 Ie.: Hom. Il. 9.89–95.
48 Hom. Il. 1.278 f.
49 Hom. Il. 1.281; 2.576–580; 3.182 f.; 9.73; 14.93 f.
50 Cf. Ulf 1990: 85–98.
51 Hom. Il. 2.336–341.
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50 zeller
further shows that his status as a leader is not unassailable.52 Another example
of the ambiguous position of basileis in early Archaic Greece is Telemachus.
Telemachus is both the son of the basileus and sits on his father’s seat in the
agora.53 Yet when he asks the other members of the community for help, they
do not show interest in his domestic problems, and the suitors who plague
his family’s house (oikos).54 It is thus clear that there is no obligation for
the community to protect the status, or the oikos, of a basileus if he—or his
son—cannot do it. Furthermore, it is made apparent some lines before that
Telemachus has no guarantee of becoming the next basileus of Ithaca; there
seem in fact to be a couple of other candidates. For all these reasons, it is
most important for him to protect the oikos of his family, before his individual
status.55 Academic discussion about the role and place of basileis has raged
for decades, and it is almost impossible to find an entirely new perspective.
This paper wishes rather to review the heuristic tools of modern research, and
to propose a different point of view on the early Archaic period. What hap-
pens if we use the model of medieval Iceland as a prism through which to read
our Archaic sources? Recent scholarship has described the rank of the basileis
with reference to the theoretical concepts of competition and resources.56
Inasmuch as it also highlights these aspects, the model proposed here is com-
patible with recent scholarship, but remains—at least largely—independent
from the history of modern research on the Archaic period. An analysis of the
written sources initially demonstrates that there was no absolute prestige in
early Archaic communities.57 Secondly, the terminology of the proposed model
describes the individual position of a basileus as a complex position made up of
economic, physical, cultural, and social resources. Other characteristics, such
as the relative and absolute chronology of these sources, are less important,
and, as such, are not discussed in this paper.58
The economic differences between a chieftain and an ordinary peasant in
Archaic settlements, seem to have been bigger than in the first decades of
Icelandic history. Greek written sources, however, do not reflect the begin-
52 Cf. Ulf 1990: 85–125; 175–212.

53 Ibid.: 85–125; Telemachus’ seat is mentioned in Hom. Od. 2.13f.
54 Hom. Od. 2.229–251. But the suitors know that they are going to be punished if their con-
spiracy against Telemachus is detected: Hom. Od. 16.371–382.
55 Hom. Od. 1.389–398.
56 A choice of some relevant works should suffice here: Ulf 2006; 2008; 2010a; 2011b; 2013;
Weiler; 2006; Hölkeskamp 2014; Seelentag 2015.
57 Cf. Stein-Hölkeskamp 1989; Ulf 1990: 1–49; 2010b.
58 Cf. Ulf 1990: 40; 51–83; 85. See for example: Hom. Il. 2.527–530; 5.800f.
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ning of social development, but rather, a later stage. Thus, this indication is
not really significant. We know that the wealth of an oikos was measured by
livestock, not according to the size of the estate. Furthermore, we can deduce
from the extant sources that it was a luxury to own slaves, horses, metal ves-
sels, or high-quality cloths. Archaeological and written evidence further shows
that these communities emanated from a low economic level and subsisted
on a rural economy based on cultivation and livestock husbandry.59 Basileis
could generate a significant level of wealth, but they were still involved in the
daily labour of their homesteads and threatened by the same menaces—like
natural disasters, failures of crops, and raids—as their neighbours. Thus, while
there was an economic difference, it was not insuperable for climbers, as we see
in the Odyssey and in early lyric poetry.60 Physical strength is a central char-
acteristic of the Homeric heroes, but in the epics, it is not the main criterion
for the quality of a basileus: Odysseus is able to kill all of his rivals, and yet
he is not automatically acknowledged as the leader of Ithaca upon his return.
Athena has to intervene and install a new social order.61 The Iliad mentions
several ways to acquire social reputation.62 This becomes even more explicit
in the following examples: Agamemnon is the leader of the Achaeans, but not
their best warrior.63 In contrast, Hector seems to be the best fighter, but is not
59 Cf. Ulf 1990: 175–212; 2011a; Lang 2002; 2005; Schmitz 2004.
60 Cf. Schmitz 2004; 2014. Two examples from early lyric poetry are: Archil. fr. 19 West = Plut.
de tranqu. anim. 470bc; Alc. fr. 87 D = 348 LP.
61 Hom. Od. 24.531–548; cf. Ulf 2018.
62 Hom. Il. 11.783–793: Πηλεὺς μὲν ᾧ παιδὶ γέρων ἐπέτελλ’ Ἀχιλῆϊ / αἰὲν ἀριστεύειν καὶ ὑπείροχον
ἔμμεναι ἄλλων· / σοὶ δ’ αὖθ’ ὧδ’ ἐπέτελλε Μενοίτιος Ἄκτορος υἱός· / τέκνον ἐμὸν γενεῇ μὲν ὑπέρ-
τερός ἐστιν Ἀχιλλεύς, / πρεσβύτερος δὲ σύ ἐσσι· βίῃ δ’ ὅ γε πολλὸν ἀμείνων. / ἀλλ’ εὖ οἱ φάσθαι
πυκινὸν ἔπος ἠδ’ ὑποθέσθαι / καί οἱ σημαίνειν· ὃ δὲ πείσεται εἰς ἀγαθόν περ. / ὣς ἐπέτελλ’ ὃ γέρων,
σὺ δὲ λήθεαι· ἀλλ’ ἔτι καὶ νῦν / ταῦτ’ εἴποις Ἀχιλῆϊ δαΐφρονι αἴ κε πίθηται. / τίς δ’ οἶδ’ εἴ κέν οἱ
σὺν δαίμονι θυμὸν ὀρίναις / παρειπών; ἀγαθὴ δὲ παραίφασίς ἐστιν ἑταίρου. (Old Peleus bade his
son Achilles ever be bravest, and pre-eminent above all, but to thee did Menoetius, son of
Actor, thus give command: ‘My child, in birth is Achilles nobler than thou, but thou art the
elder though in might he is the better far. Yet do thou speak to him well a word of wisdom
and give him counsel, and direct him; and he will obey thee to his profit.’ Thus did the
old man charge thee, but thou forgettest. Yet even now at the last do thou speak thus to
wise-hearted Achilles, if so be he may hearken. Who knows but that heaven helping thou
mightest rouse his spirit with thy persuading? A good thing is the persuasion of a friend.
(trans. Murray)).
63 Hom. Il. 9.38f.: σκήπτρῳ μέν τοι δῶκε τετιμῆσθαι περὶ πάντων, / ἀλκὴν δ’ οὔ τοι δῶκεν, ὅ τε κρά-
τος ἐστὶ μέγιστον. (But as for thee, the son of crooked-counselling Cronos hath endowed
thee in divided wise: with the sceptre hath he granted thee to be honoured above all, but
valour he gave thee not, wherein is the greatest might. (trans. Murray)).
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the wisest counsellor.64 In one of the so-called lying tales,65 Odysseus tells the
swineherd Eumaeus, that he had been a poor Cretan peasant who had come
to wealth and reputation by successful raids. However, this fictitious Cretan
had not been able to keep his position and lost his rank to a Phoenician cheat.
There are only a few such stories in the epics,66 yet they prove very reveal-
ing, because they give us unique information about the mechanics of social
advancement and descent in Archaic communities: (1.) It was possible to climb
the social ladder. (2.) An occasional achievement—like a duel—could tempor-
arily be transformed into economic capital and social reputation. (3.) However,
to establish a durable leading position, individuals needed other resources that
had to be acquired over a longer period. In the Homeric and Hesiodic epics, the
(idealised) account of good, and the criticism of bad basileis, does not primarily
refer to economic wealth or physical strength, but to the ability to accomplish
cooperative tasks and to the leader’s behaviour towards the interests of the
community. The opposite of Hesiod’s ideal of a fair basileus,67 are the kakoi
64 Hom. Il. 13.726–735: Ἕκτορ ἀμήχανός ἐσσι παραρρητοῖσι πιθέσθαι. / οὕνεκά τοι περὶ δῶκε θεὸς
πολεμήϊα ἔργα / τοὔνεκα καὶ βουλῇ ἐθέλεις περιίδμεναι ἄλλων· / ἀλλ’ οὔ πως ἅμα πάντα δυνήσεαι
αὐτὸς ἑλέσθαι. / ἄλλῳ μὲν γὰρ ἔδωκε θεὸς πολεμήϊα ἔργα, / ἄλλῳ δ’ ὀρχηστύν, ἑτέρῳ κίθαριν καὶ
ἀοιδήν, / ἄλλῳ δ’ ἐν στήθεσσι τιθεῖ νόον εὐρύοπα Ζεὺς / ἐσθλόν, τοῦ δέ τε πολλοὶ ἐπαυρίσκοντ’
ἄνθρωποι, / καί τε πολέας ἐσάωσε, μάλιστα δὲ καὐτὸς ἀνέγνω. / αὐτὰρ ἐγὼν ἐρέω ὥς μοι δοκεῖ
εἶναι ἄριστα· (Hector, hard to deal with art thou, that thou shouldest hearken to words of
persuasion. Forasmuch as god has given to thee as to none other works of war, therefore in
counsel too art thou minded to have wisdom beyond all; but in no wise shalt thou be able
of thine own self to compass all things. [730] To one man hath God given works of war, to
another the dance, to another the lyre and song, and in the breast of another Zeus, whose
voice is borne afar, putteth a mind of understanding, wherefrom many men get profit, and
many he saveth; but he knoweth it best himself. [735] So will I speak what seemeth to me
to be best. (trans. Murray)).
65 Hom. Od. 14.191–359; 462–506.
66 Two other instances are: Hom. Il. 6.152–205; Hom. Od. 14.191–359; 462–506; 16.424–429.
67 Hes. Theog. 80–92: ἡ γὰρ καὶ βασιλεῦσιν ἅμ’ αἰδοίοισιν ὀπηδεῖ. / ὅντινα τιμήσουσι Διὸς κοῦραι
μεγάλοιο / γεινόμενόν τε ἴδωσι διοτρεφέων βασιλήων, / τῷ μὲν ἐπὶ γλώσσῃ γλυκερὴν χείουσιν
ἐέρσην, / τοῦ δ’ ἔπε’ ἐκ στόματος ῥεῖ μείλιχα· οἱ δέ νυ λαοὶ / πάντες ἐς αὐτὸν ὁρῶσι διακρίνοντα
θέμιστας / ἰθείῃσι δίκῃσιν· ὁ δ’ ἀσφαλέως ἀγορεύων / αἶψά τι καὶ μέγα νεῖκος ἐπισταμένως κατέ-
παυσε· / τούνεκα γὰρ βασιλῆες ἐχέφρονες, οὕνεκα λαοῖς / βλαπτομένοις ἀγορῆφι μετάτροπα
ἔργα τελεῦσι / ῥηιδίως, μαλακοῖσι παραιφάμενοι ἐπέεσσιν· / ἐρχόμενον δ’ ἀν’ ἀγῶνα θεὸν ὣς ἱλά-
σκονται / αἰδοῖ μειλιχίῃ, μετὰ δὲ πρέπει ἀγρομένοισι. (For she attends on worshipful princes:
whomever of heaven-nourished princes the daughters of great Zeus honor and behold at
his birth, they pour sweet dew upon his tongue, and from his lips flow gracious words.
All the people look towards him while he settles causes with true judgements: and he,
speaking surely, would soon make wise end even of a great quarrel; for therefore are there
princes wise in heart, because when the people are being misguided in their assembly,
they set right the matter again with ease, persuading them with gentle words. And when
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andres.68 We find similar instances in the Homeric epics69 and in early lyric
poetry.70 This reminds us of the Icelandic goðar. The Archaic basileis seem to
have been in a similar situation: their individual rank depended on various
resources, but the most important one was their social capital and appropriate
cultural knowledge. As the main storyline of the Homeric epics and some frag-
he passes through a gathering, they greet him as a god with gentle reverence, and he is
conspicuous amongst the assembled: such is the holy gift of the Muses to men. (trans.
Evelyn-White)).
68 Hes. Op. 212–237: ὣς ἔφατ’ ὠκυπέτης ἴρηξ, τανυσίπτερος ὄρνις. / Ὦ Πέρση, σὺ δ’ ἄκουε δίκης
μηδ’ ὕβριν ὄφελλε· / ὕβρις γάρ τε κακὴ δειλῷ βροτῷ, οὐδὲ μὲν ἐσθλὸς / ῥηιδίως φερέμεν δύναται,
βαρύθει δέ θ’ ὑπ’ αὐτῆς / ἐγκύρσας ἄτῃσιν· ὁδὸς δ’ ἑτέρηφι παρελθεῖν / κρείσσων ἐς τὰ δίκαια· δίκη
δ’ ὑπὲρ ὕβριος ἴσχει / ἐς τέλος ἐξελθοῦσα· παθὼν δέ τε νήπιος ἔγνω. / αὐτίκα γὰρ τρέχει Ὅρκος
ἅμα σκολιῇσι δίκῃσιν· / τῆς δὲ Δίκης ῥόθος ἑλκομένης ᾗ κ’ ἄνδρες ἄγωσι / δωροφάγοι, σκολιῇς δὲ
δίκῃς κρίνωσι θέμιστας· / ἣ δ’ ἕπεται κλαίουσα πόλιν καὶ ἤθεα λαῶν, / ἣ δ’ ἕπεται κλαίουσα πόλιν
καὶ ἤθεα λαῶν, / ἠέρα ἑσσαμένη, κακὸν ἀνθρώποισι φέρουσα, / οἵ τέ μιν ἐξελάσωσι καὶ οὐκ ἰθεῖαν
ἔνειμαν. / οἳ δὲ δίκας ξείνοισι καὶ ἐνδήμοισι διδοῦσιν / ἰθείας καὶ μή τι παρεκβαίνουσι δικαίου, /
τοῖσι τέθηλε πόλις, λαοὶ δ’ ἀνθεῦσιν ἐν αὐτῇ· / εἰρήνη δ’ ἀνὰ γῆν κουροτρόφος, οὐδέ ποτ’ αὐτοῖς
/ ἀργαλέον πόλεμον τεκμαίρεται εὐρύοπα Ζεύς· / οὐδέ ποτ’ ἰθυδίκῃσι μετ’ ἀνδράσι λιμὸς ὀπηδεῖ
/ οὐδ’ ἄτη, θαλίῃς δὲ μεμηλότα ἔργα νέμονται. / τοῖσι φέρει μὲν γαῖα πολὺν βίον, οὔρεσι δὲ δρῦς
/ ἄκρη μέν τε φέρει βαλάνους, μέσση δὲ μελίσσας· / εἰροπόκοι δ’ ὄιες μαλλοῖς καταβεβρίθασι· /
τίκτουσιν δὲ γυναῖκες ἐοικότα τέκνα γονεῦσι· / θάλλουσιν δ’ ἀγαθοῖσι διαμπερές· οὐδ’ ἐπὶ νηῶν /
νίσονται, καρπὸν δὲ φέρει ζείδωρος ἄρουρα. (So said the swiftly flying hawk, the long-winged
bird. But you, Perses, listen to right and do not foster violence; for violence is bad for a
poor man. Even the prosperous cannot easily bear its burden, but is weighed down under
it when he has fallen into delusion. The better path is to go by on the other side towards
Justice; for Justice beats Outrage when she comes at length to the end of the race. But
only when he has suffered does the fool learn this. For Oath keeps pace with wrong judge-
ments. There is a noise when Justice is being dragged in the way where those who devour
bribes and give sentence with crooked judgements, take her. And she, wrapped in mist,
follows to the city and haunts of the people, weeping, and bringing mischief to men, even
to such as have driven her forth in that they did not deal straightly with her. But they who
give straight judgements to strangers and to the men of the land, and go not aside from
what is just, their city flourishes, and the people prosper in it: Peace, the nurse of chil-
dren, is abroad in their land, and all-seeing Zeus never decrees cruel war against them.
Neither famine nor disaster ever haunt men who do true justice; but light-heartedly they
tend the fields which are all their care. The earth bears them victual in plenty, and on the
mountains the oak bears acorns upon the top and bees in the midst. Their woolly sheep
are laden with fleeces; their women bear children like their parents. They flourish con-
tinually with good things, and do not travel on ships, for the grain-giving earth bears them
fruit. (trans. Evelyn-White). Other instances in Hesiod’s epics are for example: Hes. Op.
27–41; 256–269.
69 E.g.: Hom. Il. 16.384–388; 542; Hom. Od. 4.690–694; Hom. Od. 18.85ff. (Echetos-episode);
Hom. Od. 19.109–114.
70 Alc. fr. 87 D = 348 LP; fr. 43 D = 70 LP; Archil. fr. 114 West = Dio Chrys. Or. 33.17; Solon fr. 4
West = Dem. 19.254–256.
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54 zeller
ments of the early lyric poetry show, there was a permanent competition within
the elite and with potential non-elite rivals. The conflict between Agamemnon
and Achilles, and the killing of the suitors, give us an impression of what could
have happened if this competition ran out of control. We can read both the Iliad
and the Odyssey as political treatises sui generis about the social organisation of
settlements: they criticise overreaching competition within the elite and warn
against selfish behaviour that could endanger or even destroy the community.71
If a basileus acted in this way, he ran the risk of losing his reputation or even
being excluded from the community. This is not only apparent in the fates of
the main characters Agamemnon, Achilles, and Odysseus, but is also sugges-
ted in many other cases.72 The normative setting of early Archaic communities
becomes particularly clear in the following admonition of Nestor:73 ‘But come,
I that avow me to be older than thou will speak forth and will declare the whole;
neither shall any man scorn my words, no, not even lord Agamemnon. A clan-
less, lawless, hearthless man is he that loveth dread strife among his own folk.’
(translated by: A.T. Murray). Together with our model, these examples provide a
convincing reference to a system of public control. In contrast to the Icelandic
Free State period, early Archaic communities seem to have evolved suitable
political and judicial instruments, in order to control competition for durable
leadership. One reason for this may be the specific rural order of early Archaic
villages.74 At the end of the Odyssey Athena calls the people of Ithaca to order.
We can read this as indirect evidence for the establishment of a new social
organisation.75 The earliest law from Dreros (about 650), in particular, provides
insights into the increasing institutionalisation of an Archaic community, par-
ticularly if we read this law as an attempt to strengthen the standing of an
institution (kosmos) as opposed to powerful and influential individuals.76 This
would have been a very important step, among others—documented in Solon’s
poetry—on the way of establishing depersonalised political and judicial struc-
tures, as we find them in the Classical poleis. Our model of competition and
71 On how the Homeric epics can be read see: Ulf 1989; 1990; 2002; 2004; 2012. Gschnitzer
1991; Raaflaub 1998; Hall 2007.
72 Cf. the following instances: Hom. Od. 2.192; 3.304; 14.239; 16.114; 424–430; 19.527; Hom. Il.
1.231 ff.; 13.665–669; 16.572 ff.; Hes. Op. 27–41; 212–294.
73 Hom. Il. 9.60–64: ἀλλ’ ἄγ’ ἐγών, ὃς σεῖο γεραίτερος εὔχομαι εἶναι, ἐξείπω καὶ πάντα διίξομαι·
οὐδέ κέ τίς μοι μῦθον ἀτιμήσει’, οὐδὲ κρείων Ἀγαμέμνων ἀφρήτωρ ἀθέμιστοσ ἀνέστιός ἐστιν ἐκεῖ-
νοσ / ὃς πολέμου ἒραται ἐπιδημίου ὀκρυόεντος.
74 For the social structure of archaic villages see: Schmitz 2004.
75 Cf. Ulf 2018.
76 Cf. Seelentag 2009; with more specific literature.
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control is an alternative to the one-dimensional paradigm of a social dialectic,

as described above, enabling us to consider our written sources from another
perspective. While these sources do not constitute evidence for a certain social
group, they reflect complex and heterogeneous social changes.
7 Conclusion
To conclude, a historical comparison between the early centuries of medieval

Iceland and the early Archaic period is—from a methodical point of view—
both achievable and—because of the Icelandic source material—empirically
promising. The potential of this comparison, however, is limited to the ques-
tions discussed above, because the sources for both periods are highly prob-
lematic.77 A further methodological problem is the interdependence of the
heuristic concepts of Ancient History and Scandinavian Studies. These cannot
be separated completely, as they evolved from the same critical approach to his-
toriography, focusing on stable governmental structures. In both fields of study,
the adoption of analytical instruments from social and cultural anthropology
provides a way around this issue. Despite its difficulties, a historical compar-
ison with the Icelandic Free State period provides us with an empirically sound
foundation, as well as a more detailed understanding of the social structures
and changes in early Archaic communities. As such, we can suggest that the
basileis were stable as a group, but each single leader had to demonstrate his
abilities constantly. The most valuable resource of a leader successful in the
long term was—as is already evident in the epics—his relationship with the
community.78 As a result of the importance of social capital, a system of con-
trol evolved that could be converted into depersonalised political and judicial
structures in the following centuries. These results are not entirely new; they
offer us, nevertheless, an alternative model for interpreting social change.
77 In my doctoral thesis, I tried to come to terms with the possibilities and limits of this
approach by articulating different questions: social organisation and development, social
stratification, institutionalisation, the detailed procedure of assemblies, the development
of written law, and supra-regional communication.
78 It is difficult to explain why this need for community validation does not assume the
same role in the Sagas of Icelanders. One explanation could be the specific socio-political
context of early archaic communities. Another could be in the different perspectives of
our written evidence: the Archaic texts are instances of contemporary political discourse,
whereas the Sagas of Icelanders were written at a later point, and looked at the relevant
society retrospectively.
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56 zeller
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chapter 3
The Homeric Roots of Helotage

David M. Lewis
There are at least four different and mutually irreconcilable ac-

counts of the date and the circumstances in which helotage origin-
ated. This indicates that all four accounts are guesses, and that there
was no authentic record.
arnold toynbee1
…
The various forms of obligated servitude found later in Dorian com-
munities like Sparta (…) are not individual survivals of a general
phenomenon, but special developments conditioned by the history
of each area.
oswyn murray2
…
No exceptional event, no rupture, is required to explain how Homer-
ic slavery could evolve into the different forms of slavery practised
in classical Greece.
jean ducat3
∵
1 Toynbee 1969: 195. In defence of my rather provocative title, I should draw attention to the
epigraph to Toynbee’s book, quoted from W. Leaf’s Homer and History (London, 1915): ‘It is
[…] often more useful to be refuted than to convince, and progress can only be made, it
would seem, by stating new theories with full conviction. […] I am perfectly ready to scrap
any opinions which the argument may condemn. There is a great deal of scrapping before us
all, whatever our views may be.’
2 Murray 1993: 46.
3 Ducat 2015: 194: ‘aucun événement exceptionel, aucun rupture, ne sont nécessaires pour
expliquer que l’ esclavage homérique ait pu évoluer vers les diverses formes d’esclavage
pratiquées dans la Grèce classique.’

the homeric roots of helotage 65
1 Introduction
This chapter attempts to step outside of the standard parameters of debate over
early Greek slavery and its evolution, and to rethink the processes which forged
the slave systems of Classical Greece between c. 700–400 bc. Almost all recent
discussions of the origins of Greek slavery in general, and Spartan Helotage
in particular, focus on authors dating to the Classical, Hellenistic, or Roman
periods, viz. at least two centuries, and sometimes considerably more, after the
events that they purport to describe. Perhaps the most influential passage has
been fragment 122 of Theopompus of Chios (FGrHist 115, 4th c bc):
The Chians were the first of the Greeks after the Thessalians and Lacedae-
monians to have made use of slaves; however, they did not acquire them in
the same manner. For the Lacedaemonians and Thessalians will be shown
to have furnished their slave populations from the Greeks who previously
inhabited the land which they now hold, in the former case the land of
the Achaeans, whilst the Thessalians hold the land of the Perrhaebeans
and the Magnesians; and the enslaved they called, in the former case, the
Helots; in the latter case, the Penestae. But the Chians bought their slaves
from non-Greeks and paid a price for them.4
Pierre Vidal-Naquet wrote that this passage ‘can be seen at the heart of recent
discussion of slavery,’5 whilst Paul Cartledge has called it ‘a major intellectual
breakthrough.’6 Theopompus’ claims represent an early attempt at pinpointing
the origins of Classical-era slave systems; and he is the first to split the problem
into two strands, the former strand concerned with population movements and
mass conquests, the latter strand concerned with the growth of trade. Some
modern scholars have gone even further to uncouple ‘helotic’ slavery from
Attic-style slavery by arguing that the Helots, Penestae etc., were not slaves at
all, but serfs or ‘unfree’ peasants whose status lay in the shadowy interstices
between slavery and freedom.7
The tradition of learned speculation on early Greek slavery that began with
writers such as Antiochus of Syracuse, Ephorus of Cyme, and Theopompus of
4 This tradition also crops up in Nicolaus FGrHist 90 F 95 and Posidonius FGrHist 87 F 38, both
writing in the first century bc.
5 Vidal-Naquet 1986: 168. Cf. Finley 1981: 114–115; Garlan 1982: 52–53; Murray 1993: 240–241;
Descat 2006: 21; Andreau and Descat 2006: 22–24; Zelnick-Abramovitz 2005: 62; Ismard 2015:
25.
6 Cartledge 2003: 16. Cf. idem 2011: 80, ‘pioneering observation.’
7 See Lewis 2018: 125–130 for discussion.
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Chios, has had its modern analogues; but most (though not all) of these mod-
ern attempts share the same flaw: the preference for late over early sources.
The problem is compounded by a reluctance to question some basic certainties
inherited from earlier scholars, especially M.I. Finley. The key stumbling blocks
are (i) the notion that slavery was of marginal economic importance in the
days of Homer and Hesiod (thus forcing scholars to search for ‘turning points’
that propelled slavery to prominence, overlooking long-term continuities); (ii)
the idea that Helots, Penestae, and analogous populations were not slaves (and
whose development can be assumed a priori to have had no organic relation
to slavery of the Homeric/Hesiodic sort); (iii) the belief that writers of the late
fifth century bc and afterwards had genuine historical knowledge of the origins
of the slave systems of their own day (leading to charter myths being mined for
historical fact); (iv) the theory that Solon and proto-democratic developments
were key to the ‘rise’ of slavery in Archaic Greece (thus overlooking the slave
systems of non-democratic regimes).
Forceful criticisms have been lodged against all of these notions, and a
fresh look at the problem that does not build upon rickety foundations is a
desideratum. My argument in this chapter falls in four parts. § 2 will review
the four aforementioned stumbling blocks, discussing their various problems.
This will clear the ground for a new reconstruction. § 3 draws on Homer and
Hesiod to formulate an ‘Archaic model’ of Greek slavery, whose basic features,
I contend, were widespread c. 700bc, even if at the level of detail we might
expect much variation across the Greek world. Following a recent suggestion
by Jean Ducat (quoted in the third epigraph to this chapter), I argue that most
Classical slave systems, from Helotage, to Thessaly’s Penestae-system, to Attic
slavery, developed along separate trajectories from something resembling this
Archaic model. In other words, each represented—to paraphrase Oswyn Mur-
ray’s words in the second epigraph to this chapter—a special development con-
ditioned by the local history of the region in question. I further contend that, as
the products of local processes of historical development, the diverse range of
Classical-era slave systems is more readily intelligible when understood as the
result of historical contingency: the distinctive features of Classical Helotage
and other forms of Greek slavery were not coded into the DNA of these sys-
tems from the start, destined somehow to emerge in that precise form given
the fullness of time. Rather, their evolution was a response to local, contin-
gent factors; various potentialities existed in the early days, and various roads
not taken could have been taken had the contingent factors differed. §§ 4–
5 accordingly explore a test case to demonstrate the utility of this approach,
focusing on Sparta’s system of Helotage. Classical Helotage displayed many sin-
gular features, but I aim to show that all of these can be explained as organic
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developments when contextualised in terms of Sparta’s local historical evolu-

tion between 700–400bc. §6 steps back from Sparta, and attempts to sketch
how historical developments in several other regions (Attica, Crete, Heraclea
Pontica) led to differing degrees of local adaptation of the ‘Archaic model’ set
out in §3. It is because the apparently peculiar features of this or that Classical
Greek slave system make good sense when contextualised in terms of broader
regional histories, that the argument for contingent rather than teleological
explanation is more compelling.8
2 Some Problems in the Study of Early Greek Slavery
Let us turn first, then, to the four aforementioned problems that riddle many
modern analyses of Archaic Greek slavery.
2.1 Slavery Was of Marginal Economic Importance to Elites in the Days

of Homer and Hesiod
The long persistence of this view is due less to inherent virtues of the argu-
ment, and more to intellectual path dependence; for this position was held by
two historians of the first rank, Eduard Meyer and M.I. Finley, upon whose con-
clusions much subsequent scholarship was erected.9 In Meyer’s view, the Greek
Archaic period could be compared in terms of socio-economic structure to the
European Middle Ages, whilst the Classical period corresponded to the Early
Modern era.10 The elites of Homer’s epics thus lived in a quasi-feudal society,
and relied on a system of ‘serfdom’, which was superseded by slavery due to
an intensification of imports of barbarian slaves and the political liberation
of the peasantry. Despite harshly criticising Meyer’s thesis, Finley’s own view
was fundamentally similar.11 In the Homeric era, elites did not rely much on
slave labour, but on clients, pelatai, and (especially) debt bondsmen.12 Solon’s
reforms made the continued exploitation of debt bondsmen by large landhold-
8 For an analogous argument—and one that has to no small degree inspired this one—see
Davies 2003.
9 What follows draws heavily on Harris 2012. See also Lewis 2018: 12–13.
10 Meyer 1910: 171–212. Christesen 2001: 35–39 contains an excellent analysis of Meyer and
his intellectual context. Schmitz 2004 contains a variant of the Meyer view too complex
to be discussed here, but I will engage with it in Lewis (forthcoming b).
11 Finley 1980: 47–48; on similarities see Harris 2012: 346–351.
12 Finley 1981: 155.
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ers impossible; as a result, the Attic elite turned to importing barbarian slaves.13
For both Meyer and Finley, then, political changes and the liberation of the
peasantry triggered increased imports of barbarian slaves and, accordingly, the
rise of Greek slavery. The recent study of Descat, though critical of Finley, also
postulates a gradual rise of slavery to the point that, sometime around 600 bc,
Greeks societies crossed the threshold from ‘slaveholding society’ to ‘slave soci-
ety’; Descat views the introduction of silver as a medium of exchange as the
critical factor that made slave trading more efficient and drove this historical
change.14
As several recent studies have shown, a detailed examination of the Homeric
poems leaves no doubt that slaves comprised the bulk of the Homeric hero’s
workforce; this likely reflects historical patterns of labour exploitation by early
Archaic elites.15 That workforce may be supplemented by hired labour (the-
tes)—a picture that is consistent between Homer and Hesiod—but there is
no sign at all in these early texts of clients, pelatai, or debt bondsmen. Most
modern studies of Archaic Greek slavery have built upon Meyer’s and Fin-
ley’s theories, and thus attempt to describe the emergence of ‘slave society’ in
Greece; however, if we accept Finley’s definition of ‘slave society’ as one where
the elite derives most of its wealth from slave labour, then Greece was already
a ‘slave society’ at least a century before Solon.16 The challenge for historians of
early Greek slavery, then, is not to discover some revolutionary turning point
that led to the emergence of ‘slave society’, but to document and explain change
in the organisation and structure of slavery across a multitude of regions over
the longue durée.
13 Finley 1980: 67–92.

14 Descat 2006; cf. Andreau and Descat 2006: 18–23 on the ‘rise’ of slavery in Greece. Descat’s
argument is in part vitiated by two problems: first, his focus on Theopompus FGrHist 115
F122 as evidence for silver and slavery, for this passage does not mention the term argyron-
etos (the term belongs to Athenaeus’ introduction to the passage), and thus provides no
evidence that Theopompus was talking about silver as a medium of exchange; secondly,
what seems to me an overemphasis on the transformative effects of the adoption of Hack-
silber. I do not doubt that it had an effect; but Thracian slaves were being bought for salt
in the fourth century bc (Menander fr. 891 K–A; Poll. Onom. 10.14), and slaves were being
traded for wine on both the Black Sea (Polyb. 4.38.1–4) and Gallic coasts (Diod. 5.26.3) well
into the (heavily monetised) Hellenistic period; if silver represented so revolutionary an
advance, why did such practices endure for so long?
15 Van Wees 1992: 49–53; 2009; 2013a: 224–226; Thalmann 1998: 50; Harris 2012: 358–366;
Lewis 2018: 107–124.
16 Finley 1980: 80–82; cf. Harris 2012: 364; Lewis 2018: 94–96.
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2.2 Helots, Penestae, and Analogous Populations Were Not Slaves

The idea that the Helots were not slaves but ‘serfs’, or some manner of public
slaves, has a distinguished intellectual pedigree.17 Nevertheless, it depends on a
few late sources and runs counter to a unanimous body of early sources. Two of
these late writers, Strabo (8.5.4) and Pausanias (3.20.6), describe the Helots as
public or state slaves; but they wrote long after the third-century remodelling
of Spartan society by Cleomenes iii, when various resources were brought into
public ownership;18 for the Classical period we have the contradictory evidence
of Ephorus (FGrHist 70 F117), who describes the Helots as slaves whose private
owners were subject to two special restrictions: they could neither manumit
them nor sell them beyond the boundaries. As Jean Ducat and others have
pointed out, this can only plausibly be read as a restriction on the range within
which Helots could be sold, viz. within Spartan territory.19 Bans on external sale
are also known for the Penestae of Thessaly (FGrHist 424 F1) and Mariandyni-
ans of Heraclea Pontica (FGrHist 87 F8), whilst inscriptions from Gortyn show-
ing that slaves there (doloi, woikeis) were alienable, constitute further evidence
that these populations were not inalienable ‘serfs’ bound to the soil, but slaves
sensu stricto.20
Another highly popular approach has been to accept as historical the claim
of Pollux (Onom. 3.83, 2nd c ad) that the Helots, Penestae, Clarotae, etc. lay
‘between free men and slaves’ (metaxy eleutheron kai doulon). Yet this is con-
tradicted by Classical authors such as Thucydides, Xenophon, Critias, Plato,
Aristotle, and Theopompus, all of whom refer to the Helots as slaves (douloi,
oiketai).21 The same is true of analogous systems, whose status as systems of
slavery only came into dispute hundreds of years after their demise. Finley’s
claim that Pollux derived the metaxy slogan from Aristophanes of Byzantium
(3rd–2nd c bc) has been influential, but lacks any evidentiary basis.22 Pollux’s
view is no more reliable than those of other Roman-era writers long removed
from the heyday of these slave systems, e.g. Dionysius of Halicarnassus, who
wrote (Ant. Rom. 2.9, 1st c bc) that the Penestae were pelatai (‘clients’), or
Pausanias the Atticist, who wrote (K33 s.v. Κλαρῶται [Erbse], 2nd c ad) that the
Helots were metoikoi (‘resident foreigners’). For the present task, the historical
implications of this revisionist view are important: as Ducat points out, cor-
17 See Lewis 2018: 125–130 for details.

18 See Kennell 2003.
19 Ducat 1990: 19–29; Luraghi 2002: 228–229.
20 IC iv 41 iv 6–14; 72 vii 10–15. See Link 2001; Lewis 2018: 150–157.
21 Ducat 1990: 45–48. On the term oiketai see Lewis 2018: 295–305.
22 Detailed analysis in Lewis (forthcoming a).
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70 lewis
rect interpretation of the status of the Helots, Penestae, and analogous groups
during the Classical era opens up the possibility that these systems evolved as
part of broader processes of change affecting the slave systems of the Archaic
period.23 They need no longer be excluded from the debate on categorical
grounds.
2.3 Writers of the Fifth Century and Later Had Genuine Historical
Knowledge of the Origins of the Slave Systems of Their Own Day
A wide variety of local formations characterised the slave systems of Clas-
sical Greece.24 Looking back from the vantage point of the Classical era and
thereafter, various writers attempted to account for the origins of these sys-
tems, especially in atypical cases such as the Helots and Penestae that were
marked by linguistic uniformity and a reliance on reproduction to maintain
their numerical strength. We have already noted Theopompus’ view that the
Helots and Penestae were the descendants of local populations enslaved in situ
by invaders, which had the virtue of explaining the apparent uniform ethni-
cities of these groups, as well as dovetailing with existing traditions of early
population movements, some of which were very old (the ‘Dorian invasion’
tradition is found already in Tyrtaeus). In several cases (Hellanicus FGrHist
4 F188; Ephorus FGrHist 70 F117; Theopompus FGrHist 115 F13) the idea that
the Helots of Laconia were subjected by conquest relies on a dubious piece of
folk etymology, viz. that the original Helots were the conquered inhabitants of
Helos (‘Swamp Town’) in southern Laconia. Scholars have long agreed that this
etymology is linguistically impossible.25 As Nafissi puts it, ‘The connection of
Helos with Helots was entirely arbitrary, and the agreement of ancient sources
proves only the authority of tradition, not its historical worth.’26 Similarly,
although the ‘conquest model’ proved a popular explanation for the origins of
the Penestae, ancient writers disagreed about who exactly had been enslaved:
for Theopompus (FGrHist 115 F122) it was Perrhaebians and Magnesians; for
Archemachus of Euboea (FGrHist 424 F1), it was Boeotians. Folk etymologies
emerged too for the origin of the term ‘Penestae’, with some (e.g. the source
behind Photius, s.v. Penestae) claiming it to be derived from penia, ‘poverty’,
others (e.g. Archemachus) a corruption of ‘Menestae’, from meno, ‘remain’, the
23 Ducat 2015: 193–194.

24 See Lewis 2018: 107–196; idem (forthcoming a).
25 e.g. Toynbee 1969: 196; Luraghi 2003: 119–120; cf. 128; Nafissi 2009: 120; Cartledge 2011: 76;
Thommen 2014: 38; in particular see T. Barnes in Luraghi 2009: 286–287.
26 Nafissi 2009: 120.
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idea being that these locals chose to remain as slaves of their conquerors, rather
than flee.
As Nino Luraghi has convincingly shown (echoing the basic intuition of
Toynbee, quoted in the first epigraph to this chapter), these stories were inven-
ted long after any historical information on the actual processes that forged
these slave systems had disappeared.27 Furthermore, Karl-Wilhelm Welwei has
added further reasons for scepticism, including the fact that the archaeological
record is incompatible with the idea of mass-conquest by invaders.28 What
these writings represent is not partially corrupted memories of distant histor-
ical events from which some kernel of fact can be extracted, but late aetiologies
invented ex novo to account for the facts on the ground in the Classical period
and thereafter, especially the existence of homogeneous, self-reproducing slave
populations such as the Helots and Penestae. Without modern historical meth-
ods, it is no wonder that the Greeks fell back upon tales of population move-
ments, mass conquest, and folk etymologies to account for the origins of these
systems.29
2.4 Solon and Proto-Democratic Developments Were Key to the ‘Rise’ of

Slavery in Archaic Greece
One of Finley’s most popular theories was of ‘the advance, hand in hand, of
freedom and slavery.’30 On this view, the conceptual division of free and slave
emerged due to a rise in the economic importance of slavery following Solon’s
reforms. Previously, statuses blurred together in a continuum.31 Finley’s theory
of the rise of slavery is riddled with impossibilities. First, as Rihll has poin-
27 Luraghi 2002: 236–238; idem 2003.

28 Welwei 2008.
29 Van Wees 2003 defends the conquest model, but his argument is open to several objec-
tions. First, his classification ‘serf’ is based on the population in question being agrarian
and self-reproducing, but this has nothing to do with legal status. Secondly, his approach
is aggregative, accumulating much evidence; but this potentially mixes together various
kinds of status groups. Thirdly, in aggregating the sources, van Wees is not very critical of
their credentials. Fourthly, he argues that all of these populations were originally reduced
by conquest, but in most of the cases there is not even an ancient tradition of conquest,
and his view of their origins has been reverse-engineered only from the fact of their later
existence. Fifthly, van Wees goes beyond even the lengthiest ancient list of ‘Helotic’ sys-
tems and adds other cases (e.g. for Locris and Elis) that are not warranted by the sources.
For further critiques see Link 2004; Welwei 2008; Luraghi 2009; Roy 2009; Ducat 2015. On
Locris see Lewis (forthcoming a).
30 Finley 1981: 115; cf. Lewis 2018: 90 n. 31 for the many citations of this remark by modern
scholars.
31 Finley 1981: 132.
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ted out, if Finley’s theory of Solon’s reforms is correct, what then happened
to the liberated Attic peasantry? Their exploitation by rich landowners may
have ended, but without a redistribution of land, they would have no means of
subsistence, and would have been even worse off than before.32 Secondly, even
if we overlook this problem, how can developments in Attica have triggered
developments across the Greek world? Finley was elusive on this point, but
his model would require a Solon-esque figure in every Greek polis to account
for widespread change.33 Thirdly, as Harris has shown, Solon did not abolish
debt bondage, only enslavement for debt.34 Furthermore, there is no reason to
believe that the Athenian elite depended on the labour of debt bondsmen/debt
slaves to work their estates. This idea has been essentially reverse-engineered
from the fact that Solon banned enslavement for debt; but the need for reform
only hints that this was a widespread abuse; it is rather a leap to conclude from
this that the bulk of the elite’s labour force was procured through indebtedness.
Fourthly, Finley’s model requires us to disbelieve the importance of slavery to
elites prior to Solon’s archonship, but as we noted above (2.1), this is unwar-
ranted. Fifthly, the articulation of a crisp distinction between free persons
and slaves can be found in Homer, and is not a sixth-century development.35
Sixthly, and as Goody, Vlassopoulos, and Lenski have rightly noted, there is no
reason to suppose that the concept of ‘freedom’ is a prerequisite for a crisp
concept of ‘slavery’, or that the economic role of slavery has any inevitable effect
on the conceptual domain.36 Finally, Finley’s model does not work for non-
democratic regimes, yet these prevailed in regions such as Sparta and Crete,
where slavery sensu stricto underpinned the dominant position of elites (cf.
1.2, supra).37 Indeed, for a contemporary like Critias, it was Sparta, not Athens,
where the most extreme examples of slavery and freedom were to be found
(88B F37 D-K), and for Thucydides (8.40.2) it was Sparta, not Athens, that had
the largest slave population in Greece. None of this is to imply that slavery was
unimportant to the development of Athenian democracy (which is a separate
32 Rihll 1996: 93. Many problems result from believing the claim of [Arist.] Ath.Pol. 4.5 that
the land in Archaic Attica was all in the hands of the wealthy few and that the demos
worked as their dependent tenantry. I explore the credentials of this passage in detail in
Lewis (forthcoming b).
33 Rihll 1996: 93–94.
34 Harris 2002.
35 Lewis 2018: 113; I have since noticed that this point was more eloquently made by Fisher
1995: 53–54.
36 Goody 2006: 58; Vlassopoulos 2016: 10; Lenski 2018: 113–124.
37 Cf. Osborne 1995: 39 ‘both democracy and oligarchy might be dependent on slaves.’
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debate), but that Finley’s deterministic connection between the emergence of

democracy and the ‘rise’ of slavery in Greece ought to be abandoned.
3 Towards a Model of Greek Slavery c. 700 bc
Given the many problems with existing views outlined above, it is clear that the
problem needs to be stripped right back to its foundations. Yet if we disbelieve
Classical-era authors on the ground that their claims about early Greek slavery
are based on speculation, folk etymology, and ‘invented tradition’, where does
that leave us in reconstructing the early history of Greek slavery? One option is
to use cross-cultural comparison to delimit a plausible range of possibilities.38
However, we do have hard evidence that can be brought to bear on this prob-
lem: the Archaic poetry of Homer and Hesiod.39 Scholars who follow Finley’s
belief that slavery was unimportant in the Homeric poems generally discount
these texts, but as we noted above (§2.1), this is unwarranted. The growing
recognition that Finley was mistaken about Homeric slavery allows us to re-
insert this chapter into the debate over the development of Greek slavery. As
Ducat has recently written, ‘aucun événement exceptionel, aucun rupture, ne
sont nécessaires pour expliquer que l’esclavage homérique ait pu évoluer vers
les diverses formes d’esclavage pratiquées dans la Grèce classique.’40
Reconstructing this initial Archaic stage, however, runs up against two dif-
ficulties. First is the perennial question of ‘Homeric society’; secondly is the
problem of generalisation across the Greek world from whatever historical
framework we derive from the Homeric poems. On the former point I follow
the widely accepted view that despite the fictional nature of the narrative and
characters of the Homeric epics, their social institutions and mores were calib-
rated to chime with those of their audience, and therefore convey some basic
information about the structure and values of Greek society c. 700bc. These
institutions might be stylised for various reasons, but in fundamental terms it is
clear that practices described in the poems (e.g. guest-friendship, supplication,
sacrifice, marriage, economic relations) correspond to early Archaic realities.41
38 This is the argument of Luraghi 2002: 240–241; 2009.

39 The best study of diachronic change in early Greek slavery that makes abundant use of the
Homeric epics is, to my mind, Rihll 1996. What follows owes much to her study; however, I
expand and modify her model to examine the evolution of the full range of classical Greek
slave systems, not just Attic-style esclavage marchandise.
40 Ducat 2015: 194.
41 I discuss this in more detail in Lewis 2018: 107–124 with reference to the specialist literat-
ure.
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As for the issue of generalisation, two points are key. First, the picture of
agricultural life painted in the Odyssey (privately owned land, arable farming
and animal husbandry performed by a core workforce of slaves, supplemen-
ted by thes labour) has a close analogue, albeit a rung down the social ladder,
in the more-or-less contemporary didactic poetry of Hesiod’s Works and Days.
The latter derives from Boeotia, whereas Homeric epic derives from the east-
ern Aegean; the most economical explanation for such correspondence (des-
pite geographical separation) is that this form of socio-economic structure was
widespread. A second point relates to the panhellenic appeal of Homer, and has
been well made by Carey in a recent study of Draco’s laws:
Recent scholars have rightly insisted on panhellenic diffusion as part of

both of the goal and of the appeal of the Homeric text. The absence of
local colouring is a deep feature of the epic text which allows it to speak
throughout the Greek world. This aspect of the relationship between text
and context gives us an important insight into the process of Homer’s fict-
ive law-building. In a text designed to speak to an audience across Greece,
it is likely that aspects of legal practice in evidence would be recognisable
in outline in at least some, and perhaps many, though certainly not all,
Greek states in the early Archaic period, even if not in identical form.42
Thus, in building an ‘Archaic model’ of Greek slavery c. 700 bc, I am not aim-
ing to extract a high-precision historical picture from Homer and Hesiod, or to
replicate such a picture in carbon copy across the Greek world. Rather, I aim to
construct an Ideal Type whose fundamental features are historically valid, in
a low-resolution sense, across a wide geography—leaving room, of course, for
regional variation at the level of detail. The following four features are based
wholly on the contemporary evidence of Homer, Hesiod, and the Archaic Ele-
gaic and Iambic poets; they can plausibly be held to characterise the basic
shape of slave systems across the early Greek world:43
a) A gendered division in labour, with female slaves largely occupied in the
domestic sphere working inter alia in food processing and the production
of textiles.
42 Carey 2013: 34–35.

43 On (a.) and (b.) see van Wees 1992: 49–53; Harris 2012; Lewis 2018: 107–124; on (c.) see Il.
21.441–449; Od. 10.84–85; 18.356–364; Hes. Op. 602–603. As for (d.): for warfare and raiding,
see Jackson 1993; slaves bought from non-Greek regions: Hom. Od. 24.389 [Sicily]; 15.417
and Il. 6.289–292 [Sidon]; Hipponax fr. 27 [West]; arbitrary seizure of free persons: Od.
17. 249–250; 20.374–383; natural reproduction: see section iii. 3, infra. Debt: Solon fr. 36
[West].
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b) Male slaves occupied largely in animal husbandry and arable farming, and
constituting the bulk of the workforce on both elite and affluent, sub-elite
farms.
c) The supplement of this core slave workforce with seasonal hired labour.
d) The supply of slaves contingent on the following processes: war, raiding,
reproduction, debt, arbitrary seizure, and trade.
These features may manifest to a greater or lesser extent in a given region. For
example, Chandezon has shown regional variation across Greece in terms of
agricultural practices and the degree of integration between arable and pas-
toral production; in some regions (e.g. Attica), there was a closer symbiotic
relationship between the two; in Crete, by contrast, a greater degree of sep-
aration was evident in many areas. Local topography, climate, and resources
shaped strategies of production, and thus the nature of slaves’ work.44
The configuration of the six processes in (d.) is of particular significance for
the character of a given slave system. These processes are dynamic and con-
stantly shift over time and differ according to locale; certain developments
might increase the importance of one process relative to others, whilst dif-
ferent developments might remove certain sources of supply altogether. In
various configurations they can trend either towards increasing homogeneity
or increasing heterogeneity. For example, a slave system that comes to lean
increasingly upon processes such as reproduction or enslavement for debt,
is likely to exhibit greater ethnic and linguistic homogeneity than one that
depends on trade with many foreign regions, or whose citizens are in the
habit of raiding for slaves on foreign shores. It is, I submit, the local con-
figuration of these processes, played out over the long term, that produced
such variety among the slave systems of Classical Greece. In order to illustrate
the utility of this approach, let us now turn to a case study: Spartan Helot-
age.
4 Slavery in the Southern Peloponnese: Continuity and Change
Rather than being (as e.g. Ephorus and Theopompus believed) the outcome
of an early mass-enslavement, can Classical Helotage be viewed, as Ducat sug-
gests, simply as a local development of ‘Homeric’ slavery? In what follows, I
discuss five aspects of Classical Helotage that can be seen as local adaptations
of the ‘Archaic’ model set out above. In §5 I proceed to show how Sparta’s
44 Chandezon 2003; summary in Bresson 2016: 135–138.
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broader development over the Archaic period can explain why Classical Helot-
age assumed the unusual shape that it did.
4.1 Status
As several scholars have pointed out, slaves in the Homeric poems are privately
owned and alienable: they are bought, sold, given away, and inherited.45 Such
a form of dependency would once have been seen as impossible to connect
with the institution of Helotage: the Helots, according to a popular view, were
owned by the state, not by individuals. However, as we noted earlier (2.2, supra)
this has been disproven by Ducat, who has shown that the sources supporting
this view are late and contradicted by the contemporary testimony of Ephorus,
who claims that the Helots were privately owned but could not be manumit-
ted or sold beyond the boundaries (ἔξω τῶν ὅρων), and of Aristotle, who uses
them as an example—alongside horses and hounds—of private property in
Sparta that could be borrowed by their owner’s fellow citizens without ask-
ing his permission.46 The Spartan state made other inroads into the rights of
Helot owners, such as allowing kryptoi to kill certain Helots (Plu. Lyc. 28.1–5);
and citizens were also permitted to beat the Helot of their peers ([Xen.] Ath.
Pol. 1.10–12). But as we shall see (§5, infra), these measures were all rational
responses to other problems in Spartan society. At any rate, Helotage was a sys-
tem of private slavery, but one that had accrued many distinctive attributes by
the fourth century: it can be seen as representing a traditional form of slavery
tailored to suit the specific needs of Spartan society.
4.2 Town and Country

In a superb recent essay Stephen Hodkinson has sketched an outline of the
Helot economy as it operated in the countryside of Classical Laconia and
Messenia.47 The Helots lived and worked on the lands of their owners and
ensured that a proportion of the produce would be delivered regularly to their
owners’ households in Sparta. They would, naturally, keep some of this pro-
duce for their own subsistence. Hodkinson has suggested a 50/50 split—a kind
of sharecropping arrangement—and that seems to be the most likely solution,
though it has been disputed.48 What we can be certain of is the content and
quantity of foodstuffs and money required as mess contributions, which we
45 Fisher 1995: 49–50; Schmidt 2006; Ndoye 2010: 226–300; Harris 2012: 354–355.
46 Ephorus FGrHist 70 F117; Arist. Pol. 1263a 35–37 with Ducat 1990: 19–29; Luraghi 2002: 228–
229.
47 Hodkinson 2003, republished as idem 2008.
48 Hodkinson 1992 passim; idem 2000: 125–131. Disputed: Luraghi 2009: 277–278.
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have from Aristotle’s student Dicaearchus (fr. 72 [Wehrli] ap. Athen. 141c), and
whose information tallies with that of Plutarch (Lyc. 12.2), which seems to draw
on the lost Aristotelian Lakedaimonion Politeia.49 This included barley flour,
wine, cheese, and figs, as well as money that was spent on meat, more specific-
ally, pork.50 Beyond these requirements we can add voluntary contributions of
wheaten bread donated by the rich (Xen. Lac.Pol. 5.3), any animals bagged in
the hunt (Dicaearchus fr. 72 [Wehrli] ap. Athen. 141b) and, if we can trust the
Hellenistic writer Molpis, livestock such as lambs and kids (FGrHist 590 F2c).51
The basic picture that we can derive from these sources is one in which the
Helot workers exercised a high degree of independence in the production and
processing of cereals and fruit, as well as the rearing of animals and processing
of milk into cheese. These products, plus the animals themselves, were trans-
ported from the countryside to Sparta itself, at which point mess dues could
be paid and surpluses could be sold for cash in Sparta’s large marketplace.52
Hodkinson argues for the existence of an organisational hierarchy among the
Helots, which is surely right.53
Although certain aspects of this practice were distinctively Spartan, the
basic contours of the economic relations between the owner resident in town
and his slaves resident in the country have well-attested antecedents in Homer.
If we turn to the Odyssey, we find such relations described in detail. In Book 14,
Odysseus comes in disguise to the hut of the slave Eumaeus. Eumaeus is the
foreman over a group of four other slave swineherds (Od. 14.20–25); when we
meet him, one swineherd is away from the hut, droving a pig into town to
be slaughtered for the suitors’ feast in the house of Odysseus (Od. 14.26–28).
Eumaeus describes the wealth of Odysseus as follows:
Twelve herds of cattle on the mainland. As many sheepflocks,

as many troops of pigs and again as many wide goatflocks,
and xenoi over there, and his own herdsmen, pasture them for him.
And here again, at the end of the island, eleven wide flocks
49 See Hodkinson 2000: 191–192.

50 See Naiden 2013: 250–258.
51 See Hodkinson 2000: 356–358; van Wees 2017: 240–244.
52 For the large size of Sparta’s agora, see Xen. Hell. 3.3.5–7. For the morning pig market, see
Athenaeus 140b with Naiden 2013: 254. For roads and routes in Laconia see Pikoulas 2012;
Christien 2018.
53 Hodkinson 2008: 308–309. Even if Schmitz 2014 is correct in claiming that the term
mnoionomos has been incorrectly emended by Wilamowitz and does not mean ‘Helot
overseer’, the Helots will have had to be overseen by somebody, probably other Helots:
cf. Luraghi 2002: 230.
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of goats in all are pastured, good men have these in their keeping.
And day by day each of these people brings in for the suitors
a sheep, and each brings in the fatted goat that seems finest,
and I myself keep watch on these pigs and guard them, and I too
choose with care the best of the pigs, and send it off to them.
hom. Od. 14.100–108, trans. lattimore with one change
From the reference to the many herds and flocks managed by Odysseus’ own
slaves plus (presumably hired) xenoi, we can see a strong resemblance to the
‘on-the-ground’ operation of Helotage: in both cases we find slaves who are
almost entirely free from interference or supervision from their owners. Some
hierarchy exists among them.54 Absenteeism is the norm, and indeed many
of Odysseus’ herds are pastured on the mainland across from Ithaca. Both
Helots and the slaves of Odysseus subsist off of the products of their labour:
Eumaeus refers to the smaller pigs that slaves are allowed to eat, as opposed to
the fattened swine earmarked for the suitors (Od. 14.80–81). And both deliver
the products of their labour to their owner’s house in town at regular inter-
vals (Od. 14.105–108; 20.162–163; 20.173–175; 20.185–187). One cannot claim that
the Odyssey reflects a largely pastoral economy and the later sources on Helot-
age an arable economy: the products delivered to the Classical Spartan mess at
mixed intervals constitute a mixture of cereals with the products of arboricul-
ture and animal husbandry; likewise, though Odysseus’ livestock is described
in detail, his slaves are also described as engaged in the intensive farming of cer-
eal crops (Od. 17.297–299) which are consumed by herders like Eumaeus (Od.
16.51). Seen in this light, the structure of Helotage in Sparta’s agrarian economy
can be viewed as merely adapting traditional practices to operate within the
exceptional extent of territory that Sparta controlled in the Classical period
and to fit with her system of phiditia; the extreme absenteeism at Sparta can
be viewed as simply representing an extension of an earlier reality, albeit to
rather remarkable lengths.
4.3 Slave Families

Scholars rarely agree on points of detail regarding the Helots, but one point on
which consensus exists is on how the population was maintained numerically
over time. There seems to be little sign of imports from abroad; the cohes-
iveness of the Helots as a group further points to the fact that they were a
54 Thus Eumaeus is in charge of this group of herdsmen; Philoetius another (Od. 20.185), and
Melanthius (Od. 20.173–175) yet another.
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self-reproducing population. This is not a historical oddity: by the eve of the US

Civil War almost all of the slaves of the US South were ‘home born.’ The Atlantic
slave trade had been closed formally in 1808, and through fostering slave fam-
ilies as a social institution the supply of the next generation of slaves through
natural reproduction was easily assured.55 Indeed, in both the US South and
among the Helots, slave families were the vital social institution that guaran-
teed stability in the population over the long term (cf. Thuc. 1.103).56
It should be pointed out, then, that the institution of the slave family and the
use of such families to produce a new generation of slaves are already present
in the Odyssey. The best example of this is the elderly slave Dolius, who cohab-
its with an unnamed slave woman from Sicily: this slave couple have raised
six sons (Od. 24.383–390), not to mention the perfidious slaves Melantho and
Melanthius, also called children of Dolius (Od. 17.212; 18.322). This is not the
only reference to slave reproduction. As Harris has noted, the fact that Eurycleia
served as a wet nurse suggests that she has given birth herself.57 One of the
reasons why Odysseus is seen as a good master is that he would reward loyal
service from his male slaves with gifts of a slave wife and a dwelling, as recoun-
ted by Eumaeus at Od. 14.61–67: these same boons are again mentioned at Od.
21.213–216 as prospective rewards for Eumaeus and Philoetius, should they join
Odysseus in fighting against the suitors. The practice of allowing slaves to set
up a household together and have children, thus providing a supply of slaves,
was a traditional practice that can be understood as having, by the Classical
period, eclipsed all other strategies of slave supply in Sparta.
4.4 Slave Incentives

One facet of Helotage that some scholars draw attention to in order to distance
it from the form of ‘chattel slavery’ prevalent in Attica, is the notion that the
Helots had rights to marry and own property. Here is not the place to labour on
this point, but two things need to be emphasised. First, as Luraghi has high-
lighted, all that our sources show is that Helots lived in family groups and
possessed property, not that they had any formal ‘rights’ reinforcing these priv-
ileges.58 Secondly, we have a very detailed comparandum that runs along the
same lines if we turn to the system of slavery at Gortyn. Aristotle compared
the slave systems of Crete to Helotage (Arist. Pol. 1271b41–1272a1; fr. 586 [Rose]
= fr. 603, 1–2 [Gigon]), and a close look at the Gortynian rules shows a sim-
55 Tadman 2000: 1534–1535.

56 See further Lewis 2015: 325–327.
57 Harris 2012: 349 n. 9.
58 Luraghi 2002: 229–230.
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ilar pattern: slaves could live as families and possess goods and dwellings, yet
had no formal legal rights to them.59 More germane to our present focus is the
issue of whether these arrangements were peculiar to Sparta and other ‘Helotic’
systems of slavery. Yet if we look closely at Homer, we can see traditional pre-
cedents for these practices. We have already noted the gift of wives and houses
to slaves as rewards for loyal service, and other perquisites are mentioned in the
poem too; this is similar to what we find among the Helots during the fourth
century bc.60 Yet again, another alleged peculiarity of Helotage can be seen
simply as a traditional practice that had grown in importance, but was not in
itself anything fundamentally new or innovative.
4.5 Use of Slaves in Warfare and Incentives to Manumission

The only way that a Helot could gain his freedom was through fighting for the
Spartan state. As Cartledge puts it, state manumission of Helot veterans ‘was
practised by the Spartans with considerable managerial art.’61 Many Helots,
on the other hand, were used in warfare and did not achieve freedom.62 Were
these customs another Spartan oddity? If we turn to the Odyssey, we can find
such practices in embryonic form. When Odysseus readies himself to take on
the suitors, he asks two of his slaves, Eumaeus and Philoetius, to join him in
the venture. As an incentive for this dangerous work, he promises the pair a
wife and a house each, and that he will make them brothers and hetairoi of
Telemachus (Od. 21.213–216). This latter overture may be an offer of manumis-
sion.63 At any rate, the slaves assent and join Odysseus in the slaughter. When
the families of the dead suitors march against Odysseus for vengeance, he once
more calls on his slaves for help, this time without any promise of manumis-
sion: Dolius and his six sons join Odysseus, Laertes, Eumaeus, and Philoetius
in arming themselves and facing their master’s enemies (Od. 24.496–501). One
might suppose that these references are mere literary features required by the
plot, a fictional device, since Odysseus is in exceptional circumstances and has
no other allies. But two further passages militate against this conclusion. First
is Od. 16.305–315, where Odysseus’ identity has become known to Telemachus.
Odysseus counsels his son to silence and says that he will visit his male slaves
in order to see if they are still loyal. The implication is that he will mobilise
them to help him expel or destroy the suitors. Telemachus replies by dissuading
59 See Lewis 2013; Lewis 2018: 147–157.

60 On Homeric incentives see Hunnings 2011; on Helots cf. Hodkinson 2008: 292–294.
61 Cartledge 2003: 18; see also Paradiso 2008.
62 Such as the Helots who fought at the Battle of Plataea: Hunt 1997.
63 See Zanovello, this volume.
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Odysseus from doing so on the grounds that it will take too long. Nevertheless,
the implication is that a master in need of fighting men can call on his loyal
slaves to help him against his enemies. The second passage is Od. 4.642–644.
In this passage, the suitors learn that Telemachus has taken a galley and sailed
off to his father’s friend Nestor. Antinoös, most prominent of the suitors, asks
who accompanied him as rowers: chosen Ithacans, or his hired workers and
slaves? (6.643–644: Ἰθάκης ἐξαίρετοι, ἦ ἑοὶ αὐτοῦ θῆτές τε δμῶές τε;). Voyages by
sea such as that undertaken by Telemachus are common in Homer and often
involve violent confrontation.64 Again, the implication is that a man might
draw upon his slaves for fighting manpower in times of action, and that this
could be effected with or without the promise of manumission. Once more,
the basic kernel of the later practice can be found in Homer. Although the use
of Helots in warfare by the Classical Spartans involved several distinctive fea-
tures, most notably the monopoly of the right of manumission by the state and
a high degree of centralised organisation, the practice can be seen once again
not as a local oddity but as a development of practices that were already in
place in the early Archaic period.
4.6 Sons of Mixed Marriages

Xenophon (Hell. 5.3.9) describes a Spartan army sent against Olynthus in 381 bc:
‘Many of the perioikic kaloi kagathoi accompanied them willingly, as well
as xenoi from those called the ‘foster brothers’ (trophimoi) and bastard sons
(nothoi) of the Spartiates, extremely fine-looking men, and not unacquainted
with the good things of the city.’ Hodkinson has demonstrated that these nothoi
were the sons of Spartiates and Helot women.65 Here, we have the sons of
mixed-status unions being brought up not only as free dependants of the Spar-
tiate oikos, but as individuals with some acquaintance with the military ideals
and training of the citizen class, indeed serving as warriors on campaign. If we
look once more at the Iliad and Odyssey, we can find traditional precedents
for this social practice. The best parallel is found in Odysseus’ Cretan yarn (Od.
14.199–206, tr. Lattimore):
I announce that my origin is from Crete, a spacious

land; I am son of a rich man, and there were many other
64 See Jackson 1993. Stephen Hodkinson has reminded me that one category of manumitted
Helots—the desposionautai—likely consisted of oarsmen. See Myron FGrHist 106 F1.
65 Hodkinson 1997b: 53–54. For the only other alternative—and a most unlikely one—that
the nothoi were the children of adulterous relations between citizens, see Hodkinson’s
comment at 1997b: 53 n. 18. Cf. Ogden 1996: 217–218, who takes the same view.
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sons who were born to him and reared in his palace. These were
lawful sons by his wife, but a bought woman, a concubine,
was my mother, yet I was favoured with the legitimate
sons by Kastor, Hylakos’ son, whom I claim as father,
honoured among the Cretans in the countryside as a god is,
in those days, for wealth and power and glorious children.
Bastard sons of slave concubines who are brought up in the household as war-
riors alongside their legitimate brothers, also include Megapenthes (Od. 4.10–
12), Democoön (Il. 4.499), Pedaeus (Il. 5.69–71), Teucer (Il. 8.281–284), Issus (Il.
11.102), Doryclus (Il. 11.489–490), Medon (Il. 15.333) and Cebriones (Il. 16.738).
This is precisely the same practice that we find in Sparta in the time of Xeno-
phon. Again, this custom need not be seen as a Spartan oddity, but can be
interpreted as a traditional practice that had persisted down to the fourth cen-
tury, a sign of conservatism rather than Spartan idiosyncrasy (cf. Meister, this
volume).66
5 Helotage in Transition
The previous section of this essay has dealt with two synchronic snapshots:
first, the slave system of the Homeric poems (or at least its historically plausible
features); secondly, a composite picture of Helotage assembled from a number
of well-informed sources from Thucydides down to Aristotle. What I have not
explained is how the former could have transformed into the latter; it is to this
problem that we will now turn.
Perhaps the best way to account for this process is to recall the general evolu-
tion of Archaic Sparta. Down to the sixth century, Sparta was mainly engaged in
the settlement of Laconia and in military expansion to the west of the Taÿgetus
Mountains, providing her with the largest territory of any Greek polis of the
time. Sparta’s early conquests did not continue unabated: planned expansion
against her Arcadian neighbours to the north failed, and Sparta switched her
strategy from one of direct territorial conquest to an approach based on estab-
lishing herself at the head of a network of alliances within the Peloponnese.67
Internally, Sparta underwent a series of changes, including the institutional-
66 Likewise, Critias (88B fr. 44 D-K) claims that the poet Archilochus was the illegitimate son
of a slave concubine.
67 For recent debate over the nature of the so-called Peloponnesian League see Cawkwell
1993; Yates 2005.
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isation of citizen status as the ability to exist as a leisured hoplite warrior

supported economically through ownership of a sufficient amount of land and
slaves.68 Whereas previously, Sparta had participated in the sympotic culture
of the broader Greek world, this process of institutionalisation retooled com-
mensal practices into a system of common messes, phiditia, requiring daily
attendance (and thus presence in the town of Sparta), as well as the monthly
contribution of fixed amounts of produce.69 The visibility of positional goods
came to be downplayed; Sparta became economically inward looking, and her
citizens avoided commercial activity and foreign trade.70
Let us now consider how these processes could have affected the evolu-
tion of Helotage (and let us here assume, for the purpose of argument, that
we are beginning from a system that displayed the basic hallmarks of the
‘Archaic model’ set out in §3, supra). As noted above, a number of slave-supply
strategies are known from Archaic literature: warfare, sea raiding, trade with
non-Greek regions, arbitrary seizure, debt, and the natural reproduction of
existing slaves. Warfare likely played an important role in the early stages of
Sparta’s slave system, especially after the conquest of Messene (which we may
take, following Luraghi, to indicate a town, not the whole region, although
the latter was eventually subjected to Spartan rule by military means).71 We
can gain a glimpse of the contribution of warfare at an early stage of the his-
tory of Helotage in Herodotus’ account of the Battle of the Fetters (Hdt. 1.66).
According to this account, the Spartans marched north on the strength of a
(characteristically vague) Delphic oracle, planning to conquer and enslave the
Tegeans, and brought with them large numbers of fetters; but they miscon-
strued the meaning of the oracle and were defeated. The captured Spartans
became slaves of the Tegeans and worked their land, and the fetters, dedicated
in the temple of Athena Alea, were still visible in Herodotus’ day. This story
shows that Sparta still depended on war for some of her slaves during the sixth
century, but that this supply strategy was faltering and unreliable. It is, further-
more, improbable that many slaves reached Sparta via the sea, either by raiding
or by trading, by this date. Under these conditions, the growing importance of
Helot families and natural reproduction makes good sense, as does the law ban-
ning private manumission and external sale. This not only plugged any possible
68 The classic study of the ‘sixth-century revolution’ is Finley 1981: 24–40. Cf. Hodkinson
1997a.
69 Nafissi 1991: 206–226; Hodkinson 2000: 216–218; Rabinowitz 2009: 163–165.
70 See Hodkinson 2000: 209–271.
71 Cf. Hodkinson 2008: 302: ‘it is unlikely that the entire region which later became Messenia
had been united before the Spartan conquest.’
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leaks to the numerical integrity of the slave population, but also kept citizens at
arms-length from trade, as well as, reallocating the social capital of manumis-
sion (and its value as a mechanism of private patronage)72 to the state, much
as xenia was transformed into proxenia, with the right of appointing proxenoi
allocated to the Spartan kings (Hdt. 6.57); or the move from bringing back fallen
warriors for individual burial inside Sparta (Tyrtaios fr. 12 [West]) to burials
near where they fell in battle, with plain headstones.73 After a few generations
any mixed origins would have disappeared. As Luraghi puts it, ‘if (…) Helotry
was formalized at some point in the first half of the sixth century, by the mid-
fifth century the Helots, having been de facto a self-reproducing group over
generations, probably without inputs from outside, were bound to start per-
ceiving themselves as a group, regardless of ethnic origin.’74
As for other striking aspects of Helotage, these can be linked to general
Spartan institutional developments. The Classical economic structure of Hel-
otage was a direct consequence of the introduction of the system of phiditia
combined with the exceptional extent of Sparta’s territory, but this mixture
had unfortunate consequences: constant presence of the citizenry in Sparta led
to rampant absenteeism, a problem that came to a head with the great earth-
quake of 464bc and the subsequent revolt. Rather than dissolving the mess-
system and letting the citizens disperse to their individual estates in Laconia
and Messenia, it seems plausible that the variety of cruel punitive measures
known from Classical sources were introduced around, or shortly after, this
time (but probably not all at once) to cow the Helots and enforce compliance.75
Other apparent oddities—such as the fact that Spartiates could beat the Hel-
ots of other owners—appear less odd when we remember that Spartiates could
also corporally punish the children of other citizens, break up fights between
groups of youths (Xen. Lac. Pol. 2.10; 6.1–2; 4.6), and strike the tresantes, a group
72 On patronage in Sparta see Hodkinson 1997b; 2000: 335–368.

73 See Hodkinson 2000: 237–270 for discussion of the transformation. On Helotage rules,
cf. Luraghi 2002: 234, ‘[T]he law or custom inhibiting the sale of Helots abroad and their
manumission made of them a self-reproducing slave population, which in its turn allowed
the Spartiates to be self-sufficient in terms of labour-force and freed them from the neces-
sity to acquire slaves regularly by trade or war. In other words, relying upon the helots, the
Spartiates could reduce their involvement with the productive process, keep away from
economic activities like slave trade, and minimize their contacts with the outer world,
three obviously attractive goals for late archaic and early classical Sparta.’ See also Ducat
1990: 23; Luraghi 2002: 229; van Wees 2003: 70; Zurbach 2013: 973.
74 Luraghi 2002: 239.
75 See Flower 2002: 206–207.
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composed of Spartiates demoted for displaying cowardice in the field, if they

comported themselves in a manner that belied their disgraced status (Xen. Lac.
Pol. 9.5; Plu. Ages. 30).76 Here, attitudes to Helots aligned with general Spartan
attitudes towards the corporal punishment of those of inferior rank. As for the
borrowing of Helots, our Classical sources make it clear that this was not an
isolated feature of Helotage but a general Spartan cultural attitude to useful
items of private property and included hunting dogs, horses, and food (Xen.
Lac. Pol. 6.3; Arist. Pol. 1263a35–37). The alleged ban on Helots singing the songs
of certain poets aligns with general Spartan cultural traits to do with speech
codes, deference, and censorship (Plu. Lyc. 28.4–5; cf. Xen. Lac.Pol. 3.4–5; Her-
aclides Lembus frs. 11 & 13 [Dilts]; Plu. Apoph. Lac. 223a; Inst. Lac. 34.239b with
Critias 88B F44 D–K). In toto, almost every apparently peculiar feature of Hel-
otage can be contextualised and understood in terms of both Sparta’s Classical
institutions and its long-term historical development—in other words, as the
outcome of many minor contingent historical changes that occurred at the
local level.
6 From Divergence to Convergence
The model adumbrated above can explain more than just the evolution of Hel-
otage; for if we turn to Attica, several different local developments produced
very different results. First, and unlike Sparta, the Athenians embraced com-
merce with the wider world. The result was a gradual but vast expansion in
the range and complexity of economic activity: as mining, manufacturing, and
trade grew in significance, the range of tasks to which slaves could be put multi-
plied greatly; and institutions like Athens’ demosioi reflect broader processes of
state formation. Secondly, Attica’s openness to trade will have provided (as per
Rihll’s model) improved access to barbarian slaves over time. Thirdly, political
changes closed down two supply sources, viz. debt and sea raiding: although
Solon’s reforms were not fundamental to the development of slavery in Greece
(cf. 2.4, supra), they did at least rule out the enslavement of free persons on
Attic soil; and the development of a publicly owned fleet and the withering of
private plundering-raids removed another supply source.77 The cheapness of
imported slaves eroded the rationale of fostering slave families as a social insti-
tution.78
76 Ducat 2006.
77 Harris 2002; Gabrielsen 2001; van Wees 2013b; cf. Casson 1995.
78 Lewis 2015; 2018: 269–290; esp. 281 n. 45.
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Slavery in Crete, by contrast, still retained many traditional features during

the fifth-fourth century. The closest sentiments to those found in the skolion
of the Cretan slaveholder Hybrias (Athen. Deip. 15.695f–696a) are to be found
in Homer (Il. 12.310–321) and Archilochus (Elegy 2 [West]). The growth of writ-
ten law on the island from c. 650 onwards led to an increasingly sophisticated
organisation of slavery, best seen at Gortyn, where elaborate rules governed
complexities both in the family lives of slaves and those engendered by the
economic exploitation of slaves in Gortyn’s unusually large (by Cretan stand-
ards) chora.79 Of the sources of slaves, we can say only a little. Crete’s inclusion
early on in the tradition of comparing Helotage to other servile populations
shows that its slaves were monoglot Greek speakers; that makes sense in terms
of Crete’s trading network, which was low-volume and fairly localised, mean-
ing that significant numbers of foreign slaves are unlikely to have reached the
island.80 The prominence of slave families in Gortynian law might reflect the
importance of reproduction to the slave supply. War and raiding are not to
be discounted;81 the technology of raiding galleys of the time tended towards
short-range activities, meaning that its victims were probably Greeks of the
nearby coasts and islands.82 The Gortynians thought hard about the problem of
debt; we know they had legally regulated forms of debt bondage, and perhaps,
as at Athens, this prevented citizens becoming slaves.83
Yet despite the foregoing emphasis on long-term organic processes, abrupt
events and conquest ought not to be excluded tout court. Warfare was of chief
importance in the enslavement of the Mariandynoi after the establishment of
the colony of Heraclea on the Black Sea coast; and although due to a paucity
of sources we cannot exclude the possibility of a more complex, multi-factor
development, Heraclea’s wars against the local non-Greek population are well
attested. Like Sparta’s attempt to extend its chora into Arcadia and enslave loc-
als who got in the way, the Heracleotes were doing the same thing well into
the fifth century bc, expanding their chora towards Bithynia to the west.84 The
passage of time, however, saw these processes of divergence slow; for as we
move into the Hellenistic period, long-term economic growth and expanding
trade networks gradually integrated regions that were previously quite cut off.
79 Lewis 2013; Dickey and Probert 2017. On Gortyn’s economy see Davies 2005.
80 This follows even if one adopts the more optimistic view of Cretan trade in Perlman 2004
and Erickson 2005.
81 On Cretan warfare see Gehrke 1997 and Lewis (forthcoming c); for the association between
Crete and sea raiding see Hom. Od. 14.199–359; Hdt. 1.2; Brulé 1978.
82 See Diod. 31.38 with Brulé 1978: 62; cf. Diod. 31.45.
83 Kristensen 2004.
84 Burstein 1976: 28–30.
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One need only look at the Ozolian Locrians, who were so backward in Thucy-
dides’ day that he compared their customs to those of the heroic age (1.5), yet
by the second century bc imported slaves from all over the known world: Thra-
cians, Syrians, Arabs, Medes, Phoenicians, Sarmatians, and Anatolians (Gala-
tians, Phrygians, Tibaranians).85 It was in this period that most ‘Helotic’ slave
systems withered away, thereafter becoming the topic of scholarly reflection,
aetiological invention, and etymological speculation. Economic growth, then,
threw the Archaic processes of local divergence into reverse; or to be more
precise, on a convergence course towards a more market-oriented form of
slavery, one that had long been established among the more economically
advanced city-states, and came to be widespread across the Roman Mediter-
ranean.
7 Conclusions
It is in the nature of the problem that any model of the development of slavery
in Greece from c. 700–400bc will involve a significant degree of uncertainty
and guesswork, and the solution proposed here is proposed in full acknowledg-
ment of the problem of extreme uncertainty. However, though very different to
alternative models, it has in my view several advantages over its competitors.
First, although not excluding the importance of warfare as a key process in the
formation of early Greek slave systems, it does not build its case on late charter
myths dating to hundreds of years after the events they purport to describe. It is
therefore in part compatible with van Wees’ emphasis on conquest, but views
this as just one component of a range of processes of enslavement attested in
Archaic texts. Secondly, it can incorporate many of the advances of previous
scholarship, such as the emphases of Rihll and Descat on organic change and
the consequences of expanding trade networks, whilst discarding their several
limitations. Thirdly, it is compatible with the comparative approach outlined
by Luraghi, but integrates more fully the Archaic poetic materials. What we are
looking at by the time of the Classical era, I suggest, is the outcome of a series
of processes, operative over the long term, whose differing regional configura-
tions, influenced by local historical developments, led to multiple trajectories
of development and, concomitantly, a patchwork of diverse local slave systems.
85 Blavatskaja 1972: 60–62.
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Acknowledgements
Oral versions of this chapter were delivered at Edinburgh (June 2014), Liverpool
(April 2015) and Chicago (May 2015). I would like to thank Wendy Healey and
Alain Bresson for the latter two invitations, and the respective audiences for
their questions, comments, and criticisms. Edward Harris, Nino Luraghi, Alain
Bresson, Stephen Hodkinson, and the editors all kindly read and commented
on drafts of the essay; I thank them for their advice, and needless to say they
should not be implicated in my overall thesis. This chapter expands on Lewis
2018: 120–122. I have written Lewis (forthcoming a) as a companion piece for
this chapter, exploring synchronically a range of epichoric slave systems in clas-
sical Greece. Translations are my own unless otherwise specified.
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Archaic Greece’. In Luraghi, N., and Alcock, S. (eds.). Helots and their Masters in Lac-
onia and Messenia. Histories, Ideologies, Structures. Cambridge Mass. and London:
33–80.
ion to Archaic Greece. Malden Mass.: 444–467.
Van Wees, H. 2013a. ‘Farmers and Hoplites. Models of Historical Development’. In
Kagan, D., and Viggiano, G. (eds.). Men of Bronze. Hoplite Warfare in Ancient Greece.
Princeton and Oxford: 222–255.
Van Wees, H. 2013b. Ships and Silver, Taxes and Tribute. A Fiscal History of Archaic
Athens. London.
Van Wees, H. 2017. ‘The Common Messes’. In Powell, A. (ed.). A Companion to Sparta.
Hoboken NJ and Chichester: 236–268.
Welwei, K.-W. 2008. ‘Ursprung, Verbreitung und Formen der Unfreiheit abhängiger
Landbewohner im antiken Griechenland’. In Hermann-Otto, E. (ed.). Unfreie und
abhängige Landbevölkerung. Hildsheim, Zurich and New York: 1–52.
Yates, D.C. 2005. ‘The Archaic Treaties between the Spartans and their Allies’. CQ 55,
65–76.
Zelnick-Abramovitz, R. 2005. Not Wholly Free. The Concept of Manumission and the
Status of Manumitted Slaves in the Ancient Greek World. Leiden.
Zurbach, J. 2013. ‘La formation des cités grecques. Statuts, classes et systèmes fonciers’.
Annales HSS 68: 957–998.
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chapter 4
Homer and the Vocabulary of Manumission

Sara Zanovello
1 Introduction1
The nature and implications of the liberation of slaves in the Greek world
have often been ignored by scholars, whose attention has primarily focused
on the legal, social, and economic impact of ancient slavery.2 Notwithstand-
ing the sizeable body of literature on slavery in Greece, recent scholarship has
often failed to provide an exhaustive and comprehensive discussion of Greek
manumission: with the exception of outdated works by Calderini3 and Rädle,4
the only monograph on manumission is that of Zelnick-Abramovitz.5 Some
other works do deal with Greek manumission, yet their treatment of this topic
is only ever cursory, within the context of wider discussions of slavery6 or
Greek society.7 Most of these studies analyse single aspects of manumission8
and their focus is confined to specific geographical,9 or chronological,10 con-
texts.
One aspect of Greek manumission that has received limited attention is that
of its historical origins, which—as a legacy of modern discussions of Greek
1 This chapter showcases some of the arguments developed—about Greek manumission

in general, and well beyond the Homeric poems—in Zanovello, 2021.
2 For a complete bibliography on Greek slavery, cf. Heinen 2001.
3 Calderini 1965.
4 Rädle 1969.
5 Zelnick-Abramovitz 2005.
6 Andreau, Descat 2006: 198–206; Garlan 1988; Finley 1981.
7 Gschnitzer 1981: 190–196.
8 Such as the nature of παραμονή, see: Samuel 1965: 221–311; Waldstein 1986; Westermann
1948: 9–50; the religious dimension of certain forms of manumission in Central Greece,
see: Bömer 1960; Sokolowski 1954: 173–181; the social position of freedmen and their rela-
tionship with other members of Greek society, see: Bearzot 2005: 77–92; Dimopoulou-
Piliouni 2008: 27–50; Finley 1954: 233–249.
9 Babacos 1962: 494–503; Cabanes 1974: 105–209; Lewis 1959: 208–238; Martini 1995: 11–18;
2005: 46–47; Meyer 2010; Mulliez 1992: 31–44; Tod 1901: 197–230; Westermann 1946: 92–
104.
10 Lencman; Nieto 1982: 21–29.

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slavery—is generally believed not to be found before the Classical period or,
more specifically, not before the sixth century bc. This is due to traditional
notions about the emergence of the institution of slavery qua talis, which, for a
long time, has been placed in the sixth century bc and, as with Athens, in close
connection with the reforms carried out by Solon.11
Since the very nature of manumission implies a transition from a condition
of slavery to one of freedom, it is immediately clear that any discussion about
the liberation of slaves in the Iliad and in the Odyssey presupposes the existence
of the institution of slavery. For this reason, traditional views on the origins of
Greek slavery have prevented a correct understanding of the origins of manu-
mission in ancient Greece.
Very few scholars have dealt with the existence of manumission in the
Homeric poems.12 When facing the problem concerning the origins of Greek
manumission, some of them simply take for granted that Homeric society
did not know the social and legal juxtaposition between free individuals and
slaves,13 since, as noted above, it has been commonly accepted that slavery
began to play an important role only after the social changes occurred in the
sixth century bc.14 Some other scholars, while acknowledging the existence of
slavery in the poems, underestimate its importance and connotations, describ-
ing Homeric slavery as ‘mild’ and ‘paternalistic’ and, therefore, as having noth-
ing or little in common with the so-called ‘chattel-slavery’ of the Classical
11 Meyer 2010; Finley 1954; 1980.

12 The only works specifically dealing with Homeric manumission are the articles by Nieto
1982; N’doye 2008; Bouvier 2008. However, as we shall see, their contributions are not
entirely persuasive, and the issue of manumission in Homer requires further study.
13 One of the main supporters of this idea is Garlan, who argued that the condition of
Homeric slaves was not clear at all if compared to that of other individuals who were leg-
ally free, such as the θήτες and the θεράποντες. Traditional scholarship had often noted
that while in the fifth century bc there was a specific term designating Greek slaves
(δοῦλος), in the Homeric poems, together with δμῶες and δμωαί which exclusively refer
to slaves, there were many other words which could be used both for free individuals
and for slaves and which reflected their role in the οἶκος, such as οἰκεύς and δρηστήρ.
This usage of some terms referring both to slaves and to free individuals led scholars
to much confusion about the boundaries between freedom and slavery in the Homeric
poems: Garlan, for instance, maintains that the main distinction within Homeric soci-
ety was between nobles and non-nobles, and that there was no juxtaposition between
slaves and free individuals (with the consequence that no forms of manumissions can
be found in the poems: Garlan 1988: 31). This idea is shared by Todd 1993: 171, who
believes that ‘in the Homeric poems … the distinction between slaves and citizens means
little’.
14 Cf. Meyer 1910; Finley 1978: 34: for detailed criticism of these positions, see Harris 2012.
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homer and the vocabulary of manumission 95
age:15 according to these theories, Homeric slavery was closer to the phe-
nomenon of serfdom.16
These positions have been challenged by recent studies, most notably Har-
ris’ recent essay ‘Homer, Hesiod, and the “Origins” of Greek Slavery’ which, by
combining social and legal data, has convincingly proved that slavery did exist,
and was commonly practised, in the society represented in the Iliad and in the
Odyssey. Thus, Homeric slavery did not differ fundamentally from the so-called
‘chattel-slavery’ of the Classical age.17
In this essay, I aim to move beyond the aforementioned discussions on
Homeric slavery, with the aim of offering a new and fresh analysis on the modes
and effects of the liberation of slaves in the Iliad and in the Odyssey. First, I
will show that manumission is attested in the world of the Iliad and the Odys-
sey. Secondly, a careful analysis of the evidence from the Homeric poems will
also show that their society clearly perceived manumission as a social and legal
phenomenon, implying the transition from slavery to freedom. This discussion
therefore seeks to shed new light on this issue of primary importance, given
that the practice of manumission further proves that slavery was not a new
reality at the time of Solon’s reforms but, rather, that this institution had an
important and fundamental antecedent in Homeric society.
A careful examination of the vocabulary used by Homer in different contexts
is vital: the poems show specific ways of reducing an individual to slave status
which, in turn, lead to different forms of manumission.
The main methods of enslavement represented in the poems are the seizure
of individuals by pirates and defeat in battle: it is no surprise that in Book 15 of
the Odyssey the disguised Odysseus asks Eumaeus if he fell into slavery after his
15 Todd 1993: 184; ‘Slavery in classical Athens meant chattel-slavery: in this respect, any
slaves found in Homer are wholly different from their classical successors’. This view is
commonly based on the mention of particularly privileged slaves in the Odyssey, such
as Eumaeus and Euricleia, and it led to the opinion that ‘the treatment of slaves by
their owners was notably mild and kindly … the Homeric poems represent the slaves,
on the whole, as loyal and devoted, often to the point that relations of marked affec-
tion existed between them and members of the households of which they were a part’
(Westermann 1955: 3; the same view is shared by Garlan 1988: 35). For detailed criticism
of these opinions and for an accurate survey of the evidence showing that slavery in
Homer shared the same basic features of that of Classical Athens, see, once again, Harris
2012. See also Thalmann 1998, who points out the ideological purposes of this presenta-
tion.
16 Beringer 1960; 1982; Morris 1987: 178.
17 See also van Wees 1992: 49–53, who showed that slavery was the fundamental source of
labour in Homeric society.
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home town was destroyed in war, or because he was kidnapped by Phoenician

merchants and then sold to the king of Ithaca.18
Since war is described in both poems as the primary source of slaves, I will
first analyse the evidence from the Iliad to show that the vocabulary used
clearly points to specific forms of reduction into slavery, and of the liberation
of slaves, in a war-context.19
2 The Transcultural Value of the Right of Ownership
Before analysing the Homeric vocabulary of slavery and manumission, it is

important to understand that the relationship between slaves and their masters
is based on the right of ownership of the latter over the former. Legally speak-
ing, ‘the slave is an article of property (the object of the relationship) that is
subject to the ownership (the relationship itself) of his master (the subject of
the relationship)’.20
Yet, prior to being preserved in written legislation, and far from being an
invention of the Roman jurists, private ownership is a concept which is trans-
culturally recognised by all human societies, displaying certain consistent fea-
tures across time and space. The transcultural value of ownership has been
highlighted by Honoré. After describing ownership as ‘the greatest possible
interest in a thing which a mature system of laws recognizes’, Honoré states
that ‘since all mature systems admit the existence of “interests” in “things”, all
mature systems have, in a sense, a concept of ownership. Indeed, even primit-
ive systems … have rules by which certain persons … have greater interests in
certain things than anyone else’.21 Having an interest in what is his, means that
the owner can ‘use it, stop others using it, lend it, sell it, or leave it by will’.22
These rights and powers inherent in the right of ownership have been singled
out by Honoré, who identifies ten ‘incidents of ownership’, which express ‘com-
mon needs of mankind and the common conditions of human life’, although
they are not individually necessary to identify the right of ownership, which
18 Od. 15.383–388: ἀλλ’ ἄγε μοι τόδε εἰπὲ καὶ ἀτρεκέως κατάλεξον, / ἠὲ διεπράθετο πτόλις ἀνδρῶν
εὐρυάγυια, / ᾗ ἔνι ναιετάασκε πατὴρ καὶ πότνια μήτηρ, / ἦ σέ γε μουνωθέντα παρ’ οἴεσιν ἢ παρὰ
βουσὶν / ἄνδρες δυσμενέες νηυσὶν λάβον ἠδ’ ἐπέρασσαν / τοῦδ’ ἀνδρὸς πρὸς δώμαθ’, ὁ δ’ ἄξιον
ὦνον ἔδωκε.
19 On warfare and conflict in Homeric society, see van Wees 1992.
20 Lewis 2018.
21 Honoré 1961: 108.
22 Honoré 1961: 108.
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depends on the specific features of a given system.23 Ownership implies: 1) the

right to possess; 2) the right to use; 3) the right to manage; 4) the right to the
income; 5) the right to the capital; 6) the right to security; 7) transmissibility;
8) absence of term; 9) prohibition of harmful use; 10) liability to execution.24
Most of these ‘incidents of ownership’, are present in master-slave relation-
ships in the Homeric poems (many passages from both the Iliad and the Odys-
sey show that at least the right to possess, the right to use, the right to manage,
the right to the income, the right to the capital, transmissibility and absence of
term were inherent in the way Homeric masters used their slaves). This shows
that the concept and implications of ownership were already known in the
society described in the Iliad and in the Odyssey, in which owners were fully
aware of both the nature of their right of ownership over their properties, and
of the powers descending from it.
Once these basic features are clear, it is important to read the Homeric evid-
ence concerning slavery and manumission in the light of the right of owner-
ship, which clearly shows that the poems have ‘a sharp and pragmatic approach
to status distinctions … the distinction between slaves and free persons was
not a hazy one based on fluid notions such as domination or dependency,
but a sharp one based on a violent and abrupt transition into the property of
another’.25
3 Forms of Reduction into Slavery and Manumission in the Iliad
As a result of defeat in battle, warriors became captives of the victor, and

the new relationship thus established between them has to be identified with
slavery: this is clearly suggested by the vocabulary used in the poem to describe
the reduction of the defeated enemies into captivity. The seizure of men as cap-
tives is usually expressed by the verbs ζωγρέω, λαμβάνω and αἱρέω,26 whereas
ληίζομαι generally identifies the seizure of women:27 the fact that these specific
verbs are used is significant, since each of them conveys a specific meaning.
23 Honoré 1961: 109.

24 For a detailed discussion of the meaning and implications of these ‘incidents of owner-
ship’, see Honoré 1961: 113–124.
25 Lewis 2018.
26 For ζωγρέω see, for instance, Il. 10.378; 11.131; 6.46; for λαμβάνω, Il. 11.106; 20.464; 21.36; for
αἱρέω, Il. 6.38; 16.331; 21.102.
27 See, for instance, Il. 18.28 (δμῳαὶ δ’ἅς Ἀχιλεὺς ληίσσατο Πάτροκλός τε). The verb ληίζομαι has
the same root of λεία (booty) and it means ‘emmener comme butin’: cf. Chantraine 1977:
s.v. λεία.
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The verbs describing the seizure of men are: ζωγρέω (which means ‘to save
alive’, ‘to take captive’ instead of killing);28 λαμβάνω (which means ‘to take’, ‘to
seize’, sometimes used as a synonym of ζωγρέω);29 and αἱρέω (whose funda-
mental meaning is ‘to grasp’, ‘to take’, but which is sometimes followed by the
term ζωός, this underlying that the verb αἱρέω, in all these cases, can be con-
sidered as a synonym of ζωγρέω).30 The use of these three verbs suggests that
captives are made the object of the immediate and individual right of owner-
ship of their captor, thus becoming his property and, therefore, his slaves.
The verb ληίζομαι, on the other hand, typically describes the seizure of
women: its fundamental meaning, which is ‘to seize as booty’,31 suggests that
the acquisition of ownership over women goes through two different stages.
Once captured, women were included in the booty, together with the other
plundered goods: the booty was considered to be the common property of the
whole army (as the Greek term for ‘booty’, ξυνήϊα, suggests),32 and all the goods
that were part of the booty were gathered in the centre of the assembly of the
warriors. The ἀγορή then divided the booty, and assigned the goods to each
fighter, who thus became the owner of the individual goods he was given. It was
only through this second step that the plundered goods—which were initially
part of the booty and common property of the whole army—became the object
of an individual’s right of ownership that could not be challenged by anyone.33
That captives were considered property of the victors is further demon-
strated by other elements showing that their fate, after reduction into captivity,
exclusively depended on the victor’s will. As Yvon Garlan has pointed out in his
study on ‘War, Piracy and Slavery in the Greek World’,34 the victor could dis-
pose as he liked of the persona of the defeated enemy, and of his properties:
several passages from the Iliad show that the victors, when they decided not to
kill their enemies, had complete power to sell them abroad, or to liberate them
through payment of a ransom.35
28 This verb is used three times in the Iliad by the defeated enemy (Il. 10.378; 11.131; 6.46)
who pleads to the victor to take him alive (the verb is always used in the imperative form
ζωγρεῖτ’: cf. Ducrey 1968: 29–30; Chantraine 1977: s.v. ζωάγρια).
29 The verb λαμβάνω is used three times in the Iliad in the aorist participle λαβών (Il. 11.106;
20.464; 21.36). For its use as a synonym of ζωγρέω with the specific meaning of ‘to take
alive’, see Il. 20.464, in which Tros pleads with Achilles: λαβὼν καὶ ζωὸν ἀφείη.
30 Cf. Il. 6.38; 16. 331; 21.102 (ζωὸν ἑλεῖν).
31 LSJ s.v. ληίζομαι.
32 The main meaning of ξυνήϊα is indeed ‘common property’: cf. LSJ s.v. ξυνήϊα.
33 Cantarella 1979: 117–121; van Wees 1992: 299–310.
34 Garlan 1987: 4.
35 Van Wees 1992: 253.
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In Book 21 of the Iliad, for instance, Achilles maintains that, before Patroclus’
death, he had saved many of his enemies’ lives by selling them abroad instead
of killing them;36 similarly, in Book 22 of the poem, Priam reminds Hector that
many of his sons had been killed or sold abroad by Achilles.37 The verbs used
in these two passages are πέρνημι (in the first case) and περάω (in the second
case), and they both refer to the act of exporting captives to foreign lands for the
purpose of selling them as slaves.38 The same verbs are used with this meaning
in many other episodes, in which the objects sold abroad are slaves or, in one
case, the entirety of the κτήματα that once belonged to Troy.39 The use of verbs
connected with the seizure of captives and the practice of selling them abroad
means that we are certainly dealing here with a relationship of ownership, i.e.
slavery.
If we read this evidence from the Iliad in the light of the ‘incidents of owner-
ship’, as they have been listed by Honoré, it is possible to suggest that the power
of selling captives abroad and the right to kill them fall under the category of
the so-called right to the capital, which is ‘the power to alienate the thing and
the liberty to consume, waste or destroy the whole or part of it’.40
Once it is clear that the Iliad records specific modes of reduction into slavery,
it is also possible to question whether the poem refers to episodes dealing with
the release of captives from slavery. Several episodes from the Iliad describe
defeated enemies pleading the victor not to kill them, but to release them after
the payment of a ransom (ἄποινα).41 Although this kind of request is frequently
attested in the poem, we should not infer that captives had a right to have the
ἄποινα accepted by the victor, and then to be liberated: it was rather conceived
of as a power that the victor could exercise, or not, according to his will.42 The
episode mentioned in Book 6 of the Iliad, at lines 37–65, clearly underscores
this point. When, at the end of the battle, Adrastus realises that Menelaus
36 Il. 21.102: πολλοὺς ζωοὺς ἕλον ἠδὲ πέρασσα.

37 Il. 22.46: ὅς μ’υἱῶν πολλῶν … κτείνων καὶ περνὰς νήσων ὲπι τηλεδαπάων.
38 LSJ s.v. πέρνημι. As it has been pointed out by Alfonso Mele in his work on society and
labour in the Homeric world, the etymology of the verb πέρνημι conveys the idea of a
movement towards a place, and it should be best interpreted as ‘to export for sale’: Mele
1968: 24.
39 Il. 23.292.
40 Honoré 1961: 118.
41 See, e.g., Adrastus’ supplication to Menelaus (Il. 6.46–50); Dolon’s supplication to Odys-
seus and Diomedes (Il.10.378–381); Peisander’s and Hippolochus’ supplications to Agam-
emnon (Il. 11.131–135).
42 I agree with Bielman 1994: 288, who maintains that ‘la rançon n’est pas un privilège con-
cédé de droit au prisonnier; c’ est une faveur accordée aux captifs, par leur détenteur, au
gré de son bon vouloir et de ses intérêts’. See also Naiden 2006.
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has overwhelmed him, and after Menelaus has taken him alive as a captive,43
he pleads with him not to kill him, and to accept the payment of a ransom,
reassuring Menelaus that his father would have paid ἀπερείσι’ ἄποινα (‘a count-
less ransom’) for his liberation.44 When Menelaus is about to accept Adrastus’
request, Agamemnon intervenes and persuades his brother to kill Adrastus: in
doing so, Homer describes Agamemnon as αἴσιμα παρειπών, which means ‘the
one who says just things’.45 In other words, this episode shows that the refusal
to release captives in return for the payment of a ransom could be considered
αἴσιμον, which means ‘just’.
However, what is attested in Book 1 of the Iliad, at lines 10–52, seems to sug-
gest the opposite: at first sight, the passage seems to represent the acceptance
of the ransom and the liberation of a captive-slave as a required act. In these
lines Chryses implores the assembly of the Achaeans to release his daughter—
who had previously been assigned as a γέρας to Agamemnon—by the payment
of ἀπερείσι’ ἄποινα: in this case, the acceptance of the ἄποινα and the liberation
of Chryses’ daughter are necessary, not because Chryses per se or his daughter
enjoyed such a right, but because of the peculiar qualification of Chryses as
Apollo’s priest.
As Achilles reminds his mother Thetis, after the Achaeans had destroyed and
plundered Thebes, they captured Chryses’ daughter, who was initially included
in the booty and then assigned as a γέρας to Agammenon, but they decided
not to kill nor to capture Chryses.46 A similar episode is described in Book 9 of
the Odyssey, when Odysseus recounts that after the destruction of the city of
Ismarus, he and his companions killed all the men and captured all the women,
but they saved Maron’s life, (he was Apollo’s priest) and did not capture his wife
and his son, because the Achaeans were in awe of the god Apollo (ἁζόμενοι).47
The episode of Chryses’ supplication shows that an offence against a priest is
paramount to depriving him of his τιμή (the verb consistently employed in the
first book of the Iliad to describe the offence against Chryses is in fact ἀτιμά-
ζειν), and indirectly causes, as a result, an offence against the god himself. It
is because of this peculiar relationship between the priest and the god that
the release of Chryses’ daughter by the payment of the ἄποινα can be seen, in
43 Il. 6.37–38: Ἄδρηστον … Μενέλαος ζωὸν ἕλ’.

44 Il. 6.45–50.
45 Cf. LSJ s.v. ἄισιμος.
46 Il. 1.366–369.
47 Od. 9.197–200. The Greeks acknowledged immunity not only to the goods that belonged
to gods or that were under their protection, but also—and above all—to priests: Garlan
1985: 55–58.
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this case, as a requirement: from the very outset, Homer underlines that
Chryses goes to the Achaeans as Apollo’s priest, and this is made clear both
from the golden sceptre he is carrying with him,48 and because he says that,
by accepting his request, the whole army will honour the god Apollo himself.49
But if Chryses’ qualification as a priest gives rise to a sense of αἰδώς from the
whole Achaean army, which agree to accept the ἄποινα,50 the same cannot be
said for Agamemnon, who brutally refuses Chryses’ supplication. This refusal
deprives Chryses of his τιμή,51 and the priest, thus, prays that Apollo punish the
Achaeans for this offence: from this moment, an epidemic plagues the Achaean
army for ten days, until Agamemnon decides to release Chryses’ daughter, and
to accept the ἄποινα he has been offered.52
These two episodes show that, in the Iliad, the liberation of a slave is not
a requirement, but rather a choice which rests with the owner of the slave.
Despite the many requests of release by the payment of ἄποινα attested in the
poem, only one of them is accepted. This singular instance is the liberation
of Andromache’s mother, who survived the destruction of Thebes (while her
father and seven brothers were all killed by Achilles), and after having been
captured by Peleus’ son was then released by him after the payment of ἀπε-
ρείσι’ ἄποινα.53 In all the other cases, the victor refuses his enemy’s request and
kills him.
As for women, the liberation of Andromache’s mother shows that female
captives could also be released through the payment of ἄποινα. However, I
believe that it is also possible to assume that women had one further option for
gaining their freedom, namely, legitimate marriage to their master. This seems
to be suggested in Book 19 of the Iliad at lines 295–299, when, after Patroclus’
death, Briseis reminisces that he had promised to take her to Phthia, where
she would have become Achilles’ κουριδίη ἄλοχος, which can best interpreted
as ‘legitimate wife’,54 after the celebration of their γάμος among the Myrmid-
ons.
48 Il. 1.14–15.
49 Il. 1.20–21: παῖδα δ’ἐμοὶ λύσατε φίλην, τὰ δ’ἄποινα δέχεσθαι / ἁζόμενοι Διὸς υἱὸν ἑκηβόλον Ἀπόλ-
λωνα.
50 Il. 1.22–23; 376–377.
51 The verb used by Homer is ἀτιμάζειν (ἠτίμησ’): cf. Il. 1.94.
52 Il. 1.34–54.
53 Il. 4.414–428.
54 Although Cynthia Patterson stresses the ‘looseness of the Homeric vocabulary denoting
the wife’ and maintains that ‘the tendency to read into kouridie the idea of “legitimate”
or “lawful” is not supported by etymology or usage’ (Patterson 1990: 49 and n. 36), in the
Homeric poems the term ἄλοχος, when preceded by the adjective κουριδίη, is often used in
relation to legitimate marriages: this is the case, for example, of Il. 1.114, where Agamem-
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4 Slavery and Manumission in the Odyssey
Further information about slavery and manumission can be found in the Odys-
sey, the context of which is more domestic than that of the Iliad. Most of
the events take place in Odysseus’ palace.55 Therefore, there is much evid-
ence within this text, for various aspects of slave life, their condition, and their
tasks in the οἶκος, but also the relationship between masters and slaves. It is no
coincidence that scholars have traditionally developed their accounts about
Homeric slavery primarily from the evidence provided by the Odyssey. The
description of the condition of Eumaeus and Eurycleia, as ‘privileged’ slaves,
has led some scholars to generalise the main features of Homeric slavery by
describing it, as a whole, as mild and paternalistic.56 Yet it is worth bearing
in mind, as some recent works have stressed, that the ‘privileged’ condition
of these two slaves cannot be considered as a paradigm of Homeric slavery
per se.57 Many episodes mentioned in the Odyssey suggest that masters exer-
non describes Clytemnestra as his κουριδίη ἄλοχος. Thus, the condition of a freed slave
becoming the legitimate wife of her master differs from that of a slave concubine bearing
children to her owner, since the former has to be considered free, whereas the latter is a
slave: see Lewis (in this volume); Meister (in this volume).
55 Harris 2012.
56 Westermann 1955: 3; Beringer 1960; 1982; Morris 1987: 178. For the ideological and ped-
agogical purposes of the poem, aiming ‘partially at flattering slaveholders and partially at
providing didactic exempla of how to be a good slave and a good master’, see Lewis 2018;
Thalmann 1998.
57 This issue has been thoroughly analysed by Harris 2012 who provides a comprehensive
list of episodes from the poems showing that Homeric slavery was not fundamentally dif-
ferent from the slavery of the Classical period. Similarly N’doye 2008, after mentioning
several passages from the Odyssey that seem to show the existence of a mild and affec-
tionate relationship between masters and slaves (due to the use of terms relating to a
familiar context or to kinship ties, such as τέκος, μαῖα, ἄττα οr παῖς), advises that ‘bien que le
maître soit présenté comme le parent de l’ esclave, il faut se garder de tout idéalisme. Cette
parenté, illusoire en réalité, masque la relation de subordination qui caractérise l’esclave,
éternel exploité, dépourvu de tout droit et de tout lien outre celui qui l’unit à son maître’
(N’doye [2008] 18). Some other scholars (Canfora [2001] 16; Todd [1992] 179; Mossé [1984]
148) also maintained that that of Homeric slaves was not the lowest social status, since
their condition was better than that of the θήτες. This opinion is for the most part foun-
ded on Od. 11.488–491, where Achilles says to Odysseus that he would rather be a θής than
lord over the dead (μὴ δή μοι θάνατόν γε παραύδα, φαίδιμ’ Ὀδυσσεῦ. / βουλοίμην κ’ ἐπάρουρος
ἐὼν θητευέμεν ἄλλῳ, / ἀνδρὶ παρ’ ἀκλήρῳ, ᾧ μὴ βίοτος πολὺς εἴη, / ἢ πᾶσιν νεκύεσσι κατα-
φθιμένοισιν ἀνάσσειν) and this statement has been interpreted as signifying that the θήτες
embodied the lowest possible condition. Yet I remain unconvinced by this argument, since
the θήτες, although living in poor and humble conditions, were nonetheless free individu-
als. Moreover, on several occasions Homeric heroes and women expressly say that they
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cised all the powers inherent to their right of ownership over their slaves. A
master could sell them (right to the capital), control their private lives (for
example, slaves could not get married without their master’s consent), force
them to perform difficult jobs,58 mistreat them,59 and punish them harshly in
case of disobedience,60 (which could all be included in the right to possess in
the sense of having ‘exclusive physical control of a thing’ from a twofold per-
spective: ‘the right [claim] to be put in exclusive control of a thing and the right
to remain in control, viz. the claim that others should not, without permission,
interfere’).61
Yet, although a master could be cruel towards those slaves who did not per-
form their duties, it should also be considered that he could be affectionate and
grateful towards those slaves who had proved to be devoted and loyal to him.
This is the case of Eurycleia and Eumaeus. Eurycleia, whom Laertes bought
when she was very young,62 is always described in the poem as wise, faithful,
and held in high consideration in Odysseus’ οἶκος. Eumaeus, is also mentioned
in two significant passages, which deserve to be analysed in detail, in order to
understand the main features of manumission in the Odyssey.
The first is Od. 14.61–65, in which Eumaeus recalls his master with these
affectionate words:
ἦ γὰρ τοῦ γε θεοὶ κατὰ νόστον ἔδησαν,

ὅς κεν ἔμ’ ἐνδυκέως ἐφίλει καὶ κτῆσιν ὄπασσεν,
οἶκόν τε κλῆρόν τε πολυμνήστην τε γυναῖκα,
οἷά τε ᾧ οἰκῆϊ ἄναξ εὔθυμος ἔδωκεν,
ὅς οἱ πολλὰ κάμῃσι, θεὸς δ’ ἐπὶ ἔργον ἀέξῃ,
ὡς καὶ ἐμοὶ τόδε ἔργον ἀέξεται, ᾧ ἐπιμίμνω.
would rather die than falling into slavery (an idea which is generally described with the
expression δούλιον ἦμαρ), this showing that freedom was the supreme good, which was
considered to be even more precious than life. Therefore, Achilles’ words in Od. 11.488–
491 probably just mean that any life, however miserable (as long as free), would certainly
be better than his actual condition as lord of the shadows in the Underworld (Od. 11.485):
Garlan (1988) 35; Harris (2012) 357–358.
58 Od. 20.105–119.
59 Od. 4.244–245.
60 Od. 22.430–473. See Harris (2012).
61 Honoré (1961) 113. It is also possible to suggest that, as an effect of the right to force slaves
to perform hard work (right to use), the owner was also entitled to the right to manage,
that is ‘the right to decide how and by whom the thing owned shall be used’, and the right
to the income, which has to be identified with the right to ‘derive an income from it or
enjoying it’ (Honoré [1961] 116–117).
62 Od. 1.430–431.
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The gods have stopped the homeward voyage of that one

who cared greatly for me, and granted me such possessions
as a good-natured lord grants to the slave of his house; a home
of his own, and a plot of land, and a wife much sought after,
when the man accomplishes much work and god speeds the labor
as he has sped for me this labor to which I am given.
Trans. lattimore
These words are reproduced in a very similar fashion in another passage, Od.
21.212–216, when Odysseus is speaking to his two slaves Eumaeus and Philoitius:
σφῶϊν δ’, ὡς ἔσεταί περ, ἀληθείην καταλέξω.

εἴ χ’ ὑπ’ ἐμοί γε θεὸς δαμάσῃ μνηστῆρας ἀγαυούς,
ἄξομαι ἀμφοτέροις ἀλόχους καὶ κτήματ’ ὀπάσσω
οἰκία τ’ ἐγγὺς ἐμεῖο τετυγμένα: καί μοι ἔπειτα
Τηλεμάχου ἑτάρω τε κασιγνήτω τε ἔσεσθον.
Therefore I will tell you the truth, and so it shall be;

if by my hand the god overmasters the lordly suitors,
then I shall get wives for you both, and grant you possessions
and houses built next to mine, and think of you in the future
always as companions of Telemachos, and his brothers.
Trans. lattimore
At first sight, the two passages seem to have very similar content: both mention
a master promising his slave(s) different kinds of rewards.
Od. 14.61–66, describes a reward for a slave who showed himself diligent in
performing his duties and loyalty towards his masters, the reward for which is
the offer of some property, a house, and a wife. This is what Eumaeus implies
when he says that if his master returned, he would reward him for his hard work
and loyalty not only with his kindness, but also by assigning him a set of goods,
which he defines with the comprehensive term κτῆσις, in which he includes a
house (οἶκος), a piece of land (κλῆρος) and a woman (πολυμνήστη γυνή).
Some scholars believe that these lines describe an act of manumission,63 yet
I believe that they should be best interpreted as showing a master attributing
his slave specific privileges, without implying Eumaeus’ release from slavery. In
other words, these verses suggest that, once returned to Ithaca, Odysseus would
63 Calderini 1965: 5.
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have granted his slave both the capacity to get married, and at the same time
to possess an οἶκος and a κλῆρος. The implication of this reward is significant
for a slave since, legally speaking, slaves were considered objects, rather than
individuals and, for this reason, they had no recognised family ties, nor could
they have any rights: it follows that anything they had belonged to their mas-
ters, and that slave families were not recognised, unless they were granted this
as a specific privilege.64 Yet granting slaves specific privileges does not imply
that they were automatically granted freedom as a result of these privileges.
A closer look at the vocabulary of Od. 14.61–65, shows that the attribution to
Eumaeus of the capacity to get married is not suggested by the use of the term
γυνή itself, at line 64, since γυνή (like ἄλοχος) has a rather general meaning, and
does not necessarily identify a legitimate wife.65 The acquisition of the capa-
city to marry by Eumaeus is rather implied by the adjective πολυμνήστη, which
precedes the term γυνή. The adjective πολυμνήστη is composed of the prefix
πολύ- followed by the verb μνάομαι: Chantreine pointed out that in the Homeric
poems the verb μνάομαι often has the technical meaning of ‘rechercher une
femme en marriage’,66 while μνηστή ‘dans l’emploi particulier relatif au mariage
[…] désigne une femme qui a été régulièrement demandée en mariage, une
femme légitime’.67 Even Penelope herself is sometimes defined as πολυμνήστη
βασίλεια, since the one hundred and eight suitors that occupied Odysseus’ οἶκος
wanted her to marry one of them (and, in doing so, they are described as μνη-
στῆρες).68
64 Jones 1956: 282–283.

65 In both poems ἄλοχος can be used for designating both the ‘bedfellow’ and the legitim-
ate wife: see, for instance, Od. 4.623 or Il. 9.336. Yet it is also worth considering that in the
poems a legitimate wife is referred to as κουρίδια ἄλοχος (cf., e.g., Il. 1.114 and Il. 19.298).
Moreover, the analysis of the vocabulary describing the only slave couple mentioned in
the poem, Dolios (Penelope’s δμώς: Od. 4.736) and the Sicilian slave woman, is not helpful
for understanding marital relations between slaves, since they are only described as the
πατήρ (Od. 24.411) and the μήτηρ (Od. 24.389) of their υἱεῖς, but no mention is made of the
nature of the relationship between these two old slaves (Harris 2012). For the use of the
vocabulary of ‘legitimate marriage’ in Gortyn, see Lewis 2013: 396–402, who argues that
‘there is no a priori reason […] to suppose that the identical use of vocabulary for free and
slave marriages in Gortyn need imply legal equivalency’; furthermore, this idea has some
parallels both from the ancient world (Rome, Israel and Babylonia) and from nineteenth-
century America (Lewis 2013: 402).
66 Chantraine 1977: s.v. μνάομαι. The same verb is used in Od. 4.34, when Athena, speaking in
Nausicaa’s dream, reminds her that the noblest of all the Phaeacians had asked for her in
marriage (ἤδη γάρ σε μνῶνται ἀριστῆες κατὰ δῆμον / πάντων Φαιήκων).
67 Chantraine 1977: s.v. μιμνήσκω.
68 Jean-Pierre Vernant explained such behaviour as an effect of the ‘identification of the
wife with the power of her husband and the privilege which her conjugal status confers
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On the contrary, the episode mentioned in Book 21 of the Odyssey, at lines

212–216, seems to me to describe a real manumission. Notwithstanding the
parallelism between the οἶκος, the κλῆρος and the πολυμνήστη γυνή mentioned
in Od. 14. 61–66,5 and the terms οἰκία, κτήματα and ἄλοχος mentioned in Od.
21.212–216, it is important to stress that in these lines Odysseus also promises
his slaves that, if they help him fight against the suitors, he will make them ἑταῖ-
ροι and κασίγνητοι of Telemachus.
Scholars remain divided in their understanding of the meaning and implica-
tions of what is described in these lines. Some scholars believe that this passage
is no different from the one mentioned in Book 14, since they both repres-
ent nothing more than a reward to two loyal slaves, without implying any
change in their condition: therefore, even after the bestowal of these privileges,
Eumaeus and Philoitius would remain the slaves of Odysseus.69 This opinion
is based on two general considerations: first, these scholars believe that manu-
mission cannot be attested in the Homeric poems, because this phenomenon
supposedly developed with the rise of the classical polis and written law;70
upon her of perpetuating and transmitting the sovereign power’: consequently, ‘to take
the king’s place at the heart of his house, in his bed, by becoming united with his wife, is
to acquire a claim to reign after him over the land which his wife, in a way, symbolizes’
(Vernant 1981: 73–74). Vernant’s idea can be very useful also for understanding Od. 14.64,
where we can observe a specific relationship between the terms οἶκος, κλῆρος and γυνή.
Vernant has singled out a peculiar characteristic of the Greek wife, that she was ‘intim-
ately linked to her husband’s house, soil and hearth—at least for as long as she lives with
him and shares the master’s bed’ (Vernant 1981: 73). Furthermore Ferrucci stresses the con-
nection between οἶκος and marital relations by underlining the different meanings of the
terms οἰκία and οἶκος: while the first identifies ‘la casa, che per sineddoche può indicare
anche la famiglia che vi abita e, più raramente, le proprietà familiari’, the second refers
to ‘un insieme che comprende casa, beni di proprietà e persone’. The οἶκος could be then
conceived as an ‘organismo’ (as it has been defined by Paoli 1961: 36) based on legitimate
marriage: ‘la centralità del matrimonio nella costituzione di un oikos è motivata, anzi-
tutto, con la necessità di garantire la sopravvivenza della struttura attraverso la creazione
di un erede titolato a subentrarvi alla morte del padre’. Thus, if the οἶκος is composed of a
house, some properties and the people living in the house, the specific word order used
by Homer in Od. 14.64 (οἶκόν τε κλῆρόν τε πολυμνήστην τε γυναῖκα) could possibly be inter-
preted as representing Eumaeus’ intimate wish of marrying a woman and, consequently,
entering an οἶκος and a κλῆρος. On the importance of the οἶκος as the ‘cellula costitutiva
della società greca’ and the role of marriage for the establishment and perpetuation of the
οἶκος, cf. Ferrucci 2006: 135–141.
69 Rädle 1969: 7; Westermann 1955: 2, who maintains that in the poems ‘no case of formal
manumission appears, nor any example of limited bond service, paramone’; Andreau and
Descat 2009: 30.
70 Bouvier 2008: 16; Nieto 1982.
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secondly, the practice of manumitting slaves was not conceivable because

Homeric society did not know the juxtaposition between free individuals and
slaves.71
Other scholars believe that the episode mentioned in Book 21 of the Odyssey
does describe a manumission. Calderini, for instance, assumes that, as an effect
of these privileges, Eumaeus and Philoitius become Odysseus’ freedmen. He
justifies this assumption by saying that manumission can be seen in all those
cases in which masters grant their slaves a certain autonomy, which allows
them to be more independent and to enjoy specific rights, such as the right
to have a wife or to own property.
But this argument alone is not enough to interpret this passage as referring to
manumission. On the one hand, Calderini does not consider that, before Odys-
seus’ return to Ithaca, Eumaeus already enjoyed some privileges: he had been
granted the possession of the hut in which he gives hospitality to Odysseus, and
the slave Mesaulius, whom he bought with his own goods from the Taphians
without needing any authorisation from Laertes or Penelope.72 On the other
hand, he does not consider the meaning and the implications of the terms ἑταῖ-
ροι and κασίγνητοι (l. 216), which are central in suggesting that the change in the
legal condition of these two slaves went through two different stages.
The term ἑταῖρος generally means ‘comrade’, ‘companion’,73 and, according to
common opinion, it implies the existence, between two or more individuals, of
a relationship characterised by equality and reciprocity.
Eva Cantarella pointed out that ἑταῖρος identifies an individual belonging
to a group of friends or companions which is completely independent of any
kinship tie.74 Similar considerations about the meaning of ἑταῖρος have been
advanced by David Konstan who, in his study on the concept of friendship in
the Classical world, points out the different implications of the terms φίλος
and ἑταῖρος. Although ἑταῖρος has often been translated as ‘friend’, it merely
denotes—if not preceded or followed by φίλος—a wide range of companion-
able relations, often grouped around a leader; a group of comrades which is not
characterized per se by a sense of personal affection, but among which some
ἑταῖροι could be considered as particularly dear by some other companions
(as in the relationship between Patroclus and Achilles, in which Patroclus is
not simply described as Achilles’ ἑταῖρος, but as Achilles’ πολύ φίλτατος ἑταῖρος’,
thus underlying the contrast, and the different meaning, of the terms φίλος and
71 Garlan 1988.
72 Od. 14.449–452.
73 Chantraine 1977: s.v. ἑταῖρος.
74 Cantarella 1979: 226; similarly, see Stagakis 1968: 397.
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ἑταῖρος).75 David Konstan also emphasises that ἑταῖρος has nothing to do with
kinship, whether by blood or marriage. Yet it is also worth considering that a
group of ἑταῖροι is also characterised by the absence of any hierarchical rela-
tion between its members.76
Furthermore, together with the idea of equality or, in a wider sense, the lack
of any hierarchical relation, the term ἑταῖρος also implies the idea of recipro-
city, which means ‘that one gives of one’s own accord, with the expectation
that a suitable return will follow’.77 The connections between the term ἑταῖρος
and the idea of reciprocity, has been analysed by Walter Donlan, who identified
‘the occurrence in Homer of […] three degrees of reciprocity: the altruistic giv-
ing of “generalized reciprocity”, giving without obligation to return; “balanced
reciprocity”, or quid pro quo; and “negative reciprocity”, taking without return-
ing’.78 Donlan focuses on what he calls political reciprocity, which he defines
as ‘the relationship between the leaders and the people’79 and, in particular,
on the relationship between Odysseus and his ἑταῖροι during the νόστος, and
at their arrival in Ithaca, suggesting that their ‘political’ relationship ‘is one
of balanced reciprocity’.80 In going over the many hurdles that Odysseus and
his ἑταῖροι had to face during the νόστος, Donlan shows that their relationship
was always characterized by equal sharing,81 redistribution,82 and equal alloc-
75 Konstan 1997: 31. Konstan further specifies that ‘the category of hetairos differs from that
of philos in designating a relationship between associates, often age-mates, in a common
enterprise, without necessarily conveying the sense of special intimacy and harmony of
views that is characteristic of true friends or philoi’ (Konstan 1996: 78).
76 N’doye 2008: 26.
77 Donlan 1998: 51. Donlan, after mentioning Benveniste’s opinion about the implications of
the term φίλος, which ‘has not merely a sentimental meaning in Homer, but describes all
who are united by certain reciprocal obligations’ (Donlan 1985: 300) specifies that ‘a sim-
ilar kind of relationship is reflected in the words etes and hetairos in Homer’ (Donlan 1985:
300) Similarly, in his study of the relationship between θεράποντες and ἑταῖροι in the Iliad,
George Stagakis saw reciprocity ‘as the universal rule applicable to all hetairos relation-
ships’ (Stagakis 1966: 415; for a further analysis of the meaning of ἑταῖρος and its relations
to ἔτης, see Stagakis 1971).
78 Donlan 1998: 51.
79 Ibid.
80 Ibid.: 52.
81 Ibid.: 58.
82 Ibid.: 60–61, specifies that ‘collection and redistribution by and among a group is the most
sociable of reciprocities, similar to the generalized reciprocity within a family. The inher-
ent social intent of sharing-out is to reaffirm and strengthen the basic equality within the
group. Among the hetairoi, pooling and distribution by lot was a fixed custom; no other
method of distribution was thinkable’. Moreover, in focusing on the story in the Cyclops’
cave, Donlan stresses that ‘Odysseus does not keep the ten goats but shares them with his
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ation of danger.83 These considerations allow him to conclude that this kind of
reciprocity within a group of ἑταῖροι (which was not only confined to the Odys-
sey, since similar features can clearly be seen in the ἑταῖροι-relations depicted in
the Iliad), ‘presents a set of actions that maintain or restore the normative dis-
tribution of rights, dues and responsibilities among the leader and sub-leaders
and between leader and community’.84
I believe that Donlan’s analysis of the rule of so-called ‘political reciprocity’
in the Odyssey is helpful for understanding Odysseus’ words in Od. 21.216, since
by making Eumaeus and Philoitius ἑταῖροι of Telemachus Odysseus raises—
from a social point of view—the condition of his two slaves, by the application
of the rule of reciprocity between them and Telemachus and, consequently,
by the creation of reciprocal rights, duties, and responsibilities among them.
Moreover, since the existence of a ἑταῖροι-relation also implies the lack of any
hierarchy among its members, I think that it can be assumed that, as an effect
of this grant, Eumaeus and Philoitius lose their servile status and become free
individuals.
What is more, Odysseus also promises his slaves that he will make them κασί-
γνητοι of Telemachus. The term κασίγνητος is often used in the Homeric poems
to identify a ‘brother’, especially of those born from the same father,85 (although
sometimes it also designates a ‘cousin’),86 and this makes it clear that κασίγνη-
τος always implies the existence of a kinship relation.87 This consideration led
companions … both the getting and the giving, which balance out perfectly, increase his
honour and prestige (time, kleos)’ (Donlan 1998: 61).
83 Ibid.: ‘in perfect parallel with the apportionment of booty, danger is also apportioned in
an egalitarian manner’.
84 ibid.: 68 and n. 17. For a detailed discussion on the rule of reciprocity in the economy of
Homeric society, see Donlan 1982.
85 Miller 1953: 46–47; see also Donlan 1985: 306.
86 Glotz 1904: 86; Stagakis 1968: 397; Chantraine 1977: s.v. κασίγνητος.
87 The use of ἑταῖρος in connection with κασίγνητος is not infrequent in the poems: see, for
instance, Od. 8.585–586 (ἐπεὶ οὐ μέν τι κασιγνήτοιο χερείων / γίγνεται, ὅς κεν ἑταῖρος ἐὼν
πεπνυμένα εἰδῇ). Stagakis 1968: 397 provides a list of passages from the Iliad in which κασί-
γνητος is used together with ἔτης, which is assumed to be a synonymous of ἑταῖρος. This
has led some scholars to question the relationship between these two terms. Stagakis, after
analysing several passages from the Iliad in which κασίγνητοι and ἑταῖροι seem to be some-
how connected, maintains that ‘the basic fact about them [κασίγνητοι] is that they are
ἑταῖροι’, and that ‘each of them is involved in ἑταῖρος relations … the evidence concerning
the Trojan κασίγνητοι is highly suggestive of the possibility that in the Iliad a Trojan κασί-
γνητος is to be regarded also as an ἑταῖρος’ (Stagakis 1968: 398). Yet the terms ἑταῖροι and
κασίγνητοι convey different meanings that have to be kept in mind: as Donlan has pointed
out, κασίγνητος has a relevance in the context of the οἶκος, whereas ἑταῖροι-relations oper-
ated even outside the household (‘bonds of kinship operated at the level of the family and
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some authors to believe that the episode of Eumaeus and Philoitius could be
read as a case of adoption;88 but it is important to stress that the creation of
a kinship relation between two slaves and their master’s son implies that they
join their master’s οἶκος as kin89 and, therefore, that they can no longer be con-
sidered his slaves.
In the light of these considerations, I believe that Odysseus’ promise to
Eumaeus and Philoitius in Book 21 of the Odyssey (l. 216) implies a fundamental
change in the slaves’ legal condition, which goes through two different stages:
the term ἑταῖρος, alludes to a condition of equality and to the establishment
of reciprocity of rights and duties, whereas κασίγνητος implies the creation, ex
novo in this case, of a kinship relationship between Eumaeus and Philoitius on
the one hand, and Telemachus, on the other. Consequently, both these grants
necessarily imply that Eumaeus and Philoitius are no longer slaves, but free
individuals: and this phenomenon can be described as a case of manumission.
It is important, however, to notice that in Od. 21.216 the new kinship and
social reciprocity are established only between the two former slaves and
Telemachus, not between them and Odysseus (Odysseus says that καί μοι ἔπειτα
/ Τηλεμάχου ἑτάρω τε κασιγνήτω τε ἔσεσθον). This can probably be explained if
we consider Odysseus’ role as the ἄναξ of his οἶκος and, therefore, the need to
respect hierarchies within the family-group. By making Eumaeus and Philoitius
equals to Telemachus only, and not to himself, Odysseus includes his two
former slaves in his family but, at the same time, he confirms and reinforces
his role as the undisputed lord of his οἶκος.
5 Conclusions
To conclude, it is important to stress that both the concept and implications

of slavery, and the distinction between slave and free, were already evident in
Homeric society. Although most scholars believe that the concept of freedom
was blurry in this period and that there was no clear-cut distinction between
its extensions, the oikos; beyond that level, they were attenuated … the oikos was the cen-
ter of economic and political power, from which radiated the wider non-kin associations
of hetairoi and xeinoi’: Donlan 1982: 155). Moreover, the difference between κασίγνητος and
ἑταῖρος seems to be underlined also by Hesiod in Works and Days, 707 (μηδὲ κασιγνήτῳ ἶσον
ποιεῖσθαι ἑταῖρον: on this verse, see Konstan 1997: 43).
88 Beringer 1964: 19; Lencman 1966: 300.
89 As slaves they were already part of the οἶκος: see Donlan 1982: 155 (who describes the οἶκος
as the ‘basic Homeric social unit […] which was a residential group […] whose human
membership also embraced non-kin, such as dependents and slaves’).
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free individuals and slaves, both the Iliad and the Odyssey display a sharp
free/slave distinction, so that ‘holding humans as property […] is clearly present
in Homer’.90
At the same time, both Homeric poems frequently mention the possibility
that a slave could gain his freedom through specific modes of manumission,
which are differently described in the Iliad and in the Odyssey.
In the Iliad, war-captives become slaves of the victor and their release from
slavery takes the form of liberation after the payment of a ransom by a relat-
ive, usually the father, of the enslaved individual: this act is generally expressed
with the verb λύειν (or the composite form ἀπολύειν) followed by ἄποινα. As I
have shown, the liberation of captives as an effect of the payment of a ransom
was not conceived as mandatory for the master but, rather, as a power that the
latter could exercise or not according to his unquestionable will: as the episode
of Adrastus suggests, the refusal to release a captive and to accept the ἄποινα
offered for his liberation was considered αἴσιμον, that is, ‘just’, because it was in
accordance with the will of the gods. If this is the most frequently attested form
of manumission in the Iliad, it should also be considered that women had a fur-
ther option for gaining their freedom: as is suggested in Book 19 (ll. 295–299),
Briseis, who had become Achilles’ slave, recalls that Patroclus’ had promised
her that she would become Achilles’ legitimate wife (κουριδίη ἄλοχος). If this
γάμος had been celebrated, it would have signified, on the one hand, a mar-
ital relationship and, on the other, the formal joining by a young slave of her
master’s οἶκος as a wife, and thus, Briseis’ ultimate release from her servile con-
dition.
This twofold condition is implied also in the Odyssey, where the fundament-
ally domestic context represents manumission as a reward for those slaves who
prove to be particularly devoted to their master. The only significant passage
in the Odyssey which deals with manumission is the episode mentioned in
Book 21 (l. 216), in which Odysseus promises his slaves Eumaeus and Philoitius
that he will make them ἑταῖροι and κασίγνητοι of Telemachus. By alluding, with
ἑταῖροι, to the ideal of equality and the rule of reciprocity and, with κασίγνη-
τοι, to the creation ex novo of a kinship with Telemachus (and, consequently, to
their entrance in Odysseus’ οἶκος as kin), Homer is clearly referring to manu-
mission, which is thus represented, in this context, as an event exclusively
dependent on domestic dynamics.
Taking into consideration this evidence, it is clear that even though the term
ἀπελεύθερος is not attested until the fifth century, the practice of manumis-
90 Lewis 2018: 38–39.
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112 zanovello
sion had roots in the Homeric period. It is important, however, to keep in mind
that the terminology of freedom can in fact imply civic duties: but this aspect
of the meaning of freedom had not developed by the early period described
in the Homeric poems, in which ‘freedom’ had only a basic legal meaning of
‘not the property’ of someone.91 Once this is clear, it is possible to suggest that
many episodes mentioned in both poems clearly refer to manumission which,
in this context, carries the legal meaning of the transition from being the object
of someone else’s ownership, to the condition of being ‘not the property’ of
someone else.
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chapter 5
‘Bought, Not Wed!’ Hesiod and the Aristocratic

‘Peasants’
Jan B. Meister
1 Introduction1
Hesiod’s poem Works and Days offers a unique view of agrarian life in early
Archaic Greece and is one of the main sources for a social history of this period.
Yet much remains open to dispute. One of the central questions concerns the
relationship between the world described by Hesiod and the heroic world of
the Iliad and the Odyssey. Opinions differ widely on whether Hesiod is refer-
ring to a ‘peasant’ class completely different from the supposedly ‘aristocratic’
audience addressed by Homer, or whether both worlds ought to be seen as
two sides of the same coin.2 Yet it is not only these wider issues which have
caused controversy, but also single verses. This paper will focus on one such
verse, considering the controversies surrounding it, and the ways in which such
controversies are relevant for the larger debates on how to situate Hesiod’s text
within a social history of Archaic Greece.
The passage in question occurs in Hesiod’s Works and Days and represents a
brief enumeration of the oikos’ basic needs:
First a house, a woman and an ox for ploughing,

[Bought, not wed be the woman so that she can follow the oxen].3
While the first verse is deemed unproblematic, verse 406 which presents the
woman as being ‘bought, not wed’, has caused much dispute: several editions
are sceptical about its authenticity.4 The content is bound to trigger several
1 This paper presents a condensed discussion of Meister 2020: 93–114.

2 For a detailed discussion (decidedly opting for the later interpretation) cf. Meister 2020: 47–
114.
3 Hes. Op. 405–406: Οἶκον μὲν πρώτιστα γυναῖκά τε βοῦν τ’ ἀροτῆρα, / [κτητήν, οὐ γαμετήν, ἥτις καὶ
βουσὶν ἕποιτο].
4 Wilamowitz-Moellendorff 1928: 90–91 deletes the verse. West 1978: 260 is sceptical but favours
a deletion too. Mazon 1914: 99–101 offers good reasons for the verse’s authenticity; Hoekstra
1950: 91–98 and Maehler 1967: 69–70 also consider the verse to be original.

116 meister
questions: it is not self-evident why Hesiod should favour a slave woman over a
wedded wife. It is also rather mysterious what this woman should be doing by
‘following the oxen’: the phrase ‘to follow the oxen’ reoccurs a few lines later in
the sense of ‘ploughing’, and is clearly marked out as men’s work.5
Of more immediate concern for modern editors, however, is the fact that
Aristotle only knows the first line. In the Politics he cites Hesiod’s verse about
the house, the woman, and the ox, in order to demonstrate that an ox is the
poor man’s slave.6 In the Oeconomica, handed down under his name, he cites
the same verse again, explaining that the house is needed for subsistence and
the woman for begetting legitimate children.7 Aristotle thus has a very clear
picture of Hesiod’s household: Hesiod is a poor man who does not own slaves
and who is in need of a wife to beget legitimate children. If Aristotle had been
aware of the second line, his whole interpretation would have been open to
challenge. Many modern scholars share Aristotle’s interpretation of Hesiod as a
peasant farmer. They are, therefore, quite willing to jump to the conclusion that
Aristotle had a better text, and that verse 406 is a later addition. The evidence,
however, points in another direction. Other ancient authors criticise Aristotle
for misinterpreting Hesiod and ignoring the second line.8 Moreover, the verse
in question—although missing on a second century papyrus—appears in all
relevant manuscripts and none of the scholia consider it to be problematic
at all.9 The far more probable conclusion should be that Aristotle was citing
5 Hes. Op. 441–447.

6 Arist. Pol. 1252b 9–12: […] καὶ ὀρθῶς Ἡσίοδος εἶπε ποιήσας ‘οἶκον μὲν πρώτιστα γυναῖκά τε βοῦν τ’
ἀροτῆρα’· ὁ γὰρ βοῦς ἀντ’ οἰκέτου τοῖς πένησίν ἐστιν.
7 Ps.-Arist. Oec. ii 1. 1343a 20–23: Ὥστε καθ’ Ἡσίοδον δέοι ἂν ὑπάρχειν ‘οἶκον μὲν πρώτιστα γυναῖκά
τε βοῦν τ’ ἀροτῆρα’. Τὸ μὲν γὰρ τῆς τροφῆς πρῶτον, τὸ δὲ τῶν ἐλευθέρων ⟨δεύτερον⟩.
8 Thus Timaeus wrote that Aristotle followed Hesiod’s advice by ‘marrying’ a slave woman
instead of a wife and that he had a son with her (FGrH 566 F 157 = Schol. Hes. Op. 405–
406]). Philodemus—mistaking Ps-Aristotle for Theophrastus—criticises the use made of
verse 405 in the Oeconomica stating that ‘many’ were of the opinion that Hesiod also wrote
that the woman should be bought, not wed (Philodem. 9.8.35–40 = P. Herc. 1424.8.35–40 [ed.
Jensen 1906]: καὶ π[ῶς] δέχε-|τα[ι γ]αμετὴν ὑφ’ Ἠσιόδου λέ-|γε[σ]θαι τὴν γυναῖκα, πολλῶν |καὶ
φασ[κ]όντων αὐτὸν γε-|γραφένα[ι] ‘κτητήν, οὐ γαμε-|τήν’ […]).
9 Cf. Maehler 1967: 69–70; Mazon 1914: 100 even stated that the verse would probably never
have been considered problematic, if Aristotle had not ignored it. That the verse is miss-
ing in PBerol. 21107 (first published by Maehler in 1967) need not speak against this view:
while West 1978: 260 sees it as further evidence that verse 406 is dubious, Maehler 1967: 69–
70 argues that the papyrus’ second century date clearly shows that verse 406 was not an
addition made by Hellenistic editors. The idea that Aristotle had the original version is thus
contradicted—apparently, the strange content of verse 406 caused it to drop out of some
inferior manuscripts probably for the same reason Aristotle forgot to cite it. Contrary to West,
Maehler therefore takes the verse’s absence in PBerol. 21107 as evidence for its authenticity.
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‘bought, not wed!’ hesiod and the aristocratic ‘peasants’ 117
Hesiod by heart and simply forgot (or chose to ignore) the second verse since
it did not correspond to his picture of Hesiod as a poor peasant farmer.
Although the manuscript tradition hardly provides any reason to doubt the
authenticity of verse 406, there remain linguistic arguments which cannot be
ignored. First, there is the hyperbaton with the ‘ox for ploughing’ separating
the γυναῖκά in verse 405 from κτητήν in 406. There are parallels in Hesiod,10 but
the syntactic construction is far from elegant. Another remarkable point is that
verse 405 speaks of an ox in the singular, while the following line speaks of oxen
in the plural. Consequently, verse 406 seems to be a secondary addition. One
must not, however, jump to the conclusion that this addition appeared only
after the original poem.
In 1950, Arie Hoekstra argued quite convincingly that several passages in the
Works and Days consist of popular proverbs the poet integrated into his epic.11
Verse 405, specifying the basic needs of an oikos consisting of a house, a woman,
and an ox, might well be such a proverb.12 The closest parallel, probably based
on the same proverb, would be Eumaeus’ wish in the Odyssey for a house, a
land-lot, and a much-wooed wife (in this case, clearly a woman to be wed, not
bought!).13 The fact that Hesiod speaks of an ox in the singular, is a strong argu-
ment in favour of this theory. This would make perfect sense in a proverb, while
it is completely out of place in Hesiod, who otherwise always uses oxen in the
plural, as two are needed for ploughing. In this sense the ‘unhesiodic’ verse is
not the disputed verse 406, but rather the undisputed verse 405.
This ‘proverb-theory’ would imply that the original proverb spoke of a house,
a woman, and an ox as the basic requirement of an oikos—the woman being a
wife, not a slave. By adding a second line, however, Hesiod changed the original
sense in quite a radical way, turning the ‘wife’ into a slave woman that should
be ‘bought, not wed’. The question is why?
Hoekstra simply declared that Hesiod apparently thought a slave to be
among the basic needs of an oikos.14 If one accepts verse 406 to be Hesiodic,
this is certainly true, but it does not explain very much. A more recent and pro-
found explanation has been offered by Winfried Schmitz in his seminal work
on neighbourhood and village-community in Archaic Greece.15 Like Hoekstra,
10 E.g. Hes. Op. 559–560.

11 Hoekstra 1950.
12 Ibid.: 91–98.
13 Hom. Od. 14.64: οἶκόν τε κλῆρόν τε πολυμνήστην τε γυναῖκα. Hoekstra 1950: 96 proposed that
the original proverb might have been something like: οἶκόν έχοις κλῆρόν τε γυναῖκά τε βοῦν
τ’ ἀροτῆρα.
14 Hoekstra 1950: 98.
15 Schmitz 2004.
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118 meister
Schmitz accepts verse 405 as an old proverb and 406 as an addition made by
Hesiod. Unlike Hoekstra, however, Schmitz does not see this addition as mean-
ingful advice. On the contrary, he sees it rather as a misogynist joke not to be
taken at face value.16
Detecting humour with historical hindsight is difficult since it often means
imposing an a priori-logic upon a past society in which the alleged joke is illo-
gical and lacking a deeper meaning and, therefore, would have been considered
as funny by contemporaries.17 Schmitz, however, offers a careful reconstruc-
tion of Hesiod’s world and its internal logic.18 Making use of comparative data
mostly from rural communities of early modern Europe, Schmitz reconstructs
a society of farmers with a house, a wife, a pair of oxen, and workers hired on
a seasonal basis, who lived in precarious self-sufficiency. An individual’s status
within the community was determined by the economic capacity of his house-
hold: farmers who possessed at least a pair of oxen, formed the village’s upper
stratum, while the rest were tenant farmers who had to hire themselves out
in order to make a living.19 Just as in the early modern period, Hesiod recom-
mends his readers to marry late and to beget a small number of children, in
order to keep the number of possible heirs low and to prevent a division of
property.20 Finally Hesiod, like early modern farmers, also depends on hired
labour and help from neighbours. This dependence on the village community,
following Schmitz’s theory, would have made farmers more conscious of com-
munal issues and many of the later polis institutions can plausibly be explained
as deriving from the communal values of these village-farmers.21
Schmitz differentiates the Hesiodic farmers from the aristocratic world
described in the Homeric epics.22 Aristocratic oikoi can, in Schmitz’s view, be
clearly distinguished from Hesiod’s farm. Not only are they larger; they also dif-
fer in their internal structure, thus creating a completely different mentality:
aristocrats take pride in having as many children as possible and they show
little interest in communal values because they are not nearly as dependent
on the community as peasant farmers. This is mainly due to their ownership
of slaves, which makes them more independent from the hired workforce and
16 Ibid.: 61–62; 86.

17 Cf. Meister 2014 and Meister 2021.
18 Schmitz 2004: 26–104.
19 Ibid.: 47–42; 60–62.
20 Hes. Op. 376–377; 695–697; cf. Schmitz 2004: 94–98.
21 Cf. Schmitz 2004: 184–258 for an illuminating analysis of Solon’s laws along this line of
thinking.
22 Schmitz 2004: 105–126; esp. 111–119 and for the marked difference between farmers and
aristocrats: 132–140. For the aristocracy in general cf. Schmitz 2008.
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the help of neighbours. When seeking the origins of the polis, aristocrats, as por-
trayed by Schmitz, turn out to be a dead end. Aristocrats are also more relaxed
concerning the relationship between the sexes. In Hesiod’s world, however, the
clear division of labour and the precarious situation of the individual house-
hold, make the farmer very dependent on his wife’s labour potential, which
leads to high levels of misogyny.23 This misogyny can be viewed as a strategy to
mask the farmer’s dependence on his wife and reinforce masculine authority.
This is exactly how Schmitz explains Hesiod’s verses: by turning the wife from
the original proverb into a slave woman, Hesiod makes a misogynist joke that
matches the agrarian society he is living in.
But does the appearance of a slave woman in this verse only make sense
as a joke? Schmitz seems to be following the logic of Aristotle who considers
marriage to a woman as the only possible way of begetting legitimate children
and who imagines Hesiod to be a poor man who possesses oxen, but not slaves.
Schmitz’s comparison with early modern agrarian societies further underpins
this logic: in this case, the legal institution of marriage is well established, as is
the practice of hiring labourers instead of buying slaves. The absence of slaves
in Hesiod’s oikos is indeed one of the central distinctions that Schmitz uses
to set this form of household apart from the slave-owning aristocrats. Thus,
he declares authoritatively that there is no evidence in the Works and Days
for any form of unfree labour.24 Hesiod’s verse about the slave woman does
23 Schmitz 2004: 83–94. Cf. Zoepffel 1989: 466–469 who also views misogyny as a lower-class
phenomenon (‘Unterschichtenphänomen’). For a recent take on archaic Greek misogyny
cf. Seelentag 2014.
24 Schmitz 2004: 37; ‘Belege für unfreie Bedienstete sind aus den Werken und Tagen Hesi-
ods nicht zu gewinnen’. This requires him, however, to argue that the Hesiodic dmoes are
identical with hired workers normally denoted as thetes whom Schmitz sees as a separ-
ate class of tenant farmers (‘unterbäuerliche Schicht’, ibid.: 33–38). Wickert-Micknat 1983:
154–159, too, argues that dmoes may include all members of a household—hired hands as
well as slaves. Yet, while there are good reasons for such a view, the epics (at least at times)
do seem to make a distinction: in Hom. Od. 4.643–644 the suitors ask whether Telemachus
is accompanied by noble Ithacans on his journey or only by ἑοὶ αὐτοῦ / θῆτές τε δμῶές τε—
both the thetes and the dmoes are Telemachus’ and thus part of his household, yet they
are not identical. Hesiod only mentions a thes in Op. 602—clearly, in Schmitz’s sense, this
individual is a thes as he is to be hired. However, this need not mean that once the thes has
been hired, he comes to be viewed as a dmoes: Mazon 1914: 131–132 and West 1978: 309–
310 rather propose that Hesiod recommends hiring a free man as a trusted overseer, not
so much as part of the workforce (which is also consistent with Hesiod’s recommenda-
tion, in the same passage, to acquire a watchdog). West 1978: 310 points out that in the
following lines Hesiod talks about seafaring, so, perhaps hiring a thes should be seen in
this context: one needs a trusted man guarding the oikos while being abroad. Hiring free-
men as trusted helpers and overseers was not uncommon in classical times for well-off
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120 meister
not fit this picture: it would question one of the central assumptions on which
Schmitz bases his sharp distinction between aristocratic and non-aristocratic
households. But perhaps it is necessary to question this distinction, in order
for perspectives and questions raised in his stimulating book to be further
developed. For, I propose, Hesiod’s recommendation to buy a slave, instead of
marrying, has a logic. This logic is appropriate to an agrarian world with a low
level of institutionalisation—but it was lost in Classical times when the dis-
tinction between free and unfree status was legally defined and sanctioned by
the polis and its institutions and it is completely absent from peasant societies
in early modern Europe where the option of buying a woman rather than mar-
ring a wife would have made no sense at all due to the lack of slavery. The verse
is, therefore, well suited to reveal some of the distinctive features that set early
Archaic society apart from comparable agrarian societies of later ages.
2 Unfree Women, Wives, and hedna in the Epics
Slaves seem to have been quite common at the beginning of the seventh cen-
tury when the epics were most likely written down.25 Homer often mentions
unfree women—they can be captured as booty or given as presents, and appear
regularly as servants in heroic households.26 However, some have been bought,
like Eurycleia, whom Laertes acquired for the equivalent of 20 oxen.27
households as Xen. Mem. 2.8.3 shows. The fact that Hesiod declares in Op. 370 that one
should pay a friend (ἀνήρ φίλος) the wages (μισθός) according to agreement also indicates
that the hired thes, as a ‘friend’, could lay claim to a position different from that of the
dmoes mentioned elsewhere in the epic; this argument (though still not decisive) can be
further strengthened when considering that Hesiod speaks of dmoes in the plural, but of
the thes and the erithos who are to be hired in the singular.
25 The dating of the epics is of course controversial. For a good discussion of the ancient chro-
nology and the modern scholarship on Hesiod see Kôiv 2011; the debates on the dating of
the Iliad and the Odyssey are discussed by Kullmann 2011: 114–115; Rengakos 2011: 144–146
and West 1995; cf. also Meister 2020: 47–54. The date of the epics, however, is a different
issue from the dating of the society they describe: while Hesiod is considered to mirror his
own times, ‘Homeric society’ is a different and more difficult case—the problem is well
presented by Raaflaub 1998; for a recent discussion see Ulf 2011 and for a combined view
of the worlds of Homer and Hesiod see Ulf 2009 and Meister 2020: 47–114.
26 For unfree status in Homer cf. Wickert-Micknat 1983 who also points out that the strict
dichotomy between free and unfree status was not yet established so that not all servants
were necessarily slaves; cf. also Wickert-Micknat 1986. For a more general discussion of
Greek slave systems in archaic times cf. Lewis 2018: 107–120 and Lewis’ chapter in this
volume.
27 Hom. Od. 1.430–434. The price is extraordinarily high even in the context of the epics. The
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We need not take these prices at face value: Homeric heroes are pictured as
being fantastically rich and, consequently, their slaves are fantastically expens-
ive. The prices mentioned in the epics thus can hardly be adduced as evidence
that a reasonably well-off farmer like Hesiod, would not have been able to pur-
chase a slave. Nor should Hesiod be seen as a poor peasant: after all, he was
able to afford wine imported from Byblos and, in very aristocratic fashion, he
dedicated a tripod to the gods.28 What we can deduce, however, is that a market
for slaves existed. The most striking evidence is found in Book 7 of the Iliad, in
which ships sent by Euneus exchange wine for the booty the Greeks had made
consisting of iron, cattle, and slaves.29
Slaves were certainly available and what is equally important is that, con-
sidered from a strictly economic point of view, they were not necessarily more
‘expensive’ than a wife, since it is customary in the Homeric epics to pay
bridewealth: the so-called hedna consisting of livestock.30 Thus, in a certain
sense, a wife, although ‘wed’, was also ‘bought’. The value of such hedna make
Eurycleia look cheap: we learn of Iphidamas, who paid 100 oxen to his father-
in-law and promised to pay another 1000 pieces of livestock later on.31
It was this practice which led Aristotle to call the Archaic Greeks ‘bar-
baric’, because they walked around armed and bought their wives from each
another.32 Giving hedna should nevertheless not be regarded as a simple act
slave woman Achilles offers as a prize in the funerary games is only worth four oxen (Il.
23.705); bought women are further mentioned in Od. 14.202; 15.428–429.
28 Wine form Byblos: Hes. Op. 589; tripod: Op. 656–659. For Hesiod as ‘semi-aristocrat’ cf.
Starr 1977: 126–127; Starr 1992: 13. For Hesiod as a ‘gentleman-farmer’ cf. van Wees 2013.
29 Hom. Il. 7.467–475. Cf. Ulf 2011: 267–268.
30 The hedna are always paid to the bride’s father and whenever specified they consist of
livestock: cf. Hom. Il. 11.243–245 (see infra), Od. 11.289–290 where Neleus promises his
daughter to whomever returns his stolen cattle and Il. 18.593 where girls are described as
cattle-bringing (ἀλφεσίβοιαι); otherwise hedna are used rather in a rather formulaic man-
ner (Il. 16.178; 190; 22.472; Od. 2.196; 11.282). If the marriage is annulled and it is the wife’s
fault, Od. 8.318 seems to imply that the hedna can be reclaimed. Marrying without hedna is
unusual and thus specially noted as in the case of Othryoneus who gets to marry Cassandra
anaednos under the condition that he fights for Priam (Il. 13.365–369)—an arrangement
that causes him to be mocked by Idomeneus at his death (Il. 13.377–382); Agamemnon’s
offer to marry one of his daughters anaednos to Achilles belongs to the same category. For
hedna and Homeric marriage-practices cf. Finley 1955; Vernant 1974; Mossé 1981: 149–151;
Wickert-Micknat 1982: 89–94; Wagner-Hasel 1988; Perysinakis 1991; Patterson 1998: 56–62.
31 Hom. Il. 11.243–245.
32 Arist. Pol. 1268b 39–41: τοὺς γὰρ ἀρχαίους νόμους λίαν ἁπλοῦς εἶναι καὶ βαρβαρικούς. ἐσιδηρο-
φοροῦντό τε γὰρ οἱ Ἕλληνες, καὶ τὰς γυναῖκας ἐωνοῦντο παρ’ ἀλλήλων. Comparing early Greeks
with the barbarians of one’s own time was a common trope from Thucydides onwards and
should not be seen as a consistent historical theory. Thus Aristotle does not further explore
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of purchase.33 Moses Finley argued that the payment of bridewealth formed

part of a larger system of gift exchange, in which gifts flowed in both direc-
tions and established a long-term relationship between different oikoi.34 Beate
Wagner-Hasel was able to further refine this argument by showing that gifts
were connected with gender: while the bride gave and received jewellery and—
most importantly—textiles, the groom compensated the bride’s father with
hedna, consisting of livestock, for the loss of his daughter.35 The terminology
is consistent throughout the epics: hedna is used only for the ‘male’ gifts given
to the bride’s father.36 As Aristotle’s statement makes clear, the Homeric prac-
tice of paying hedna was viewed as ‘barbaric’ by later Greeks, because marriage
practices had changed in Classical times: the term hedna disappeared and the
bride’s dowry became more important.
However, using the Homeric epics as evidence is, of course, often problem-
atic. The poet pictures an age of heroes that has long passed and that should
not be mistaken for historical reality. In many cases, we find an amalgam of
old, new, and heroic fantasy.37 Yet, the society of the epics had to make sense
to the poet and his audience and from this point of view the consistency of the
wedding practices described is remarkable. It is, therefore, only a reasonable
assumption that the tradition of paying hedna was common practice in the
early seventh century. Hesiod’s failure to mention hedna in the Works and Days
should not be overemphasised since he also neglects to mention a dowry or the
costs of a wedding feast—in fact, he is instead concerned with the right age
for marriage, not with its economic aspects. Hedna do, however, appear in the
Hesiodic Catalogue of Women, where the use of the term corresponds precisely
with that found in Homer. In both cases, hedna are the gifts given to the bride’s
father.38 This consistency becomes even more remarkable if one considers later
how wives are distinguished from slaves (a distinction clearly present in the epics)—had
he been interested in this distinction, it would have been harder for him to ignore the
existence of Hes. Op. 406 when citing Hesiod as a timeless authority for universal truths
on marriage and household-needs.
33 However, older scholarship saw it that way, cf. Westrup 1927: esp. 109–119; Erdmann 1934:
207–212; Wolff 1952 15. That hedna did not constitute a form of marriage by purchase was
first argued by Köstler 1950: 29–64 who was then explicitly followed by Finley 1955: 167
n. 2.
34 Finley 1955.
35 Wagner-Hasel 1988; cf. Wagner-Hasel 2012.
36 Cf. Perysinakis 1991.
37 Cf. Raaflaub 1998.
38 Hes. fr. 26.37 MW = 23.37 Most; fr. 43a.21 MW = 69.21 Most; fr. 198.10 MW = 154c.10 Most;
199.9 MW = 154d.9 Most; 200.4 MW = 154e.4 Most; 204.54 MW = 155.54 Most; cf. Ormand
2014: 52–84. Hesiod’s authorship of the ‘catalogue’ has been questioned by modern schol-
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texts. In Pindar and Euripides, the meaning of hedna has changed quite radic-
ally: it can now signify the woman’s dowry and in another case the wedding gifts
that are given to the newlywed couple by their guests.39 Both poets are dealing
with the heroic age, so there is no reason why they should not use the term
hedna in the same sense as Homer or Hesiod. Apparently, the changing nature
of marriage practices has left its traces in the way poets imagined the heroic
age. This is not surprising; it is precisely the amalgam of old and new that nor-
mally causes historians headaches when dealing with Homeric society. The fact
that this amalgam occurs in Pindar and Euripides but not in Homer and Hesiod
makes it very plausible that in the early seventh century it was still common for
a groom to give hedna to his father-in-law.
This assumption can be further strengthened if we take into account that
paying hedna is strangely out of place in the world of the Homeric heroes, since
hedna were always paid in livestock.40 This certainly makes sense for marriages
contracted at a local level. Homeric heroes, however, tend to marry across vast
distances, where an exchange of large herds would have posed considerable dif-
ficulties. Hesiod, on the other hand, recommends marrying a girl who comes
from nearby—a marriage custom much more appropriate for the payment of
hedna as described by Homer.41 Perhaps, then, the hedna should be seen as a
compensation given to the father for the loss of his daughter as workforce. For
even in the households of rich basileis daughters are obliged to work.42 Appar-
ently, Homer was unable to imagine a society where noble women could afford
to live a life of leisure, and if we take into account that even fantastically rich
Homeric heroes at times paid their hedna, not only in oxen, but also in sheep
and goats,43 then this all starts to make perfect sense when seen in the context
of the rural world described by Hesiod.44
ars, cf. Ercolani and Rossi 2011: 94–95. For a recent contribution see Ormand 2014: 3–6 who
favours a sixth-century date.
39 Dowry: Pind. Ol. 9.10 (ἕδνον in the singular!). Wedding gifts given to the couple: Pind. Pyth.
3.94. The mentioning of hedna in Eur. Andr. 2; 153; 873 is inconclusive—the meaning
might be ‘dowry’; it could, however, be consistent with the Homeric usage, cf. Wagner-
Hasel 2009: 165–166.
40 Cf. n. 29.
41 Hes. Op. 700.
42 Even in the fairyland of Phaeacia described in Od. 6 princess Nausicaa has to do the laun-
dry while her brothers tend her cart and the animals (Od. 7.4–6); for a detailed discussion
see Meister 2020: 54–65.
43 Hom. Il. 11.244–245.
44 Ormand 2014: 52–84, following Morris 1986: 104–115 argues that hedna are an ‘aristocratic’
practice that became out of fashion with the triumph of the ‘middling ideology’. Anthro-
pological data, however, suggests that bridewealth is a common custom in less stratified
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124 meister
We must presume, therefore, that a reasonably well-off farmer like Hesiod

had to take into account that marrying a woman of equal standing would
have obligated him to compensate the bride’s father with hedna. Of course,
he would have received something in return, but getting married did require
an investment—and this investment had to be made in livestock. This is where
Hesiod’s recommendation to buy a woman starts to make sense, simply
because, while hedna are always paid in livestock, Laertes acquired Eurycleia
for the equivalent of 20 oxen.45 This means that the commodities used to buy
slaves were flexible, and this flexibility was a great advantage because livestock
is a capital that tends to reproduce and grow over time. For a young farmer
who just inherited his kleros, built his house and bought his oxen, it would have
made sense to wait for his herds to grow before getting married. In the mean-
time, a slave-woman was a good interim solution, especially because she could
be bought with commodities other than livestock—valuable heirlooms, for
instance—that were not essential for the economic functioning of the newly
established oikos.
A bought woman, also, had a second advantage over a wedded wife, because
there was a relationship between status and labour. The epics of Homer and
Hesiod both document a division of labour along gender lines. It was neces-
sary to have a woman in the household to take care of the ‘feminine’ work
unsuitable for a man.46 Of course, a slave woman could do this just as well as a
wedded wife. The point of Hesiod’s recommendation is, however, that a bought
woman could ‘follow the oxen’. The phrase ‘to follow the oxen’ usually means ‘to
plough’, and for Hesiod this clearly was the work of men. Some scholars have
jumped to the conclusion that this supposed inconsistency proves verse 406
to be a later addition, but this completely misses the point, since for Hesiod it
went without saying that a slave woman would perform women’s work within
the oikos. But, in addition to this,—and that is the poet’s point—she could
also perform men’s work and follow the oxen. As Walter Scheidel has demon-
strated, there is much evidence from antiquity showing that, despite a division
societies in which the workforce of women is more important in the fieldwork, whereas
a dowry-system is typical of stratified societies with intense agriculture; cf. Goody 1973:
45–47; 51–52. The ‘aristocratic’ form of marriage is thus a marriage with dowry, not with
bridewealth, or, as Jack Goody put it, ibid.: 47: ‘Dowry differentiates, just as bridewealth
tends to homogenize.’
45 This important point is stressed by Finley 1955: 174.
46 For feminine erga in the epics cf. Wickert-Micknat 1982: 38–80 and for division of labour
in the Archaic period in general Zoepffel 1989: 448–469; for an overview of recent schol-
arship cf. Scheer 2011: 9–101. Wagner-Hasel 2020: 155–169 discusses female erga as part of
the reciprocal relationship between men and women within the domestic sphere.
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of labour between the sexes, necessity often forced women to perform mascu-
line tasks.47 Being consistent with normative gender-roles was something one
had to be able to afford, and thus was a marker of status, which is precisely the
meaning of Hesiod’s verse: a wife was of higher status than a slave woman and
would thus be entitled to treatment that was in keeping with her female role.
A slave woman, on the other hand, was able to perform all of the tasks of a
wife, but she was also able to perform men’s work, without compromising her
status.
For a young farmer who was just establishing his oikos, buying a woman
instead of marrying a wife thus made sense on two levels: first, he was flexible
concerning the forms of payment, and not obligated to pay bridewealth in the
form of livestock, and, second, a slave woman could perform all the tasks of a
wife, but, due to of her inferior status, she could also be used for men’s work,
like following the oxen.
Regarding the somewhat slippery statement that a slave can ‘perform all the
tasks of a wife’, a third argument can be deduced. The Homeric epics show quite
clearly that it was customary for slave women to be sexually available to their
masters, and thus, a slave woman could be an interim solution, not only in
terms of her ability to work. In this context, it is interesting to note that the
boundaries between wedded wives—usually denoted with the term alochos—
and unfree concubines, appear at times to be rather fluid.48 Laertes is said to
have honoured Eurycleia like a wife, but he did not sleep with her, so as not to
offend his real wife.49 Achilles, on the other hand, compares his relationship
with the unfree Briseis to that of Menelaus and Helen, while speaking of her
as his alochos, his wife.50 In Book 19 Briseis weeps over the body of Patroclus,
remembering that he once promised to give her to Achilles in marriage once
they got back to Thessaly.51 A slave woman, thus, could be raised to the status
of a legitimate wife, but this could not be done arbitrarily. Briseis is referring
47 Scheidel 1990; Scheidel 1995/96.

48 Cf. Wickert-Micknat 1982: 80–84 and for the fluid ‘legal’ status of marriage in the Homeric
world in general: Finley 1955: 187–193; Vernant 1974: esp. 68: ‘Le statut des femmes comme
celui des fils, légitimes ou bâtards, dépend donc une large mesure de la timé, de l’honneur
qui leur est reconnu par le chef de famille’.
49 Hom. Od. 1.432; that this could be seen as a threat to the wife’s status is made clear by a
passage in the Iliad (Il. 9.449–452) where Phoenix’ mother sees herself as dishonoured
because her husband sleeps with a concubine.
50 Hom. Il. 9.336–343. Agamemnon too claimed that he preferred Chryseis over his alochos
Clytemnestra; he refrained, however, from actually calling her his alochos (Il. 1.113–115).
51 Hom. Il. 19.297–299. Cf. Wickert-Micknat 1982: 84 who sees this as a promise for an eleva-
tion of status—a conclusion that seems self-evident.
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126 meister
to a public wedding feast that would have been necessary to demonstrate her
new status to the wider community. But, technically, there existed indeed the
option of ‘upgrading’ a slave woman to a wife.
It was, of course, an option with severe disadvantages, for it meant relin-
quishing the opportunity of forming an alliance with another oikos and acquir-
ing prestige by marrying a wife of status.52 Nevertheless, if we imagine once
again our young farmer who was just about to establish his oikos, then this too
was a good perspective: a slave woman could be an interim solution for the
first few years while one waited for the oikos and its herds to prosper. If things
went well, one could marry at around the age of 30, just as Hesiod recommends.
If, however, things should have gone badly, one would always have the option
of transforming one’s slave woman into a legitimate wife. This certainly was
not the rule, nor was it the best-case scenario—it was rather a backup option.
However, in an agrarian world in which the future is uncertain, it can be wise
to have a backup option, which in this case was made possible by the availabil-
ity of slaves and by the rather fluid boundaries between free and unfree status.
These fluid boundaries, however, did not only concern slave women, but also
the potential children of these women. This leads to the fourth reason why buy-
ing a woman instead of marrying made sense in Hesiod’s world.
3 Nothoi and gnesioi
The Homeric epics feature a considerable number of bastards. Both Medon

and Teucer were bastard heroes, fighting on the Greek side,53 Medon even led
his own warrior band.54 On the Trojan side, we hear of several bastard sons
of Priam and Antenor.55 There are numerous individuals all clearly denoted as
being bastards by the Greek term nothos, and as such they are set apart from
their legitimate half-brothers, who are referred to as gnesioi.56 The difference
between these two groups becomes apparent in the two cases where a gnesios
and a nothos fight alongside one another: Hector’s bastard brother functions as
his charioteer—clearly an inferior position—as does Isos, the bastard brother
52 For the prestige involved with marriages cf. Duplouy 2006: 79–117.
53 Medon: Hom. Il. 2.727; 13.694–697; 15.333–336; Teucer: Il. 8.284. For bastards in the epics
cf. Odgen 1996: esp. 21–26.
54 Hom. Il. 2.716–728.
55 Hom. Il. 4.499; 5.69–70; 11.101–103.; 11.489–490; 16.737–738.
56 Cf. Ogden 1996: 14–21.
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of another of Priam’s legitimate sons.57 It is certainly no coincidence that the

bastard is named ‘Isos’: whoever gave this name to him clearly had hoped that,
even though he was a bastard, he would be treated as an ‘equal’.58 In Homeric
society, bastards could indeed hope for equal treatment, but contrary to gnesioi,
they were not entitled to it. Thus, Teucer is reminded that he should be brave
and do honour to his father who had accepted him into his oikos, although he
was a bastard.59 And, when referring to a bastard of Antenor, the poet states
that Antenor’s wife had accepted him into the oikos and had raised him as an
equal with her own children.60 Equal treatment was thus possible, but the fact
that it needs to be mentioned shows that it could not be taken for granted.
In the Odyssey the term nothos is missing. There are, however, two stories
from the Odyssey, which help to complete the picture one gets from the Iliad. In
Book 14, Odysseus lies about his identity by pretending to be the son of a Cretan
called Castor.61 Castor had many sons with his legitimate wife, his alochos, but
Odysseus pretends to have been born by a bought woman whom his father had
used as a concubine.62 In the Iliad, we never learn whether bastards were born
by free women or slaves, but apparently this is of no importance, since Castor
nonetheless honoured his bastard son equally (isos) as his other children. Only
on Castor’s death did the difference between the nothos and the gnesioi become
apparent, for Odysseus claims that his half-brothers left him only a small share
of the inheritance. Yet, he did get a share, and later on he even was able to make
a very profitable marriage.63 A bastard heritage thus was a handicap, but did not
bring social stigma.
This becomes even more evident in the second story, found in the fourth
book. When Telemachus comes to Sparta, Menelaus is celebrating a double
wedding: his daughter Hermione is to be married to Neoptolemus in Thessaly,
while his son Megapenthes is to be married to a Spartan girl.64 The poet tells us
that this son was
57 Hom. Il. 16.737–738 and 11.101–103: αὐτὰρ ὃ βῆ Ἶσόν τε καὶ Ἄντιφον ἐξεναρίξων / υἷε δύω Πρι-
άμοιο νόθον καὶ γνήσιον ἄμφω / εἰν ἑνὶ δίφρῳ ἐόντας· ὃ μὲν νόθος ἡνιόχευεν.
58 Cf. Ogden 1996: 24.
59 Hom. Il. 8.283–284: πατρί τε σῷ Τελαμῶνι, ὅ σ’ ἔτρεφε τυτθὸν ἐόντα, / καί σε νόθον περ ἐόντα
κομίσσατο ᾧ ἐνὶ οἴκῳ.
60 Hom. Il. 5.69–71: Πήδαιον δ’ ἄρ’ ἔπεφνε Μέγης Ἀντήνορος υἱὸν / ὅς ῥα νόθος μὲν ἔην, πύκα δ’
ἔτρεφε δῖα Θεανὼ / ἶσα φίλοισι τέκεσσι χαριζομένη πόσεϊ ᾧ.
61 Hom. Od. 14.199 ff.
62 Hom. Od. 14.200–203: πολλοὶ δὲ καὶ ἄλλοι / υἷες ἐνὶ μεγάρῳ ἠμὲν τράφον ἠδ’ ἐγένοντο / γνήσιοι
ἐξ ἀλόχου· ἐμὲ δ’ ὠνητὴ τέκε μήτηρ / παλλακίς, ἀλλά με ἶσον ἰθαιγενέεσσιν ἐτίμα […].
63 Hom. Od. 14.108–111.
64 Hom. Od. 4.1 ff.
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128 meister
(…) born of a slave woman; for to Helen the gods vouchsafed issue no
more after she had at the first borne her lovely child, Hermione, who had
the beauty of golden Aphrodite.65
This case is particularly interesting, for it shows that a bastard son could not
only be honoured like a legitimate son and inherit a small share of the prop-
erty, but that, in fact, with a legitimate male heir lacking, the bastard could
even assume his place. It is quite evident that Megapenthes is designated as
Menelaus’ successor, given that Hermione is bound to be married off in a patri-
local marriage. The other solution, which is common in many societies, would
have been to contract a matrilocal marriage by taking Hermione’s husband
into the oikos of Menelaus, in order to fill the place of the lacking (legitimate)
son. This strategy was not unknown in Homeric society—we encounter it, for
instance, among the Phaeacians.66 But Menelaus resorted to a different strategy
to secure his succession: apparently it was possible, and socially acceptable, to
have a bastard son take the place of a legitimate heir, even if born from a slave.
What made sense in Homer’s world of heroes, made even more sense in the
‘peasant’ world of Hesiod. As Winfried Schmitz has shown, Hesiod’s recom-
mendation to beget only one son must be seen as a deliberate strategy to
prevent the oikos from being divided among multiple heirs.67 The recommend-
ation to marry around the age of thirty—which is rather late—is part of this
strategy: the later in life one marries, the less likely one is to produce multiple
heirs.68 Hesiod, however, faced a dilemma, for only a few lines later he states
that having more sons would cause more worries, albeit more profit.69 There
probably was no shortage of land in the early seventh century, so that the work-
force of extra-sons could be used to cultivate more land.70 The situation was
65 Hom. Od. 4.12–14 (trans. from LCL): ἐκ δούλης· Ἑλένῃ δὲ θεοὶ γόνον οὐκέτ’ ἔφαινον, / ἐπεὶ δὴ
τὸ πρῶτον ἐγείνατο παῖδ’ ἐρατεινήν, / Ἑρμιόνην, ἣ εἶδος ἔχε χρυσῆς Ἀφροδίτης.
66 Hom. Od. 7.63–68: Alcinous married his niece because his brother had no sons. Accord-
ing to the classical tradition this solution prevailed in Sparta too—contrary to Menelaus’
plans: thus, Neoptolemus was slain by Hermione’s cousin Orestes who then married her
and became king in Sparta instead of the bastard Megapenthes, cf. Paus. 2.18.6.
67 Hes. Op. 376–377; Schmitz 2004: 94–98.
68 Hes. Op. 695–697.
69 Hes. Op. 380: πλείων μὲν πλεόνων μελέτη, μείζων δ’ ἐπιθήκη. Cf. Schmitz 2004: 95.
70 Link 1990 argued that apart from the land divided into kleroi, we should reckon with large
portions of uncultivated land in Archaic times; the surveys of Lohmann 1993 (1): 121–123
also indicate that at least in Attica there was no land shortage (which does not exclude
land-conflicts). Thus, Hesiod’s father could, as a foreigner, acquire land in Ascra (Hes. Op.
635–640) and Laertes is said to have made the land arable on which his farm stands (Hom.
Od. 24.206–207); for this possibility cf. Schmitz 2004: 95.
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thus different from that of early modern Europe, where land was limited and a
greater workforce did not necessarily produce more profit. Furthermore, there
was always the risk that if one had only a single son, this son might die prema-
turely and leave the father unattended in his old age.
Hesiod’s recommendations are thus contradictory: on the one hand, the
option of limiting one’s offspring to only one son seems preferable because
the inheritance will be passed on undivided. On the other, more sons mean
a greater workforce, and, thus, more profit. Finally, more sons guarantee that
one is taken care of in old age. In light of this dilemma, bastards must have
appeared as an excellent solution: they offered all the advantages of legitim-
ate sons, and could even replace them, but they did not need to be treated as
equals in the succession, if legitimate sons were available.
Having bastard sons had yet another advantage. Jochen Martin has pointed
out that the status of old fathers in Greece, contrary to that of the pater familias
in Rome, was precarious.71 Hesiod is very concerned about children who mis-
treat their elderly parents, and later laws inflicted punishments on persons who
neglected their parents.72 Winfried Schmitz argued that this precarious situ-
ation is connected to the practice of handing over the oikos to one’s sons while
the father is still living. This practice was unthinkable in Rome, but quite com-
mon in Greece.73 The evidence, however, remains unclear as to whether this
practice was the cause, or rather the effect, of the weak position of the old father
vis-à-vis his grown-up sons.
A key reason for the precarious status of old fathers in Greece seems to be
the lack of testamentary freedom: while a Roman pater was free to disinherit
an insubordinate son, this option does not exist in the world of the epics, where
legitimate sons seemingly dispose at will of their father’s inheritance.74 In this
case, having bastard-sons can be a great advantage since they had no automatic
access to an inheritance, but by honouring them and treating them as equals, a
father could bring his bastard-sons into a position in which they could lay claim
at least to some part of the inheritance. Bastard sons were, therefore, a potential
threat to the claims of legitimate sons, and offered the father the possibility of
disciplining his sons, at least to some degree, and to keep his authority even in
old age. This would have worked even better if the bastard sons had been older
71 Martin 1984.
72 Hes. Op. 185–188; 331–332.
73 Schmitz 2004: 94–98.
74 Martin 2009: 315–318 emphasised the Roman pater’s right to disinherit his sons as one of
the main reasons (apart from the lifelong patria potestas) for his dominating position.
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130 meister
than the legitimate sons. In fact, this would have been the logical consequence,
if one had started by first buying a woman, and marrying later, just as Hesiod
advises.
The poet does not explicitly mention this. Instead, he only points out that
a bought woman can follow the oxen. However, his recommendation makes
sense on various other levels, and although this might not have been part of
a conscious strategy, it nonetheless would have worked to one’s advantage.
Hesiod’s verse about buying, but not wedding, a woman, thus made perfect
sense in a society of reasonably well-off farmers, and there is no need to see
it as a later addition, or as a joke.
4 Conclusions: Marriage, Bastards and Aristocratic Farmers
If we accept this verse as authentic, and, further, as appropriate to the cus-

toms and culture of the early seventh century, this has two consequences for
our picture of Hesiod’s society. First, the peasant world of Hesiod is not a per-
fect parallel for early modern Europe. While Winfried Schmitz is certainly right
in pointing out the analogies between Hesiod’s world and early modern peas-
ant societies, there are also considerable differences. The access to slaves as
workforce, and the possibility of begetting bastard children one could or could
not raise as equals, is one such difference. Verse 406 clearly shows that Hesiod
was aware of the possibilities this offered to a moderately rich farmer, and so
it seems that slaves were not a phenomenon that was limited to supposedly
aristocratic households. The clear distinction Schmitz sees in the structure of
peasant households and aristocratic oikoi, thus, needs to be regarded as much
more fluid. In a sense, then, Hesiod would have been much more aristocratic
than Schmitz admits, and Homeric heroes much more peasant-like.75 Such a
perspective enables us to modify Schmitz’s innovative approach and to apply
it to a study of Archaic elites by asking how this peasant-aristocracy evolved
during the following centuries.
One such historic development is the second conclusion we can draw from
verse 406. The recommendation to buy a woman, instead of marrying one, does
not make sense in all readings of this passage. Certainly, in a world with limited
75 For the social foundation of Homeric heroes in an agrarian world cf. also Strasburger 1953
and Meister 2020: 54–82. There remains, however, one striking difference in the house-
hold structure among the heroes themselves: really rich aristocrats possess several wedded
wives, as does Priam (Hom. Il. 8.304–305; 22.48); a practice still common among later tyr-
ants such as Dionysus of Syracuse and (probably) Peisistratus of Athens, cf. Gernet 1982.
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trade and limited wealth, a market for slaves would be nearly non-existent. In
such a world, women could be acquired by conquest, as gifts, or by marriage;
in fact, all three options are well documented in the epics. The original proverb
Hesiod cites is well-suited for such a world because the woman in the proverb
is clearly a married wife. However, Hesiod himself lived in a changing world,
where trade flourished and wealth increased. Slave women were now available
as commodities which could be bought, and this opened up new possibilities.76
It now made sense for a moderately wealthy peasant-aristocrat of the seventh
century to first buy a woman and to marry later. This is the reason why Hesiod
found it necessary to add a second line to the old proverb, to make it fit for the
‘modern age’ of his own period.
However, slaves could not replace wives, and the social expectation that
eventually one had to marry was not questioned. And yet, given the option
of buying slave women, marriage became less attractive. The only advantage
a real wife had to offer was the prestige of a marriage and the ties it established
with another household. For the basic needs of an oikos marriage was no longer
necessary, and the ‘misogyny’ of many Archaic poets could reflect just this. In
fact, they usually do not portray women in general, but represent wives spe-
cifically as costly and lazy.77
A conflict emerges here between the interests of the individual farmer and
those of the community as a whole, since a community consisted not only of
bridegrooms, but also of fathers. Hesiod himself offers a rather charming pic-
ture of a young daughter who was bathed, anointed, and kept warm within the
house.78 A father certainly would have wished to have such a daughter enter
into a good marriage, and not to have her status menaced by slave women
who were honoured like wives. Moreover, the wife’s family would hardly have
been pleased by the prospect of bastards made ‘equal’ to their grandchildren
or nephews. What made sense for the individual farmer at a certain stage of his
lifecycle led to diverse problems for society as a whole.
During the next two centuries these problems came to be addressed. The
practice of paying bridewealth soon went out of fashion because a wife’s labour
no longer formed part of the oikos’ basic needs. Instead, the dowry became
76 For slavery as a relatively new phenomenon in the epics cf. Wickert-Micknat 1983: 144–149;
the general increase of wealth in the course of the eighth century that formed the basis for
such a market is beyond doubt: cf. Morris 2009. For a recent discussion of archaic slavery
within a broader Mediterranean context (arguing that slavery was common in the world
of the epics) cf. Lewis 2018: 107–120.
77 The luxury loving ‘horse-woman’ in Simonides fr. 7 West 57–70 mirrors this problem. On
Simonides fr. 7 West in general see Seelentag 2014.
78 Hes. Op. 519–523.
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132 meister
more important, and this made marriage more attractive from an economic
point of view, while at the same time enhancing the status of the bride. Equally
important is the fact that marriage, and the fluid status of bastards, became
subject to legislation: the laws of Solon contain several measures that discrim-
inate nothoi and protect the rights of legitimate children, especially concerning
their inheritance.79 The laws of Solon also feature a nomos agamiou—a law dir-
ected against the unmarried—and similar laws used to enforce marriage are
reported for other poleis.80 The new options opened up by the possibility to
buy women were thus constrained by communal legislation.
In the world of Hesiod, however, such regulations were not yet in force, and
so it made perfect sense for him to add a new verse to the old proverb that
advises his readers first to buy a woman, and to wait until later before marrying.
For Aristotle, however, living in new circumstances, the old proverb made sense
again, but in a different way. In fact, in fourth century Athens it was inconceiv-
able that bastard children born to a slave woman could be treated as equal to
legitimate heirs and Hesiod’s ‘modernisation’ of the original proverb became
obscure. What had made sense in Hesiod’s world had become foreign to the
world of Aristotle. It comes as no surprise, therefore, that the philosopher, cit-
ing Hesiod by heart, simply ‘forgot’ the addition the poet once made.
79 F 50 a–b Ruschenbusch = Aristoph. Av. 1660–1663; Dem. Or. 43.51 bars bastards from inher-
itance and F 57 Ruschenbusch = Plut. Sol. 22.4 frees children from non-legitimate unions
from the obligation to take care of their parents; F 48 a–b Ruschenbusch = Poll. 3.33;
Dem. Or. 46.18 guarantees the engye-marriage and the rights of children acknowledged
as gnosioi; for a discussion of the fragments cf. Ruschenbusch 2010: ad loc.; Ogden 1996:
37–44; Patterson 1998: 89–90. For the status of nothoi in Athens in general cf. Patterson
1990; Ogden 1996: 32–212; Kamen 2013: 62–70. In Gortyn (Ogden 1996: 263–271) bastards
do not feature in the laws (gnesioi however do) and in Sparta too indications for legal
discrimination of bastards are mostly absent (ibid.: 217–262); both cases, however, differ
from Athens as women are able to inherit property. Their status and that of their children
is therefore secured through female inheritance and not so much through the discrimin-
ation of bastards.
80 Plut. mor. 493e is the main source, for further discussions cf. Schmitz 2004: 210–213. The
law is considered unhistorical by most scholars; Schmitz 2004: 210–213, however, makes a
strong case for its authenticity.
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part 2
Citizens and City-States
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chapter 6
Hippotrophia as Citizen Behaviour in Archaic

Greece
Alain Duplouy
1 Introduction
Archaic Greece has become the focus of growing interest for many histori-
ans and archaeologists who are seeking a more comprehensive picture of the
Archaic polis, which goes well beyond the old-fashioned constitutional history.
Following Oswyn Murray’s Early Greece (2nd ed. 1993), lifestyles and behaviours
have become a ‘serious’ topic, shedding new light on major aspects of ancient
societies.
Before engaging in a discussion about citizen behaviours, however, I would
like to state a few theoretical prerequisites. Without falling into historical revi-
sionism or pure subjectivism, post-modern critical thought has proven how
difficult it is to achieve historical objectivity. While there are facts that cannot
be negated, writing history is also a matter of perspective and historiograph-
ical choices. Instead of perpetuating the illusion of neutrality, I prefer to state
what I believe—or, to be more specific, what my own experience as a historian
has taught me—the Greek polis, and, more precisely, the Archaic Greek polis,
to have been.
2 The Greek City and Archaic Citizenship
What is the Greek polis? This is not, of course, an easy question. It is, in fact,
possibly the most complex issue in the study of the ancient world, an issue
that has been at the core of many discussions since the publication of Fustel
de Coulange’s Cité antique in 1864. It has generated hundreds of dedicated stud-
ies, which have defined various schools of thought. As Oswyn Murray once set
out, metaphorically, ‘the French polis is a form of Holy Communion’, whereas
the German polis ‘can only be described in a handbook of constitutional law’.1
1 Murray 1990: 3. On the multiple historical approaches to the polis, see also Azoulay and Ismard
2007.

140 duplouy
As Aristotle once stated, ‘the word polis has several meanings’ (πολλαχῶς γὰρ
τῆς πόλεως λεγομένης) (Pol. 3.1276a 23). Among the three basic elements he
considered in establishing the continuity and identity of a polis—that is territ-
ory, population, and government—, he explicitly favoured the government—
and henceforth the constitution of a state—as the main defining criterion of
a Greek city-state, regardless of whether its inhabitants remained the same
or were entirely different people. This emphasis on political institutions has
been at the core of a long-established research tradition, ranging from the
Griechische Staatsrecht of the late nineteenth-century German scholars, to
Louis Robert or Philippe Gauthier’s epigraphical approach to the Hellenistic
cities, and to Mogens Hansen’s Inventory of Archaic and Classical poleis. Accord-
ing to Hansen, ‘the very heart of the polis concept was the citizen body under-
stood as the participants in the city’s political institutions’.2 As a community
of citizens, the polis is therefore tied to a precise politeia or form of govern-
ment. The division of power between the various political aspects of the polis
(assembly, council, courts of law and officials) and the limited access to some of
these allow us to distinguish three well-known types of constitution and their
related positive and negative facets: monarchy and tyranny, aristocracy and
oligarchy, democracy and the so-called politeia. From this perspective, political
and judicial institutions are supposed to be at the centre of what really makes a
polis: an entity sometimes described as ‘one of the most totally institutionalised
societies in world history’.3
It is not my intention to enter here into a discussion of the inadequacy of
such an approach, based on applying Aristotelian concepts to Archaic Greece.
I have already stated, on various other occasions, why a constitutional history of
Archaic Greece and many of the institution-related issues and approaches are
actually biased toward fifth- and fourth-century political thought, and there-
fore, do not suit the nature of the existing evidence for pre-Classical Greece,
neither from a political perspective nor from a social or economic one.4 If we
want to understand the Archaic poleis without retro-projecting the Classical
model, another approach should be adopted.
Thucydides (7.77.7), following Alcaeus (frr. 112.10, 426), once said ‘men make
the city’ (ἄνδρες γὰρ πόλις). Despite the various events which occur within the
history of a city, even the loss of its territory or a political revolution, the polis
is to be conceived primarily as a community of citizens. The main issue is,
2 Hansen 2006: 110.

3 Ibid.: 113.
4 Mainly Duplouy 2002; Duplouy 2005; Duplouy 2006.
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hippotrophia as citizen behaviour in archaic greece 141
therefore, to delineate the boundaries of the citizen group. This means distin-
guishing between insiders (who are allowed to take part in the community) and
outsiders (who are excluded). As a society, the polis is tied to all the spheres of
activity that the citizens share in their everyday lives. This means that, contrary
to the Aristotelian perspective, the centre of the polis was not restricted only to
the political activities performed in and through formal institutions. In Archaic
Greece, what we may call the ‘political’ was embedded within society and actu-
ally related to a number of activities, whether they be social, judicial, political,
military, religious, cultural, artistic, or economic.5
There is, of course, nothing original in thinking about the polis as a com-
munity of citizens, or as a social entity having an existence well beyond the
domain of institutions. Twenty-five years ago, François de Polignac was invited
to Copenhagen by Mogens Hansen to discuss just such a perception of the
Greek city. He even proposed to ‘reconsider the city’ or, more precisely, to ‘for-
get the city in order to consider the society’ by getting rid of the very notion
of polis, which might be more ‘a misleading label than a heuristic concept’.6
Polignac’s approach, strongly influenced by French anthropological structur-
alism, favours a holistic view of the polis, whereby religion and politics are
intimately intertwined. He defines the Archaic city as ‘a social entity founded
upon a network of relations between the various members of a territorial com-
munity’.7 More precisely, by focusing on the function of the sanctuary within
society, he has added his own contribution to assimilating the Greek city-state
to the formal expression of religious cohesion.
Such a sociological or anthropological approach is no doubt itself biased by
other principles. However, contrary to an institutional approach which rests
on very little Archaic evidence, this approach better matches the available
contemporary documentation, both textual and material, to which it can be
applied.8
There is, of course, a fundamental difference between the Weberian ‘city as
institution’ of Mogens Hansen and the Durkheimian ‘city as society’ of François
de Polignac, which inevitably leads to two radically divergent conceptions of
Archaic citizenship.9
5 On the ‘political’ sphere, see Schmitt-Pantel 1990; Ampolo 1996.

6 Polignac 1995b: 9.
7 Polignac 1995a: 78.
8 For a full development of this approach, see Duplouy 2019.
9 For a critical review of the different historiographical trends about archaic citizenship, see
Duplouy 2018a.
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142 duplouy
Citizenship is a legacy of ancient Greece. The idea arose some three millen-
nia ago, as a concept based on the participation in the social and political life of
small-scale communities. However, it is only towards the end of the fourth cen-
tury that we find an explicit statement of this concept. As a theoretician, Aris-
totle was mainly looking for a definition of citizenship that would be universal,
despite the great political diversity among Greek states. According to him, the
citizen is to be defined generically as ‘a man who shares in the administration of
justice and in the holding of office’ (μετέχειν κρίσεως καὶ ἀρχῆς, Pol. 3.1275a 23).
Among the archai, he included offices which had a time limit, whether or not
they could be held several times, as well as the offices without limit of tenure,
such as those of juror in the courts and member of the assembly. This defini-
tion has been widely accepted by historians of ancient Greece as a convenient
way to think about the polis through its political institutions. It is at the core
of Hansen’s definition of the citizen: ‘a citizen is defined as a person (politēs)
who takes a part in the running of a polis by exercising his political rights’. More
precisely, ‘in the ancient Greek city-state culture, “citizenship” was what it has
become again in the modern world: a person’s juridically defined, inherited,
membership of a state, in virtue of which that citizen enjoys a number of polit-
ical, social and economic privileges in that state which a non-citizen living in
the state is deprived of or can enjoy only to a limited extent’.10 Focusing on the
geographical placing of sanctuaries and on cult activity, Polignac nevertheless
proposed a quite different definition of early Greek citizenship: ‘the constitu-
tion of the polis is to be conceived not only in terms of access to the archai
and participation in political citizenship, but also as the gathering of different
groups into a single effective body by allowing them all access to the same cults,
assembling them around a number of common sanctuaries, and granting all of
them the privilege of taking part in certain rituals: in short, the polis has to be
considered also in terms of a religious citizenship’.11 More precisely, ‘participa-
tion in religious rituals guaranteed a mutual recognition of statuses and set the
seal upon membership of the society, thereby defining an early form of citizen-
ship’.12 In these formulations, we find what is possibly the most clearly phrased
manifestation of the discrepancy between these two divergent conceptions of
Greek citizenship.
I strongly believe that the Aristotelian definition, as is deeply rooted in the
philosophical and political thought of the Classical period, fails to account
accurately for the previous centuries, and the dynamics of the emergent cities.
10 Hansen 2006: 111–112.

11 Polignac 1995a: 124–125.
12 Ibid.: 153.
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Accordingly, I prefer Polignac’s approach to the question, without necessarily

reducing Archaic citizenship to religious citizenship only.
Usually considered as a granted status enshrined in legal criteria and insti-
tutional affiliations, citizenship has often been reduced to the mere ‘member-
ship’ of a previously defined entity, turning any historical definition of Archaic
citizenship into a discussion on state formation processes. Instead of ‘member-
ship’, which introduces a view from the top, I prefer to describe Archaic citizen-
ship as ‘participation’. This is, in fact, the actual meaning of the word metechein,
as used by Aristotle in defining citizenship. Besides attending the assembly and
the council, which implies the formal institutions already explored by Aristotle
and his modern epigones, the exercise of citizenship actually extended to all
areas of collective activity: cults and rituals, public organisations and their ima-
gined identities, trade and the economy, war and peace, etc. All spheres which
contributed to sketching the outline of the citizen community. This is in fact
implicit in the double meaning of the word politeia in ancient Greek, which
was applied, on the one hand, to forms of government—usually the only side
explored in modern historiography—and, on the other, to citizen lifestyles, also
referred to as nomoi, tropoi or epitēdeumata.13 These are the behaviours of the
citizens.
As I have proposed in various recent studies,14 I would prefer to define
Archaic citizenship as a ‘performance’. In the absence of a formal register cer-
tifying one’s legal status in Archaic cities, the rights of a citizen had to be con-
stantly demonstrated, in order to be acknowledged and accepted by others.
Considering how deeply many aspects of Archaic institutions were actually
embedded in social practices, we must place great emphasis on the manifold
behaviours through which citizenship could be asserted or even claimed. Since
participation in collective activities (such as banquets and hunting or shared
rites and festivities) has been acknowledged as an efficient way to incorporate
people into the citizen group, adopting the normative behaviours of citizens in
all aspects of their lifestyle perhaps provided the best means of being acknow-
ledged as a fellow citizen. In short, in order to be accepted as a citizen, one
had first to behave like a citizen. Of course, patterns of behaviour greatly differ
within the Archaic world, and practices that were highly valued in some cities
could have been deprecated in others. It is also obvious that not all Archaic
cities complied with this model, whether fully or partially. Defining Archaic cit-
izenship is certainly not a matter of finding a unique and ever-valid standard or
13 Bordes 1982: 17. On political epitēdeumata, see Schmitt-Pantel 2009.

14 Duplouy 2011; Duplouy 2013; Duplouy 2014a; Duplouy 2018b. On performative citizenship,
beyond ancient Greece, see Isin 2017.
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144 duplouy
criterion, such as that promoted by the Aristotelian philosophical model. In my

view, one of the main challenges in the renewed interest for Archaic Greece is
to explore the various mechanisms involved in the process of citizen-making.
Having explored various attitudes in previous studies, I focus here on horse-
breeding (hippotrophia) as a specific form of citizen behaviour in Archaic
Greece, and explore this topic both in texts and images.
3 A Short Definition of Hippotrophia
Liddell and Scott defined ἱπποτροφία (see also ἱπποτροφέω and ἱππότροφος) as
‘breeding or keeping of horses, esp. for racing’ and gave examples from Pin-
dar (i. 2.38), Plato (Ly. 205c) and Plutarch (Ages. 20.1), who all refer to horse
racing and Panhellenic competitions. Hippotrophia is, indeed, usually associ-
ated with the behaviour of wealthy men. More precisely, it is frequently defined
as a kind of hobby for the so-called aristocratic leisure class. As Solon put it
in his poetry: ‘Happy is he who has dear boys, horse of uncloven hoof, hunt-
ing dogs, and a friend in foreign parts’ (fr. 23 West). It is also an important
feature in the denigration of Alcibiades by Nicias, as reported by Thucydides
(6.12.2), or in Demosthenes’ criticism of his rival Aeschines (18.320). Alcibi-
ades praised himself as being the first man to have sent seven chariots into
the lists at the Olympic games—‘a number never before entered by any private
person’—and won the first, second, and fourth prizes on one occasion (Thuc.
6.16.2). Accordingly, Oswyn Murray made hippotrophia a characteristic feature
of the aristocratic lifestyle, and defined it as a ‘rich man’s sport’.15 Beyond Alcibi-
ades’ magnificent behaviour, the nature of this ‘rich man’s sport’ actually rests
on the notion of ‘aristocracy’. As I argued in my book Le prestige des élites,
the old notion of a nobility ruling Archaic cities and enjoying a life of pleas-
ures, thanks to their riches, as a kind of leisure class, is obsolete.16 Conversely,
honour and social esteem were key patterns in the construction of hierarchy.
In ancient Greece, rather than being ascribed or inherited, elite status was
mostly achieved through a constant investment in time, money, and energy-
consuming practices. Depending on the local circumstances, there were count-
less opportunities in most poleis to show, maintain, or enhance one’s elite
status. Hippotrophia was of course one of them, and it provided wealthy men
with the much sought-after prestige they were looking for within their com-
munity.
15 Murray 1993: 204.

16 Duplouy 2006. See also Fisher and van Wees 2015; Ma 2016. Contra Stein-Hölkeskamp 1989.
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Yet, despite being an extremely expensive practice, hippotrophia could also

be a military requirement. More than a social status symbol associated with
agonistic competitions, and beyond the prestige-inducing character of this
behaviour, horse-breeding was also linked to the existence of cavalry units in
citizen armies. Various Classical Athenian authors, such as Xenophon (Oec. 2.6)
and Lycurgus (1.139), explicitly refer to individual contributions to the mainten-
ance of a state cavalry in post-Periclean Athens, requiring the upkeep of a horse
for military purposes, possibly with the help of various state-funded measures
and incentives.17 This also leads, in various Hellenistic cities, to the creation of
a formal military liturgy named hippotrophia.18 And yet, while ancient authors
usually associate cavalry units with specific regimes or cities, their actual exist-
ence in the history of Archaic warfare is still much disputed.19
Aristotle refers to the rearing of horses as a typical feature of aristocracies,
and links it specifically to the military organisation of various early Greek cities.
‘And among the notables (τῶν γνωρίμων) there are differences in wealth and in
the extent of their property—as, for example, in the breeding of horses (οἷον
ἱπποτροφίας), since this is not easy for those without wealth to do. (That is
why, indeed, there were oligarchies among those city-states in ancient times
whose power lay in their cavalry (ἐν τοῖς ἵπποις), and who used horses in wars
with their neighbours—as, for example, the Eretrians did, and the Chalcidians,
the Magnesians on the river Menander, and many of the others in Asia.)’ (Pol.
4.1289b 33–40, trans. Reeve). In the Aristotelian reconstruction of the past, ‘the
first constitution that arose among the Greeks after kingships also consisted of
the defensive warriors. Initially, it consisted of the cavalrymen (ἐκ τῶν ἱππέων),
since strength and superiority in war lay in them (ἐν τοῖς ἱππεῦσιν).’ (Pol. 4.1297b
16–19, trans. Reeve). Testimonials relating to the First Messenian War and the
Lelantine War allude to the use of cavalry as a specific force in early Archaic
Greece.20 In accordance with the Homeric epics, pictorial representations on
Geometric and Archaic vases clearly indicate that Archaic warriors used their
horses principally for transportation as mounted infantry, whether or not the
hoplites of the Classical period find their origins in this early form of warfare.21
Although the existence of fully fledged cavalry units in Archaic warfare con-
tinues to be disputed, horsemen were nevertheless a reality—and certainly a
17 On the state cavalry in post-Periclean Athens and its funding, see Bugh 1988; Spence 1993;
Worley 1994: 70–74.
18 For Hellenistic cities, see Chandezon 2014.
19 Burckhardt 2001; Lubtchansky 2005: 13–31 offers a synthesis of the extant literature.
20 As emphasised by Worley 1994: 21–58.
21 As it has been recently argued by Brouwers 2007.
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146 duplouy
very impressive one—on many battlefields. As I will argue, in some Archaic

cities horsemanship was, therefore, related to the performance of citizenship.
While varying from one city to another, horse-breeding was not the only way
to be considered a citizen, nor was it an obligation. However, in a military con-
text, hippotrophia could certainly be valued as proof of citizen status, or even
underpin a right to enfranchisement. There were many different situations in
the different Archaic Greek cities: hippotrophia could be the absolute criterion
for citizen status or—merely—one of many possible requirements among the
multiple ways of achieving citizen status through participation and perform-
ance.
4 Hippotrophia in Texts
There are at least a dozen examples of horse-breeding cities, including: Boeotia,

Crete, Thessaly, Cyprus, Euboea, Ionia, Southern Italy and Sicily, not to mention
Athens and Sparta. I will focus here on a few more-or-less explicit case studies.
One of the clearest examples of evidence linking citizenship status with
hippotrophia in Archaic Greece is found in Aeolic Cyme. In his excerpt of the
Aristotelian Constitution of the Cymaians, Heraclides Lembos (second century
bc) states (§39 Dilts): Φείδων ἀνὴρ δόκιμος πλείοσι μετέδωκε τῆς πολιτείας, νόμον
θεὶς ἕκαστον ἐπάναγκες τρέφειν ἵππον, ‘Pheidon, an esteemed man, gave more
men a share in the citizenship, establishing a law which compelled everyone to
raise a horse’. In his epitome, Heracleides refers to a time immediately posterior
to the Persian conquest of Aeolis by Cyrus the Great in the 540s. He reports
that Pheidon created legislation to enfranchise ‘more men’ (πλείοσι), who were
required to breed horses. Although the phrasing of the original idea probably
reflects the biases of fourth-century vocabulary (μετέδωκε τῆς πολιτείας and
νόμον), there is no need to dismiss this piece of information which highlights
the specificity of citizen status in Archaic Cyme. Pheidon clearly established a
link between horse-breeding and citizenship. It is not possible to state whether
the status or the behaviour—citizenship or horse-breeding—had priority over
the other, but, in practice, both were probably interrelated as normative beha-
vioural requirements for Cymaian citizens. The reform would certainly have
offered a simple (if not self-sufficient) criterion for enfranchisement: breeding
at least one horse—but possibly many more—was the minimum condition for
a share in the Archaic Cymaian civic community.
Beyond Aeolic Cyme, many East-Greek cities were renowned for their horse-
men, so much so that hippotrophia can perhaps be considered as a typical
feature of the Eastern Greeks’ conception of a citizen. Among them, Aristotle
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names Magnesia on the Meander (Pol. 4.1289b 39–40), which he includes in the
category of equestrian oligarchies. Aelian (V.H. 14.46) reports a pair of individu-
als, comprising a horseman and a servant carrying a javelin, with the addition
of a hunting dog, as a typical Magnesian combat-technique. The reputation of
the Colophonian horsemen was so well established that, according to Strabo
(14.1.28), ‘in any obstinate engagement, on whichever side the Colophonian
horsemen were engaged, they decided it’. Even the Lydian king Alyattes stood in
fear of the Colophonian horsemen, whom he tried to bribe, and subsequently
slaughtered (Polyaen. 7.2.2). All of these traditions reveal an essential aspect
of Eastern Greek warfare. They may also allude to a specific criterion of cit-
izenship, as documented for Cyme, although we lack any explicit link between
hippotrophia and citizenship for these other Ionian cities.
The Chalcidian hippobotai offer a more convincing case, where hippotrophia
seems to appear as citizen performance. Although ancient and modern histor-
ians usually considered them as an oligarchy,22 i.e. as an elite class of prop-
erty holders that would have been a subgroup of the whole citizen body, the
hippobotai of Chalcis fit well into an Archaic definition of citizenship through
horse-breeding. There is, indeed, a strong association between the city of Chal-
cis and the hippobotai. Herodotos (5.77), our most ancient source on the sub-
ject, equated the territory of Chalcis with the ‘land of the hippobotai’ (ἐπὶ τῶν
Ἱπποβοτέων τῇ χώρῃ), on which Athens settled four thousand klerouchs after
defeating the Chalcidians in 506. A similar expression occurs in Aelian (V.H.
6.1), who refers to it as the ‘hippobotan land’ (τὴν Ἱππόβοτον καλουμένην χώραν).
It should be added that during the second half of the sixth century, the Chal-
cidians minted silver coins bearing, on their obverse, facing views of a quadriga
(tridrachm), a horseman with a second horse (drachm), and a lone horseman
(hemidrachm). These symbols disappeared on coins from the early fifth cen-
tury, and were replaced on the reverse by a wheel, ‘probably an abbreviation
for the quadriga of the earlier issues’.23 It is tempting to see the hippobotai as
a group of horse-breeders who constituted the whole Chalcidian citizen body.
Hippotrophia would have been a shared characteristic of the community, and
perhaps a formal criterion for membership. It looks as though the Chalcidi-
ans had adapted the Homeric epithet ‘grazed by horses’, usually applied to the
plain of Argos (Ἄργος ἱππόβοτον), to refer to their land, and by extension to
its citizens. In precisely the same way, Euripides (Or. 1000) named the Argive
king Atreus ἱπποβότης, ‘feeder of horses’, and Pindar (i. 4.14) praised the Theban
22 See Thalheim 1913; Lazenby 1996; Osborne 1998; Lubtchansky 2005: 23–26. See also a
lengthier discussion in Duplouy 2018b: 257–259.
23 Kraay 1976: 89–91.
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148 duplouy
Kleonymidai for being ἱπποτρόφοι. Similarly, Bacchylides (Ep. 11.114) describes

the city of Metapontum as hippotrophos (ἱπποτρόφον πόλιν), ‘horse-nourishing’,
leading Joseph Carter to refer to ‘a horse-breeding society’ in describing the
sixth-century polis.24 In Archaic Chalcis, hippotrophia was clearly associated
with the performance of citizenship, whether or not it was an exclusive cri-
terion.
Such a model of citizen hippotrophia also applies to Archaic Athens, al-
though it was not the only feature of Athenian Archaic citizen participation,
nor was it even a required one. The existence of a cavalry in pre-Periclean
Athens has been a much-debated topic.25 As Geoffrey de Ste. Croix sugges-
ted, ‘It is generally agreed that there was no organised cavalry force at Athens
until the mid-fifth century (…) Nevertheless, there is not the least reason
to doubt that there were always—before as well as after Solon—individual
Athenians who possessed warhorses and used them on campaign, as “mounted
infantry”’.26 A horse-breeding qualification for citizenship in Archaic Athens
is, of course, related to the discussion of the four Solonian property classes.
As it is commonly accepted, the definition of these classes by Solon in early
sixth-century Athens marked a major step in the political construction of the
Athenian state. However, as argued 40 years ago by Claude Mossé,27 this recon-
struction is mainly due to fourth-century historiography, which installed Solon
as the founding father of the Athenian democracy. This in itself raised doubts
about the early existence of the so-called Solonian system. Although such an
approach has often been considered as ‘post-modern’, ‘hypercritical’, or ‘pess-
imistic’, I recently proposed that we follow her path, by exploring the Solonian
telē as occupational groups involved, among many others, in the construction
of the Athenian polis.28 To be specific, the Athenian hippeis were probably
not a Solonian creation as a property class, distinguishing men able to collect
from their estate a produce of three hundred dry and liquid measures jointly,
but, rather, an existing group of horse-breeders and possibly—in wartime—
cavalrymen. According to a tradition rejected by the Aristotelian author of the
Constitution of the Athenians (7.4), ‘as some say’, the hippeis were ‘those who
were able to keep a horse’ (ὡς δ’ ἔνιοί φασι τοὺς ἱπποτροφεῖν δυναμένους), addu-
cing as proof their very name and Anthemion’s dedication on the Acropolis.
24 Carter 1994: 182.

25 See the discussion in Worley 1994: 63–69; Filser 2017: 401–403.
26 De Ste. Croix 2004: 15.
27 Mossé 1979. See also Raaflaub 2006.
28 Duplouy 2014a.
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As Paulin Ismard has recently demonstrated,29 Archaic Athens was actually

composed not of a cohesive group of citizens having the same attributes and
enjoying the same status, but of multiple lower-ranking communities partly
defined in terms of their activity, such as members of a deme, phrateres, parti-
cipants in sacred orgia, sailors, participants in dining or burial groups, members
of a thiasos, or persons ‘who go away for plunder or trade’ (cf. Digest 47.22.4).
These communities were the intermediaries that guaranteed the exercise of cit-
izen rights, defining a very weakly integrated sixth-century city, within which
there were multiple communitarian affiliations. Ismard demonstrated how,
until Pericles’ law, it was the traditional communitarian customs of the vari-
ous associations that fixed the rules by which an individual was affiliated to
the general citizen community. As I proposed for the so-called Solonian hip-
peis, hippotrophia was an accepted behaviour in Archaic Athens, leading to the
constitution of an informal community of Athenian horse-breeders and to the
recognition of their citizen status thanks to their specific horse-breeding life-
style.
Another well-known horse-breeding city was Archaic Sybaris.30 Quoting
Aristotle’s lost Constitution of the Sybarites, Athenaeus (12.520c) reports that
the Sybarites ‘had carried their luxurious refinement to such a point that their
horses were accustomed to dance to the flute even at their feasts’. The Deipno-
sophist then relates how their Krotoniate enemy took advantage of this custom
by playing a tune on the battlefield and how the Sybarite horses danced away
from the battle. What seems to be a ‘good after-dinner story’31 actually reveals
the existence of a highly skilled ‘cavalry’, trained to perform specific routines.32
Classical dressage movements and training were intended to prepare power-
ful and agile horses not only for parade, but also, more specifically, for war-
fare. Highly skilled horses require collective involvement, and the so-called
refinement of the behaviours of the Sybarites actually points to the existence
of intensively trained horsemen, as it was part of Sybarite citizen education.
According to Athenaeus (12.519c), ‘the horsemen of the Sybarites, more than
5,000 strong, paraded with saffron-coloured coats over their breastplates, and
in summer their young men (οἱ νεώτεροι) journeyed to the Caves of the Nymphs
on the Lusias river and there spent time in every form of luxury’. The neoteroi’s
summer retreat to a sanctuary of the Nymphs is strongly reminiscent of some
kind of initiation rite for citizens-to-be. More specifically, the word νεώτεροι is
29 Ismard 2010: 44–83.

30 For a more detailed study of the Sybarite tradition, see Duplouy 2018b: 262–269.
31 See Rutter 1970: 170.
32 See Lubtchansky 1993; Lubtchansky 1995: 43–69.
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150 duplouy
probably a rephrasing of an actual age group within Archaic Sybarite society,

which was later equated with the late Classical and Hellenistic ephebic institu-
tion. It denotes the existence of young men trained as horsemen and destined
to become citizens.
What we have in Cyme, in East Greek cities, in Chalcis, in Sybaris, and even
in Athens, is not only an elite strategy, but also a behaviour explicitly linked
to the practice of citizenship, mainly through military achievements or cit-
izen education. In these cities, horse-breeders identified themselves as citizens
and recognised the citizen status of their fellows through the shared practice
of hippotrophia. By breeding—or simply riding—a horse they were accepted
by other community members as legitimate and honourable partners. These
people could reasonably claim participation in the life and values of the cit-
izen community, although there may have been, depending on the city, other
ways for an individual to achieve citizen status. Hippotrophia was not neces-
sarily intended as the only citizen requirement, and even in these cities other
criteria may possibly have defined citizens or led to their enfranchisement.
Of course, hippotrophia contributed to the definition of an elite group of
horse-breeders, but this elite was integrated into the citizen community, and
they fully complied with its values. There was no such thing as an anti-polis
ideology,33 or what Oswyn Murray once called ‘a small group working against
the community’.34 This elite—whatever we choose to name it—was in no
way formally separated from other members of the dēmos. Beyond any social
prestige generally associated with hippotrophia, these case studies are explicit
examples of the citizen value of horse-breeding in various Archaic poleis. In
these cities, hippotrophia perfectly fits in with a definition of Archaic citizen-
ship conceived as a performance linked to specific behaviours and lifestyles.
5 Hippotrophia in Images
Hippotrophia was undoubtedly a very visually demonstrative behaviour. As part

of a lifestyle, rearing—and possibly riding—horses allowed people to identify
visually those who were without doubt members of the citizen community.
Ancient images make this strategy obvious. Images are not only snapshots of
ancient everyday life. They are, above all, representations of particular identi-
ties, transcriptions of the way things were supposed to be ordered in the citizen
33 Contra Kurke 1999; Morris 2000.

34 Murray 1983: 266.
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world of the Greeks. They therefore also contributed to defining and continu-
ously reasserting shared values. The role of such images was to illustrate an
ideal state of the community through the depiction of expected collective or
individual behaviours.
In Greek images we find numerous depictions of horses, riders, and chari-
oteers from the eighth century onwards. In Geometric vases, rearing horses is
more or less clearly signified through images representing grazing horses, or
horses at the manger, especially in Argive, Athenian, Cycladic, and Euboean
productions.35 Referring to the specific lifestyle of the Euboean elite,
J.N. Coldstream was the first to use the notion of hippotrophia in relation to
Euboean Geometric images.36 In a recent paper, Pascal Simon and Samuel
Verdan continue this research on Euboean hippotrophia in relation to the so-
called ‘black-horses crater’ (fig. 6.1), discovered in 1998 in Eretria by the archae-
ologists of the Ephoria.37 This mid eighth-century pedestal crater bears on its
two faces an unusual representation of a mare covered by a stallion. It comes
from a funeral pyre that also comprised golden headbands, oriental artefacts,
and a complete drinking set of vases. According to Greek and Swiss archae-
ologists, the entirety of this funerary material should be associated with the
burial of a member of the Eretrian elite, which was locally known as the hippeis.
According to Simon and Verdan, the mating scene—a very unusual image—
was supposed to emphasise the status of horse-owner and, more precisely, his
expertise in horse-breeding. The quality of the horses produced through an
artificially controlled mating process is being emphasised in this image. Refer-
ring to Theognis’ laments (1.183–192), Simon and Verdan establish an analogy
between the purity of animal races and the nobility of human lineages through
well-chosen mating or marriage. This fits perfectly, according to Simon and
Verdan, with an ‘aristocratic ideology’. There is certainly no doubt about the
high social value of horse-breeding in Geometric Eretria. It is, however, more
difficult to establish the exact nature of this ‘aristocracy’. Was it a restricted elite
among the whole citizen community? Were there other criteria for enfranchise-
ment? Or was this the main criterion? Could it be possible that these hippeis
represented all the citizens of Geometric and Archaic Eretria?
35 Coldstream 2008, s.v. ‘horses’ in the general index. More specifically, on Argive horses,
Courbin 1966: 403–413; 482–483; 485–487; Sauzeau 2004. On Cycladic horses, see the
papers quoted n. 40 and Zapheiropoulou 2003: 17–20. It is likely that dressage also existed
in Archaic Athens; we clearly see it, for example, on a Proto-Attic oinochoe, cf.
Papadopoulos 2006: 132–133, fig. 125 A–C.
36 Coldstream 1981.
37 Simon and Verdan 2014.
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152 duplouy
figure 6.1 Eretria, Black-horses crater, graphical representation

vector drawing from simon and verdan 2014, fig. 1b
Who were the Eretrian hippeis? The sources on this are few, vague, and all come
from the Aristotelian school. Citing Eretria among the equestrian oligarchies
(Pol. 4.1289b 39), Aristotle (Pol. 5.1306a 35) alludes more specifically to the ‘olig-
archy of the hippeis’ (τὴν ἐν Ἐρετρίᾳ δ’ ὀλιγαρχίαν τὴν τῶν ἱππέων), whereas the
Aristotelian author of the Constitution of the Athenians (15.2) mentions the sup-
port offered to Peisistratus by the ‘hippeis who controlled the government of
Eretria’ (τῶν ἱππέων τῶν ἐχόντων ἐν Ἐρετρίᾳ τὴν πολιτείαν). Plutarch (Amator. 17 =
Mor. 760f–761a), explicitly referring to Aristotle, alludes to the military superi-
ority of the Eretrian horsemen (τοὺς δ’ ἱππέας) during an undetermined con-
flict between Chalcis and Eretria (perhaps the Lelantine War?). Finally, Strabo
(10.1.10), quoting a sacred law inscribed on a stone exposed within the sanc-
tuary of Artemis at Amarynthos—whom he had knowledge of thanks to the
lost Aristotelian Constitution of the Eretrians, his primary source in Euboean
political matters—, mentions a procession between the city and the sanctu-
ary with ‘three thousand hoplites, six hundred horsemen (ἱππεῦσιν) and sixty
chariots’. There is evidence of the existence of a specific board of five hundred
hippeis in mid-fourth century Eretria, and Denis Knoepler has suggested that
they were probably six hundred in Archaic times.38 Accordingly, Eretrian hip-
peis were no less than the Six-Hundred of Massalia, whom Maurizio Giangiulio
38 Knoepfler 1985: 257.
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figure 6.2 Paros, Polyandreion, amphora A, graphical representation

vector drawing from zapheiropoulou 2006, fig. 11
has proven formed the whole citizen body, and not a restricted elite.39 As for
the Chalcidian hippobotai, there are grounds to argue that the Eretrian hippeis
were not—following the taxonomy typical of Classical political thought—an
oligarchy, i.e. an elite subgroup within the whole citizen community, but might
have represented all the members of the Geometric and Archaic polis.
Geometric Euboean images do not explicitly designate horsemen as cit-
izens. Other examples, however, may be more obvious. Two Late Geometric
amphorae, discovered in Paros, offer a discernible link between hippotrophia
and citizen status. The two Parian vases depict a battle scene where horsemen
are fighting among chariots and infantrymen (fig. 6.2). These pots belong to
a citizen polyandreion, probably as a result of the casualties that occurred in
a battle between Paros and Naxos, in the late eighth century.40 If the Eretrian
‘black-horses crater’ belongs to an elite burial (at least as it has been published),
these Parian amphorae were deliberately made to publicly commemorate the
deeds of two warriors honoured with their comrades. The content and pur-
pose of the Parian polyandreion actually predate, by at least 250 years, the
Athenian dēmosion sēma of the Classical era, yet already display all of the fea-
tures of a public monument. The common burial has a strong citizen tonality
and appears to have been the first celebration of the Parian community as
a polis. In Geometric Paros, the whole citizen community therefore acknow-
ledged horsemanship as a major military and public achievement, performed
by a few (undeniably rich) citizens who contributed to the defence of the
community. Although accepted as a citizen lifestyle, hippotrophia was not, of
course, the only way to express a Parian citizen identity, since infantrymen were
also involved in the battle and its depiction.
Another major piece of Archaic art showing horsemen is the Chigi vase. In
a recent book devoted to this Protocorinthian masterpiece, Matteo D’Acunto
proposes a complete re-examination of the vase, from the context of its dis-
covery in an Etruscan princely tomb, to the technical, stylistic, and icono-
39 Strabo 4.1.5; Val. Max. 2.6.7d; Syll.3 591, 45. Cf. Giangiulio 2018.
40 Zapheiropoulou 1999; Zapheiropoulou 2006. See also Croissant 2008a; Croissant 2008b.
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154 duplouy
graphic features of the Corinthian painter.41 While scholars have often tended
to consider the scenes in the three main zones disconnected from one other,
D’Acunto follows J.M. Hurwit and M. Torelli in exploring these as a compre-
hensive iconographic program. D’Acunto reconstructs the web of signifiers,
connecting the various scenes of the vase into a global ideological model, and
stressing its conformity with the world of the Corinthian aristocracy. There
is no doubt that such a masterpiece was commissioned by elite members of
the Corinthian community. However, I am not persuaded that the inferred
ideology was exclusively ‘aristocratic’—provided that such an ideology actually
existed—, as it was once suggested by Michael Shanks that such an ideology
applied to the whole Protocorinthian figured production as well.42 The themes
are, indeed, related to a fully citizen identity, rather than to an exclusive or anti-
polis ‘aristocratic’ code. Starting from the lower zone, the naked young men
hunting fox and hare with lagobola and assisted by hounds should be inter-
preted as epheboi hunting in the eschatia. As demonstrated long ago by Pierre
Vidal-Naquet, this activity located at the margin of the civic territory was part
of the education process (paideia) of would-be citizens as the best preparation
for war.43 According to D’Acunto, the scene therefore symbolizes ‘the passage
to the status of adult warrior and citizen through paideia’.44 The citizen tone
of the upper frieze is obvious and has long been commented on: it depicts the
clash between two phalanxes of hoplites, ‘where possession of weapons grants
individuals the status of citizens’.45 D’Acunto nevertheless is hesitant with the
interpretation of the central zone with the groups of riders, the chariot and the
lion hunt: on the one hand, he describes it as ‘a schematic representation of
the upper classes of the Corinthian elite’,46 but on the other hand he proposes
‘to interpret the two main zones of the Chigi vase as a symbolic “synthesis” of
Corinthian society, represented as divided into three classes: chariot owners,
hippeis, and hoplites’.47 Such a partition of the Corinthian citizen community
is actually reminiscent of the so-called Solonian property classes, which rather
constitute—at least as I tried to demonstrate—groups of individuals using
their lifestyle to demonstrate, and perhaps lay claim to, citizen status. Instead
41 D’Acunto 2013 (with Duplouy 2014b).

42 Shanks 1999 (with Duplouy 2001).
43 Vidal-Naquet 1986.
44 D’Acunto 2013: 172 (in detail: 48–52).
45 Ibid.: 175.
46 Ibid.: 172.
47 Ibid.: 174 (in detail: 70). On the two possible lines of interpretations, see p. 41, with a pref-
erence for the aristocratic one, unfortunately omitting recent work on the nature of Greek
‘aristocracy’.
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of depicting the ‘Corinthian kaloi kai agathoi’ only, as D’Acunto argues,48 the
Chigi vase may rather portray various activities fully accepted within the cit-
izen ethics of Archaic Corinth. Hippotrophia as a mark of Corinthian citizen
identity may further transpire through the cults of Athena Hippia (or Chali-
nitis, ‘inventor of the bridle’) and Poseidon Hippios, as well as through the myth
of Bellerophon and Pegasus, the latter being struck on Corinthian coins as the
city’s emblem.49
Turning to Athenian images, an iconographical survey once recorded more
than a hundred surviving Archaic Athenian vases representing war-horses
or mounted warriors,50 whereas the Beazley Archive now lists nearly 2,400
Archaic and Classical Athenian vases—the majority of them in black-figure—
depicting at least one horseman. Images are often explicit and accurate, so that
they probably rely on models of everyday life in the city. More than a mere
portrayal of contemporary lifestyle, these images also contributed to defining
Athenian identity. According to François Lissarrague, the specific iconography
of Athenian horsemen, dressed in the suggestive Thracian clothes echoing the
fame of the Thracian riders, allowed this elite group to mark its rank among the
community, while remaining within its political boundaries.51 Horsemen were
not outsiders; they were part of the citizen group, both in images and in the
accepted Athenian citizen lifestyle. Horsemen chose to build on their status as
horse-breeders to justify their involvement in the citizen community or even
to achieve enfranchisement within the polis as a specific group of citizens.
6 From Citizen Habitus to ‘Rich Man’s Sport’
As has often been noted,52 the notion of hippotrophia has a double association:
it is related both to the agonistic sphere of local and Panhellenic games, that
is to the world of the elite, and to the sphere of warfare, which concerns the
whole citizen community for its defence. Agonistic hippotrophia has not been
discussed in this chapter and, as shown by a comparison between the list of
Olympic victors and that of the cities known for their cavalry, there was actually
48 Ibid.: 172 (in details: 52–70). Note that the expression kaloi kai agathoi is anachronistic; cf.
Bourriot 1995; Bourriot 1996.
49 Detienne and Vernant 1974: 176–191.
50 Greenhalgh 1973: 111; 191–194 (catalogue). On Athenian images, see now Filser 2017: 398–
565.
51 Lissarrague 1990: 191–231.
52 E.g. Chandezon 2014: 39; Étienne 2012.
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no correlation between the socio-economic and political conditions required

for training a team of horses for competitions and those required for maintain-
ing cavalry units.53 Depending on the local situation, hippotrophia could thus
be related to competition or to warfare. Such a double association, both elitist
and civic, for the same behaviour is not exceptional; it also applies for example
to the nature of the symposium, which was both a particular feature of the so-
called ‘aristocratic lifestyle’ and a collective activity pertaining to the practice of
citizenship.54 What then could be termed ‘civic’ in an undoubtedly expensive
behaviour, which was certainly not accessible to everyone?
The main issue is perhaps to revise our conception of Archaic ‘aristocracy’
and its relation to the rise of the city-state. As I argued in Le Prestige des
élites (2006), Archaic elites should not be understood through the prism of
the usual notion of ‘aristocracy’, intended as opposed to the polis. Instead, the
elites were in fact the first citizens. Ranks are a matter of degree among cit-
izens, and elite has never been a legal status in itself. But we have to revise
our conception of Archaic citizenship as well. Indeed, as a kind of perform-
ance too, Archaic citizenship was also a matter of involvement in behaviours
accepted by other members of the citizen community. Although often asso-
ciated with the elite, hippotrophia was also a citizen behaviour, among many
others. All citizen behaviours allow the identification of specific groups of cit-
izens, such as horsemen, hoplites, chariot- or plough-owners, etc. Contrarily to
a legal or institutional approach, an anthropological approach to Archaic cit-
izenship does not limit itself to defining a unique criterion of citizenship—the
highest common denominator in common to all citizens. This is the ‘ideal-type’
methodology used by Aristotle. It rather acknowledges the existence of many
different groups of citizens, with their distinctive characteristics, making up
the Archaic polis.
In this perspective the notion of habitus, popularised by Pierre Bourdieu’s
sociology, can be meaningful. Habitus refers to the lifestyle, values, disposi-
tions and expectations of social groups that are acquired through the activities
and experiences of everyday life. In Bourdieu’s own words, they are ‘structured
structures predisposed to function as structuring structures’.55 They are socially
acquired schemata, sensibilities, dispositions and tastes that are repeatedly
reproduced through individual behaviours, therefore reinforcing the strength
of the habitus itself. By adopting a particular lifestyle, valued by the whole
53 Étienne 2005. On the costs of horse-breeding, see Hodkinson 2000: 312–317.

54 See the debate between Murray 1993: 207–213 and Schmitt-Pantel 1990. Węcowski 2014
offers a balanced view.
55 Bourdieu 1977: 72; Bourdieu 1990: 53.
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citizen community, individuals behave in such a way as to be accepted as fel-

low citizens. Each city had its own citizen habitus, defining specific patterns
of behaviours that allowed individuals to be identified as citizens. Beyond
the mere identification of insiders, these lifestyles and behaviours may also
have allowed participating outsiders to become more and more recognized as
acceptable citizens-to-be. As already noted, in order to be accepted as a citizen,
one had first to behave like a citizen. In this sense, hippotrophia was definitely
a citizen habitus in several Archaic cities.
What happened afterwards in Classical cities, leading to a more exclusively
elitist assessment of hippotrophia—as represented by Aristotle and his school
—is probably linked to a major change in lifestyle within the main Classical
poleis. This evolution is reflected in a passage of Thucydides (1.6), in which he
opposes two different lifestyles: an old one, to habrodiaiton, made of luxury
behaviours, and a new one, a more austere style of living which went along with
the spread of athletics. Even though the historical trajectory was not that of a
radical substitution of one lifestyle by the other, the former used to be common
among Ionian people and in the old days of the Athenian polis, while the latter
was first adopted by the Lacedaemonians and then, after the Persian wars, by
the Athenians.56 If hippotrophia can be somehow related to the former, it prob-
ably ended up having no place in the citizen habitus of many Classical poleis,
modelled on the dominant examples of Athens and Sparta and on the practice
of athletics. In this sense, the change from Archaic to Classical Greece is also,
and perhaps primarily, to be investigated in terms of cultural change. Hence-
forth, hippotrophia became firmly and more exclusively tied to horse racing
and Panhellenic competitions, to this ‘rich man’s sport’ in which Alcibiades
excelled, and to the notion of these so-called ‘equestrian oligarchies’ of earlier
times.
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chapter 7
Putting the Citizen in the Citizen-State:

Participating in the Early Cretan polis
Gunnar Seelentag
Therefore, the solution to the question: Who is the citizen? is also

the solution to the question: What is the state?
e. szanto1
∵
1 Introduction2
For as long as scholars have attempted to describe and analyse the polis in
Archaic and Classical Greece, they have also struggled to find a fitting trans-
lation for the essence of this ancient term. Thus, in the last few decades, the
term ‘citizen-state’ has been more and more used in place of ‘city-state’. This
change in emphasis makes sense, as the term ‘citizen-state’ conveys the concept
of the identity of the citizens and their polity which was a fundamental char-
acteristic of the polis.3 However, when discussing the term and its underlying
concept, scholarship seems to have focused more on the definition of ‘state’
1 Szanto 1892: 5: ‘Wer also die Frage gelöst hat: Wer ist der Bürger?, der hat […] auch die Frage
gelöst: Was ist der Staat?’, following Arist. Pol. 1274b40.
2 This article was written in 2014. Literature published after that year could not be considered,
e.g. the important volumes edited by N. Fisher and H. van Wees 2015 and A. Duplouy and
R. Brock 2018 and the splendid edition of the Cretan laws by Gagarin and Perlman 2016.
What I added, however, is the latter authors’ citation of the law inscriptions. In Seelentag
2015, a monograph on ‘Archaic Crete. Institutionalization in Early Greece’, I elaborate in much
greater detail on the topics merely roughly sketched here.
3 E.g. Thuc. 7.77.7: ‘Men, not walls or unmanned ships constitute the polis.’ Walter 1993: 23 points
out that this connection was so close that the modern term ‘citizen-state’ is basically a tauto-
logy. The term was established by Heuss 1946; a plea for its use is offered e.g. by Walter 1993;
1998: 540–541, also—for the ‘citizen(s)-state’—e.g. Hansen 1993; 1998; 2006 as well as van der
Vliet 2005; 2008.

putting the citizen in the citizen-state 163
and its shape or to question whether it is justified to use this term in the first
place.4 To a much lesser degree, research has attempted to define the term ‘cit-
izens’, even though they are regarded as being constitutive for a polity of this
type.
This article seeks to provide a better understanding of the character of polit-
ies in Archaic and Early Classical Greece by scrutinising what it meant to be a
citizen in a sixth- or fifth-century citizen-state. Examples will be drawn from
the rich fundus of inscriptions from the Cretan poleis that have come down to
us. The polities of this island offer a great number of epigraphic sources, and
they provide us with a remarkable—remarkably ‘austere’—material culture.
While this evidence should make Crete one of the prime examples of the so-
called ‘Third Greece’ and a major case study for Archaic Greece, it has often
been overlooked by archaeologists and historians alike.5 Thus, in the following
discussion, I will take a closer look at four inscriptions from the sixth and fifth
centuries from different Cretan poleis. The evidence presented here has hardly
ever been brought to bear on discussions of what the ‘citizen-state’ in early
Greece might have been. It does, however, both individually and contextually,
offer remarkable insights into the structures of socio-political participation of
the Archaic and Early Classical periods. These inscriptions all record the frame-
work of socialisation within which both individuals and groups, previously not
part of the polity, were integrated into the society of the polis. It is the mention
of ‘others’, i.e. ‘non-citizens’, and the specific privileges and particular duties
imposed on them, which makes these documents so valuable, and allows us to
provide a clearer picture of what it meant to be a citizen of a Greek polis.
2 A Teleological Master-Narrative
Contemporary studies on the Greek citizen-state, citizenship, or citizens’ priv-

ileges, often follow the teleological assumptions of the currently predominant
4 A discussion and a compelling plea, due to its methodological differentiation of the categor-
ies ‘state’ and ‘statehood’ for the societies of Classical Antiquity, is offered by Lundgreen 2014,
employing politological and juridical, beside socio-anthropological, categories for his discus-
sion of the definition of the term ‘state’.
5 Even today what Gehrke 1997: 23 stated is still true: most studies of Crete concern them-
selves with its Minoan-Mycenaean periods; interest in the Archaic and Classical periods of
the island still lies rather at the margins of scholarly interest. On the peculiar institutions and
material culture of Cretan poleis see e.g. Willetts 1955; Link 1994; Gehrke 1997; Chaniotis 2004;
2005; Erickson 2010; Wallace 2010; Seelentag 2013; 2015; Gagarin and Perlman 2016.
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164 seelentag
‘master-narrative’ of Greek history.6 In their descriptions of the socio-political

structures of the Archaic period, many accounts draw a more or less direct line
of evolution: beginning with the societies described in the Homeric and Hesi-
odic epics, on to Solon, to then—after brief references to early laws, e.g. from
Dreros and Chios as well as the Great Rhetra and Draco—finally arrive at Cleis-
thenes. Here, more often than not, Athenian democracy is presented to us as
the pinnacle of this progression.7 By perpetuating this ‘master-narrative’, many
scholars, moreover, explicitly attempt to endow their own present with signi-
ficance.8
Naturally, with a glance at the socio-political conditions present in the epics
and in Archaic laws, the authors of these studies concede that there was con-
siderable development in the forms of community-building from the earlier
to the later periods. Still, earlier conditions have repeatedly been explained
with the aid of, or by reference to, later institutions. The methodological crux
herein lies in the fact that a perceived peak in development quite significantly
determines the perception and interpretation of earlier conditions: true, with
Athenian democracy as the focal point at the back of our minds, we will hardly
conceive of the Homeric agora as its direct precursor—but the danger is that
we might see it as a socio-political constellation which would ultimately lead
to Athenian democracy. This fosters an interpretation of the Archaic sources
and of the conditions witnessed therein regarding certain phenomena as dom-
inant, and as ultimately ‘prevailing’.
The result is an anachronistic interpretation of Archaic conditions. The
notions of ‘citizen’ and ‘citizenship’ as abstract and distinctly outlined concepts
possessing a clearly defined catalogue of criteria are projected back into centur-
ies in which contemporary sources give us no positive indication of their exis-
6 This concept refers to those historical interpretations which assume authoritative status for a
certain period or a particular point of view. Jarausch and Sabrow 2002 offer a classification of
the term from the angle of the history of the humanities.—On the ‘defective master-narrative
in Greek archaeology’ see Small 2014.
7 Beside a number of American works, e.g. Raaflaub, Ober, and Wallace 2007: 23–24, this type of
determinism also forms the basis of e.g. Chr. Meier 1980 and Stahl 2003; for explicit objections
see e.g. Dreher 2005; Hall 2013: 14.
8 A telling example of an agenda of this type is the monograph by Brook Manville and Josiah
Ober published in 2003, entitled ‘Citizens. What the world’s first democracy teaches lead-
ers about creating great organizations’. Its third chapter ‘The invention of citizenship’ begins
with the sentences: ‘The invention of democratic-style citizenship ranks among the greatest
accomplishments of Greek civilization. Indeed, it is arguably among the greatest of all human
inventions, comparable to the invention of the alphabet, the corporation, or computer soft-
ware.’
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tence. Attic decrees of the Classical period, for instance, formulaically record
that the individual mentioned is to become an Athenian, both himself and his
descendants, and that he is to be enrolled into the phyle, deme and phratry of
his own choice.9 These records thus assume that what was entailed by ‘being an
Athenian’ was general knowledge and precisely defined. These decrees further
reflect a recurring catalogue of political institutions into which a new citizen
was inscribed. Thus, these decrees demonstrate a high measure of standardisa-
tion and, therefore, also abstraction of the requirements to be met by anybody
receiving citizenship.
In contrast, this study does not assume the existence of an abstract notion
of citizenship in the Archaic and early Classical periods as, presumably, a con-
glomerate of clearly defined rights and duties, accorded to an individual either
by birth on the grounds of certain criteria, or en bloc by a citizens’ assembly,
by means of a standardised procedure, insofar as the individual fulfilled the
necessary criteria.10 When Aristotle claims in his summary of the politeia of
the Cretan polities that ‘[The Cretans] have granted their douloi equal rights
in all respects, merely forbidding them to attend the gymnasion and the pos-
session of arms’, then, this explanation is obviously insufficient.11 These were
by no means the only factors constituting citizenship. Moreover, they not only
separated citizens from slaves, but also from the free inhabitants of the polis
not belonging to the group of its fully enfranchised members, namely free non-
citizen residents and foreigners.
However, Aristotle’s explanation is based on a concept which will recur in
our inscriptions: it was a set of particular practices which made a man a mem-
ber of a polis community. The following pages will therefore aim to demonstrate
that an individual’s participation in the polity depended on his participation
in the practices of several overlapping circles of social integration. Only then
could he be accepted into the body of full political agents as an equal par-
ticipant, enfranchised with certain rights and duties. However, we shall also
see that among the circles of integration relevant to an individual’s sense of
9 See Osborne 1981–1983 and Lambert 2012 on this topic.

10 Even studies explicitly dealing with the emergence of citizenship prove to be basically
unfit for discussing the question of the development of this concept, thus Rhodes 2009
and Blok 2005, also 2013: here, the Archaic period is only glanced at briefly, to discuss, then,
democratic Athens. Hall 2013, who examines ‘The rise of state action’, likewise assumes the
existence of ‘citizens’ in the Archaic period as a well-defined and active group not requir-
ing any closer scrutiny or description. And in his article ‘Citizens’, Lintott 2009 omits any
detailed discussion of the Archaic period from the outset. Important exceptions are the
studies by Manville 1990 and especially Walter 1993; 1996.
11 Arist. Pol. 1264a20.
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166 seelentag
identity and affiliation, participation ‘in the polis’ was probably not the most
important one—at least in the decades we are looking at.12
With the modern notion of statehood in mind, Uwe Walter notes: ‘Only after
we have solved the problem of who can be regarded as a citizen (or, in more
general terms: as a member of a society) and who not, the question arises how
citizens participate in the polity.’13 This order should be reversed for the early
Greek polis. First, a catalogue of potential practices allowing the participation
in those circles of integration which the polis incorporated and utilised in the
course of its institutional differentiation had to be developed and established.
Only then could the question be answered of who was able to qualify for par-
ticipation and to be accepted into the citizen body by his peers and, thus, be
able to participate fully in the entirety of these practices.14
3 ‘Participation in Circles of Integration’ as Opposed to ‘Citizenship’
The following inscriptions from the Cretan poleis have so far hardly played any
role in the study of Archaic Greece. However, due to their wealth of detail and
their early date, they would appear to be better suited to a discussion of the
beginnings of ‘citizenship’ than the small group of early Classical Greek sources
usually adduced by scholars.15 In a remarkable fashion, the Cretan evidence
12 I follow Rabinowitz’ 2014: 93 definition of ‘full political agency’ as ‘the right to participate
fully in the full range of institutions that structure the life of a community, from magistra-
cies to religious rituals to communal eating or drinking, and on the claim to independence
and respect in personal interactions. Most importantly, it is never really innate: it can be
bestowed or taken away by one’s community, and particularly by one’s peers, and there-
fore it must be routinely reaffirmed, even when it is technically acquired by birth or legal
status.’
13 Walter 1993: 15–16: ‘[E]rst wenn geklärt ist, wer als Staatsangehöriger (oder allgemeiner:
als Mitglied eines Gemeinwesens) gelten kann und wer nicht, stellt sich die Frage, wie die
Staatsangehörigen am Gemeinwesen partizipieren.’
14 Walter 1993: 20–21: ‘Wie die Polisstaatlichkeit ein Produkt der Entwicklung der archaischen
Zeit darstellte, bildete sich auch das Bürgersein in den Poleis schrittweise aus. Das Bür-
gerrecht als definierter, einem Individuum anhaftender Status […] stand erst am Ende
dieser beiden Entwicklungen und machte als rechtliche Kategorie nur einen Teil des Bür-
gerseins aus. Bürger zu sein war nicht allein ein Privileg mit Pflichten, sondern auch ein
Habitus, eine Mentalität, eine das tägliche Handeln bestimmende Größe. […] Die Zuge-
hörigkeit zur ausgebildeten Polis [i.e. in the (Late) Classical period; GS] manifestierte sich
nach wie vor in Handlungen und Haltungen, doch waren diese zu fest definierten Rechten
und Pflichten geworden.’
15 These include (1) the admission of Deucalion and his descendants among the Chaladri-
ans, bronze plaque from Elis dedicated at Olympia, ca. 500–475: IvO 11 = Nomima 1.21;
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illustrates the integration of political agents into a number of social circles of

integration, as well as their participation in several civic practices taking place
within the polis and under its aegis; in other words, the beginning of a concept
of citizenship.
The sources in question are the ‘regulation on foreign craftsmen’ from Axos,
the ‘contract of employment’ of the poinikastas and mnamon Spensithios with
the polis Datala, the ‘honorary decree’ for Dionysios of Gortyn, and the ‘promise
of protection against prosecution’ of the freedmen from Gortynian Latosion. So
far, the different labelling of these sources in the corpora and research literat-
ure has stood in the way of their synopsis. And yet they possess a common core,
as they all endow individuals to varying degrees with participation in different
circles of integration within the polity. The catalogue of conveyed privileges
offers an impression of those civic practices which would later be equated
with ‘citizenship’. Hereby, we must bear in mind that none of these inscrip-
tions explicitly convey any ‘citizen’s rights’. Rather—on different levels—the
evidence testifies to varying degrees of participation in the polity.
3.1 The Privileging of the Craftsmen of Axos

Our first document is an inscription from Axos in central Crete, probably from
the last quarter of the sixth century. It was carved into two adjacent blocks of
a wall, located at the highest point of the polis, in the vicinity of the temple
of Apollo. While the stones are partially damaged, the inscription still has
impressive dimensions.16 The text states the following:
[– – – – – – – – – – – – – – –]
[– – – κλέ]ϝκος | ἴναντι το͂ν εἰ[–
̣ – –]
[– – –]ιν δοκε͂ν ἀκσία ἤμεν τᾶς τ[ροπᾶς]
καὶ τᾶς ἀτελείας ἀ τέκνα το [τ]ινυμε[νο ̣ – – –]
[– – –] κατ’ ἀμέραν ζαμιο͂μεν.
̣ | αἰ δ’ ἐπέλ-
(2) the Eleians’ guarantee of protection for the scribe Patrias and his descendants, bronze
plaque from Elis dedicated at Olympia, ca. 475: IvO 2 = Koerner 37 = Nomima 1.23; (3)
the privileging of the physician Onasilos, his brothers and children by King Stasikypros of
Idalion as well as the demos of this polis, bronze plaque from Idalion in Cyprus, ca. the
470s; ICS 217 = Nomima 1.31, comp. DGE 679, Koerner 1981: 195–201; and finally (4) the law
on immigration to Naupaktos, bronze plaque from West-Lokrian Chaleion, ca. 460–450;
IG IX 1.32.718 = Koerner 49 = Nomima 1.43.
16 IC 2.5.1 = Gagarin/Perlman A1 = Koerner 101 = Nomima 1.28; trans. following Koerner. Block
A (measurements in meters): 1,72 h., 1,85 w., 0,30 d.; block B: 1,53 h., 0,73w., 0,64 d.; cf. Jef-
fery 1990: 413 with plate 60.22; Koerner 1981: 180–189; Hölkeskamp 1999: 73–75; Perlman
2004a: 114–115; on the architectural context Tegou 2014.
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θοιεν ἰν ταῖσι πέντε αἰ μὴ λέοι[εν – – –]

[– – –]ν | τᾶνδ’ ἀμερᾶν | πέντ’ ἀμέρας ϝεργακσα̣-
[μένο]ς τᾶι πόλι ἀμίστος. το͂ δὲ μισ[το͂ – – –]
[– – – τᾶ]ς ἰν ἀντρηίοι διάλ̣σιος.ι δια
̣ σποϝδδὰν | ἐκσοαι. [– – –]
λ̣οι ἐπὶ
[– – – ἀ]ϝ̣τὸς | ϝεκάστος μὴ ἰνθέμεν ̣ |
τᾶι πό[λ]ι. περὶ δὲ̣ το͂ μιστο͂ | αἰ πον[ίο – – –]
[– – – τά]δε δὲ τελίοντι· | ἴσς τε τὰν ἐκατόνβαν
τὰν μεγάλαν | καὶ τὸ θῦμα | καὶ ̣ .. δ .... ν[– – –]
[– – ἰα]ρήιον διδόμεν· | το͂ν δ’ ἄλον πάντον
ἀτέλειαν καὶ τροπὰν ἰν ἀντρηίοι κ̣α[– – –]
– – – must. In view of the – – – that craftsmanship appears worthy of

support and exemption from duty. – – – shall punish for every day. Should
they come (vel. lodge a complaint17) within the five (days?), if they should
not wish to – – – by working five days of these days for the polis without
pay. But of the pay – – – dining in the andreion. – – – in diligence – – – each
of them is not to inflict (costs) on the polis. If they should lodge a com-
plaint about the pay – – – But this they contribute: To the great hecatomb
and the sacrifice and – – – they should give (a sacrificial animal?). But
exemption of duties in all other matters and dining in the andreion – – –
Not only due to its incompleteness, but also because of the ensuing uncertain-
ties of interpretation, this document must be consulted with great caution. The
identification of the persons addressed in the inscription poses a serious prob-
lem. Some interpretations assume these to have been the children of exiles or of
a master builder. The majority see this inscription as referring to craftsmen or,
17 The current interpretation of this inscription as a contract of employment for foreign

craftsmen not hailing from Gortyn depends on the translation of ἐπέλθοιεν as ‘come’;
thus Guarducci 1939: 50. This is accepted by most discussions of this document, e.g.
Hölkeskamp 1999: 74; it is called into doubt, however, by Jeffery and Morpurgo-Davies 1970:
149; Nomima 1, 124 and Perlman 2004a: 114–115. The latter points out the—only very much
later established—meaning of this verb as ‘lodging a complaint’ in PEleph. 3.3 from the
third century bc and the deadlines for lawsuits and transactions that find many parallels
in Cretan inscriptions; e.g. in IC 1.10.2.2–3 = Gagarin/Perlman Elt2; IC 4.42B = Gagarin/Per-
lman G42; 4.72.11.46–55 = Gagarin/Perlman G72. However, parallels in the contents of this
Axian inscription with a contemporary document, an inscription from Gortyn from the
fifth century formulating regulations for craftsmen who probably indeed came outside
the polis, implies that our inscription likewise dealt with travelling workers; see IC 4.79 =
Gagarin/Perlman G79 = Koerner 154 = Nomima 1.30.
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rather, to those practising ‘craftsmanship’, as the inscription emphasises.18 The

latter view appears plausible, not least because our inscription mentions ‘pay’
and ‘work’, several times. Moreover, other Axian inscriptions from the same
period and dealing with the same context as our document, likewise, include
terms such as τέκνα and ϝέργον.19
It would therefore appear that our inscription deals with an agreement
between the polis and these craftsmen. They are tasked with carrying out their
work in Axos in exchange for payment. It remains unclear for whom they work:
whether for individual members of the polis or this was rather a public contract.
We can merely state that the polis repeatedly appears as a point of reference
and is, thus, probably their contractual partner. The inscription, likewise, offers
us no clues as to the content of the work or the amount of pay agreed upon. Due
to the mention of ‘grape must’ at the beginning of the extant text, one could
assume that pay was also offered in kind.20 However, it seems obvious that the
polis exacted fines in the case of the craftsmen not fulfilling their side of the
agreement. Accordingly, there is mention of both a daily fine and a period of
five days during which the craftsmen were to work for the polis without pay.
On the other hand, this inscription also regulates the craftsmen’s rights, as it
appears to record the procedure by which they are permitted to lodge any com-
plaints regarding their pay.21 In addition to the agreed pay, the polis also assures
their ‘exemption from duties and dining in the andreion’, because ‘[their] crafts-
manship appears worthy’ of these two privileges. The polis appeared to have a
vested interest in binding these craftsmen to the polis.
18 Perlman 2004a presents the findings of older scholarship. Ibid. 114 with note 106 she her-
self interprets ἀ τέκνα at the beginning of the inscription not as a Cretan expression
equivalent to ἡ τέχνη, but rather as τὰ τέκνα: She reads, therefore, a privileging of the des-
cendants of the architect/builder, not of those who practise their craftsmanship; see also
her reasoning for the reading το͂ ἰνυμένο here. Nomima 1, 122–125 also discusses the pos-
sibility of the passage referring to children, incorporating this into their interpretation of
the ἐπέλθοιεν as ‘returning’, going on to speculate about the privileged persons mentioned
being the descendants of former exiles. Ultimately, however, this tentative interpretation
is discarded.
19 IC 2.5.2.2 und 9, 3.4, 4.5 = Gagarin/Perlman A2–4 = Koerner 102–104. An inscription not
originally from the vicinity of the temple of Apollo records a union of the polis with the
ϝέργασταί, mentioning them several times. It also mentions a penalty consisting of 30
staters, as well as the involvement of the kosmos (line 11, 13–14), moreover dealing with
the stipulation of a contract (συνγνοῖεν, 6) and with distraint (ἰνέκυρα, 7–8).
20 See Perlman 2004a: 103–108 on a blanket or coat maker from Eleutherna at the end of the
sixth century who was remunerated both in precious metals and in kind.
21 This would have to be the meaning of the phrase περὶ δὲ̣ το͂ μιστο͂ | αἰ πον[ίο - – –] in line 11;
Koerner 1993: 354.
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The ‘support’ or, respectively, the ‘dining in the andreion’ granted to the
craftsmen is mentioned in two instances in the document. It therefore becomes
clear that this detail was of particular relevance for the relationship between
the polis and the craftsmen. And indeed, it was within the hetaireia, the com-
mon meal societies of which every full political agent was a lifelong member,
that the socialisation of the politai essentially took place. In fact, member-
ship in one of the hetaireiai was the basis for any participation in the polity,
not simply for political enfranchisement and socio-political prestige accorded
to ‘citizens’. This becomes evident in the term ‘apetairoi’ known from Gortyn,
meaning ‘those not belonging to any hetaireia’. Here it becomes apparent that
membership in the community for political agents was not primarily a result of
participating in the polis itself, but of participating in a number of social circles
of integration, which ultimately, together, constituted the polis.22
Yet, in the case of the Axian craftsmen, it remains unclear which charac-
ter their dining in the andreion had. Three, and thus all essential remaining
literary sources on the organisation of common meals in the poleis of Crete,
report that not only citizens but also foreigners spent time there; the latter
being treated hospitably.23 While the authors do describe their separate seating
at their own tables as an honour, these passages exemplify the fact that foreign-
ers and citizens did not mingle freely in the andreion, but, rather, they only did
so within an enclosed and controlled space. Were the craftsmen of Axos, who
were granted meals in the andreion, separated from the politai for all to see, or
were they seated at the same tables? The question cannot be answered on the
basis of this inscription alone. However, the adjacent exemption of the crafts-
men from duties may suggest that they, as a group, were integrated into the
hetaireia—albeit temporarily, namely for the duration of their obligations to
the polis. Thus, they were temporarily integrated into the community of those
whose status was constituted by these participatory practices: the ‘citizens’.24
This interpretation of an integration of the workers into the citizen body
is also implied by another aspect of their privilege: the Axian inscription fur-
ther establishes the participation of the craftsmen in certain aspects of cult.
The text mentions a ‘great hecatomb’, a ‘sacrifice’, as well as a further instance,
22 On the apetairoi see below, note 53.

23 On this topic see in detail Seelentag 2015: 294–295; 374–443.—Our main sources are
Heracl. Lemb. epit. Arist. frg. 611.15 (Rose); Pyrgion ap. Athen. 4.143e–f; Dosiadas ap. Ath.
4.143a–d.—On foreigners and their treatment in Cretan poleis see e.g. Gehrke 1997: esp. 55;
Perlman 2004a; Chaniotis 2005: esp. 186–188; Seelentag 2015: 283–308.
24 Cf. SEG 11.244 = Koerner 23 = Nomima 1.75, an inscription from Sicyon from ca. 500, grant-
ing a group of 63 men listed by name meals at the hestiatorion as long as they fulfil the
duties likewise listed there.
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which we are no longer able to reconstruct, at which a sacrificial animal was

to be provided.25 However, we should not understand these activities as an
inconvenient imposition by the polis. Rather, as contributors to a number of
sacrifices, the craftsmen were involved in several practices of import for the
integration of the politai into the community. Recurring sacrifices and the sub-
sequent sacrificial meal belonged to the essential rituals of the polis, during
which the polis constituted itself as a cohesive group of individuals expressing
their common identity as members of this specific society.26
It remains unclear if the Axian regulation was a service contract or a fixed-
term contract, in which a cancellation by one of either participants is tacitly
assumed; or if there existed even the basic notion of a permanent integration of
the craftsmen into the polity. The latter option seems implausible. In the follow-
ing two inscriptions discussed below, the participation not only of the individu-
als named therein but also of their descendants is explicitly stated. Conversely,
there is nothing in the Axian inscription to suggest any such perpetuation of
their privileges across generations. These would have ended with the termin-
ation of the contract. Therefore, we should also assume an association of the
craftsmen with the politai only for the duration of their—apparently highly
esteemed—work. However, on the basis of the evidence in the following docu-
ments, which inform us of the participation in a number of practices under the
roof of the polis, none of which we find mentioned in the case of our craftsmen,
it seems implausible to me that these craftsmen were permitted to exercise all
the practices that, together, amounted to full agency in Axos—it is unlikely that
the contract made them into ‘citizens’ (albeit temporary ones).
3.2 The Scribe and ‘Remembrancer’ Spensithios of Datala

The second inscription, which we should interpret as evidence of the grant-
ing of privileges of participation, is the so-called decree of Spensithios. It is
25 Thus implied by the addition presented here - – - ἰα]ρήιον διδόμεν. Blass 1905, GDI 5125A, on
the other hand, suggests - – - ἰς ἀντ]ρήιον διδόμεν. In this case, the craftsmen would not only
have to contribute a donation to the ritual practices mentioned, but also to the andreion,
the type and size of which, however, would not have been specified in detail here.
26 The compulsory participation of the craftsmen in the cult practices mentioned here finds
a parallel in an agreement between Knossos and Tylissos, in which in ca. 450 Knossos
pledged to grant hospitality to all those who had participated in the sacrifices of the polis;
i.e. to those who therefore had at least partially become part of the community in regard
to cult practice; IC 1.8.4 and 1.30.1 = Nomima 1.54 i and ii = StV 147 and 148 = HGIÜ 1.72.
On this law see esp. Gschnitzer 1958: 44–48; Merrill 1991; Kyriakidis 2012.—See Blok 2013:
esp. 164–165, on the role of the polis as a cult community with regard to the development
of civic identity.
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172 seelentag
inscribed on a bronze mitra, part of a Cretan suit of armour. Originally, this

was a dish-shaped garment used for groin protection, in this case flattened to
allow for inscription on both sides. Judging from the shape of the letters, the
document was composed around 500bc in central Crete. The location of its
discovery remains unclear; likewise, the community of the Dataleis mentioned
in it cannot be identified with any certainty.27 This important testimonial—
often referred to as a ‘contract of employment’—determines the duties and
privileges of a certain Spensithios and his descendants, who are henceforth to
serve the polis in the capacity of poinikastas and mnamon.28
It has previously been discussed whether this scribe and remembrancer was
in fact already a citizen of the polis in which he was to fulfil his duty. More
precisely, the question has been posed whether Spensithios had already been
a citizen of Datala at the time of his appointment, or if he remained a non-
citizen even after his appointment.29 The catalogue of Spensithios’ privileges is
commonly brought to bear in favour of the latter stance. Some scholars inter-
pret this as implying his possessing the status of foreigner or resident alien,
for whom employment was to be provided in the polis.30 However, what has
27 Jeffery and Morpurgo-Davies 1970 = Gagarin/Perlman Da1 = Nomima 1.22 = SEG 27.631.—
On the constitution of this text see also the notes of Gschnitzer 1974, on the text and
translation see Koerner 1981. Extensive commentaries and discussions also by van Effen-
terre 1973; Beattie 1974; Koerner 1981; Gorlin 1988; Pebarthe 2006; Reiche 2006: 118–133;
Seelentag 2015.—On the context of its discovery and publication as well as the efforts
to equate Datala with modern-day Afrati see Viviers 1994: 235–236; 240–241 and Perlman
2004: 1156.
28 On the function of mnamones see Reiche 2006; Carawan 2007 and Seelentag 2015: 194–
203.
29 Cf. the discussion, e.g. in Guarducci 1950: 146–147; Willetts 1967: 80–81; van Effenterre 1973;
1979: 279–288; Gorlin 1988; Thomas 1992; 1995; Koerner 1993: 539; Nomima 2, 162; Perlman
2004a: 113–114.
30 Hereby, however, the question of defining the status of ‘citizen’ of Datala, of ‘citizenship’
in a small, sixth-century Cretan polis, seems to have been considered by scholars of no
relevance. E.g. Perlman 2004: 108 assumes an anachronistic concept of citizenship fol-
lowing the teleological master-narrative when she emphasises that the privileges granted
Spensithios obviously cannot have made him a citizen, the reason being that his contract
of employment with Datala does not record his being enrolled in the phyle registry of
the polis. And yet, the earliest evidence for any such entry of new citizens into Cretan
phylai registries happens to be Hellenistic. On the other hand, in regard to the question
of ‘citizenship’ in Archaic-Classical Crete and with all due caution, Gorlin 1988 assumes
Spensithios to have been a ‘citizen’ of Datala prior to his privileging. In the privileges gran-
ted to him, especially sustenance and exemption from duties, she sees a manifestation of
the absolute will of the polis to retain him as scribe and prevent him from dropping out of
the citizen body by means of these comprehensive benefits.
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not been contemplated so far is the possibility of Spensithios being included

among the politai by means of the very privileges recorded in this inscription—
meaning that we are not simply faced here with a ‘contract of employment’.
Rather, we can observe the poinikastas being granted certain rights, as well as
his incorporation into certain circles of integration, essential to the identity of
the full political agents of Datala. The inscription on the mitra records the fol-
lowing:
Side A θιοί· ἔϝαδε Δαταλεῦσι καὶ ἐσπένσαμες ̣ πόλις | Σπενσιθίωι ἀπὸ πυλᾶν
πέντε ἀπ’ ἐκάστας θροπά|ν τε καὶ ἀτέλειαν πάντων αὐτῶι τε καὶ γενιᾶι ὤ|ς κα
πόλι τὰ δαμόσια τά τε θιήια καὶ τἀνθρώπινα | ποινικάζεν ̣ τε καὶ μναμονευϝην·
ποινικάζεν ̣ δὲ | [π]όλ ̣ ι καὶ μναμονεῦϝεν τὰ δαμόσια μήτε τὰ θιήι|α μήτε τἀνθρώ-
πινα μηδέν’ ἄλον αἰ μὴ Σπενσίθ[ι|ο]ν αὐτόν τε καὶ γενιὰν το͂νυ, αἰ μὴ ἐπαίροι τ|ε
καὶ κέλοιτο ἢ αὐτὸς Σπενσίθιος ἢ γενιὰ | [τ]ο͂νυ ὄσοι δρομῆς εἶεν τῶν [υἰ]ῶν οἰ
πλίες· | μισθὸν δὲ δόμεν το͂ ἐνιαυτο͂ τῶι ποινι[κ|α]στᾶι πεντήϙοντά τε πρόϙοος
κλεύκιο|ς κηνδυ̣[.]ε[..]ς ἰκατιδαρκμιος ἢ καρ̣[π(?)]|ό̣ς, δόμεν δὲ τὸ κλεῦϙος ἐς
το͂ μόρο ὄ|πω κα λῆι ἐλέσθαι· αἰ δὲ μὴ δοίη τὸ κλε[ῦϙ|ο]ς ̣ αιδε[…]σ ̣ ̣ [. c. 3–
4.]α̣[.]εσ̣δ[. c. 3.]ς ϙόσμ|ο̣ς ἐπεσταϙὼς ̣ ἀ[. c. 4?.]ι[. c. 4?.]λ ̣ ε[.]εκ[. |. ?]σαι ἀπλο-
πία̣[..]α̣[.] α̣ἰ ̣ μὴ αὐτοισ|ι[. c. 3–4.]πολ[..]αν̣εσ̣η̣μ̣εν τῶι ϙόσ|[μωι . c. 7?..]ε[.] ̣
τεμένια πε[..]ϟ|[.
̣ c. 2?.] τὸ ϝῖσον λακὲν ϙό̣[σμωι(??)] ασ̣[. c. 4?.] | [...... c. 17?
...]α̣[. c. 6?.]
Side B – – – τὸ ϝῖσον λακὲν τὸν ποινικαστὰν καὶ παρῆμε|ν καὶ συνῆμεν ἐπί τε
θιηίων καὶ ἐπ’ ἀνθρωπί|νων πάντε ὄπε καὶ ὀ ϙόσμος εἴη καὶ τὸν ποινι|καστὰν,
καὶ ὄτιμί κα θιῶι ἰαρεὺς μὴ ἰδιαλο|[. c. 1–2.] θύεν τε τὰ δαμόσια θύματα τὸ⟨ν⟩
ποινικαστὰ|ν καὶ τὰ τεμένια ἔκεν, μήδ’ ἐπάγραν ἦμε|[ν] μήδε ῥύτιον αἰλε͂ν τὸν
ποινικαστὰν, δ|ικα δὲ ὄτερόν κα #7ώληται ὀ ποινικασ[τ|ὰ]ς αἰπεροιαλοικ̣ρησε-
ταιην ϙόσ|μοι ἀδικα ϝοι τέλεται, ἄλε δὲ οὐδὲ̣ | ἔν. δίκαια ἐς ἀνδρήιον δώσει δέκα
πέλεϙυς κρέων, αἴ κα ϙὠι ἄλο̣[ι] | [ἀπ(?)]άρϙωνται, καὶ τὸ ἐπενιαύτιον, τὸ | δὲ
λάκσιον συνϝαλεῖ, ἄλο δὲ μ[ηδ|ὲ]ν ἐπάνανϙον ἦμεν αἴ κα μὴ λῆι | δόμεν. ἦμεν
δὲ τὰ θιήια τ[ῶι | πρειγ]ίστωι. {2vac.}2
Side A Gods! It thus pleased the Dataleis and we, the polis, that is five from
each phyle, have promised Spensithios sustenance and exemption from
all duties, this to him and his descendants—under the condition that he
serve the polis as scribe and remembrancer in public matters, both sacred
and profane.
But no-one else but Spensithios and his descendants are to serve the
polis as scribe and remembrancer in public matters both of sacred and
profane nature if not so determined by Spensithios himself or his des-
cendants, as long as these being the majority of adult sons.
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174 seelentag
As pay the scribe is to be annually given fifty prochooi of must and –

– – for twenty drachmas or – – – the must is to be given him from land,
wheresoever he may choose it. But if (someone) does not give the must
– – – the kosmos holding office – – – impunity – – – if they are not – – –
the kosmos – – –double axes the sacred precinct (?) – – –receive the same
share as the kosmos – – –
Side B – – – the scribe is to receive the same share. He should also be
present and participate in all sacred and profane procedures where the
kosmos is also present. And where there is no own priest present for a god
the scribe is to make the public sacrifices and administer the sacred pre-
cincts.
There is to be no seizure of the scribe and no distraint is to be executed
on him. Regarding litigation, the scribe, depending on him preferring the
one or the other, is to be given it like the others or he is to be prosecuted
by the kosmos; anything else is not possible.
As legal obligation he is to provide the andreion with ten double axes’
weight of dressed meat, in the same way as those when they assume office,
and the annual fee. He is to collect the share (?). But other things are not
to be obligatory if he does not wish to give them.
The cultic (functions and revenues) are to be (accorded) to the eldest
(son?) / senior member (?).
In this document, the duties which Spensithios will have to fulfil in his func-
tion as scribe and remembrancer of Datala are inextricably linked to the rights
and privileges resulting from them: as long as Spensithios and his descendants
carried out the tasks agreed upon, he—and his descendants—would enjoy the
privileges granted here. We are thus able to see the bestowing of temporary
privileges, yet the period of time is itself not limited. Only in the event that
either Spensithios or the majority of his adult sons should opt no longer to fulfil
these tasks would it be possible for another man to become scribe and remem-
brancer. As we can see, we are dealing with a unilaterally terminable agree-
ment. In short, so long as the descendants of Spensithios wished to remain
members of the community of the Dataleis, within the terms of this document,
they were permitted to do so.31
31 As of line 11 of page A there is no longer any mention of ‘Spensithios and his descend-
ants’, but solely of the duties and privileges of the ‘poinikastas’. This makes it clear that the
privileges mentioned were indeed not merely intended for Spensithios alone, but ‘for the
scribe’ and, thus, anybody holding this office explicitly given to Spensithios with any of his
descendants. Thus, the decree assumes a permanent privileging of this particular family.
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A closer look at the privileges connected with the function of scribe and
remembrancer clearly demonstrates that these were far greater than mere com-
pensation for services rendered. Most prominent is the granting of sustenance
to Spensithios and his descendants, as well as the exemption from any duties,
without reservation. It does not become clear if the benefits mentioned further
below in the document serve to clarify and differentiate these two extensive
points. Another possibility would be for ‘the granting of sustenance and exemp-
tion from any duties’ to refer to palpable rights and practices known to both
parties, to which the points mentioned below were yet to be added. There
exists a parallel for this in the inscription from Axos discussed above, which
includes το͂ν δ’ ἄλον πάντον ἀτέλειαν καὶ τροπὰν ἰν ἀντρηίοι among the privileges
mentioned. We must, therefore, assume that the trophe granted in the inscrip-
tion from Datala likewise does not merely mark the securing of Spensithios’
sustenance, but also his right to dine at the andreion.32 This interpretation is
substantiated by the scribe’s contributions to the institution of the men’s din-
ing society, specified at the end of the inscription. Moreover, these represent
the only exceptions to the exemption from duties granted to the mnamon. We
should therefore take this point of his privileging quite literally: Spensithios
paid no dues.
The scribe was remunerated in kind, the details mentioned here being ‘fifty
jugs of must’ and a product worth ‘twenty drachmas’, of which we have no fur-
ther information due to the damage to the mitra. The fact that he was permitted
to obtain the must from any plot of land he chose means little. In all probability,
the relevant owner would have been reimbursed for any losses on his side. We
may further interpret this passage to suggest that the kosmos was to assist the
scribe in the exercising of this right, even against the will of the owner in ques-
tion, and that any seizure on the part of the kosmos on behalf of Spensithios was
to remain unpunished.33 Additionally, Spensithios was to receive a number of
32 IC 2.5.1.15 = Gagarin/Perlman A1 = Koerner 101 = Nomima 1.28.

33 This interpretation of the passage is suggested by a number of Cretan inscriptions dealing
with the circumstances of distraint and connected substitution, attempting to control the
potentially violent circumstances involved in such actions; see Seelentag 2015: 187–194.
This much can be said: the land in question appears to have been cultivated by private
citizens who possibly refused to grant Spensithios the produce in kind he had laid claim
to. The explicit guarantee of this right by the polis will not necessarily have impressed all
citizens in equal measure. Thus, this passage seems to attempt to distinguish the right-
ful seizure of produce from an unrightful one, i.e. theft or robbery; the reason being that
the owner of the land was quite within his right to meet any such offences by forcefully
preventing the person seizing from doing so. This made the clarification of the circum-
stances laid out here even more delicate, seeing as it was not necessarily Spensithios
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176 seelentag
proceeds on different occasions or from different sources. The fragmentary text

of the inscription merely allows us to identify that it deals with proceeds accru-
ing from the administration of real-estate belonging to sacred precincts, from
which Spensithios was to receive the same share as the kosmos, and that any
such amounts were to be calculated in the unit ‘double axes’. Based on the par-
allel on side B, which mentions this unit to determine a particular amount of
meat, it can be assumed that the remuneration of the mnamon would also have
been in meat. Correspondingly, Spensithios was to administrate those cults of
Datala not possessing a priesthood of their own. On the basis of parallels with
other Cretan poleis documenting the fact that priests received a share of the
sacrificial victim’s flesh, it can be assumed that Spensithios would likewise have
obtained large amounts of meat at such occasions.34
The privileges granted to him also involved a definition or modification of
his legal status, for instance, there was to be no ‘seizure’ of Spensithios. In this
case, personal execution appears to be prohibited—i.e. extra-procedural or
pre-procedural access to an opponent. Also, he was not to suffer distraint.35 We
do not know if any of these points served to single him out from the other poli-
tai of Datala, or if these were common privileges. It is quite possible that it was
generally prohibited to treat any ‘citizen’ in this way and that Spensithios had
merely been granted the rights common to any polites of Datala, serving to dis-
tinguish them from the ‘others’. As we have no comparative sources whatsoever
from this polis, the question cannot be answered. In Gortyn at least, personal
execution became forbidden by the middle of the fifth century at the latest.36 It
himself, i.e. the person holding the legal title, who was doing the seizing, but the kos-
mos, in other words a representative of Spensithios. Regulations of this kind demonstrate
the efforts of the polis to develop its institutions, as well as the principle of extrapersonal
power imparted by these institutions.—Parallels are offered e.g. by IC 4.87 = Gagarin/Per-
lman G87 = Koerner 161 = Nomima 1.97 (rights of the Gortynian esprattai); IC 4.80.8–12 =
Gagarin/Perlman G80 = Nomima 1.7 = StV 2.216 (the Rhittenian preigistoi); IC 4.77 A–C =
Gagarin/Perlman G77 = Koerner 152 = Nomima 1.49 (the Gortynian karpodaistai); IC 4.42
B 11–14 = Gagarin/Perlman G42B = Koerner 129 = Nomima 2.5 (the Gortynian ‘dikastas
judging in matters of distraint’).
34 See e.g. Axos, fifth century: IC 2.5.9 = Gagarin/Perlman A9 = Koerner 106; possibly also
Dreros, seventh century: van Effenterre 1946: Nr. 4 = Gagarin/Perlman Dr4 = Koerner 93 =
Nomima 1.27.
35 Gschnitzer 1974: 273–274.
36 This principle is expressed for the first time in the first paragraphs of the Great Law:
IC 4.72.1.1–3 = Gagarin/Perlman G72 = Koerner 163 = Nomima 2.6. However, the Great
Law does not merely record new regulations; it also incorporates and standardises long-
standing older ones. On this topic see e.g. Davies 1996; Kristensen 2004; Gagarin 2008:
145–175.
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is possible that the polis of Datala had already banned any intervention outside
of court, making a stipulation for due procedure, around the year 500 bc.
However, it should not be assumed that any private distraint of one polites
against another was prohibited absolutely, and thus that Spensithios was sim-
ply granted the same rights as any other citizen. In Gortyn, for instance, such a
procedure was supported by institutionalising it, as demonstrated by inscrip-
tions from the early fifth century intended to regulate this. We should also
assume for Datala that, according to the rules of self-help, private distraint
was in fact permitted in disputes between two citizens. The explicit exemp-
tion of Spensithios thus meant a considerable privilege on his part, compared
to his fellow citizens. And if we understand this point as a privilege, we should
probably also consider Spensithios’ exemption from personal execution as a
personal benefit.
This makes sense if we take the following regulation into account, which
allows the poinikastas to have any legal proceedings he might find himself
involved in conducted by the kosmos. Once again, only a comparison with
Gortyn can unravel the meaning of this passage. Extant inscriptions make clear
that, while a lawsuit was usually accepted by the kosmos, he would refer it on to
a dikastas, who may even have been appointed first. The latter would then pass
judgement according to the applicable law, at least as long as the circumstances
of the case and the possible question of guilt were undisputed. Should there be
dissent on either, however, the dikastas would summon witnesses and order the
taking of oaths and so on, in order then to reach a verdict based on the evidence
provided. Thereafter, the kosmos appears to have been in charge again, imple-
menting the dikastas’ decision by way of the influence derived from both his
institutional and personal power.37
Spensithios, however, was granted the ability to personally decide whether
to have lawsuits conducted according to regular procedure or by the kosmos.
Against the background of the procedures in Gortyn, this implies that the cit-
izens of Datala were not permitted to take their cases before the kosmos, and
that these were usually tried by the dikastas. If Spensithios was allowed to refer
any legal actions to the kosmos, this would not have obtained a factually more
competent decision. Rather, his privilege of engaging the kosmos himself would
have endowed Spensithios with greater prestige in the course of the dispute.
For not only was the kosmos ranked above the dikastai in the hierarchy of office-
holders: in all probability, a man holding the topmost office in a polis also held
37 On this procedure see Wolff 1946; on the power of officials in the early polis see Seelentag
2009a; 2013; 2015: 129–268.
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178 seelentag
such personal power that—the notion of institutional power being rather weak
still—any of his decisions in court would have been guaranteed to be more
binding and sustainable.
Finally, our inscription records the duties imposed on Spensithios. Thus, he
was ‘legally obliged’ to contribute the substantial amount of ten double axes,
around 36 kilograms, of meat to the andreion, ‘in the same way as those when
they assume office’. Moreover, he was obliged to pay an ‘annual fee’. We should
see these dues—as in the example of the contribution of the Axian craftsmen
to a number of sacrifices—not merely as obligations. Rather, we can see Spensi-
thios’ provisions to the andreion marking him as a contributor to the common
meals, with an enormous amount of meat.38 Furthermore, when we read that
Spensithios was not obliged to make any additional contributions, this only
means that the scribe and remembrancer was in fact free to make further pro-
visions available to the andreion.
This was of great importance, as, unlike in Sparta, the contributions of mem-
bers of the Cretan andreia were relative, not absolute. They corresponded to a
tenth of their earnings—irrespective of the latter’s absolute size. Accordingly,
in Crete a man might in fact contribute quite little to his respective hetaireia.
And yet he would still not run the risk of losing his status as a full political agent
and warrior for the polis, due to the small size of his income. Participation in
the polity was not graded by census limitations. However, the substantial con-
tributions of the wealthier members of the community would have given them
a significant advantage in prestige, which would have been unattainable for
many others, for the less affluent members were in fact not capable of recip-
rocating in kind. To be invited to the men’s meal, like a foreigner, without the
possibility of reciprocating accordingly as a contributor, was not an honour.
A man thus invited, viewed himself in a position of perpetual obligation and,
therefore, of social subordination.
The right granted to Spensithios of contributing as much as he wished to the
andreion was quite probably open to every full political agent; and we should
not see this as a particular privilege of Spensithios. Yet, it did appear worthy
of mention to explicitly allow the poinikastas to compete with the established
members of this polity. The latter had long since presented themselves as gen-
erous contributors to the andreion and had gained the respect of their fellow
citizens. And these, on the basis of the precepts of reciprocity, had committed
38 The relevant literary sources are Dosiadas FGrH 458 F2 ap. Ath. 4.143a–d; as well as Pyr-
gion FGrH 467 F1 ap. Athen. 4.143e–f. On the funding of the andreia see Seelentag 2013;
2015: 417–430.
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themselves to a complementary conduct of deference and support, in acknow-

ledgement of the social and political superiority of the rich. All of this was
now also open to Datala’s newest, and abundantly funded, member of the com-
munity.
3.3 Dionysios of Gortyn

The process of granting certain privileges to non-citizens that were previously
reserved for citizens only is also apparent in our third piece of evidence: a
Gortynian decree in favour of Dionysios and his descendants, rewarding the
man’s outstanding services to the polis. The inscription is from the first half
of the fifth century, engraved in two connected stone blocks with a combined
length of 177cm:39
θ̣ιοί, θυκἀγαθᾶι. δοριὰν ἔδοκ̣αν Διονυσ[ίοι το]ι Κο[– – –] | [– – – ἀρετᾶς ἐμ

π]ολέ[μοι καὶ ἐ]ϝεργεσίας ἔνεκα Γόρτυνς ἐπίπανσα | ϙ’ οἰ ἐν Ἀϝλο͂νι ϝοικίοντες
ἀτέλειαν [πάντον ἀ]ϝ̣το͂[ι καὶ ἐσγόνοις – – –]| [– – – ϝα]στίαν δίκαν καὶ ϝοι-
κίαν ἐν Ἀϝλο͂νι ἐ|νδος πύργο καὶ ϝοικόπεδον ἐκσοι γᾶν κ[– – –] | [– – –]κον καὶ
γ[υν]ασίο. vac.
Gods, grant us success! A gift was given to Dionysios, son of Ko[– – –], for
his valour in war (?) and for his beneficence, by all Gortyn and those living
in Aulon: exemption from duties in all things for himself and his descend-
ants [– – –], jurisdiction like an astos and a house in Aulon in Pyrgos (vel.
in the tower) and a piece of land outside of [– – –] and in the gymnasion.
The list of privileges granted to Dionysios is similar to the rights accorded to

both the craftsmen of Axos and Spensithios. As in the case of the poinikastas
of Datala, this regulation explicitly entitles not only Dionysios himself but also
his descendants to participation in the practices mentioned. This entitlement
again provides an instance of a family being permanently integrated into the
body of full political agents. A significant difference between this inscription
and the other two, however, lies in the motivation for bestowing privileges onto
the relevant individuals. While the craftsmen probably received their privileges
in return for contractual services to the polis, which were held in high regard,
and Spensithios assumed the important office of scribe and remembrancer,
Dionysios is here honoured for deeds already performed. His merits—‘for his
39 IC 4.64 = Gagarin/Perlman G64 = Nomima 1.8 (cf. SEG 28.731, 39.1866), Gortyn in the early
fifth century after Perlman 1996: 266 and Nomima 1994: 50; trans. following Gagarin 2008:
125.
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180 seelentag
valour in war and for his beneficence’—are formulated in very general terms.40
There is no mention of an expectation of any specific future conduct on his
part.
Assigning Dionysios the ϝαστία δίκα meant legally privileging him. It seems
that this referred to the kind of treatment in legal disputes which was enjoyed
by an astos. We have evidence for the term wastia dika from a sixth-century
Gortynian law, although it is not possible to reconstruct the larger context of its
introduction, due to the fragmentary nature of this law.41 However, among oth-
ers, we do find the contiguous phrase: ‘He himself is to speak the wastia dika out
loud in the agora’. The counterpart of this was the xeneia dika mentioned in a
treaty concluded at the beginning of the fifth century between Gortyn and the
Rhittenians, a polity dominated by Gortyn. There, the term denotes the rules
of legal proceedings involving members of both polities.42 The xeneia dika,
therefore, seem to refer to the laws applied in the case of a citizen of Gortyn
finding himself in a legal dispute with a foreigner—either from a Cretan or a
non-Cretan polis.43 This dika did not, however, refer to slaves, as, whether they
were offenders or victims of a crime, it was their masters who actually stood
40 It should be pointed out here that this is one of the few references to war between the
poleis of Crete in the Archaic and Classical periods. What exactly the deeds of this euer-
getes were, as distinguishable from his martial prowess, cannot be reconstructed. Other-
wise, for similar formulae from Athens cf. Manville 1990.
41 IC 4.13i2–g2 = Gagarin/Perlman G13 = Koerner 120 = Nomima 1.1: οι ἀϝτὸς διπλῆι [λ]άϙοι
ϝαστίαν δίκαν [ἐν τᾶι ἀγ]ορᾶι.—We can only assume that this inscription must describe a
punitive or purifying ritual for an official who has violated one of the regulations of the
wastia dika. The same context also mentions the ‘payment of fees’, ‘of the whole polis’ and
‘is recorded by the xenodokos’.
42 IC 4.80.8 = Gagarin/Perlman G80 = Nomima 1.7 = StV 2.216.—Here mention is made of a
Gortynian having trespassed upon the property of a Rhittenian, who was to be fined one
drachma by his startagetas, and both by the Gortynian and the Rhittenian kosmos, to ‘use
them (probably in equal measures) with the startos and the Rhittenians. […] But should
they impose a greater fine upon him or should they fail to use it, then they are to be pro-
secuted according to the xeneia dika (κσενείαι δίκα[ι δι]κάδδεθαι).’—On the interpretation
of this inscription see van Effenterre 1993 and Nomima 1, 51; Perlman 1996: esp. 262–266;
281 with n. 163; 165–166; and the detailed discussion by Craven 2009; and Seelentag 2015:
353–360.—On the phenomenon of ‘tributary poleis’ see below.
43 Documents from Eleutherna, Lyttos and Gortyn imply that the poleis of Crete distin-
guished between two groups of foreigners: allopolitai and xenoi; see Eleutherna, last
quarter of the sixth century: IC 2.12.3 = Gagarin/Perlman Ele3 = Koerner 109 = Nomima
1.10; also IC 2.12.4 = Gagarin/Perlman Ele4 = Koerner 110 = Nomima 1.83.—Lyttos, late
sixth century/ ca. 500: van Effenterre/van Effenterre 1985 = Gagarin/Perlman Lyktos 1A
= Koerner 87 = Nomima 1.12.—Gortyn, mid-fifth century: IC 4.72 6.46–55, here 46–47 =
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trial. Thus, the wastia dika can probably be understood to indicate the legal
framework for deciding disputes between two astoi—whereby the term astos
would here appear to be used synonymously with ‘citizen’, or rather, ‘full polit-
ical agent’.
This finding implies the existence of two legal systems or procedural paths,
at least for Gortyn. I would like to propose that the vast majority of extant
inscriptions from the Archaic and Classical periods are from the area of the
wastia dika. Regulations from the xeneia dika seem to be almost exclusively
referred to in those inscriptions speaking of the xenios kosmos. One such
example, the assurance of protection for the freedmen of Latosion, will be dis-
cussed at length below, however it is useful to note one specific detail here: in
the Cretan inscriptions as they have come down to us, foreigners are only men-
tioned when there is a possibility of them coming into conflict with the citizens
of a polity or ‘the polis’ itself. These regulations, however, by no means neces-
sarily focus on preserving the foreigners’ rights. Rather, they aim at imposing
terms on the foreigners. We can thus find clauses regulating the conditions of
their employment within the polis; the circumstances under which a citizen
was permitted to adopt a foreigner and dissolve such an adoption; or in which
office-holders were tasked with prosecuting a crime even if the victim was a for-
eigner and not a full political agent. In view of the evidence, we should further
assume that we have no single testimony for legal regulations applied in those
cases concerning disputes between foreigners only. This, of course, does not
mean that such regulations did not actually exist, but simply that they were not
carved on stone and monumentalised in the same manner as those regulations
concerning the disputes between the citizens of the polis. As the acceptance of
these regulations will have been a lot more precarious precisely for this reason,
we can view the act of recording them in writing as an attempt to endow these
regulations with greater authority.44
Against this background, the question of the relationship between Aulon—
otherwise topographically unknown to us—and Gortyn, arises. The appended
formula ‘and those who live in Aulon’ at first indicates that they were not seen
as part of ‘all of Gortyn’.45 It could be argued that Aulon was not merely a dis-
44 On this topic see Thomas 1995: esp. 74; Gagarin 2008; in the same sense also Camassa 1996;
Hölkeskamp 1994; 1999: 273–280; 2000: esp. 88–91; and Seelentag 2009a.—It is completely
unknown to us in which way the two dikai differed from one-another. On this discussion
see e.g. Koerner 1993: 368–369; Gehrke 1997: 49.
45 Cf. an unequal treaty from the late third / early second between Gortyn ‘and those living
on Kaudos’, an island polis off the coast of Crete tributary of Gortyn; IC 4.184 = Chaniotis
1996: Nr. 69.
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182 seelentag
trict of Gortyn, but a separate settlement. After all, the resolution also records
the explicit agreement or active participation of its inhabitants in the phras-
ing of the decree, something we should hardly expect from a mere tributary
polity. Our inscription also demonstrates that it appeared to be necessary to
record the approval of the inhabitants of Aulon—by instruction of Gortyn—to
this procedure separately. They were, after all, directly affected by the priv-
ileges accorded to Dionysios, as he was given a house and land among them
and was exempt from dues the other inhabitants of Aulon presumably had to
pay.
In Aulon, we are probably witnessing a case of a polis hypekoos, a ‘dependant
polity’. Gortyn had already expanded its territory considerably in the course
of the seventh and sixth centuries, either dissolving or absorbing other set-
tlements on the Messara plain. While the inhabitants of the dependant com-
munities were not subjugated into a state of slavery or bondage, neither did
they enjoy the same legal status as the politai of Gortyn.46 It seems that Gortyn
was making an effort to stress the autonomy of its tributary polities. This
becomes obvious in the treaty concluded under unequal conditions between
Gortyn and the Rhittenians, in which the latter are expressly identified as
αὐτ]όνο̣μ[ο]ι κ’ αὐτόδικοι, only to find themselves on the receiving end of Gor-
tyn’s instructions.47 Despite the hierarchical discrepancy between Aulon and
Gortyn, this could explain the gesture of suggesting an alleged separate sov-
ereignty in the context of their approval of the privileges for Dionysios. Ulti-
mately, the authority of Gortyn over the territory and the inhabitants of Aulon,
stood behind this.
If Aulon was indeed a tributary polity, then, the granting of the ϝα]στία δίκα
to Dionysios would have been of particular relevance. As members of a polis
hypekoos—such as in the case of the Rhittenians—the inhabitants of Aulon
would have been dealt with according to the xeneia dika. Thus, the privileging
46 On the phenomenon of tributary polities in Crete see Gschnitzer 1958; Perlman 1996 as
well as Chaniotis 1996: 160–168 and passim. Gschnitzer 1958: 54–55 sees Aulon not as a trib-
utary polity—as opposed to Chaniotis 1996: 434; Perlman 1996: 266–268; 2002: 199–200;
and 2004: 1152–1153 with a discussion of the earlier literature.—On the violent expansion
of the Cretan poleis in the Archaic period see Viviers 1994; Erickson 2010: esp. 238–245.—
Further examples of such tributary polities are IC 2.12.22 = Chaniotis 1996: Nr. 68, an
unequal treaty between Eleutherna and the polity of the Artemitai from the late third cen-
tury; and IC 3.6.7 = Chaniotis 1996: Nr. 64 = StV 3.553 = HGIÜ 3.340, a similarly unequal
treaty between Praisos and Stalai from the beginning of the third century; and quite plaus-
ibly also IC 4.63 = Gagarin/Perlman G63 = Nomima 1.59, a treaty between Gortyn and
Leben from the end of the sixth century.
47 IC 4.80.1 = Gagarin/Perlman G80 = Nomima 1.7 = StV 2.216.
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of Dionysios stated that, in the case of legal dispute, though his house and
land lay geographically within the territory of people who were covered by the
Gortynian xeneia dika, he was still to be treated as a Gortynian astos. The expli-
cit bestowal of the wastia dika onto Dionysios meant he would have been able
to access privileges usually reserved for the politai of Gortyn.
Land played an important role in the honouring of Dionysios. Only as a result
of the assignment of a house and ‘piece of land’ in a specific area was Dionysios
accepted into the circle of those able to claim full political agency precisely on
the basis of such property.48 Possibly, this was meant to enable him to act as
a contributor to the andreion, due to his income from farming or animal hus-
bandry. This is implied, at least, if we compare these provisions to the decree
of Spensithios. In both cases we see the granting of land and of the income
deriving from it as prerequisite for all other practices of participation.49 This
was possible, in all likelihood, because the greater part of Cretan polis-land
was worked by slaves. This system granted all full political agents the neces-
sary freedom to participate in the time-consuming social institutions of the
polis.50
The mention of γ[υν]ασίο at the (fragmentarily preserved) end of the inscrip-
tion is probably to be interpreted as granting of the right, henceforth, to train
at the gymnasion. In Archaic Greece, the men frequenting the gymnasion
stemmed from the elite; there they pursued an elaborate culture of beauti-
ful bodies, elegant movements, and expensive anointing oils. It was also there
that the elites vied with one another in institutionalised, and thus regulated
48 It is not clear if the ϝοικία (…) ἐνδος πύργο alludes to a house in a district called Pyrgos
belonging to Aulon or if is referring to a house in (one of) the tower(s) of Aulon.
49 However, the relevance—indeed, the ideologically charged importance—of a house as
the centre of an economic unit also becomes apparent in a passage of the Great Law of
Gortyn dealing with inheritance law, especially with the share of daughters. Unlike the
other parts of an inheritance, a house owned by a citizen of the polis, as well as the invent-
ory of the house in question, was to be handed down along the male line and was not to
be given to the daughter, so as not to fall into the hands of the in-law family: IC 4.72.4.31–
37, 46–48 = Gagarin/Perlman G72 = Koerner 169 = Nomima 2.49. On the context and the
reasons for this regulation see Link 1994: 74–96; esp. 79–83; and 94–95. The fact that the
wealth of a man in Archaic Greece and, therefore, his influence and chances of particip-
ation, were dependant on his lands and herds is discussed e.g. by van Wees 2006; 2013b;
and Foxhall 1997; as well as 2002; see ibid.: 218: ‘I have never been able to resolve in my
own mind the paradox of substantial inequalities in landholding juxtaposed to the notion
of political equality in poleis where landholding and citizenship were linked in several
ways.’
50 On the unfree inhabitants of the Cretan poleis see Link 1994; 2001; van Wees 2003; Gagarin
2010; Lewis 2013.
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184 seelentag
competition. At the same time, they distanced themselves, as a group of those

able to participate in these practices, from all others who were unable to
do so; the creation of alterity therefore promoted the cohesion of the aris-
toi. Thus, besides the elaborate practices of sympotic commensality, the gym-
nasion was also one of the essential social spaces for the staging of distinc-
tion.51
During the course of the socio-political transformation of the Cretan polit-
ies in the second half of the seventh century, participation in the common
meal societies of the andreia as well as the training in the gymnasion were
extended from a small circle to a larger group of individuals.52 Even ‘simple’
citizens thereafter had the opportunity to gain membership in the meat-eating
community of warriors and athletes. This opening, however, did not actually
signify a dilution of the original elite practices, or a democratisation of andreion
and gymnasion. Rather, we can see here an ‘elitisation of the demos’: From
this point onwards, it was possible for any citizen to acquire fame and hon-
our through athletic achievements in the manner formerly reserved for the
aristoi.53 The cohesion of those dining and exercising together, as well as their
repulsion of those who were not admitted to these occasions, remained a con-
stituent factor for the socio-political sphere of the common meal societies and
the gymnasion. In these we can grasp essential circles for the citizens’ socio-
political integration, from which—as pointed out by Aristotle for the unfree of
Crete and implied by the term ‘apetairoi’ for free non-citizens—all others were
excluded.54
Like Spensithios and the Axian craftsmen who had been privileged with
their ‘exemption from everything’, in this inscription, Dionysios is likewise
granted ateleia, the ‘exemption from duties’. While we would be grateful for any
further information from contemporary sources as to the nature of the duties
they were exempted from, all we know of the politai of the Cretan communities
is that they made a regular contribution to the andreion.55 The reference here,
51 On the genesis of the gymnasion and the relevance of the agon in the development of a
culture of the elite see Mann 1998.
52 On this topic see Rabinowitz 2009 and 2014; Węcowski 2014; as well as Seelentag 2015:
387–397.
53 On this topic see Meier 2006, regarding Sparta; thus also Spahn 1977: 109.
54 Apetairoi: IC 4.72.2.2–45, here 2–15 = Gagarin/Perlman G72 = Koerner 164 = Nomima 2.81;
on them see e.g. Willetts 1955: 37–45 and 1967: 12–13; Link 1994: 29; Seelentag 2015: 286–
289.—Unfree inhabitants: Arist. Pol. 1264a21–22. The ideology of the orientation of the
gymnasion and other institutions of the Cretan polities towards martial prowess is dis-
cussed in Plato’s Laws; see e.g. Plat. Leg. i 625c–626b also in vii 814d; vii 834a–d.
55 Probably apparent in the karpodaistai inscription from Gortyn: IC 4.77 a–c = Gagarin/
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however, cannot be be about this. While Spensithios and the craftsmen are
granted ateleia, at the same time they are explicitly given the duty—or rather,
the privilege—to contribute to the andreion. Other than this, we have no evid-
ence for any other regular contributions or taxation of the politai.56 In fact, it is
doubtful that the citizens were obliged to pay any such dues.57 What this pas-
sage might be referring to is fees on the usage of infrastructure provided by the
polis, and, respectively, on transactions executed on the territory of the polis.
However, evidence for such dues for Archaic and Classical Crete is lacking: we
possess merely a single source, a treaty concluded around 450 bc under the aus-
pices of Argos between the poleis of Knossos and Tylissos, which records a levy
on exports in maritime trade.58
It is therefore conceivable that the granting of ateleia in the documents dis-
cussed here should be understood as an exemption for those named from such
duties levied on non-citizens alone. Aristotle reports these in his discussion of
the financing of the andreia, when he claims that ‘for out of all the crops and
cattle produced from the public lands and the tributes paid by the serfs, one
part is assigned for the worship of the gods and the maintenance of the pub-
lic services and the other for the public mess-tables, so that all the citizens are
maintained from the common funds, women and children as well as men.’59
Furthermore, in his report on the andreia in Lyttos, the third-century author
Dosiadas records ‘of the income made, everyone contributes a tenth towards
the hetaireia, as well as the revenues of the polis, which the magistrate of the
polis assigns to the houses of the individuals. Of the douloi, each one contrib-
Perlman G77 = Koerner 152 = Nomima 1.49; on this topic Willetts 1961; Link 1994: 13 n. 23.
This inscription makes it obvious that such dues were not always paid voluntarily.
56 Cf. the treaty between Gortyn and Kaudos which, however, is only from the late third /
early second century: IC 4.184 = Chaniotis 1996: Nr. 69; on this topic also Chaniotis 1996:
160–168; 407–420. It decrees that the inhabitants of the settlement of Kaudos tributary to
Gortyn are to pay a dekate of their produce to the temple of Apollo Pythios of Gortyn, in
the same way ‘as the Gortynians do’. This tenth applied to all produce except for animals
and harbour revenues, vegetables, juniper and salt, the size which dues were stipulated in
absolute quantities.
57 So far, this subject has not been discussed for Crete.—Morris 2009: 72: ‘But state institu-
tions were always weak. Confiscated property, fines, voluntary contributions, and indirect
taxes on markets and harbors were their main sources of revenue in Archaic times: dir-
ect taxation was always considered incompatible with freedom.’—See now also van Wees
2013a: esp. 28–30, on the Archaic period; as well as Rubinstein 2009 on post-Archaic ate-
leia.
58 IC 1.8.4, here 11–14, and 1.30.1 = Nomima 1.54 i and ii = StV 147 and 148 = HGIÜ 1.72.
59 Arist. Pol. 1272a12–21, trans. Rackham.
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186 seelentag
utes one Aeginetan stater per head.’60 These two testimonials therefore report
a regular contribution of the non-citizens towards practices they were not able
to participate in themselves.
We should not necessarily see the exemption from dues which appears
prominently in all three inscriptions discussed—in line with the features of
ateleia in later periods—as an additional privilege meant to distinguish spe-
cifically those mentioned from their fellow citizens. Perhaps it denoted, in-
stead, an express exemption from those duties levied on the non-citizen alone;
and, thus, as exception from an imposition which essentially contributed to-
wards emphasising the lack of privilege of the ‘others’, compared to the cit-
izens.61 In this case, we can again observe that it was not in fact ‘citizenship’
that was being conferred. Instead, those individuals which were to participate
in the polis were exempted from such practices that were among the duties of
non-citizens: From then on, they too were to participate in the group of those
freed from such duties, namely the ‘citizens’.
3.4 The Freedmen of Latosion

Our fourth and last example of individuals being incorporated into a polity’s
circles of integration is an inscription from Gortyn from the early fifth century.
It makes provisions for the settlement and protection of a group of freedmen—
it decrees:62
60 Dosiadas FGrH 458 frg. 2 ap. Ath. 4.143a; trans. after Link 1994.
61 A decree from Kyzikos from the sixth century gives evidence of a number of dues. It
grants those privileged—Manes and the sons of Aisepos as well as their descendants—
exemption from dues ‘with the exception of the tax on the nautos and on the use of the
public balance and on the sale of a horse and the 25-per-cent tax and the tax on the sale
of a man. In everything else they are to be exempt from duties’. However, due to our ignor-
ance in respect to the socio-political conditions of the polis at this time, we are unable
to say if these dues were to be paid by every citizen who made business transactions on
a corresponding scale and if such privileging singled out the named persons among the
other politai; or if we may be dealing with an explicit exemption from such dues as were
to be paid by foreigners alone. However, the right to dine in the prytaneion likewise gran-
ted in this inscription speaks for the former; IMT Kyz Kapu Dag 1447 = Nomima 1.32 =
HGIÜ 1.18, trans. after Crawford and Whitehead 1983: 93; Hölkeskamp 1999: 172–173 dates
the inscription to the end, Raaflaub 1993: 77 to the beginning of the sixth century. On this
topic see also Hermes 15 (1880) 92–98.
62 Text and translation after IC 4.78 = Gagarin/Perlman G78 = Koerner 153 = Nomima 1.16,
albeit with the significant emendation of Lipsius 1909: 9; 16, changing its meaning. On
the grounds for the reading presented here—particularly the breaks from the third to
the fourth and the fourth to the fifth line—and the accompanying interpretation see
Seelentag 2017.—Interestingly, this inscription is the earliest evidence for a majority
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θιοί. τάδ’ ἔϝαδε τοῖς Γορτυνίοις πσαπίδονσ̣[ι]· vac. το͂ν ἀπελευ[θέρον – – – |

– – – κ]α̣ λε͂ι καταϝοικίδεθαι Λατόσιον ἐπὶ τᾶι ϝίσϝαι [κ|αὶ τ]ᾶι ὀμοίαι, καὶ
μέτινα τοῦτον μέτε καταδολό[θαι μέτε συλε͂ν. | αἰ δ’ ἀδικί]οιτο, τὸν κσένιον
κόσμον μὲ λαγαῖεν. αἰ δὲ [ἀμελ|ί]οιεν, ἐκατὸν στατε͂ρανς ϝέκαστον τὸνς τίτανς
[ἐσπράδδε|θαι, καὶ τὰν δ]ιπλείαν το͂ν κρεμάτον ἐστείσαντανς ἀποδόμ[ε|ν]. αἰ δ’
οἰ τίται μὲ ϝέρκσιεν ἆι ἔγραται, τὰν διπλείαν ἄ[ταν ϝέκαστο|ν αὐτο͂ν το͂ι μ]εμπο-
μένοι ἀποδόμεν καὶ τᾶι πόλι θέμεν.
Gods! This was decreed by the Gortynians when they voted: Of the freed-
men – – – whosoever wishes (shall) settle in Latosion under the com-
mon and equal (law) and no-one is to enslave these [nor rob them. But
if contravened], the xenios kosmos is not to let this happen. But should
he neglect to do so, then the titai are to exact one hundred staters from
each (xenios kosmos) and/or return double the amount of goods as a pen-
itence (to the one robbed). If the titai do not do what has been written,
then [each of them] is to compensate the claimant double the fee and
inflict it upon the polis.
Here, freed slaves (apeleutheroi) are permitted to settle in Latosion.63 It remains

unclear what this location actually refers to; it may have received its name from
a nearby sanctuary of Leto.64 However, it does not appear to have been a dis-
trict occupied solely by foreigners or other underprivileged to separate them
from the citizens. After all, our inscription permits the freedmen to settle there;
it does not order them to do so. We should interpret the passage referring to
this group as being treated ‘under the common and equal (law)’ as granting a
privilege, especially in view of the following assurances of protection. Still, we
should not assume that these freedmen were to live in the future under the
decision in the Greek world. On this see Flaig 2013, who, however, fails to mention the
Cretan examples; on the process of political decision-making in Crete see Seelentag 2013
and 2015: 231–268; 504–550.
63 Following Nomima 1, 75, the lost ending of the first line could also be restored as το͂ν ἀπε-
λευ[σαμένον. This would then mean that the text would not be referring to ‘freedmen’, but
rather to ‘those returning’. This, however, was disputed by Petzl 1997: 615 questioning both
the meaning of this form and the resulting text. As a matter of fact, the prohibition on
(re-?)enslaving the persons mentioned rather suggests that they should be identified as
formerly unfree; see also Zelnick-Abramowitz 2005: 113–114.
64 The inhabitants of Latosion are also mentioned in another, strongly fragmented inscrip-
tion from Gortyn, dated as early as the sixth century. There a no longer reconstructable
offence is punished by a fine of 10 staters, possibly benefitting ‘the Latosians’; IC 4.58 =
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188 seelentag
same law as those enjoying full political agency in Gortyn. This would imply a
social and legal step, promoting them beyond the group of free non-citizens.
Rather, it should be assumed that the inscription decrees them to be treated
according to the laws that applied to the other inhabitants of Latosion. Key
to this understanding is that Latosion should not be seen as a mere district of
Gortyn, but probably as a polity tributary to Gortyn, such as Aulon and Rhitten.
This is made more plausible by the mention of the competency of the xenios
kosmos in the text.
While we only have knowledge of this office from Gortyn, we know that it
had existed there already from the late seventh or early sixth century onwards.
This confirms this office as one of the oldest institutions both in Crete and in
the entire Greek world.65 The few remaining testimonials merely offer a curs-
ory impression of the accompanying duties, though it appears evident that the
xenios kosmos acted in disputes involving non-citizens. Thus, beside the pro-
tection of freedmen, he was responsible for punishing craftsmen from outside
of Gortyn for breaches of contract with the polis with regard to their workman-
ship. Moreover, he was involved in the dissolution of adoptions as a result of
which the former adoptees lost the membership of the hetaireia of their adopt-
ive fathers and thereby also their status as full political agents.66
As noted above, there is an important reason for what appears at first glance
a specialised institution to have already existed at such an early date in the
territorial expansion of Gortyn during the Archaic period. Expansion resulted
in areas of contact with free non-citizens, in the course of which the xeneia
dika and the wastika dika were distinguished from one-another. As a result, it
is quite understandable that, already in the seventh century, Gortyn incurred
responsibilities which needed to be carried out by office-holders assigned to
these tasks. On the one hand, we should therefore see the xenios kosmos against
the background of a steadily developing sharing of tasks and institutional dif-
ferentiation within the Cretan polities at the end of the seventh century. On the
other hand, we must understand the function of this office within the context
of such efforts as they are observable in different poleis of the island, to guide
any contact with ‘others’ in a particular direction.67 While the Cretan poleis
65 IC 4.14 g–p = Gagarin/Perlman G4 = Koerner 121 = Nomima 1.82, on this topic see Perlman
2002: 208–211; also IC 4.30 = Gagarin/Perlman G30 = Koerner 126 = Nomima 2.68. On the
xenios kosmos see Seelentag 2015: 295–308; and 2017.
66 Craftsmen: IC 4.79 (cf. IC 4.144) = Gagarin/Perlman G79 = Koerner 154 = Nomima 1.30;
adoptions: IC 4.72.11.10–17 = Gagarin/Perlman G72 = Koerner 180 = Nomima 2.40.
67 In Lyttos, around 500, a law even forbade the accomodation of foreigners, any violation
was heavily punished; Gagarin/Perlman Lyktos 1A = Koerner 87 = Nomima 1.12, editio prin-
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made an effort to grant these groups legal certainty, they were also tasked with
defining the relationship between citizens and non-citizens and, thus, clearly
delineate the boundary between citizen and foreigner.68
Therefore, in all probability, the freedmen of our inscription were granted
access to a legal status equivalent to that of foreigners who were free, but did
not possess Gortynian ‘citizenship’, therefore, the xenios kosmos was required
for their protection. Yet the promise of the apeleutheroi enjoying protection
from being enslaved or robbed comes as a surprise. After all, the people in
question had not only been freed, but had also been placed on an equal foot-
ing with free men—yet, there was no regulation which explicitly granted the
latter group any such protection. The prevention of such mistreatment was a
matter of course. So why include this redundant point? We know little of the
circumstances of manumission in the Cretan poleis of the Archaic and Classical
period. We cannot say if there existed a status of freedmen with specific rights
or, respectively, specifically curtailed rights in between the different types of
unfree and free inhabitants. However, we should keep in mind that the men-
tion of the apeleutheroi in this inscription is actually the first of its kind. As a
matter of fact, the concept of ‘freedmen’ was only being developed in the Greek
world during the course of the fifth century.69
A comparison with the cases discussed above may prove useful here. The
release of a person from a condition of bondage possibly depended as little on
an already extant abstract conception of ‘manumission’, incorporating the en
bloc conferral of precisely defined and clearly outlined rights and privileges,
as the incorporation of individuals into the citizen body was dependent on an
abstract concept of ‘citizenship’. Against the background of these deliberations,
ceps and detailed discussion in van Effenterre/van Effenterre 1985 with van Effenterre
ibid. 174; see also van Effenterre 1989; Perlman 2004a: 125–127 and Seelentag 2015: 214–
217: ‘Gods! The Lyttians have decreed: who takes in a foreigner (is to face punishment),
except (for one) he himself has under his control, or an Itanian. But should the kosmos or
the apokosmos take one in, by decree of the bola he is to pay 100 lebetes for each one he
has taken in. The judges are to (impose punishment) on anybody as soon as he takes one
in. Should they refuse to do so, they will swear (?) before the “guard” - – - to pay a fine - –
–.’
68 Moreover, the creation of a number of functions in the polis—besides, e.g., their being
manned collegially—was one of the most important steps of institutionalisation suitable
to curtail the competition of the elites for prominence in the polity. On this topic see
Seelentag 2015: 134–139.
69 The earliest literary evidence for this term is provided by the satyr play Soph. Ichn.
199 (Radt 1977), probably dating to the late forties of the fifth century. The alternative
term exeleutheroi is only attested in even later inscriptions and literature; see Zelnick-
Abramowitz 2005: 99–129; esp. 101–102; 107.
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190 seelentag
the promise to the apeleutheroi that they would be allowed to settle within a
certain area, the guarantee that they would treated according to the wastika
dika and, finally, the assurance that they would be protected from enslavement
and robbery would, therefore, not represent a mere redundant treatment of
persons already having been set free. Indeed, assurances of this kind appear
to have defined the status of freedmen in the first place. Still, this does not
mean that our inscription itself implemented their manumission. If anything,
it states, or rather, explicitly confirms, the social circles of integration, and
those practices and privileges the apeleutheroi were henceforth permitted to
participate in. This source thus highlights these facets of participation, which
were open to all free inhabitants, and not some abstract condition of ‘manu-
mission’ by which the freedmen were distinguished from the unfree. Likewise,
in Archaic Crete, the ‘personal legal status’ of an individual consisted less of a
conglomerate of clearly delineated privileges, or even an abstract concept, but
rather lay within the individual’s participation in certain practices.70
The threat of a rather high penalty, mentioned in our inscription, can only
be seen as a benchmark for measuring the legal protection henceforth to be
enjoyed by the freedmen to a lesser degree. The point of the regulation is not
actually the categorical guarantee of a protection of freedmen by means of
detailed provisions but rather a stipulation of specific punishments for those
trying to enslave or rob the freedmen. In fact, a large part of the remaining
lines deals with procedural questions, including the rule that the xenios kos-
mos was to persecute the robbing and re-enslavement of the freedmen. It is
further noted that, in the eventuality that the xenios kosmos should fail to do
so, the institution of the titai is to exact one hundred staters from every xenios.
Finally, it records what was to happen should the titai likewise fail to meet their
obligations. The contents of this inscription are not without precedent. The
duties of office holders outlined here, to act in reaction to a particular deed
through a specified procedure, as well as the establishment of provisions in
case he should fail to do so, so that another institution would then punish the
former and so on, are also recorded by other Archaic inscriptions. Exhibiting
comparable procedural regulations, these inscriptions all endeavour to impose
responsibilities on the office holders and establish mandatory procedures; in
short: to delineate institutions.71 In our case, these simply happen to be the
70 Due to their weaker social position, the apeleutheroi were possibly in greater danger than
their already free fellow citizens of being re-enslaved or robbed. This regulation could
mainly be referring to former masters attempting to extort services or goods from their
freedmen.
71 This is already observable in one of the earliest Cretan regulations; IC 4.14 g–p 2 =
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xenioi kosmoi and the titai. Thus, we are not primarily dealing with the treat-
ment of a man robbing or enslaving freedmen and their respective legal protec-
tion, here. Rather, we are faced with a much more difficult question concerning
the organisation of the citizen-state, namely how institutions can operate reli-
ably and how communally agreed procedures can be enforced against arbitrary
actions by individuals.72
4 Participating in the Early polis
The privileges granting individuals participation in the polity’s circles of integ-

ration, mentioned in the four examples discussed above, are incongruent. This
was expected, as they originate from different poleis and decades, from an era
where any form of standardised civic law was absent in the first place. Thus,
only Dionysios is presented with a house and a klaros, a plot of land; however,
he is not explicitly granted the right to dine in the andreion, which plays such
an important role in the privileges from Axos and Datala. These differences,
however, do not allow us to deduce a relative greater or lesser degree of priv-
ileging, as they do not represent degrees of participation in the polity. Contem-
poraries may have been well aware of the fact that a man, as long as he was in
possession of a house and land and, moreover, was known to the other citizens
as having been privileged by decree, naturally also took part in the common
meals. And if Dionysios was not explicitly assigned to one of the phylai, whose
existence as a meaningful circle of integration traces back to the seventh and
sixth centuries, then this may also be connected with Aulon, his clearly stated
future place of residence.73 Each of the three inscriptions also lacks any ref-
Gagarin/Perlman G14 = Koerner 121 = Nomima 1.82, Gortyn beginning of the sixth century.
Another example is IC 2.5.9, here 8–11 = Gagarin/Perlman A9 = Koerner 106, from fifth-
century Axos.—On the numerous procedural regulations of early Greek laws see Koerner
1987; Hölkeskamp 1999; Papakonstantinou 2008.—Comparable to our regulation is the
privileging of Patrias and his descendants mentioned in note 14. This inscription likewise
primarily formulates which institutions were in which particular way responsible for guar-
anteeing the privileges granted.
72 Gagarin 2008: 138–139 points out that the opening phrase of this inscription is unique
to fifth-century Gortyn: the invocation of the gods and the reference to a ballot of the
Gortynians. This may indicate a special—and therefore procedural—relevance of this reg-
ulation.
73 In the phylai called ‘startoi’ in Gortyn‚ the full political agents came together as a com-
munity of weapon-bearing men. These subdivisions of the polis society were based on
local settlement communities and were already relevant as significant circles of socio-
polical integration in the seventh century: Dreros, late seventh century: van Effenterre
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192 seelentag
erence to any future military obligation towards the polis accompanying such
privileges. It is conceivable, however, that the duty of bearing and making use
of arms, which we should probably regard as a right, naturally went hand in
hand with landed property.74
Despite the differences between the sources, several social circles of integ-
ration and their respective constituent practices become evident, exhibiting
notable requirements for participation in the polity. These were, first, access to
arable land—more specifically, to the produce from a plot of land. It appears
that the possibility, or, perhaps, the right to appear as a contributor to the men’s
common meals, rather than being invited as a stranger without actually having
to make any contribution, was dependent upon this. Beyond such a contribu-
tion, citizens seem to have enjoyed the privilege of not having to pay any other
regular dues. Of great importance was also their right to take part in phys-
ical exercise in the gymnasion. If we take the written evidence of the fourth
century literally, citizens and weapon-bearers were thereby distinguished from
the ‘others’ in similarly clear terms, as in the andreion.75 We can see a further
circle of integration for the individual in his participation in different sacrifices,
where the respective group offering the sacrifice and celebrating it with a feast
repeatedly constituted itself as a cult community. After all, such an individual
would also have been a political stakeholder—for instance in those decision-
making procedures leading to the regulations discussed here. He would also
have been part of an outwardly consenting community, as manifested in such
formulations as ‘all of Gortyn’.
And, last but not least, our inscriptions emphasise the fact that the priv-
ileges granted also applied to the descendants of the beneficiaries, pointing out
that the benefits granted to the respective individuals named were meant to
be inherited.76 The sons of the men named, and then their sons in turn, would,
of course, undergo the paideia, the course of education regulated by the polis.
1946, 590–597 = Gagarin/Perlman Dr1 = Koerner 91 = Nomima 1.64.—Gortyn, beginning

of the fifth century: IC 4.80.3–7, 8–9 = Gagarin/Perlman G80 = Nomima 1.7 = StV 2.216;
mid-fifth century: IC 4.72.5.5–6 = Gagarin/Perlman G72 = Koerner 169 = Nomima 2.49. On
this topic see Seelentag 2015: 334–373.
74 The ideology of the weapon-bearer in Archaic-Classical Crete, ruling by force over the
unfree men and women working his fields as they did not dare to bear arms, is demon-
strated in the ‘Song of Hybrias’ ap. Athen. 15.695f–696a, the only Cretan scholion handed
down to us; cf. van Wees 2013b on the social type of the ‘leisured landowner’ in Archaic
Greece.
75 See above and note 10.
76 This is what is also characteristic of the evidence mentioned in note 14, accepting an indi-
vidual and his descendants into the polis.
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They would then spend time in the agela, until becoming so-called dromeis,
‘runners’, denoting ‘junior citizens’, for the following ten years, until finally they
would be accepted into the andreia as full members, with all the accompany-
ing duties, privileges and prestige. The honours for Spensithios and Dionysios,
in fact, imply that the perpetuation of the privileges granted to an individual
beyond his lifetime, emphasised therein, was a fundamental characteristic of
his comprehensive integration into the community’s body of political agents.
Neither in the case of the Axian craftsmen, who probably only enjoyed the priv-
ileges specified for the duration of their employment with the polis, nor in the
case of the freedmen, who were not in fact explicitly accepted into the citizen
body of the Gortynians, but among the inhabitants of Latosion, is there men-
tion of their descendants. The privileges accorded to them do not encompass
any future permanence. According to the evidence, it is precisely this inher-
itability which we should see as an essential criterion of what we are used to
describe, anachronistically, as the ‘conferment of citizenship’.
Inscriptions like the ones presented here demonstrate that the citizen polit-
ies of Crete endeavoured to regulate dealings with foreigners and non-citizen
inhabitants, with subject and unfree populations, into certain channels. On
the one hand, the members of these groups were granted certain rights, thus
according them security as long as they met certain obligations. On the other
hand, these concessions on the side of the polis repeatedly make clear that too
close a contact between citizens and foreigners was undesirable. Their separa-
tion took place in plain sight, thereby also promoting the notion of the citizens
as being distinct from these others, as a closed group.
The origin and significance of these dividing lines are to be seen within
the context of the socio-political transformation of the Cretan polities from
the seventh century onwards.77 In reaction to the challenges of the increas-
ing complexity of socio-political configurations—which all parts of the Greek
world were confronted with—the Cretan polities appear to have struck a path
whereby the aristoi dispensed with those cultural practices that emphasised
their superiority over the demos, which were typical for other poleis.78 The
material evidence from the seventh to fifth centuries, in particular, provides
especially important indications of a successful ethical homogenisation of the
Cretan elites. Through this homogenisation, two social ideologies found their
77 On this topic see Erickson 2010; Seelentag 2013; 2015; as well as the articles in Pilz and
Seelentag 2014.
78 On this and the following see Seelentag 2015: esp. 34–57; 504–552; and Seelentag 2020 with
Meister/Seelentag 2020.
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194 seelentag
expression, establishing norms and institutionalising cultural practices, claim-

ing compulsory participation for all involved.
One was the ideology of the equality of the political agents, the fiction
that all citizens were equal. This acted towards prohibiting certain modes of
expression in respect to material inequality, which of course continued to exist.
Instead, such originally elite practices of distinction, like physical exercise and
sympotic commensality, were extended to a wider circle of participants. This
acted as both demonstration and rehearsal of the homogeneity of the politai,
confirmed and exercised in a number of social practices. But this construc-
tion of internal equality necessitated the creation of inequalities: the greater
the actual differences between those emphasising their equality amongst one-
another, the greater their mutual distance has to be from the ‘others’; and,
therefore, the more explicitly the alterity between the ‘equals’ and the ‘others’
needs to be institutionalised.79 One vehicle for this purpose was the idealisa-
tion of this equality by the notion of ‘freedom’—at least this is implied by the
term eleutheroi that the politai used to describe themselves. Even considering
all internal differences, they were indeed equal in the respect that they alone
were truly free and, thus, able to look down contemptuously upon the ‘others’.80
The second ideology stated that the ‘polis’ bridged the different socio-politi-
cal fault lines within the Cretan communities. The entity of the polis provided
an integrative circle of superordinate identity for aristoi and damodes, for
the numerous neighbourhoods and religious associations, for phylai and het-
aireiai.81 It is remarkable that the practices of participation discussed here did
not take place within the space of the abstract entity that was the polis, which
79 This difference in status also becomes evident in the catalogue of penalties for rape and
adultery in the Great Law of Gortyn, IC 4.72.2.2–45 = Gagarin/Perlman G72 = Koerner 164
= Nomima 2.81; see Seelentag 2015: 286–291. Here, the rape of a male or female ‘citizen’ is
punishable with 100 or 200 staters, respectively, while the rape of apetairoi, i.e. free non-
citizens, merely entails a fine of 10, in the case of slaves merely of 2.5 or 5 staters, respect-
ively. The main social divide, therefore, was not between free and unfree, but between
‘citizens’ and all ‘others’.
80 The Cretan inscriptions do not reveal what term the citizens used to refer to themselves.
The almost complete absence of definitions of terms such as demos, politai or astoi sup-
ports the assumption that the term eleutheros will most likely have expressed the concept
of ‘citizen’ and the associations connected with it; this refers to evidence such as IC 4.75b
= Gagarin/Perlman G75 = Koerner 147 = Nomima 2.46 as well as IC 4.72.2.2–45, here 2–15 =
Gagarin/Perlman G72 = Koerner 164 = Nomima 2.81; moreover IC 4.72.3.22 = Gagarin/Perl-
man G72 = Koerner 167 = Nomima 2.32; IC 4.72.5.53 = Gagarin/Perlman G72 = Koerner 169
= Nomima 2.49; see also note 71 with reference to the ideology of the ‘Song of Hybrias’. On
this topic see Seelentag 2015: 326–333; cf. Bernhardt 2014 on Sparta.
81 See Seelentag 2009a; as well as 2013; 2015: 231–268.
- 978-90-04-51363-1
we do encounter in the decree formulas of various inscriptions, but rather in

the social circles of integration discussed above. And yet these in their entirety
did not simply result in ‘the polis’. As meaningful forms of socialisation, they
must have competed, or even conflicted with this central institution. Still, from
the seventh century onwards it was ‘the polis’ which appeared as a decision-
making authority in Cretan laws. By sponsoring certain measures of institu-
tionalisation, it exerted influence upon the practices of the social circles of
integration below the level of the polis.82
Those significant circles of integration by no means necessarily resulted
from the pre-existence of a strong and clearly outlined polis society, but rather
actually produced it in the first place, and then continued to reproduce it. It
should be further noted that the different, meaningful circles of integration,
of course, in no case existed without any overlap. Rather, their overlapping—
and this means the involvement of an individual in several different circles of
integration—was in fact a requirement for the individual’s full participation in
society in the first place.83 For, during this time, ‘the polity’ only manifested
itself as an intersection of different circles of integration. In the period dis-
cussed here the citizen-state was yet to be institutionally differentiated. Thus,
in Archaic times we are not primarily dealing with the issue of ‘participation in
the polis’, but first and foremost, with the matter of ‘taking part in the practices
of a number of social circles of integration’.84
Finally, I would like again to quote Uwe Walter: ‘Parallel to its public institu-
tions, society likewise had also to constitute itself as a political community.’85
82 Already evident in inscriptions like one from Dreros from the last quarter of the seventh
century: Gagarin/Perlman Dr3 = Nomima 1.68 and 2.89 = Koerner 92 (on its meaning
and interpretation see Seelentag 2009b), in which the polis probably regulated the cir-
cumstances of training in the agelai and the induction of the ephebes ‘in regard to the
hetaireiai’; or in the regulation from Eltynia from ca. 500: IC 1.10.2 = Gagarin/Perlman G72
= Koerner 94 = Nomima 2.80 = SEG 2.509, sanctioning bodily harm in the course of the
paideia, e.g. in the agelai of the ephebes.
83 An impression of the diversity of the circles of integration relevant to the individual is
conveyed by a law attributed to Solon: ‘What is agreed upon by a demos or members of
a phratry (phratores) or a union responsible for religious feasts (orgeones) or gennetai or
those taking part in common meals (syssitoi) or a funeral society (homotaphoi) or mem-
bers of religious associations (thiasotai) or people working for loot or trade, is to be law-
ful (kyrion), unless it is prohibited by a public law (demosia grammata).’ Solon frg. 76a
Ruschenbusch 2010 ap. Gai. Dig. 47.22.4, on this topic see Jones 1999: 25–50; 311–320.
84 This wording follows the title of Walter 1993.—Hereby cf. the Aristotelian concept of the
koinoniai below the level of the polis, e.g. Arist. Eth. Nic. 1160a4–6; on this topic Vlas-
sopoulos 2007: 13.
85 ‘Parallel mit ihren staatlichen Einrichtungen mußte sich vielmehr auch die Gesellschaft
- 978-90-04-51363-1
196 seelentag
And indeed, both phenomena had to happen in parallel. Still, the second part
of the sentence appears to me to claim primacy: the awareness by a group of its
existence as a political community was a prerequisite for the establishment of
institutions of the (as it is called here) polis-‘state’. And so the question arises
as to which socio-political configurations instigated, catalysed, and performed
this effort of institutionalisation, whereby the frequently competitive circles of
integration were integrated into the polis, thus transforming it into a citizen-
state. While the issue itself presents us with a worthwhile starting point for
further studies in the field, Archaic and Classical Crete offers a wealth of evid-
ence for its exploration.
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chapter 8
Inside and Outside the Community: The Role of

Political Thinking in the ‘Rise of the polis’
Tanja Itgenshorst
This paper seeks to contribute to discussions concerning the role of political

thought in Archaic Greece, while offering an analysis of the factors that con-
tributed to the birth and to the evolution of the city-state in this period. Along
with factors such as: urbanisation, legislation, integration of the countryside,
codes of behaviour, and especially the habitus (P. Bourdieu) of the elite marked
by prestige and competition, the impact of the reasoning of the community
and its specific social, political, and economic challenges is not easy to define.
As this article will show, we cannot even be sure that reflection on communal
affairs, in other words political thinking, has contributed in a decisive way to
the ‘rise of the polis’. This may appear contradictory, since the rich evidence
on Archaic political thought seems to coincide with the attested development
of the communities themselves; however, this paper seeks to make clear why
a direct link between these two phenomena seldom occurred in the Archaic
reality.
Following a first part with an introduction into the specific methodological
approach and some thoughts about terminology, this paper goes on to explore
the main characteristics of political thought during this period of Greek history.
The third part is concerned with the role of political thinking in ‘the making of
the polis’, by considering whether individual thinkers played an active role in
construing the political community of the polis.
1 Methodology and Terminology
The analysis of political thought in Archaic Greece has long been dominated by
two paradigms: the first one is focused on the history of the mind, illustrated,
for example, by Bruno Snell’s study on the ‘discovery of the mind’ (Die Entdeck-
ung des Geistes), first published in 1946,1 or Christian Meier’s idea of a political
1 Snell 1946.

204 itgenshorst
‘thinking’ (Denken), located somewhere between Delphi and other ‘hot spots’
of an ‘intellectual consciousness’ in Archaic Greece.2 Both authors’ approach
is mainly dominated by a concept close to Hegel’s ‘world mind’ (Weltgeist),
nourishing the ideal-type of ‘a thinking’ which transcends the individual case.3
The second paradigm can be characterised by a teleology within the micro-
cosm of political thought itself, which is supposed to have emerged out of a
period dominated by ‘myth’, making its way to a vision reigned by ‘reason’: ‘vom
Mythos zum Logos’, as Wilhelm Nestle wrote in 1940.4 As a matter of fact, this
view remains at the root of many studies up to the late twentieth century, in
which, by the way, a parallel is often constructed with the evolution from poetry
to prose, interpreting this evolution as a process towards ‘politicisation’ of the
respective discourses.5
The present contribution consciously avoids this double paradigm, and sug-
gests another perspective, less biased by anachronistic categories, by using a
concept centred on the individual political thinker as author in his individual
‘life world’ (E. Husserl). In this approach, we are focused on individuals, men
and (a few) women, who each can be situated in particular circumstances and
who each reacted to specific situations with certain proposals.6
Concerning this point, one might raise the objection that the subjectivity
of each author, as it is expressed through literature, could be considered as
merely fictitious, thus largely narrowing the ‘communal’ (and thereby polit-
ical) content of the literary evidence. As the studies of Bruno Gentili and
Wolfgang Rösler in the 1980s have shown, however, Archaic poetry has always
been perceived in the context of an oral performance, in front of, and in inter-
action with, a public physically present during the recitation, often accompan-
ied by a musical performance.7 Thus, it seems feasible to interpret the sub-
jectivity expressed in the preserved texts, as expression of the author’s own
subjectivity—even if the author himself may have played with subjectivity as
a means of poetical expression.8
2 Meier 1980 passim and 70ff. Later on, Meier has differentiated his view on Archaic thinkers:
Meier 2009.
3 Cf. also Itgenshorst 2019: 17 ff.
4 Nestle 1940: v.
5 Cf. Itgenshorst 2014: 17ff. as well as Itgenshorst 2019 for examples of this paradigm in French
scholarship.
6 Cf. already Itgenshorst 2010: 209–229; Itgenshorst 2014: 48ff.
7 Gentili 1984; Rösler 1980. Cf. now Neumann-Hartmann 2020 for a close look at the Panhellenic
contests in Archaic Greece.
8 Budelmann 2009: 1–18; esp. 16 f. Cf. for another concept of the author’s persona only Nagy
1996; Lattmann 2012; this topic is more extensively discussed in Itgenshorst 2019.
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inside and outside the community 205
Beside proposing this new methodological approach, this paper further also
seeks to revise the heuristic basis of our investigation. In contrast to previ-
ous studies that were limited to a small selection of rather well preserved
authors (e.g. Solon, Theognis, Archilochus, Tyrtaeus, or Hesiod), I have decided
to widen the angle to all of the available literary evidence of authors whose
work is, albeit often fragmentary, preserved: hence, some 60 authors can be
identified in the Archaic Greek world, whose works contain elements of com-
munal interest: poets for the most part, some also known as philosophers. Addi-
tionally, testimonies concerning these authors have been taken into account,
but only where they give us insight into the interaction between an author and
the community in question, be it his own, or another community. This author-
centred perspective suggests that we shift terminology from ‘political thought’
to ‘political thinking’, by replacing a generalised, ideal-typed perspective with
a more comprehensive approach which considers the multitude of evidence
on the individual and unique relations between thinkers and communities,
throughout Archaic Greece.
Before taking a closer look at the literary evidence, in order to present the
main features of Archaic political thinking it seems prudent to reflect briefly
on terminology: what is meant by ‘politics’, or rather ‘the political’, and ‘polit-
ical thinking’, in particular? ‘The political’ is here considered a space (in its
social and figurative dimensions) in which interests, issues, or questions, tran-
scending the individual interests of the members of a community, are men-
tioned and/or reflected upon, or become the subject of negotiation.9 This does
not necessarily imply an interest, activity, or engagement of this same com-
munity as a whole; this engagement may be articulated by individuals or a sub-
division within the community. By the way, this—very informal—definition
does not presuppose the existence of a polis in the traditional sense of this
term;10 while it does imply that a community exists beforehand, this ‘com-
munity’ does not require any further state of development (institutional or
otherwise).
Consequently, ‘political thinking’ is concerned with reflection on this space
of ‘the political’, in other words an interest (albeit very informal) in the matters
of the community, presupposing a certain awareness of the condition (well-
being or suffering) of this space of ‘the political’. As we will see, the individual
authors and thinkers often identified the condition of this political space as
deficient, and, beside their diagnoses, they sometimes offered proposals to
9 Cf. already Hammer 2009; Azoulay 2014 passim.

10 Cf. Hansen 2006.
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206 itgenshorst
change this deficient situation. Such proposals did not always exhibit a ‘polit-
ical’ quality in the modern sense of the term—thus, they do not necessarily aim
at political institutions and procedures, in a traditional way; very often, they
are instead concerned with rules concerning social interaction in daily life—
which constitute a rather elementary level of the political dimension of social
interaction in this very community.
2 Political Thinking and Political Thinkers: Predominant

Characteristics
The first eye-catching characteristic in the Archaic evidence is the dominant

role of poetry: political thinking was communicated mostly through verse.11 This
is not particularly remarkable, if one bears in mind that, during this period,
poetry was predominant in every form of social communication. Furthermore,
the authors were aware of their specific capabilities as poets, as the following
examples show. The author of the corpus Theognideum addresses himself to a
friend named Cyrnus; at the beginning of his work, he emphasises the role of
poetry, guaranteeing the wide-ranging distribution of his poem, which implied
the dissemination of the publicity of its author all over the Greek world.12 Fur-
thermore, the medium of poetry was even capable of transcending death—not
only the death of the author, but even the death of the persons ‘living’ within,
and through, the poem, as the following passage addressed to Cyrnus illus-
trates:
For my part, I have made you wings on which to fly across the endless sea
and all the earth with ease: you’ll be at every dinner, every feast, and many
a man will have you on his lips (…). And when, down in the earth’s dark
nooks, you go to Hades’ house of wailing grief, not even then in death will
your fame fade, but men will always cherish your immortal name, Cyrnus,
11 There are in fact very few exceptions: Heraclitus is the one so far best attested, cf. in general
Itgenshorst 2014: 110 ff.
12 Thgn. 19–23: Κύρνε, σοφιζομένωι μὲν ἐμοὶ σφρηγὶς ἐπικείσθω | τοῖσδ’ ἔπεσιν, λήσει δ’ οὔποτε κλε-
πτόμενα, | οὐδέ τις ἀλλάξει κάκιον τοὐσθλοῦ παρεόντος· | ὧδε δὲ πᾶς τις ἐρεῖ· ‘Θεύγνιδός ἐστιν
ἔπη | τοῦ Μεγαρέως· πάντας δὲ κατ’ ἀνθρώπους ὀνομαστός.’ When I make verses, Cyrnus, have
them locked away—though if they’re stolen, it will always show; no one will choose the
bad where better is to hand, and all will say, ‘This is Theognis’ verse, from Megara’: my
name is famous everywhere […] (trans. West).
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as you roam over all the land of Greece and all the islands of the teeming
sea (…). Future men likewise, all who have an interest, will sing of you,
while earth and sun exist.13
In this context, it is interesting to see that this important role of poetry is also
stressed by authors whom we know as political actors or political thinkers—
such as, Solon. This Athenian citizen of the sixth century, well known to us from
several sources, refers to the Muses from whom he has received the faculty of
poetry, as the following passage shows:
Bright daughters of Olympian Zeus and Memory, Pierian Muses, hearken

to my prayer. Grant me that I have fortune from the blessed gods, and good
repute from all men all the time; may I be honey to my friends, gall to my
foes, honoured on sight or feared respectively (…).14
Other authors allude to their skills as poets as a form of wisdom (sophia). This
is especially the case with Pindar, as the following fragment illustrates:
But the Muse has chosen me to be the messenger of wise sayings.15
The link between the Muses and sophia (wisdom) had already been sugges-
ted by Hesiod, the earliest Greek author whom we can identify as an individu-
13 Thgn. 237–252: Σοὶ μὲν ἐγὼ πτέρ’ ἔδωκα, σὺν οἷσ’ ἐπ’ ἀπείρονα πόντον | πωτήσηι, κατὰ γῆν
πᾶσαν ἀειρόμενος | ῥηϊδίως· θοίνηις δὲ καὶ εἰλαπίνηισι παρέσσηι | ἐν πάσαις πολλῶν κείμενος ἐν
στόμασιν […]| […]. καὶ ὅταν δνοφερῆς ὑπὸ κεύθεσι γαίης | βῆις πολυκωκύτους εἰς Ἀίδαο δόμους,
| οὐδέποτ’ οὐδὲ θανὼν ἀπολεῖς κλέος, ἀλλὰ μελήσεις | ἄφθιτον ἀνθρώποισ’ αἰὲν ἔχων ὄνομα, |
Κύρνε, καθ’ Ἑλλάδα γῆν στρωφώμενος, ἠδ’ ἀνὰ νήσους | ἰχθυόεντα περῶν πόντον ἐπ’ ἀτρύγετον, |
(…).| πᾶσι δ’, ὅσοισι μέμηλε, καὶ ἐσσομένοισιν ἀοιδή| ἔσσηι ὁμῶς, ὄφρ’ ἂν γῆ τε καὶ ἠέλιος. (trans.
West).
14 Solon fr. 13 West 1–6: Μνημοσύνης καὶ Ζηνὸς Ὀλυμπίου ἀγλαὰ τέκνα, | Μοῦσαι Πιερίδες, κλῦτέ
μοι εὐχομένωι· | ὄλβον μοι πρὸς θ⟨εῶ⟩ν μακάρων δότε, καὶ πρὸς ἁπάντων | ἀνθρώπων αἰεὶ δόξαν
ἔχειν ἀγαθήν·| εἶναι δὲ γλυκὺν ὧδε φίλοις, ἐχθροῖσι δὲ πικρόν, | τοῖσι μὲν αἰδοῖον, τοῖσι δὲ δει-
νὸν ἰδεῖν (trans. West). Cf. already Loraux, 1988: 95–129: esp. 108ff.; as well as Martin 2006:
157–172.
15 Pind. fr. 58 Werner 23 f.: ⟨…⟩ ἐμὲ δ’ ἐξαίρετο[ν] | κάρυκα σοφῶν ἐπέων | Μοῖσ’ ἀνέστασ’ Ἑλλάδι
κα[λ]λ[ιχόρῳ] ⟨…⟩ (trans. Itgenshorst). Cf. also Pyth. 4.247–249: μακρά μοι νεῖσθαι κατ’ ἀμα-
ξιτόν: ὥρα γὰρ συνάπτει: | καί τινα | οἶμον ἴσαμι βραχύν: πολλοῖσι δ’ ἅγημαι σοφίας | ἑτέροις. It is
long for me to return to the beaten track; for time is closing in; and I know a certain short
path, and am to many others a guide of art. (trans. Turner). See, on the concept of sophos
and sophia in Pindar, also Semenzato 2013: 43–62: esp. 46f.; 56f. Indeed the author is con-
cerned with a rather general perspective on this concept, not with Pindar’s subjective view
of community. Cf. in general also Graziosi 2001; Itgenshorst 2020.
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208 itgenshorst
al.16 In his Theogony, the Muses appear as those divine forces that grant the
competence of the basileis (‘kings’) to speak before the community. Even if
Hesiod does not make a direct allusion to poetry, the allusion to the Muses
clearly suggests that poetry is here implied as well:
Whomever among Zeus-nourished kings the daughters of great Zeus

honor and behold when he is born, they pour sweet dew upon his tongue,
and his words flow soothingly from his mouth. All the populace look to
him as he decides disputes with straight judgements; and speaking pub-
licly without erring, he quickly ends even a great quarrel by his skill. For
this is why kings are wise, because when the populace is being harmed in
the assembly they easily manage to turn the deeds around, effecting per-
suasion with mild words; and as he goes up to the gathering they seek his
favour like a god with soothing reverence, and he is conspicuous among
the assembled people.17
This passage establishes a link between the role of the Muses and the polit-
ical sphere, which is symbolised by the setting of the scene: the kings speak
before the community, apparently assembled in a judicial context, which no
doubt can be considered as one of the fundamental expressions of statehood
in the Archaic period.18 In sum, the use of poetry strengthens the authority of
the authors, which made their political message more accessible. This medium,
thus, opened up certain forums, especially on a Panhellenic scale, to make
accessible certain ideas before an even larger public—I shall return to this last
observation in the third part of this paper.
Concerning the content of political reflection itself, the degree of ‘politi-
cisation’ expressed in the Archaic literary evidence, may seem rather modest
compared to our contemporary expectations concerning political reflection; a
closer look, however, reveals a rather complex vision of communal affairs.
16 Homer has not been taken into account in this part of the inquiry since he did not leave
his individual mark within his epic. Cf. albeit Ulf 2012: 471–482.
17 Hes. Theog. 81–92: ὅντινα τιμήσουσι Διὸς κοῦραι μεγάλοιο | γεινόμενόν τε ἴδωσι διοτρεφέων βασι-
λήων, | τῷ μὲν ἐπὶ γλώσσῃ γλυκερὴν χείουσιν ἐέρσην, | τοῦ δ’ ἔπε’ ἐκ στόματος ῥεῖ μείλιχα· οἱ δέ
νυ λαοὶ | πάντες ἐς αὐτὸν ὁρῶσι διακρίνοντα θέμιστας | ἰθείῃσι δίκῃσιν· ὁ δ’ ἀσφαλέως ἀγορεύων
| αἶψά τι καὶ μέγα νεῖκος ἐπισταμένως κατέπαυσε· | τούνεκα γὰρ βασιλῆες ἐχέφρονες, οὕνεκα
λαοῖς | βλαπτομένοις ἀγορῆφι μετάτροπα ἔργα τελεῦσι | ῥηιδίως, μαλακοῖσι παραιφάμενοι ἐπέ-
εσσιν· | ἐρχόμενον δ’ ἀν’ ἀγῶνα θεὸν ὣς ἱλάσκονται | αἰδοῖ μειλιχίῃ, μετὰ δὲ πρέπει ἀγρομένοισι
(trans. Most).
18 Cf. already Raaflaub 1993: 41–105; 69 ff.; forthcoming: Christoph Lundgreen’s habilitation
on ‘Dimensions of Staatlichkeit in the Early Greek World’ (defensio at TU Dresden 2019).
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First of all, we meet with a vivid interest in the community and its condi-
tion—an interest which, obviously, meets with a first and elementary criterion
of political thinking and could thus be considered as rather trivial.19 It is,
however, instructive to take a look at the various forms this interest takes.
The following fragment from an anonymous author, for example, expresses his
empathy for his community. However, the community is not conceptualized as
a polis, but as the home country (patris) of the author:
I shall look upon my country in its dreadful suffering.20
The following poem by Theognis provides a vivid example and detailed dia-
gnosis of the general condition of a community (polis) in crisis, in this case
Megara:
Cyrnus, this town’s in labour—and I fear it may bring one to birth who’ll
right our wicked ways. The citizens (politai) here still keep their heads;
their leaders, though, are heading for a catastrophic fall. No town was ever
yet destroyed by men of worth, but when the rogues embrace unright-
eousness, corrupt the people, and uphold dishonest claims for sake of
private gain and influence, do not expect that city to stay quiet long,
even if now it lies in utter calm, when things like that are chosen by dis-
honest men—gain that comes hand in hand with public ill. It leads to
civil strife, bloodshed within the clan, dictators. May we never opt for
that.21
Whereas the position of Theognis vis-à-vis his community appears to be rather

unclear (other passages of his work indicate clearly that the author wrote
19 As it has been stated before, this community could be the home polis of the thinker or
another community which had invited him to sojourn there or where he took refuge in a
situation of exile, for example. Cf. already Hölkeskamp 1990, on the status of thinkers as
arbitrators and lawgivers in Archaic Greece.
20 Fr. 505 (c) PMG (ibid. attributed to Anacreon) = fr. 1 Sappho or Alcaeus (Campbell): αἰνο-
πάθην πάτριδ’ ἐπόψομαι (trans. Campbell).
21 Thgn. 39–52: Κύρνε, κύει πόλις ἥδε, δέδοικα δὲ μὴ τέκηι ἄνδρα | εὐθυντῆρα κακῆς ὕβριος ἡμετέ-
ρης. | ἀστοὶ μὲν γὰρ ἔθ’ οἵδε σαόφρονες, ἡγεμόνες δέ | τετράφαται πολλὴν εἰς κακότητα πεσεῖν. |
οὐδεμίαν πω, Κύρν’, ἀγαθοὶ πόλιν ὤλεσαν ἄνδρες, | ἀλλ’ ὅταν ὑβρίζειν τοῖσι κακοῖσιν ἅδηι | δῆμόν
τε φθείρουσι δίκας τ’ ἀδίκοισι διδοῦσιν | οἰκείων κερδέων εἵνεκα καὶ κράτεος· | ἔλπεο μὴ δηρὸν κεί-
νην πόλιν ἀτρεμέ’ ἧσθαι, | μηδ’ εἰ νῦν κεῖται πολλῆι ἐν ἡσυχίηι, | εὖτ’ ἂν τοῖσι κακοῖσι φίλ’ ἀνδράσι
ταῦτα γένηται, | κέρδεα δημοσίωι σὺν κακῶι ἐρχόμενα. | ἐκ τῶν γὰρ στάσιές τε καὶ ἔμφυλοι φόνοι
ἀνδρῶν· | μούναρχοι δὲ πόλει μήποτε τῆιδε ἅδοι (trans. West).
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210 itgenshorst
his poem as an exile, expelled from his home polis), the following fragment
from Alcaeus indicates that the author was part of the community—at least
he exhibits an individualised perspective, using the first person plural, while
pleading in favour of the settlement of dispute:
(…) and let us relax from the heart-eating strife and civil warring, which
one of the Olympians has aroused among us, leading the people to ruin
(…).22
Stesichorus provides another example of this. In the following fragment, he

appears as an advisor standing outside the community—whereas we know
from other sources that this poet addresses himself also to the citizens of his
own polis, Himera:23
You too (…) must take care (…), lest in your eagerness for revenge on your
enemies you find yourselves in the same plight as the horse: by choosing
a general with absolute power (strategos autokrator) you already wear the
bridle, and if you give him a bodyguard and so allow him to mount you,
you will at once be the slaves of Phalaris.24
In the following anonymous poem, sometimes referred to as a drinking song

(skolion), the author invokes the gods to protect a city:
Aisa, Clotho and Lachesis, fair-armed daughters of Night, hear our pray-
ers, you all-terrible deities of heaven and the lower world: send us rose-
bosomed Eunomia and her bright-throned sisters Justice and garland-
wearing Peace, and make this city forget its heavy-hearted misfortunes.25
22 Alc. fr. 70 LP: χαλάσσομεν δὲ τὰς θυμοβόρω λύας | ἐμφύλω τε μάχας, τάν τις Ὀλυμπίων | ἔνωρσε,
δᾶμον μὲν εἰς ἀυάταν ἄγων (trans. adapted from Campbell).
23 Cf. Stesich. fr. 270 PMG = Himer. Or. 27,27.
24 Stesich. fr. 16 PMG: οὕτω δὲ καὶ ὑμεῖς, ἔφη, ὁρᾶτε μὴ βουλόμενοι τοὺς πολεμίους τιμωρήσασθαι
τὸ αὐτὸ πάθητε τῷ ἵππῳ· τὸν μὲν γὰρ χαλινὸν ἔχετε ἤδη, ἑλόμενοι στρατηγὸν αὐτοκράτορα· ἑὰν
δὲ φυλακὴν δῶτε καὶ ἀναβῆναι ἐάσητε, δουλεύσετε ἤδη Φαλάριδι (trans. Campbell). See also
Arist. Rhet. 1393b10–22. Doubts have been raised concerning the reliability of this episode,
cf. Berve, 1967: 130. According to Hdt. 7.165, the city was later ruled by tyrants; cf. Hansen
and Nielsen 2004: 199.
25 Fr. 1018 (b) PMG: Αἶσα ⟨καὶ⟩ Κλωθὼ Λάχεσίς τ’, εὐώλενοι | κοῦραι Νυκτός, | εὐχομένων ἐπα-
κούσατ’ οὐράνιαι χθόνιαί τε δαίμονες· ὦ πανδείμαντοι, | πέμπετ’ ἄμμιν ῥοδόκολπον | Εὐνομίαν,
λιπαροθρόνους τ’ ἀδελφάς, | Δίκαν καὶ στεφανηφόρον Εἰράναν· | πόλιν τε τάνδε βαρυφρόνων |
λελάθοιτε συντυχιᾶν (trans. Campbell). Cf. also fr. 885 PMG: I sing of the mother of Wealth,
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This anonymous text, as well as several others cited here, illustrates that
interest in the condition of a community often seems to have been stimulated
by a crisis. In appealing to deified personifications, the (anonymous) author
shows that he is well aware of the prerequisites for a prospering community,
and recalls the essential values for producing a coherent and harmonious com-
munity, namely good laws, justice, and peace. Another such example, albeit
very fragmentary, is attributed to Archilochus:
O most desolate fellow citizens, understand these words of mine.26
On the other hand, this manifold interest in the community is counterbal-

anced in many cases by some form of detachment from it. Sometimes, the
authors dissociate themselves from the body of citizens as a whole; sometimes
they express clear contempt, in particular, towards the ‘lower classes’. Hesiod
is an example of the former, advising his brother to keep distance from the
community, especially from the disputes and the exchange of words on the
agora:
Perses, do store this up in your spirit, lest gloating Strife keep your spirit
away from work, while you gawk at quarrels and listen to the assembly.
For he has little care for quarrels and assemblies, whoever does not have
plentiful means of life stored up indoors in good season, what the earth
bears, Demeter’s grain.27
Olympian Demeter, in the garland-wearing season, and of you, Persephone, child of Zeus:
greetings, both! Tend this city well (trans. Campbell).
26 Archil. fr. 109 West: ⟨ὦ⟩ λιπερνῆτες πολῖται, τἀμὰ δὴ συνίετε | ῥήματα (trans. after Edmonds).
Unfortunately, we can’t reconstruct the context of this fragment. See for the complex
context of reception and transmission of this fragment West 1971/1992 ad loc. Cf. also
a saying attributed to Phocylides fr. 4 GP: Καὶ τόδε Φωκυλίδου· πόλις ἐν σκοπέλωι κατὰ
κόσμον | οἰκεῦσα σμικρὴ κρέσσων Νίνου ἀφραινούσης. A little state living orderly in a high
place is stronger than a blockheaded Nineveh (trans. Edmonds). Cf. also Itgenshorst 2014:
88.
27 Hes. Op. 27–32: Ὦ Πέρση, σὺ δὲ ταῦτα τεῷ ἐνικάτθεο θυμῷ, | μηδέ σ’ Ἔρις κακόχαρτος ἀπ’ ἔργου
θυμὸν ἐρύκοι | νείκε’ ὀπιπεύοντ’ ἀγορῆς ἐπακουὸν ἐόντα. | ὤρη γάρ τ’ ὀλίγη πέλεται νεικέων τ’
ἀγορέων τε | ᾧτινι μὴ βίος ἔνδον ἐπηετανὸς κατάκειται | ὡραῖος, τὸν γαῖα φέρει, Δημήτερος ἀκτήν
(trans. Most), cf. also Op. 492–501. Furthermore, one of the sayings of Phocylides fr. 5 GP
expresses a similar attitude; for him it is more important to take into account the opin-
ion of a personal companion (hetairos) than the respect of the other citizens: Καὶ τόδε
Φωκυλίδεω· χρή τοι τὸν ἑταῖρον ἑταίρωι | φροντίζειν, ἅσσ’ ἂν περιγογγύζωσι πολῖται. Thus also
spoke Phocylides—Comrade should consider with comrade what their fellow-townsmen
mutter in their ears (trans. Edmonds).
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212 itgenshorst
Similarly, some detachment from the civic community is expressed by Mim-

nermus, who calls his fellow citizens stone-hearted (δυσηλεγέων),28 and by Pin-
dar who qualifies them as vituperating (κακολόγοι).29 Xenophanes criticises his
fellow citizens for the way they dress, and for their practice of paying homage to
the winners at the Olympic festivals, instead of appreciating the philosopher’s
wisdom, which, in his opinion, was much more beneficial for the well-being
of the community.30 Solon is a very ambivalent figure in this respect. Despite
being presented by Aristotle in the fourth century as the founder of democracy,
at least one extant fragment shows him as a rather authoritarian character who,
in opposition to others, was able to control the demos:
But if another man had got the goad, someone imprudent or acquisitive,
he’d not have checked the mob (demos).31
The best-known example of a thinker contemptuous of his own community

is, however, Heraclitus. He criticizes his fellow citizens of Ephesus as being
‘masses that glut themselves like cattle’;32 elsewhere he calls them rascals
(kakistoi).33 In his depreciative attitude, Heraclitus does not distinguish be-
tween the elite and the lower classes—with one exception: a certain Her-
modorus, considered by the thinker as the only one capable of ruling the
28 Mimn. fr. 7 West: σὴν αὐτοῦ φρένα τέρπε· δυσηλεγέων δὲ πολιτ⟨έω⟩ν | ἄλλός τίς σε κακῶς, ἄλλος
ἄμεινον ἐρεῖ. Enjoy yourself. As for the wretched townsfolk, some will speak ill of you—but
only some (trans. West).
29 Pind. Pyth. 11.25–30: (…) τὸ δὲ νέαις ἀλόχοις | ἔχθιστον ἀμπλάκιον καλύψαι τ’ ἀμάχανον | ἀλλο-
τρίαισι γλώσσαις: | κακολόγοι δὲ πολῖται. | ἴσχει τε γὰρ ὄλβος οὐ μείονα φθόνον: | ὁ δὲ χαμηλὰ
πνέων ἄφαντον βρέμει. This is the most hateful error for young brides, and is impossible
to conceal because other people will talk. Citizens are apt to speak evil, for prosper-
ity brings with it envy as great as itself. But the man who breathes close to the ground
roars unseen. (trans. Svarlien); cf. also Pind. Pyth. 10.71ff. Sometimes such an opinion
has a clearly political connotation; cf. for example Pythagoras fr. 38 Gemelli = DK 58
D 3.
30 DK 21 B 3 = Xenophanes fr. 3 West = fr. 5 Gemelli; DK 21 B 2 = Xenophanes fr. 2 West = fr. 6
Gemelli. For a political interpretation of DK 21 B 3 see Duplouy 2013: 146–166.
31 Solon fr. 36 West 20–22: (…) κέντρον δ’ ἄλλος ὡς ἐγὼ λαβών, | κακοφραδής τε καὶ φιλοκτήμων
ἀνήρ, | οὐκ ἂν κατέσχε δῆμον· (trans. West); see also fr. 6; 9; 11; 37 West. Cf. in this context
already Irwin 2006: 36–78.
32 DK 22 B 29 = Heraclitus fr. 73 Gemelli: αἱρεῦνται γὰρ ἓν ἀντὶ ἁπάντων οἱ ἄριστοι, κλέος ἀέναον
θνητῶν· οἱ δὲ πολλοὶ κεκόρηνται ὅκωσπερ κτήνεα. The best men choose one thing in prefer-
ence to all else, immortal glory in preference to mortal good, whereas the masses simply
glut themselves like cattle (trans. Harris).
33 Fr. 1 Gemelli = DK 22 A 1—vide infra note 61.
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city, whose expulsion from the community is fiercely criticised.34 We shall

return to the example of Heraclitus, later.
The detached position of many thinkers from their contemporaries—be it
the members of their own polis or those of another community—shows clear
analogies with the habitus of the members of the social elite in Archaic Greece:
like them, the poets and philosophers attest to an agonistic attitude that under-
mined cooperative virtues; each thinker claimed to be the best of his kind.35
However, although the Archaic thinkers appear as members of the elite, they
lack one characteristic that can be found in many Archaic aristocrats, namely
the ambition to become a tyrant. This observation contrasts with the hypo-
thesis of the ‘despotic’ or tyrannical character of the political thinkers, put
forward already by Jacob Burckhardt (and re-iterated more recently by Eliza-
beth Irwin and Robert Wallace), in stating that the Archaic thinkers had a
lot in common with the Archaic tyrants.36 As the following evidence shows,
however, some authors already disapproved of tyranny in general. In a frag-
ment of Archilochus, for example, the author says:
I care not for the wealth of golden Gyges, nor ever have envied him; I am
not jealous of the works of Gods, and I have no desire for lofty despotism
(tyrannis); for such things are far beyond my ken.37
A passage from an epinikion from Pindar shows a similar attitude:
God grant me to desire things honourable, seeking things possible in my

life’s prime. The middle course I find to prosper most enduringly in the
commonwealth (polis), and a state of tyranny I condemn.38
Beside these rather general statements, we know of at least two cases when
a poet/thinker claims to have actually refused to seize the chance to become
tyrant. The first example, the Athenian Solon, is rather well-known:
34 Fr. 72 Gemelli = DK 22 B 121.

35 On the concept of the agon developed by Jacob Burckhardt, cf. Meister and Seelentag
2020.
36 Burckhardt 2002: 148; Irwin 2004 and Irwin 2005; Wallace 2009; cf. the remarks below
concerning Solon.
37 Archil. fr. 19 West: οὔ μοι τὰ Γύγ⟨εω⟩ τοῦ πολυχρύσου μέλει, | οὐδ’ εἷλέ πώ με ζῆλος, οὐδ’ ἀγαί-
ομαι | θ⟨εῶ⟩ν ἔργα, μεγάλης δ’ οὐκ ἐρ⟨έω⟩ τυραννίδος· | ἀπόπροθεν γάρ ἐστιν ὀφθαλμῶν ἐμῶν
(trans. Edmonds). Cf. the considerations concerning the relationship between a poet and
the other members of the elite in Rougier-Blanc 2008: 15–31: esp. 24ff.
38 Pind. Pyth. 11.51–54: θεόθεν ἐραίμαν καλῶν, | δυνατὰ μαιόμενος ἐν ἁλικίᾳ. | τῶν γὰρ ἂμ πόλιν
εὑρίσκων τὰ μέσα μακροτέρῳ | ὄλβῳ τεθαλότα, μέμφομ’ αἶσαν τυραννίδων (…) (trans. Myers).
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214 itgenshorst
If I have spared my country, if I’ve not disgraced my name by grasping

brute force and dictatorship (tyrannis), I’m not ashamed: this way I think
I’ll win more people over.39
The other case is more difficult to judge, because the sources concerning this
poet are scanty. The Greek grammarian Diogenianus explained the proverb
‘More antiquated than Ibycus’ as being ‘used of stupid people. For Ibycus could
have ruled as tyrant but went abroad to Ionia’.40 Even though the circumstances
remain completely unclear, the fact that Ibycus, whose life is dated to the sixth
century, and whose work is almost entirely lost, refused to become tyrant,
seems to be beyond doubt.41
In sum, a close analysis of the totality of texts preserved from the Archaic
period does not allow us to identify one single man (be he poet or political
thinker), who wished, or actually accepted, to rule as a tyrant over his own or
another community. It goes without saying that the later doxographic tradition
provides us with such examples, first of all in the context of the Seven Sages
(e.g. Periander of Corinth). This tradition, however, was not canonised before
the fourth century, and one can cast doubt on these literary figures as repres-
entations of a socio-political reality of the Archaic period, also because we have
no authentic fragments preserved which can give insight into the opinions of
most of these men themselves.42
Up to now, our brief review has brought to light several characteristics of
political thinking that can be found all over Greece: the dominant role of the
39 Solon fr. 32 West: εἰ δὲ γῆς (φησιν) ἐφεισάμην | πατρίδος, τυραννίδος δὲ καὶ βίης ἀμειλίχου | οὐ
καθηψάμην μιάνας καὶ καταισχύνας κλέος, | οὐδὲν αἰδ⟨έο⟩μαι· πλέον γὰρ ὧδε νικήσειν δοκ⟨έω⟩
| πάντας ἀνθρώπους (trans. West). This view contrasts with Elizabeth Irwin’s interpretation
who ascribes certain ‘tyrannical’ qualities and ambitions to Solon: Irwin 2005: 205–261
(cf. Irwin 2004 for the idea that later traditions had concealed this dimension of Solon’s
poetry). Whereas Irwin stresses the strength (and ambiguity) of ‘tyrannical discourse’ in
Solonian poetry, the position defended here is based on the observation that every Archaic
thinker presented his own ideas as being the best and most convincing, in a clearly agon-
istic attitude: asserting the excellence of one’s ideas does not necessarily imply claiming
tyranny on the political field.
40 Diogenian 2.71 = Ibycus Test. 4 Campbell: ἀρχαιότερος Ἰβύκου· ἐπὶ τῶν εὐηθῶν. οὗτος γὰρ
τυραννεῖν δυνάμενος ἀπεδήμησεν ⟨εἰς Ἰωνίαν⟩ (trans. Campbell). According to Suida this
poet was a citizen of Rhegium in Magna Graecia and later emigrated to Samos which was
then ruled by the father of Polycrates and which could correspond roughly to ‘Ionia’, the
destination of Ibycus’ emigration.
41 Cf. Itgenshorst 2014: 121 ff.
42 The fourth century was decisive for the formation of several paradigms concerning the
Archaic thinkers, such as the Seven Sages as a canonical concept, cf. Itgenshorst 2020.
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poetry, an interest in the community and its condition, even a certain dis-
tance from the community (in particular vis-à-vis the lower social classes),
and, finally, the absence of tyrannical aspirations. This rather uniform scen-
ario seems surprising, given that our aim has not been to sketch a Panhellenic,
idealised scenario, as Bruno Snell and Christian Meier, whose perspectives were
criticised at the beginning of this paper, have done. How, then, can we explain
this nevertheless homogenous vision?
We might suggest that the presence of the same features of political think-
ing all over Greece can be ascribed, first of all, to the interaction between
the thinkers spread over Greece, an exchange that was close and intense. As
a matter of fact, in their reflection, the thinkers competed concomitantly with
their contemporaries, and even with the ‘colleagues’ preceding them. The lat-
ter phenomenon has already been observed by the ancient doxographers, e.g.
concerning the philosophical opinions attributed to the Ionic philosophers
from Thales down to, say, Xenophanes.43 The former, however, is more difficult
to retrace within the preserved literary evidence, where thinkers—poets and
philosophers—allude directly to works of other authors. However, it is likely
that this scattered evidence only constitutes the tip of the iceberg, since in real-
ity this form of contemporary intellectual competition flourished, for example,
in the context of the Panhellenic musical agones as well as at occasions such
as banquets, the celebration of a victory, or funeral games organised by mem-
bers of the elite or local tyrants.44 Pindar’s and Bacchylides’ victory odes are
examples for the former,45 Hesiod is an interesting example of a poet having
won at the funeral games of a local aristocrat, an occasion for which one can
also imagine a rather Panhellenic setting:
43 Cf. only Kirk, Raven, and Schofield 1957.

44 Cf. already Richardson 1992 as well as the volume of Meister and Seelentag 2020. The
omnipresence of an agonistic attitude in Archaic Greece has been much discussed, cf.
for example Burckhardt 1999; Weiler 2006; Ulf 2011.
45 Especially in Pindar the political content is often conspicuous, cf. e.g. Pind. Ol. 13.1–8:
Τισολυμπιονίκαν | ἐπαινέων οἶκον ἅμερον ἀστοῖς, | ξένοισι δὲ θεράποντα, γνώσομαι | τὰν ὀλβίαν
Κόρινθον, Ἰσθμίου | πρόθυρον Ποτειδᾶνος, ἀγλαόκουρον. | ἐν τᾷ γὰρ Εὐνομία ναίει, κασίγνηταί τε,
βάθρον | πολίων ἀσφαλές, | Δίκα καὶ ὁμότροφος Εἰρήνα, ταμίαι ἀνδράσι πλούτου, | χρύσεαι παῖ-
δες εὐβούλου Θέμιτος: | ἐθέλοντι δ’ ἀλέξειν | Ὕβριν, Κόρου ματέρα θρασύμυθον. While I praise a
house that has been three times victorious at Olympia, gentle to her own citizens, and hos-
pitable to strangers, I shall recognize prosperous Corinth, the portal of Isthmian Poseidon,
glorious in her young men. There dwell Eunomia and her sisters, the secure foundation of
cities: Dike, and Eirene, who was raised together with her, the guardians of wealth for
men, the golden daughters of wise Themis. They are resolute in repelling Hybris, the bold-
tongued mother of Koros (trans. Svarlien).
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216 itgenshorst
There I myself crossed over into Chalcis for the games of valorous Amphi-
damas—that great-hearted man’s sons had announced and established
many prizes—and there, I declare, I gained victory with a hymn, and car-
ried off a tripod with handles. This I dedicated to the Heliconian Muses,
where they first set me upon the path of clear-sounding song.46
It seems quite plausible that this musical victory of Hesiod was not a ‘merely’
poetic achievement, but that it implied an intellectual, maybe even a polit-
ical, dimension; we shall return to this hypothesis once more at the end of this
paper.
But beside the competitive mode of intellectual and literary production,
there are other factors explaining the homogeneity of the literary evidence, for
example the practical and physical mobility of many poets and philosophers.
The participation in musical contexts and other gatherings was just one reason
for being mobile; other motives included political exile (attested e.g. for Theog-
nis, Solon, Archilochus, Alcaeus) or, simply, curiosity as a character trait, as it is
attested for Xenophanes:
Already threescore years and seven have passed away, batting my care-
worn consciousness through Greece (…).47
This widespread mobility, as well as the competitive habitus, can be considered

fundamental incentives for what has been termed Peer Polity Interaction.
This model, which had been introduced by Renfrew and Cherry in the 1980s,
attempts to explain the simultaneousness of certain elements of statehood in
Archaic Greece and other ancient societies in a multipolar premodern world
of decentralised political structures.48 As a matter of fact, the analysis of the
conditions of political thinking presented here shows striking similarities with
this model, and thus corroborates its heuristic value, as will become clear when
we take a closer look at the relationship between thinkers and communities.
46 Hes. Op. 653–658: ἔνθα δ’ ἐγὼν ἐπ’ ἄεθλα δαΐφρονος Ἀμφιδάμαντος | Χαλκίδα τ’ εἲς ἐπέρησα·
τὰ δὲ προπεφραδμένα πολλὰ | ἄεθλ’ ἔθεσαν παῖδες μεγαλήτορος· ἔνθα μέ φημι | ὕμνῳ νικήσαντα
φέρειν τρίποδ’ ὠτώεντα. | τὸν μὲν ἐγὼ Μούσῃς Ἑλικωνιάδεσσ’ ἀνέθηκα, | ἔνθα με τὸ πρῶτον
λιγυρῆς ἐπέϐησαν ἀοιδῆς (trans. Most).
47 DK 21 B 8 = Xenophan. fr. 8 West: ἤδη δ’ ἑπτά τ’ ἔασι καὶ ἑξήκοντ’ ἐνιαυτοὶ | βληστρίζοντες ἐμὴν
φροντίδ’ ἀν’ Ἑλλάδα γῆν (…) (trans. West).
48 Renfrew and Cherry 1986. Cf. also Forsdyke 2011.
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3 The Political Thinkers and ‘the Making of the polis’
The literary evidence presented above places these authors as experts of the
political. They were aware of the importance of certain principles: wisdom and
justice, and being ruled by well-devised laws, for example. It would thus seem
evident that they participated in the communal life of the emerging polis, as
experts, even theorists of the political, thus playing an active role in construct-
ing the political community. Can this presupposition be confirmed?
As shown above, the relationship between the thinkers and the communit-
ies in the Archaic period is an essentially ambivalent one. While we have very
little evidence concerning the attitude of the communities towards the thinkers,
the stance of these men on communal life can be described as close and dis-
tant, as partaking and critical.
First of all, it seems important to stress that we know of some cases where
thinkers, poets for the most part, actually intervened in a situation of inner
conflict in a community. The earliest examples, albeit reported only by much
later testimonies, such as in Ps.-Plutarch, Aelianus, or the Suida, are difficult
to judge, but may nevertheless reflect social practices in Archaic Greece. All of
them refer to poets invited to Sparta, in this case Terpander from Lesbos, a poet
roughly datable in the seventh century:
When their (i.e. the Spartans’) city was in a state of unrest, they were told
by the oracle to send for the Lesbian singer; so sending for Terpander, who
was on exile from Antissa because of a murder, they listened to him at
their public dinners and were restored to calm.49
Other examples are less legendary, like the testimonies preserved about Simo-
nides and Stesichorus, two poets sojourning in Magna Graecia in the sixth
century:
49 Sud. M 701 = Terpander Test. 9 Campbell: Μετὰ Λέσβιον ᾠδόν: παροιμία λεγομένη ἐπὶ τῶν τὰ
δεύτερα φερομένων· οἱ γὰρ Λακεδαιμόνιοι τοὺς Λεσβίους κιθαρῳδοὺς πρώτους προσεκαλοῦντο·
ἀκαταστατούσης γὰρ τῆς πόλεως αὐτῶν χρησμὸς ἐγένετο τὸν Λέσβιον ᾠδὸν μεταπέμπεσθαι· οἱ δ’
ἐξ Ἀντίσσης Τέρπανδρον ἐφ’ αἵματι φεύγοντα μεταπεμψάμενοι ἤκουον αὐτοῦ ἐν τοῖς συσσιτίοις
καὶ κατεστάλησαν (trans. Campbell); cf. also Ael. VH 12.50; Thaletas Test. 4 Campbell = Ps.-
Plut. Mus. 42.1146b. Clem. Al. Strom. 1.16.78.5 relates that Terpander set the Spartan laws to
music: Terpander of Antissa was the first to supply melody for his poems, and he set the
laws of the Spartans to music (trans. Campbell).
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218 itgenshorst
Thero (…) made war against Hero at Gela, the Sicilian river (…). But no
harm resulted and the war came to nothing; for they say that Simonides
the lyric poet turned up and put an end to the kings’ enmity.50
About Stesichorus the story goes that when they (probably: the citizens) were
drawn up to do battle with each other he at once took up his position between
them and sang a song of exhortation, and reconciling them by his song restored
he peace.51
While, in the first example, Simonides appears to have resolved a conflict
between two local ‘kings’ (basileis) that are known to us by other sources as
tyrants, Stesichorus seems to have played a similar role in a conflict between
two groups, probably within the same body of citizens.52 The fragment gives
no hint of the community involved. It has been suggested that Stesichorus’ own
polis Himera was the setting for this intervention.53 Another example from the
Archaic period, this time in Asia minor, shows us a thinker playing the role of
a political advisor in foreign affairs, facing an imminent conflict with the Per-
sians:
He (i.e. Thales) seems also to have been a man of the greatest wisdom in
political matters. For when Croesus sent to the Milesians to invite them
to an alliance, he prevented them from agreeing to it, which step of his,
as Cyrus got the victory, proved the salvation of the city.54
50 Schol. Pind. Ol. 2.29d (i 68 f. Drachmann) = Simonides Test. 19 Campbell: καὶ οὕτω τὸν
Θήρωνα, ὑπεραγανακτήσαντα θυγατρὸς ἅμα καὶ γαμβροῦ, συρρῆξαι πρὸς Ἱέρωνα πόλεμον παρὰ
Γέλᾳ τῷ Σικελιωτικῷ ποταμῷ … μή γε μὴν εἰς βλάβην, μηδὲ εἰς τέλος προχωρῆσαι τὸν πόλεμον·
φασὶ γὰρ τότε Σιμωνίδην τὸν λυρικὸν περιτυχόντα διαλῦσαι τοῖς βασιλεῦσι τὴν ἔχθραν (trans.
Campbell). Cf. for the historical context of this conflict also Diod. 11.20.3ff., and Zahrnt
1993: 353–390.
51 Philodem. Mus. 1.30.31 ff. = Stesich. Test. 18 Campbell: καὶ περὶ Στησιχ[όρ]ου δ’ ἱστορεῖται
διότι τῶν [ἀστῶ]ν ἀν[τι]παρατεταγμὲνων [ἤδη] καταστὰς ἐν μέσοις [ἦισέ τι παρα]κλητικὸν καὶ
δια[λλάξ]α[ς] διὰ τοῦ μέλου[ς εἰς ἡσυχ]ίαν αὐτοὺς μετέσ[τησεν.
52 ἀστῶ]ν has been restituted by the editors, cf. Poetae Melici Graeci fr. 281c.
53 Itgenshorst 2014: 185 ff.
54 DK 11 A 1 = Thales fr. 4 Gemelli: Δοκεῖ δὲ καὶ ἐν τοῖς πολιτικοῖς ἄριστα βεβουλεῦσθαι. Κροίσου
γοῦν πέμψαντος πρὸς Μιλησίους ἐπὶ συμμαχίᾳ ἐκώλυσεν· ὅπερ Κύρου κρατήσαντος ἔσωσε τὴν
πόλιν (trans. Yonge). On the other hand, advice from a thinker was not always accepted by
the communities concerned, as the following passage from Herodotus 5.36.124–126 shows
in reference to the same historical context, on the eve of the Persian wars: […] All the
rest spoke their minds to the same effect, favoring revolt, with the exception of Hecataeus
the historian who, listing all the nations subject to Darius and all his power, advised them
that they should not make war on the king of Persia. When, however, he failed to persuade
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While these few examples testify to fruitful cooperation between thinkers

and communities on a rather practical level, we have no proof of the effects
of their reflection on the institutional development of the communities. Espe-
cially concerning the realm of the judicial, law-making, the evolution of polit-
ical institutions etc., it is impossible to establish a direct link between political
thinking and the evolution of the political.
There is, of course, one exception, and a very prominent one: Solon of
Athens, office-holder, lawgiver, and arbitrator in the sixth century, who largely
contributed to the elaboration of the political institutions and practices of his
home polis, and who seems to incarnate political acting, as well as political
thinking. His poetry has been considered since the 1980s, as the first expres-
sion of political thought in the Archaic period.55 However, this view has to be
put into perspective: in my opinion, Solon was first and foremost an actor in
the ‘political field’ (P. Bourdieu), who used the medium of poetry primarily to
justify his political actions. He was not a political thinker first and foremost.56
The other exception to the rule is Parmenides, from Elea in Magna Graecia,
who seems to have been a thinker as well as lawgiver, if we can trust Diogenes
Laertius:
Parmenides is said to have served his native city as a legislator: so we learn

from Speusippus in his book On Philosophers.57
Unfortunately, we have no knowledge of the content of these laws, nor do we

know anything about the role the philosopher could have played in his nat-
ive community. It is thus extremely difficult to judge the validity of Diogenes’
statement.58
them, he counselled them that their next best plan was to make themselves masters of the
sea. This, he said, could only be accomplished in one way (Miletus, he knew, was a city of
no great wealth), namely if they took away from the temple at Branchidae the treasure
which Croesus the Lydian had dedicated there. With this at their disposal, he fully expec-
ted them to gain the mastery of the sea. They would then have the use of that treasure and
their enemies would not be able to plunder it. [4] The treasure was very great, as I have
shown in the beginning of my account. This plan was not approved, and they resolved that
they would revolt […] (trans. Godley). Cf., about Herodotus’ views on Archaic thinkers, van
Ross 2013: 221–236; Irwin 2013; Itgenshorst 2014: 243–249.
55 Stahl 1992: 385–408; Raaflaub 1992: 41–105, esp. 73.
56 Itgenshorst 2014: 171–180.
57 Diog. Laert. 9.21 = DK 28 A 1 = Parmenides fr. 1 Gemelli: λέγεται δὲ καὶ νόμους θεῖναι τοῖς
πολίταις, ὥς φησι Σπεύσιππος ἐν τῶι Περὶ φιλοσόφων (trans. Hicks). Cf. Hölkeskamp 1999:
30.
58 The case of Parmenides as political thinker deserves further research; especially his idea of
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220 itgenshorst
Aside from these two particular cases, however, it is impossible to estab-

lish any causal relation between political thinking and the ‘rise of the polis’.
For instance, a thorough analysis of the intense legislative activity attested
in several regions of Archaic Greece, preserved primarily in epigraphic evid-
ence, side-by-side with the political thinkers who were present in the same
regions during the same period, does not confirm a causal relation of any kind.
Even though the regions in question—the Peloponnese, Magna Graecia, and
some parts of Ionia—were rich in thinkers and in epigraphic legislation, often
within the same cities, no exchange between the two spheres of activity can
be traced.59 In other words: the thinkers, despite being present in the political
communities, did not themselves exercise a direct influence on these ‘rising
poleis’.
In the light of this, the case of Heraclitus—often considered as an exception
to the rule, as a thinker who distinguished himself from all the others of his
kind—seems, on the contrary, rather typical. He, thus, incarnates the same con-
tradictory attitude that we have seen in others throughout the Archaic period:
a clear interest in the civic community, and in its social and political chal-
lenges, the will to develop models for a better working community as a whole,
alongside a critical, even contemptuous, attitude towards the other members
of the same community. This conflicting position of the philosopher is very well
expressed in the following anecdote, reported by Diogenes Laertius:
And when he was requested by them (the citizens of Ephesus) to make

laws, he scorned the request because the state was already in the grip of
a bad constitution. He would retire to the temple of Artemis and play at
knuckle-bones with the boys; and when the Ephesians stood round him
and looked on, ‘Why, you rascals,’ he said, ‘are you astonished? Is it not
better to do this than to take part in your civil life?’ Finally, he became a
hater of his kind and wandered on the mountains, and there he contin-
ued to live, making his diet of grass and herbs. However, when this gave
him dropsy, he made his way back to the city (…).60
Dike (justice) as a political concept hasn’t been analyzed sufficiently; cf. in general Kraus
2013: 441–530.
59 Itgenshorst 2014: 181–220; esp. 217 ff.
60 Diog. Laert. 9.1 = DK 22 A 1 = fr. 1 Gemelli: (…) ἀξιούμενος δὲ καὶ νόμους θεῖναι πρὸς αὐτῶν ὑπε-
ρεῖδε διὰ τὸ ἤδη κεκρατῆσθαι τῆι πονηρᾶι πολιτείαι τὴν πόλιν. ἀναχωρήσας δὲ εἰς τὸ ἱερὸν τῆς
Ἀρτέμιδος μετὰ τῶν παίδων ἠστραγάλιζεν· περιστάντων δ’ αὐτὸν τῶν Ἐφεσίων, ‘τί, ὦ κάκιστοι,
θαυμάζετε;’ εἶπεν· ‘ἢ οὐ κρεῖττον τοῦτο ποιεῖν ἢ μεθ’ ὑμῶν πολιτεύεσθαι;’ καὶ τέλος μισανθρωπή-
σας καὶ ἐκπατήσας ἐν τοῖς ὄρεσι διηιτᾶτο, πόας σιτούμενος καὶ βοτάνας. καὶ μέντοι καὶ διὰ τοῦτο
περιτραπεὶς εἰς ὕδερον κατῆλθεν εἰς ἄστυ (…) (trans. Hicks).
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In other words, Heraclitus had the opportunity to change the constitution of

his mother city which, as we know from the extant fragments, he had criticised
beforehand in many ways—but, instead of taking advantage of this opportun-
ity, he preferred to retire to the temple of Artemis, and later to the mountains.
This highly contradictory behaviour seems to be rather typical of the
thinkers in the Archaic period: for them, it seemed essential to present them-
selves as independent thinkers whose authority lay first of all in their very intel-
lectual capabilities. Apparently, it seemed to them much more important to be
recognised as thinkers than to become known as political reformers.
4 Conclusion
Where do we situate the political thinkers in the complex scenario of the emer-
gence and evolution of the city-state? Christian Meier suggested that they were
situated in a somewhat ‘third position’, constituting an intellectual movement
between the two major groups of ‘actors’ contributing to the development
of the order of the polis: the elite and the people.61 In a sense, this is not
entirely wrong—even if the notion of a ‘movement’ transcending the indi-
vidual thinkers seems to me inadequate, as I have explained above. While Meier
stated that these agents of a ‘third position’ took into account the needs and
interests of the lower classes attempting to establish a class-transcending solid-
arity, the present enquiry could not confirm this hypothesis, on the contrary:
the thinkers behaved rather as super-aristocrats, with claims to superiority over
even the highest members of the social elite.
The position of these intellectuals62 can thus be described as being sim-
ultaneously inside and outside—or rather outside and inside the polis: on the
one hand, they always addressed themselves to a group, be it their own polis
or another community, the public at a Panhellenic festival or another contest,
seeking recognition of their intellectual competence. This competitive predis-
position included the intellectual agon against other contemporary (or earlier)
thinkers, whom they referred to in their own works. On the other hand, they
remained independent, nearly at all costs: once in a position to actively parti-
cipate in politics, and thus, to assume political responsibility—as Ibycus from
Rhegium, or Heraclitus at Ephesus—they preferred to renounce this, and even
tended to retire from their life within the community.
61 Meier 1980: 76 ff.; 157; 224 ff.

62 Concerning the application of this terminology to Archaic thinkers, cf. also Itgenshorst
2014: 221–239.
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222 itgenshorst
In this sense, the work of Hesiod, especially if one undertakes a lecture

croisée of the Theogony and the Works and Days,63 has long been considered
as rather ‘pre-political’, because of the de facto absence of the polis. In reality,
however, it is symptomatic of political thinking in Archaic Greece: reflection
about communal affairs did not ‘need’ the presence of a political community,
because the authors were more interested in their own intellectual independ-
ence than in the implementation of their ideas in the context of an existing
polis. In the case of Hesiod, we have further evidence of this. As already men-
tioned above, the poet won a prize at the funeral games in honour of Amphida-
mas at Chalcis, which he dedicated thereafter to the Muses on the Helicon.64
Furthermore, according to Plutarch, this contest was organised ‘among the
most famous poets amongst the wise men’, which indicates the intellectual
dimension of this competition, and may even point to the political dimension
of the poem ibidem presented by Hesiod, maybe the Theogony itself.65 In any
case, this prestigious tripod was dedicated to the Muses on the Helicon, far
from the poet’s native community of Ascra—the recognition by the Panhel-
lenic oriented community seemed clearly more important to this wise man and
political thinker than the appreciation of his home polis.
But maybe it was this very combination of several decisive factors—a strong
interest in communal life, combined with wide-ranging competitive mobility,
and the fact that there was no direct exchange between the political vision of
the thinkers and the political evolution of the community—that has led to the
immense productiveness of political thought in Archaic Greece, as is clearly
discernible even through the fragmentary and scattered evidence.
63 As a matter of fact, Hesiod’s work reflects the complex vision of all the facets of human
experience, from the creation of the universe to the poet’s own time, dealing with the
existence and laws of the gods as well as with the daily life of peasants and aristocrats,
between the individual oikos and the panhellenic context of aristocratic exchange. The
simultaneous analysis of the two major works, Works and Days and the Theogony, brings
to light a complex vision of the world which offered the contemporaries of the author an
ethic vision of living together in a world ruled by justice; cf. Strauss Clay 2003.
64 Hes. Op. 653–658.
65 Plut. Conv. sept. sap. 10.153f–154a = Test. 38 Most: Ἀκούομεν γὰρ ὅτι καὶ πρὸς τὰς Ἀμφιδάμαν-
τος ταφὰς εἰς Χαλκίδα τῶν τότε σοφῶν οἱ δοκιμώτατοι ποιηταὶ συνῆλθον […] For we are told
that the most renowned poets among the wise men of that time came together in Chalcis
for the funeral of Amphidamas […] (trans. Most). Cf. also Itgenshorst 2020.
- 978-90-04-51363-1
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank the organisers Mirko Canevaro and Johannes Bernhardt
for the invitation to this highly interesting panel of the Celtic Conference in
Classics; I have greatly profited from the stimulating discussions. In preparing
the publication, I benefited from an improvement of my English text by the
editors as well as from some suggestions concerning reasoning and structure.
All remaining mistakes are mine.
Ancient Sources (Brief Selection with English Translations)
Campbell, D.A. 1990. Greek Lyric i: Sappho and Alcaeus. 2nd ed. Cambridge Mass.; Lon-
don.
Campbell, D.A. 1988. Greek Lyric ii: Anacreon, Anacreonta, Early Choral Lyric. Cam-
bridge Mass.; London.
Campbell, D.A. 2001. Greek Lyric iii: Stesichorus, Ibycus, Simonides, and Others. 2nd ed.
Cambridge Mass.; London.
Campbell, D.A. 2006. Greek Lyric iv: Bacchylides, Corinna, and Others. 2nd ed. Cam-
bridge Mass.; London.
Campbell, D.A. 1993. Greek Lyric v: The New School of Poetry and Anonymus Songs and
Hymns. Cambridge Mass.; London.
Gentili, B., and Prato, C. (eds.) 1988. Poetae Elegiaci Testimonia et Fragmenta Vol. i.
Leipzig.
Most, G.W. (ed. and trans.) 2006. Hesiod, Theogony, Works and Days, Testimonia. Cam-
bridge Mass.
Page, D.L. 1962. Poetae Melici Graeci. Oxford 1962.
West, M.L. 1971. Iambi et Elegi Graeci ante Alexandrum cantati Vol. i: Archilochus, Hip-
ponax, Theognidea, Vol. ii: Callinus, Mimnermus, Semonides, Solon, Tyrtaeus, minora
adespota. Oxford.
West, M.L. 1993. Greek Lyric Poetry. A New Translation. Oxford.
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chapter 9
What Are Early Greek Laws About? Substance and

Procedure in Archaic Statutes, c. 650–450 bc
Edward M. Harris and David M. Lewis
1 Introduction
Laws in all societies generally contain five basic features. First, they are en-
forced by a political authority recognised by the community. Second, laws have
general application, regulating the conduct of large groups of persons. Third,
laws enumerate rights and duties, granting the right to individuals to behave
in a specific fashion but also constraining or forbidding certain kinds of beha-
viour. This is the substantive side of the law, and deals with establishing rules on
how a society’s members must conduct themselves in daily life. Fourth, a law
must provide a procedure to be followed against those who violate the laws.
This aspect of the law provides instructions to private individuals and public
officials who wish to enforce substantive rules. Procedural law is thus to do with
rules concerning how to bring a case to court and how to proceed with it in the
contexts of arbitration, trial, and so forth. The fifth and final general feature
of law is that it provides a sanction: if the accused is found guilty, he or she is
subjected to a penalty.1 Salmond neatly sums up the distinction between sub-
stantive and procedural law:
Substantive law is concerned with the ends which the administration

of justice seeks; procedural law deals with the means and instruments
by which those ends are to be attained. The latter regulates the conduct
and relations of courts and litigants in respect of the litigation itself; the
former determines their conduct and relations in respect of the matters
litigated. Procedural law is concerned with affairs inside the courts of
justice; substantive law deals with matters in the world outside.2
According to several scholars, Greek law in general and Athenian law in partic-
ular paid close attention to matters of legal procedure, but much less attention
1 Pospisil 1971 with Harris 2013: 138.

2 Salmond 1913: 438, quoted by Gagarin 1986: 72.

228 harris and lewis
to substance.3 In a recent study that examines all extant statutes in Classical

Athenian law, Edward Harris has shown that this oft-repeated view is mistaken:
substantive rules are significantly more common than procedural rules, and
Athenian law was organized by substantive categories.4 For instance, when lit-
igants discuss groups of laws, they refer to the substantive element, not to pro-
cedures through which substantive offenses can be prosecuted.5 In this chapter,
and in line with this volume’s theme of diachronic continuities and changes, we
build upon Harris’ essay by extending the scope of the analysis backwards in
chronological terms and outwards in geographical terms, examining inscribed
law from various Greek communities between c. 650–450 bc.
Scholars who are interested in Archaic Greek society in general (rather than
law in particular) might justifiably query the purpose of such a survey: is this
nothing more than an exercise in old-fashioned legal taxonomy, classification
for classification’s sake? Yet the examination of this issue is crucial for several
wider themes in Archaic Greek history, especially processes of state forma-
tion and institutionalisation over the long term, and the regulation of social
behavior. The fundamental question is whether or not Greek societies took a
minimalist approach to law: did they simply use the law as a mechanism for
shifting existing disputes into the courtroom, viz. a kind of social pressure-
valve that allowed the pent-up antagonisms of (mainly elite) men to be resolved
through formal nonviolent settlements? Or did the laws of Greek communities
reach much further, being designed to shape behaviour in all manner of social
contexts, providing guidance on conduct as well as mechanisms to resolve dis-
putes peacefully when they arose? Was the scope of the law mainly to do with
regulating elite competition, or did it embrace the entirety of the society in
question, regulating the behaviour of citizens, foreigners, and slaves?
Put this way, it is obvious that the issue is of prime importance to any student
of Archaic Greek society; but it has (in our view) been inadequately answered
to date. One key problem is generalisation from a small number of well-known
documents (e.g. Dreros’ law on the kosmos; the ‘Great Code’ of Gortyn; Draco’s
3 Hansen 1975: 10, 14, 21; 1980: 94; Todd and Millett 1990: 5; Todd 1993: 65; 2005: 98; Ober 2000:
541; Foxhall and Lewis 1996: 3; Scafuro 1997: 7–9 with note 18; Lanni 2006: 87; Carey 1998
(though with some important points of dissent from the then consensus). Hansen has since
admitted that Harris is right (Hansen 2016: 465–466); he now recognises that Athenian laws
paid more attention to substance than procedure and that laws were organised by substant-
ive categories, but argues that these were attached to the jurisdiction of specific officials. For
a detailed refutation of this final point, see Canevaro 2018: 108–111.
4 Harris 2009/2010 = 2013: 138–174. Harris’ argument is accepted in Pelloso 2013: 226; Novotný
2015: 343; Dimopoulou 2016; Adamidis 2017: 185.
5 Harris 2013: 147–148 supplies 31 examples of this.
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what are early greek laws about? 229
Homicide Law) rather than the full range of evidence. For example, Gagarin’s
Writing Greek Law (2008) draws on select case studies and does not attempt
a comprehensive survey.6 Papakonstantinou’s Lawmaking and Adjudication in
Archaic Greece (2008) does refer often to inscriptions, but focuses mainly on
how laws were enacted and administered, rather than what they were about.7
Hawke’s Writing Authority: Elite Competition and Written Law in Early Greece
(2011) has, despite its title, very little to say about inscribed law; his argument
that written law was largely introduced to regulate intra-elite conflict is vitiated
by his lack of a comprehensive survey of, and sustained engagement with, the
full range of epigraphical evidence. In his Greece in the Making (1996), Osborne
claims that Archaic laws ‘are not concerned with the ultimate regulation of
behaviour; frequently they do not decree what may or may not be done—they
only decree who is to regulate what may or may not be done.’ The purpose of
Archaic laws, in Osborne’s view, ‘was not to control the powers of the elite with
regard to the people, nor to restrict the arbitrariness of those in power, but to
control the distribution of powers within the elite. This is elite self-regulation,
motivated not by any sense of overwhelming injustice but by a concern about
which individuals have power.’8 As we shall see, such generalisations are based
on a small and unrepresentative sample of the available evidence. They also
overlook the most common forms in which Archaic Greek rules are articulated,
viz. the prescriptive and casuistic forms, both of which typically omit proced-
ural details but do order what may or may not be done.9
The issue cannot be satisfactorily settled by selective discussion. This chap-
ter, therefore, aims at a more comprehensive review of the evidence. What
follows is an examination of the laws contained in R. Koerner’s Inschriftliche
Gesetzestexte der frühen griechischen Polis (1993) dating between c. 650 and
6 Gagarin includes case studies on the following inscriptions: (i) the early laws of Dreros and
Gortyn; (ii) the constitutional law of Chios; (iii) late-archaic laws from Eretria; (iv) Locrian
land regulations; (v) regulations from Olympia; (vi) regulations from the Argive Heraion;
(vii) laws from Cleonae; (viii) laws from Tiryns; (ix) Draco’s homicide law; (x) the Spensithios
decree from Datala; (xi) classical Gortynian law.
7 Papakonstantinou 2008.
8 Osborne 1996: 187; similar remarks in Anderson 2005: 179.
9 The prescriptive form (we borrow the term from Carey 1998) simply issues a command
without mentioning procedure. Casuistic law takes the form of a conditional sentence, with
the substantive offence in the protasis and the penalty in the apodosis; typically, procedural
considerations that enable the substantive offence to be prosecuted and the fine imposed are
not written down. This does not mean that there was no procedure, but that it did not need
to be elaborated on the inscription. For our purposes, it can be taken that such rules are more
interested in substantive than procedural issues.
- 978-90-04-51363-1
c. 450 bc.10 This review, then, will cover the vast bulk of extant Archaic Greek
laws. Even though inscriptions about laws tend to contain only one or two stat-
utes, and consolidated collections that some would term ‘codes’ survive only
in Crete, our survey nonetheless provides a more robust foundation for formu-
lating generalisations.11 For whereas a case can be made that Archaic laws in
literary sources are biased towards substance, it is obvious that the same can-
not be said of the random survival of Archaic inscriptions.12
Before commencing our survey, a few general points should be made about
questions of substance and procedure. First, some scholars hold that in the
evolution of law, procedure must necessarily precede substantive law. In other
words, primitive societies first enact procedural rules to regulate conflict via
arbitration or trial procedures, and only secondarily do they elaborate general
rules on conduct. This evolutionary model is endorsed by Gagarin in his book
Early Greek Law (1986).13 However, this evolutionary model has come under
sustained criticism as the findings of legal anthropologists have piled up, find-
ings that indicate the exact opposite: even very simple societies generally have
complex ethical systems and behavioral norms, and it is with infractions of
these that simple trial and arbitration procedures deal. Gagarin’s claim that
10 Koerner included various rules dating down to c. 400 bc, but it is a stretch of the periodiz-
ation ‘archaic’ to include material from the second half of the fifth century; we therefore
omit from our survey any inscription that cannot feasibly be dated to 450bc or earlier.
We number the texts as per Koerner, with IGT numbers in bold, but provide concordance
in each case utilizing the standard abbreviations, apart from GP = Gagarin and Perlman
2016; OR = Osborne and Rhodes 2017. For a fuller concordance of IGT see Fell 1997.
11 One ought not to suppose that archaic laws were all hatched as fully formed ‘codes’
by individual lawgivers (on whose legends see Szegedy-Maszak 1978); more likely, most
accumulated incrementally; the sum total might be attributed to a single nomothetes, as
Szegedy-Maszak 1978: 208 points out, following the common Greek practice of attributing
inventions or practices to a single protos heuretes. Much useful discussion in Hölkeskamp
1992; 1999; but he goes too far in stressing the atomization of early Greek statutes: some
individuals (especially Solon) did enact large, coherent bodies of legislation; and even
incrementally accumulated bodies of law can be formulated with an eye to internal con-
sistency, as Lévy 2000 has shown for Gortyn. Osborne 1997 opts for a middling position
between the fully fledged codes of the literary legends and Hölkeskamp’s extreme view
of atomization (see e.g. Hölkeskamp 2005: 291, ‘I remain firmly convinced that the early
laws that we have any evidence of were never anything else but individual “dots” and that,
at least in archaic Greece, they were never meant to “join up.”’). Pace Hölkeskamp, many
early laws clearly do ‘join up’, e.g. the many cross-references in Gortynian law, the refer-
ence to a Locrian homicide law in 47–48, or the reference to a law on assault in 66 and 68.
These show a concern with overall consistency.
12 On the bias of the literary sources, see Gagarin 2006; but cf. our remarks below, pp. 234–
235
13 Gagarin 1986: 1–17.
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procedure is prior to substance has sustained criticism from the start: not only
is it based on an unwarranted assumption; it is also contradicted by the evid-
ence of early Greek literature, as several scholars have shown.14
The reader may wish to look out for three other issues as he/she proceeds
through our survey. First: is the content of inscribed law from c. 650–450 ori-
ented largely towards procedure, or substance? In other words, do the inscrip-
tions obsess over the mechanisms for getting a dispute into court, or do they
pay more attention to prescribing rights and duties in daily life? Second, is
the organization of Archaic law cast in terms of procedure or substance? In
other words, do we find larger blocks of legislation framed in terms of a cer-
tain procedure within the jurisdiction of a specific magistrate, under which
this or that crime may be prosecuted?15 Or do they organise laws substantively,
grouping various rules together based on thematic considerations (e.g. placing
rules on, say, inheritance together, or rules on marriage and divorce, vel sim.).
Third, are many of these laws to do with elites and elite interests, or do they
affect all members of society? With those thoughts in mind, we will now turn to
the inscriptions, following Koerner’s order: §2 (Attica); § 3 (the Peloponnese);
§ 4 (Central Greece); §5 (Northern Greece); §6 (the Aegean Islands); § 7 (Asia
Minor); §8 (Sicily); §9 (Crete).
2 Attica
As far as can be determined, Draco (c. 624–620) and Solon (594/3) enacted
Athens’ earliest written laws. According to the Aristotelian Athenaion Politeia
(7.1), Draco’s laws were no longer used after Solon’s time, except for his law
on homicide. Part of that law survives on stone from a re-inscription dating to
409. However, widely used editions of this text are not reliable, in part because
they include letters that are not present on the stone, and in particular because
14 Legal anthropology: Pospisil 1971. For criticisms of Gagarin’s approach, see Dickie 1978;
Cantarella 1987; Wallace and Westbrook 1989; Hölkeskamp 1990; Burchfiel 1994; Pelloso
2013.
15 Osborne 1997: 79 writes ‘The prominence of officials in early law may well have been
reflected in the way in which laws were grouped. Classical Athenian law organised itself
according to the magistrate responsible, rather than through some typology of offenses,
and the same is true elsewhere.’ However, Carey 2004 has shown that Osborne’s view rests
on one tendentious passage, Dem. 22.25–29, and does not accurately reflect the organisa-
tion of Athenian law. On that organisation, see Harris 2013: 144–149; Canevaro 2018. As we
will show, there is no reason to believe Osborne’s view that early Greek laws were organ-
ised procedurally by magistrates’ jurisdictions.
- 978-90-04-51363-1
they ambitiously restore lacunae in the inscription from a document preserved

in Dem. 43.57–58.16 As for those Draconian laws that Solon repealed, Carey
has recently argued that they likely covered a variety of areas concerned with
the regulation of behaviour, codifying behavioral norms that were current (but
unwritten) during the era when the Homeric poems were written down.17
The laws of Solon present numerous problems, and here is not the place
to engage in debate over the authenticity of many of the statutes ascribed to
Solon that have been collected by Ruschenbusch and, more recently, Leão and
Rhodes.18 One key point is that our evidence for Solonian law is derived from
quotations (and more frequently, paraphrases) in later literary sources; Gagarin
has argued that the moralistic interests of those later writers who collected
Solonian laws skew the sample towards matters of substance.19 This is surely
correct, and we accordingly focus on the epigraphic evidence in this chapter
since it provides more of a random sample; but two points ought to be made
regarding Solon. First, if one accepts the core of ‘genuine’ Solonian laws for
which these scholars have argued, then they covered a wide range of substant-
ive matters.20 Second, Gagarin’s proposal that we use Draco’s homicide law as
a template for reverse-engineering the attention paid to procedure in other
Solonian laws (thus conjecturing a procedural iceberg lurking beneath each
known substantive rule) is open to several objections. Draco’s homicide law
contains an abnormal amount of procedural material, and is unlikely to reflect
the amount of procedure in most other statutes. When we can find epigraphic
analogies for Solonian laws, there is often little if any procedure on the stone,
even when the examples are well preserved; instead, we tend to find commands
written in the prescriptive mode, often with penalties. For instance, one might
16 Harris 2016a. See Harris with Canevaro (forthcoming) for a new edition.
17 Carey 2013.
18 Ruschenbusch 1966; for commentary, Ruschenbusch 2010; Leão and Rhodes 2015. A more
detailed analysis of the corpus of Solonian law is currently being undertaken by Prof. Win-
fried Schmitz of Universität Bonn; doubtless it will stimulate much discussion and debate
in the near future.
19 Gagarin 2006, anticipated by Osborne 1997: 80: ‘Literary texts, the product of a biograph-
ical tradition not a tradition of legal analysis, are interested in what types of human beha-
viour lawgivers thought should be regulated, and how they dealt with them; they are not
interested in the precise name of the magistrate responsible for action.’
20 As Hölkeskamp 2005: 282 rightly points out, ‘Apparently, Solon’s legislation covered con-
siderably more than what Robin Osborne characterised as the “two concerns” that “seem
particularly prominent in the laws” of the other famous early lawgivers (…) “for all the
interest in morals and curiosities”, as Osborne put it, these main concerns were just “pro-
cedure and property.” Rather, the impressive scope of subject matters appears to provide
a pretty comprehensive coverage of legal fields.’
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compare Solon’s funerary legislation to the funerary laws of Ioulis on Keos

(SIG3 1218 = OR 194) or the regulations of the Labyadai at Delphi (RO 1), which
contain extensive substantive regulations but very little procedure. Likewise,
one could compare the laws attributed to Solon on the boundaries of farms
to 145–146 from Gortyn, or the Solonian law permitting individuals to acquire
water from neighbors’ wells to 133 from Gortyn, neither of which contain pro-
cedures. If we take these as analogies, then there is no reason to believe that
the Solonian laws mentioned in the literary sources were originally accompan-
ied by vast reams of procedural material. At any rate, we will not dwell further
on the vexed question of the authenticity of Solonian laws, about which much
more can be written.21
Let us turn instead to the hard evidence of inscribed Attic rules.22 1 (= IG i3
1, c. 510–500 bc) concerns cleruchs on Salamis, and largely concerns substance.
The demos recognises the cleruchs’ right to dwell on Salamis, forbids them
from leasing land (except to relatives), and sets out their military obligations.
It establishes a penalty for non-compliance, to be exacted by the archon, and a
penalty for the archon if he fails to carry out this duty. There are no procedural
rules. 2 and 3 are written on the same stele from Marathon. 2 (= IG i3 2, c. 500)
is heavily damaged but contains some procedural terminology (e.g. gnosthei;
epidikazen). 3 (= IG i3 3, c. 490–480bc) concerns a competition at Marathon,
and places responsibility for its running on a board of athlothetai and other
officials, who must swear an oath to do a good job. There are no rules of pro-
cedure preserved. 4 and 5 (= IG i3 4A & 4B) concern regulations for officials on
the Acropolis. 4 (485/4bc) contains several damaged provisions that regulate
behavior and outline the duties of the tamiai, setting penalties for infractions;
it also contains a procedural rule stipulating that slaves should be judged in
the same way as free persons. 5 (c. 500–475bc) is a decree/law of the Assembly
(lines 26–27) and provides rules about conduct such as lighting fires and throw-
ing away dung on the Acropolis in casuistic form with the offence in the protasis
and the penalty in the apodosis (lines 11–13; 15–17; 23–25). The treasurers have
the right to impose fines for infractions (lines 6–8, lines 11–13, 15–16) and so
does the prytanis (lines 22–23). All the regulations pertain to the maintenance
of sanctuary buildings on the Acropolis. 6 (= IG i3 8 ll. 15–24, c. 460–450 bc)
sets payments for ships docking at Sounion; again, no procedural rules are pre-
21 For instance, van Wees 2011 bases his theory of a Solonian hybris law on the document at
Dem. 21.47, but this is a forgery containing post-classical forms: see Canevaro and Harris
2019.
22 The following Attic documents date to after our watershed of 450bc and are thus omitted
from this survey: 7–10; 12–16; 19–21.
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served. 11 (= IG i3 104) is Draco’s famous homicide law. The inscription repub-

lishing the text of Draco’s law on homicide as part of the revision (dokimasia)
of the laws is badly damaged.23 Despite its poor preservation, the text appears
to contain rules about the jurisdiction of the ephetai and basileis (lines 11–13),
the pardon of the murderer (lines 13–18. Cf. Dem. 37.59), about the killing of
murderers in exile (lines 26–29. Cf. Dem. 23.37–43), and the killing of those
stealing property (lines 37–38 with Dem. 23.60).24 17 (= IG i3 245, c. 470–460)
represents the legible middle portion of a decree of the deme of Sypalettos on
economic transactions, and provides an entrenchment clause and a penalty
of 1,000 drachmas against those who propose altering the rule; there are no
preserved procedural provisions. 18 (= IG i3 250, c. 450–420) is a cult regula-
tion from Paiania. It begins with a damaged portion that clearly contained a
substantive offense, then mentions penalties. It then enjoins the priestess to
provide meat, spits, and a bronze pot for certain rituals. The hieropoioi are to
bear rods. An entrenchment clause forbids changes to these regulations unless
100 demesmen are present. These rules are therefore substantive with penal-
ties. The majority of these early Attic statutes thus provide substantive rules,
penalties, and clauses assigning enforcement to officials; they are directed at
all members of the community. Procedure is a relatively minor concern.
3 The Peloponnese25
22 (= IG iv 177, 5th c?) is a sign from Aegina that forbids anyone to take a stone
from the road. The right-hand part of the stone is broken, and several supple-
ments have been proposed.26 It may prohibit another marker being put in its
place. Because this is a sign, there is no penalty and no official named. (A ‘sign’ is
not a publication of a full statute, but is simply an order placed in a prominent
location; it tends not to contain procedural details, and may or may not provide
information on penalties and magistrates. This does not mean that such details
were omitted in the full publication of the statute, which tended to be located
elsewhere.27) 23 (= LSAG 405, c. 500) is from Sicyon. It states that a hestiator-
23 On the revision of the laws see Canevaro and Harris 2012: 110–116 and Canevaro and Harris
2016–2017: 33–46.
24 Lines 33–35 do not concern the killing of a victim who “started unjust blows.” See Har-
ris 2016a.
25 We omit the following rules as too incomplete to allow analysis: 26, 28, 33, 36; and we omit
30 as falling outside our timeframe.
26 Koerner 1993: 68–69.
27 See further Harris 2015b: 58–60.
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ion and other buildings are to be common to those who are citizens and pay
taxes; no one is allowed to sell or lend the property. This prescriptive rule men-
tions no procedure or penalty. 24 (= IG iv 493, c. 6th c) is from Mycenae; it is a
procedural law that appears to grant the hieromnamones the right to judge tri-
als according to the rules if there are no demiorgoi. 25 (= LSS 27, c. 575–550) is
from Argos. It forbids a private person from using cult items outside the sanc-
tuary of Athena Polias; the state alone is to have control over the property of
the goddess. If anyone causes damage, the offender should repair it (alternat-
ively: make recompense for it); the demiorgos should make him do this, and the
amphipolos should oversee the matter. This inscription therefore gives a casu-
istic rule with a substantive offence and penalty, and assigns supervision to a
public official, with another public official keeping an eye on the first one to
assure accountability.28 27 (= IG iv 544, c. 480) is from Halieis, and contains
three rules about treasuries of Athena in the casuistic form; it appears to make
certain groups of officials accountable for the items in the treasuries. There is a
penalty of exile and confiscation of goods. If the Council does not perform its
duties, they are liable to Athena (which may be a curse). Here, then, we have
a substantive rule on conduct backed up by penalties, but no procedure. 29 (=
IG iv 506, c. 6th c) is from Argos, and contains three rules in the casuistic form,
two of which are fragmentary. The legible rule states that if anyone defaces the
text, he will be cursed by Hera, banned from Argive territory, and have his prop-
erty confiscated. The damaged portions mention officials, but there is no sign
of procedure.
31 (= SEG 30:380) is an early text from Tiryns dating to the seventh century
bc, setting out rules in the casuistic form. The inscription has some damage that
frustrates its full sense from being clear. It mentions platiwoinarchoi, perhaps
‘officials in charge of the libation-makers’, or ‘drinking leaders’, and a fine to be
imposed on platiwoinoi, perhaps ‘libation-makers’ or ‘drinkers.’ If they do not
punish, they owe 30 medimnoi to Zeus and Athena. Further fragmentary pro-
visions mention two other kinds of official: the hieromnamon (‘sacred remem-
brancer’) and epignomon, as well as noting the role of the people (damos). As
Gagarin rightly states, ‘for now these texts remain sui generis and perplexing’,29
but we may at least note the attention to some manner of substantive infrac-
tion, the penalties, and the oversight of officials. 32 (= IG iv 1607, c. 575–550)
is from Kleonai in the Argolid, and is a rule about religious practice. There
may be a rule about a person who kills lawfully and is not considered polluted,
28 On this document see now the extensive discussion in Probert and Dickey 2015.
29 Gagarin 2008: 65.
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and a person who kills and is considered polluted, but the text is fragmentary.
There appear to be other rules about pollution and purification, but no official
is named and no procedure survives. 34 (= IG v, 2 262, c. 460) is from Mantinea
in Arcadia. It mentions a judicial investigation by the oracle and sets as its pen-
alty the confiscation of property and slaves, which then belong to the goddess
Athena Alea. The judgment is made by the goddess and human judges, and a
guilty verdict means exclusion of the male line of descendants from the shrine.
This law, then, is procedural. 35 (= LSS 32, 6th or 5th c) is also from Arcadia.
It contains a rule in the casuistic form forbidding women from wearing a fine
dress—if she does, it is to be dedicated to Demeter. If she does not do this, the
demiorgos has the right to levy a fine of 30 drachmas. If he does not impose the
fine, he is to be polluted for ten years.
36–43 are from Olympia. 37 (= IvOl 2, early 5th c) is more like a decree than a
law because it grants a privilege to an individual, Patrias. If anyone curses Pat-
rias, he is to be exiled from Elea. If the holder of the highest office and basileis
do not impose the penalty, they are to owe ten mnai. If they do not pay, the
hellanodikas imposes the fine. The college of demiorgoi are to impose other
penalties; if not, they are to owe at their rendering of accounts. If one fines
an innocent defendant, one is to pay a fine of ten mnai if it was done know-
ingly; Patrias should suffer the same if he commits an offence. This document,
then, whilst not strictly a law, shows points in common with many laws by reg-
ulating the behaviour of officials and setting penalties for malfeasance. 38 (=
IvOl 3, c. 500) is very fragmentary but names penalties and officials, as well as
a Council and Assembly. 39 (= IvOl 4, 6th c) protects the property of a certain
Theokolos and seems to impose a penalty of five hundred drachmas for illegal
possession of another’s property. The iaromaros has jurisdiction; the demiorgia
and the people are also named. Once more, we find different officials and differ-
ent bodies among which various powers are distributed. 40 is too fragmentary
to allow analysis. 41–43 (= IvOl 7, c. 500) are rules from the same bronze doc-
ument; Koerner treats the rules as unrelated, but this has been challenged by
Gagarin.30 41 penalizes those who have sex in the temple, sets a penalty of an
ox, and requires purification; the theoros must pay too. Here, we have a simple
casuistic rule with an offence and a penalty, but no procedure. 42 invalidates
any sentences passed in contradiction to the law, and makes the people’s judg-
ment valid. 43 is a constitutional rule about the temple and allows for changes
in the law with the consent of the Council of Five Hundred and the people;
three rounds of voting are required.
30 Gagarin 2008: 61; recent discussion in Veneciano 2014.
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44 (= IvOl 16, c. 450–425) is from Skillous in Elis. There are several unresolved
questions about this fragmentary law. There are two men named, Nikarchidas
and Pleistainos, at the beginning and further down, but it is not clear what their
role is. There are several clauses, but not all are easy to interpret because of gaps
in the text. If someone of Skillous is not obedient, the demiorgoi bring a charge;
if he does not appear, he must pay one mna per diem. The next clause is frag-
mentary, but may concern a penalty. The third clause has another fine of five
mnai. There is one clause about causing stasis, but the penalty is not preserved.
There may be a penalty for not swearing an oath and something about the com-
munity falling under a curse. Line 17 appears to place anyone who violates this
law under a curse. There may follow a clause about damaging the law with pro-
vision for a trial (lines 18–19). Those who go into exile are judged as murderers
(?). If anyone remains in the land, Nikarchidas and Pleistainos are to judge him.
The law specifies certain offences, indicates penalties, and assigns jurisdiction
to Nikarchidas and Pleistainos and to the demiorgoi. Although this rule con-
tains some substance, it is largely procedural.
Like the statutes preserved from early Attica, those from the Peloponnese
are also mainly concerned with rights and duties, setting penalties for malprac-
tice, and requiring magistrates to enforce the rules; procedure plays a relatively
minor role.
4 Central Greece31
From central Greece we have three important texts from before 450 bc. The first
(45 = CID i 3) is a sign from Delphi concerning wine offerings; it commands that
these not be taken out of the stadium, and requires those who do so to make
an expiatory sacrifice to the god and to pay a fine, half of which goes to the
informer. The rule thus contains substance and penalties, but no procedures.32
The second and third texts concern Western Locris. 47–48 (= IG IX I2 3, 609)
dates to c. 525–500bc and regulates landholding in the plain of Hylla and Lis-
kara. It sets out rules on the inheritance of land plots, adumbrating the order of
succession.33 It then prohibits any proposal of redistributing land apart from
31 We omit 46 as falling outside our timeframe.

32 Note that there is some controversy about the date of this rule: the lettering points to a
date pre-450; but the wall on which it is carved was not built until the late fourth century
bc. The stone may have been re-used or the lettering may be archaising. See the discussion
in Jacquemin, Mulliez and Rougemont 2012: 49–50; 55 (date of the stadium).
33 See Chandezon 2003: 373–374.
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in war, when an offer of land may be necessary to entice fighting men from
abroad to join the community. Rules are provided on the political procedures
to be followed in this context. Penalties are then given for the man who viol-
ates these rules: he and his progeny are to be accursed, his property confiscated,
and his house razed to the ground; the inscription mentions that this is to be
done in the same way as in the homicide law (unfortunately this law no longer
survives). After further curses against transgressors and blessings for those who
uphold the law, the text turns again to substantive rules on the ownership and
transferal of land. This important text, then, is largely composed of substantive
rules issued in the prescriptive and casuistic forms, with no mention of legal
procedure.
An even longer text concerning Naupactus (49 = IG IX I2 3, 718, c. 525–50034)
deals with the establishment of colonists. Naupactus lay in Western (viz. Ozo-
lian) Locris; the colonists were from Eastern (viz. Opountian/Hypocnemidian)
Locris, on the other side of Phocis. This law, like 47–48, is cast in a mixture of
the prescriptive and casuistic forms. It begins by granting the colonist and his
descendants the right to sacrifice and to receive shares of the sacrifice in his
new community. It then states that the colonist will no longer be liable to pay
tax in Eastern Locris unless he returns there. It then specifies conditions under
which a colonist can return to Eastern Locris, and states that taxes shall be paid
in common with the Western Locrians, viz. the new neighbours of the colonist.
An oath then follows binding the colonists to their mother community in East-
ern Locris, with a provision for renewal of the oath after 30 years. The law then
states that whoever fails to pay his taxes in Naupactus will lose his civic rights
until the debt is paid.
The subject matter then turns to inheritance. If the colonist begets no pro-
geny in Naupactus or has no relatives there, provision is made for inheritance
by relatives back in Eastern Locris so long as the heir comes within three
months. A further provision then follows concerning the return of a colonist
to his mother community. The rules then turn to land held by individuals both
in the colony and in the mother community, and state that the local laws shall
be applied in relation to these plots. The colonist is then granted the right to
inherit the land of brothers who are resident in Eastern Locris, where the local
laws are to govern the division of the inheritance. At this point the first rules of
legal procedure in this text appear, concerning rules of litigation in Naupactus
and back in Eastern Locris; but after this brief interlude the text returns to sub-
stantive law, granting inheritance rights to the colonist who leaves his father
34 Jeffery 1961: 105–106.
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behind in Eastern Locris. The text finally turns to penalties for those who break
the various provisions outlined in the inscription. A constitutional rule allows
for exceptions if approved by a decree of the Assembly of One Thousand in
Eastern Locris and of the Assembly of the Naupactians; otherwise, violators are
to have their civic rights revoked and their property confiscated. Then follows
another procedural rule, requiring magistrates to grant trials to prospective lit-
igants within 30 days of the request, as long as 30 days of their magistracy
remain; those who do not lose their civic rights and have their property, includ-
ing land and slaves, confiscated. The text finishes by sealing the provisions with
an oath, and applies the same conditions to settlers from Chaleion and Anti-
phatas.
What is striking in these inscriptions is the extensive concern with regu-
lating the behaviour of average citizens and prescribing rights and duties in
great detail. Laws on procedure, that is, on channeling disputes into court, are
barely touched upon. The concern with oversight of magistrates, noted earlier,
is highly visible here.
5 Northern Greece
50–53 contain brief texts; the first three are from Thessaly, the latter from
Nymphaion in the Crimea. 50 (c. 475), from Argoura, is a badly damaged thes-
mos of the demos. From what can be read of its contents, the text sets out a
number of curses for infractions, but little substantive or procedural content
can be discerned. 51 (= IG ix 2, 1202, 6th or 5th c), from Korope, prohibits the
taking of offerings out of a shrine, and sets penalties. There is no procedural
content preserved. 52 (= IG ix 2, 1226, 5th c) is a brief text that deals with the
embezzlement of public funds; again, no procedural details are preserved. 53
is a sign rather than a law: ‘Don’t poop in the sanctuary!’ (μὴ χέσες ἱεροῦ).35
6 Aegean Islands36
54 (= i.Délos 68, 5th c) is a sign inscribed on a marble lintel in the temple

of Apollo Archegetes on Delos; it is prescriptive and forbids foreigners from
entering. There is no procedure or penalty mentioned. 55 (= i.Délos 69, 5th c)
35 Or, if we read hieron: ‘do not poop! (this is) sacred.’ (As suggested to Harris by Mathieu
Carbon.)
36 We omit 60, 62, 63, and 67–71 as falling outside our timeframe.
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is another sign and forbids washing, swimming and throwing anything into a
fountain. The penalty is two drachmas sacred to the nymphs. Because this is
a sign, only the offence and the penalty are specified; no procedure or official
is named. 56 (= SEG 4:171, 5th c bc) is from Lindos on Rhodes and relates to
the funding of rituals for Enyalios, a war god. It instructs all who go on milit-
ary expeditions, public or private, to pay 1/60th of their wages to the cult. The
priest is to disclose the amount to the Council and to hand it over to the priest
who takes office in the following year. The epistatai are to write what the gen-
erals themselves have and the remainder, for those who go on expeditions. The
prytaneis serving in the relevant semester are to make sacrifices to Enyalios
in the month of Artamitios. A boar, a dog, and a kid are to be sacrificed. The
Council is to send the procession; and the hoplites are to follow the priests, as
many as the Council appoints. A cultic building for Enyalios is to be construc-
ted when there is enough money; and the Council is to collect the money (?)
(lines 36–40). If the generals do not collect the money from the soldiers, this
is to be reckoned an impiety toward the god, and the offender is to be subject
to prosecution; the same applies to those who go on private expeditions. The
generals and the private individuals are to pay the money to the priest in the
month when they return. The regulation ends with a publication formula, set-
ting up the stele near an existing altar of Enyalios. These clauses, then, imply
accountability and punishment, but do not indicate who is to discipline the
offenders or the legal procedure.37
57–59 are from Paros. 57 (= LSCG 108, c. 475–450) appears to be a sign. There
is a rule about throwing rubbish above a road with a penalty of 51 drachmas
(lines 1–10), but it allows volunteers to impose the fine (lines 10–12). Sokolowski
believes that it comes from a sanctuary, but this is not clear. 58 (= IG xii 5, 108,
5th c) appears to be the end of a document that contained rules about cutting
wood in a sanctuary. There is a penalty for violators (lines 4–6) and rewards for
the person who gives information (phasis) to the theoros (lines 4–6). The the-
oroi, magistrates of the city, are to take an oath of denial from the neokoros that
he knows of no one cutting wood (lines 6–10).38 This document contains hardly
any procedural law, and is mainly composed of offences, names of officials, and
penalties. 59 (= IG xii 5, 150, c. 525–500) is very fragmentary and appears to be
a sign.
61–64 are from Chios. 61 (= ML 8, c. 575–550) is the famous constitutional
law. Side A is very fragmentary, but clearly contains a penalty for officials who
37 Cf. Koerner 1993: 215: ‘nichts über das Verfahren ausgesagt wird.’ For a new edition with
extensive commentary, see Gonzales 2008.
38 On the theoroi as public officials of Paros, see Rutherford 2013: 128, 136–138.
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are bribed. Side B appears to contain a casuistic rule with an offence in the
protasis and a penalty in the apodosis, but the nature of the offence is not clear.
The offence may have taken place in the demarch’s court, or the penalty may
have been paid to the demarch. Side C concerns the nature of the Council: it
should meet on the third day after Hebdomaia, have power to inflict penalties
(lines 6–7: epithoios), and be elected with fifty from each tribe (lines 7–9). It
should administer the business of the people and try certain cases. There may
also be a clause about trials being referred to the Council (lines 12–13: ekkletoi).
Side D is fragmentary but requires an oath made with a sacrifice, possibly sworn
to the basileis. The text deals mainly with substantive rules about constitutional
issues such as the powers of the Council and different officials, though there
are some procedural details. 64 (= LSS 129, 5th c) gives perquisites for a priest
of Pelinaios. If the priest is not present, anyone may shout three times, then
sacrifice (lines 7–11). There is a prohibition against giving something39 and a
penalty clause in the casuistic form for violations (lines 13–16), of an amount of
five staters, though it is not clear if this applies to the priest or to worshippers
(perhaps to both). No other official is named; but given the hefty fine and the
publication of these rules for the mountain sanctuary in the city, it seems likely
that this is a public document presented in abbreviated form. There is nothing,
however, on procedure.
65 (= IG xii 7, 1, 5th c) is from Arkesine on Amorgos. It is very brief but con-
tains a prescript indicating it is a decree, with the name of the proposer. The
substance is a prohibition against lighting a fire in the sanctuary and a fine for
violators in casuistic form, but no mention is made of the officials who impose
the fine. The brevity of the inscription may indicate that it is a sign containing
an extract from a longer law.
66–71 are from Thasos. 66 (= OR 103, c. 460) concerns wine and vinegar. The
first lines of the text are very fragmentary, but there appears to be a penalty in
line 4 in which the offender is deprived of wine and vinegar;40 there seems
to be an order or a prohibition in the previous clause indicated by a third-
person verb in the imperative (poieto). There follows another penalty (possibly
related to the same offence) of one-sixth per amphora sacred to Athena and
Apollo, with another sixth given to the person who denounces the offence.41
39 Forrest in SEG 17:377 thinks of grains of wheat; actually this concerns providing the per-
quisites ‘to anyone else.’
40 For the use of the verb στερέσθω in a legal context cf. SEG 26:72, line 17.
41 This is probably one-sixth of a stater and not one sixth of the contents of the amount
seized (pace Koerner). On the coinage of Thasos see Picard in Grandjean and Salviat 2000:
303–314 with the literature cited there.
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The person who denounces must provide personal security (katengyen) as in

cases for assault. This would appear to guarantee that if the accuser did not
convict the offender and owed a fine to the state, the guarantor would pay the
fine in case the unsuccessful prosecutor did not pay the fine himself.42 If this is
correct, this is a procedural rule. The final clause forbids an oath ‘about ignor-
ance regarding wine’ (lines 8–10). The meaning of this clause is not clear, but it
may have forbidden the accused from defending himself by swearing an oath of
denial.43 Whatever the true explanation, this would also be a procedural rule;
this inscription therefore contains both substantive and procedural rules.
72–73 (IG xii, 9 1273+1274) are from Eretria and date to c. 525. We follow
F. Cairns’ edition in treating this as a single document containing four pro-
visions.44 The first contains a procedural rule about awarding a penalty, and
instructs the penalised man about how to pay. The second provides a date for-
mula. The third clause details fines and instructs officials to impose the fine,
and penalises officials who fail to do so. The fourth provision is substantive and
imposes a duty to pay a wage to all sailors who sail beyond the respective ends
of Euboea, and for everyone to contribute to this payment; this provision likely
reflects early fiscal arrangements for the city’s navy.45
7 Asia Minor46
74–77 are from Erythrae. 75 (= OR 122, before 454 bc) begins (side A) with a sub-
stantive offence (which is damaged) and sets a penalty of ten staters. Highly
detailed procedural material follows, empowering he who wishes to prosec-
ute and receive half the penalty if successful. Prosecutors are prevented from
abandoning their prosecution; if they do so, whosoever wishes can prosecute
the frivolous prosecutor, with the same penalty set as before, half of which goes
to the successful prosecutor. Nine men from each of the tribes are to judge,
and a property qualification is set for the judges; these must swear an oath to
judge in accordance with the laws and decrees. The court is to be convened by
no fewer than 61 men, who are to judge with the stele at hand. The prytaneis
are to introduce the cases, draw up the indictments, and keep records of those
who owe penalties; if they fail to do so, penalties are laid upon the prytaneis.
42 For penalties for unsuccessful prosecutions at Athens see Harris 2006: 405–422.
43 Koerner 1993: 247.
44 Cairns 1991; edition and translation on pp. 312–313.
45 Van Wees 2010.
46 We omit 74 as falling outside our timeframe.
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Side B provides instructions for publication of the law, and further rules on
who can prosecute. Side C provides the penalty (possibly enslavement) for
bastard men who exceed their prerogatives (in some respect). 76 (= IG i3 14,
453/2bc) is a decree of the Athenian Assembly from the heyday of the empire,
of which Koerner singles out lines 8–16 and 29–32. Lines 8–16 establish a coun-
cil of 120 men and define the criteria for membership. Nobody is permitted to
be councilor twice within four years. Further rules govern the installation of
the council. These sections are therefore constitutional. Lines 29–32 deal with
homicide. If any Erythraean kills another Erythraean, the penalty is death. After
a short, broken piece of text, the penalty of exile is mentioned along with con-
fiscation of property, which goes to the state of Erythrae. This section of the
text thus provides a substantive offence and penalties but does not detail any
procedures. 77 (= i.Erythrai 17, 5th c) bans the same individual from serving as
co-supervisor of the wetlands twice within a ten-year period, and sets a penalty
of five staters; anyone who wishes may prosecute him. If the prosecution suc-
ceeds, the prosecutor gets half the penalty and the peproioi get the other half.
This law, then, contains a substantive offence, a penalty, and a procedure.
78 and 79 are from Teos. 78 (= OR 102 A and B, c. 470) is the famous curse
inscription from Teos, of which Koerner gives the text of stelai A and B. A begins
with curses for anyone who harms the Teians using drugs, prevents the import
of grain, or re-exports imported grain. Stele B curses the man who tries or suc-
ceeds at setting himself up as sole ruler (aisymnetes), as well as he who betrays
the city and the land, commits robbery, receives pirates, or commits piracy.47
The rules then enjoin the timouchoi (those holding a magistracy) to perform the
curse in the Assembly during the Anthesteria or the festival of Heracles or Zeus,
and curses those who fail to do so. Stele B ends by cursing those who deface
or destroy the inscription. This inscription thus contains substantive offences
and (supernatural) penalties, as well as enforcing the duties of magistrates; but
it lacks procedures. 79 (= OR 102 C, c. 480–450) has a similar thrust, asking that
various criminals, such as the man who when holding office cheats his neigh-
bour, may perish along with their descendants. There follows an oath where the
citizen must promise not to foment civil unrest, nor to prosecute, confiscate
property, or put to death some other unless with 200 or more in Teos, or 500 or
more in its colony Abdera; nor is the citizen allowed to set up an aisymnetes. He
who does is to be banished from the city and territory of Teos and from Abdera,
along with his family. The text then curses the one who, when commanded by
the Abderites to give something back, refuses to do so. The last section, like 78,
47 On the aisymnetes see Faraguna 2005.
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mentions certain festivals: the Anthesteria, the festival of Heracles and that of
Zeus in both Teos and Abdera. A magistrate is required to read these curses out
to the citizens at these festivals, and is cursed himself if he fails to do so. Unlike
78, however, 79, along with substantive offenses and curses includes procedural
rules on criminal prosecutions, viz. the quora of 200/500.
80–81 concern Miletus. 80 (= IG i3 21, 450/49) is a lengthy and highly lacun-
ose Athenian decree from the heyday of the empire imposing a reorganisation
of Milesian affairs. Koerner does not present the whole text, but draws atten-
tion to several clauses of interest to legal historians: there may be a penalty
of confiscation of property (line 28), provisions for trials (lines 29, 32, 43, 63),
payment of court fees (line 31), selection by lot (line 34), payment to judges
(line 36), a penalty for officials (line 38), and an order to officials (line 42). There
appears to be a casuistic clause providing for public charges against anyone
who violates the substantive provisions of the decree (lines 48–51). One section
appears to contain orders about payments (lines 53–60); another concerns the
amount of penalty that officials can impose (lines 76–77; cf. IG i3 82, lines 26–
27; Agora xvi 56[3] lines 32–33). The final section appears to give the Council
the power to carry out certain provisions (lines 84–85; cf. IG i3 52, line 9; 136,
line 37).48 The provisions appear to contain a mix of procedural and substantive
rules. 81 (= OR 123, c. 470–440) is an ad hominem measure against Nympharetos,
Alkimos, and Cresphontes, who have been banned along with their descend-
ants (lines 1–3). Whoever kills them receives a reward of 100 staters from the
property of Nympharetos (lines 3–4). The epimenioi are supposed to pay, and
if they do not are to owe the money themselves. If the city gets a hold of these
men, the epimenioi are to put them to death. If they do not, they are to owe 50
staters each. If an epimenios does not give judgment, he is to owe 100 staters
and the case should be judged by the next epimenioi. If they do not do this,
they are to owe the same penalty. This concerns penalties for certain individu-
als and officials, but has almost nothing about procedure aside from assigning
jurisdiction in the case to the epimenioi.
82–83 are from Ephesus. 82 (= i.Ephesos v 1678B, c. 500) is a procedural law
to do with swearing an oath in a trial context, and mentions the sacrifice of
a boar. 83 (= i.Ephesos v 1678C, c. 5th c) is very fragmentary, but appears to
address the pledge of property. 84 (= OR 132, c. 465–450) is from Halicarnas-
sus, and concerns conveyances of land and houses, and associated litigation. It
forbids certain transfers and sets a statute of limitation of 18 months for litiga-
tion regarding land and houses. It then requires the judges to take an oath and
48 See Harris 2016b.
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asserts that what the Recorders know shall be binding. If any claims arise after
the 18 months have elapsed, the owner of the property must take an oath in
the presence of the claimant; and the oath is to be administered by the judges
who receive an eight-obol fee. Title to land and houses thereafter is secured, but
may be transferred via sale. The law is entrenched against future modification,
with exile and confiscation of property as the penalty for whomsoever attempts
to change the law; if this individual lacks property worth ten staters, he is to
be sold into slavery outside of Halicarnassus. The text finishes by empowering
Halicarnassians to bring suits within the remit of the law.49 This law thus con-
tains procedure, penalties, and an entrenchment clause.
8 Sicily
85 (= SEG 26:1084, early 6th c) is from Megara Hyblaea. Side A begins with a cult
rule penalising those who sacrifice against the prescription of a certain Arch-
omaos with a fine of an eighth part. The ensuing text is heavily damaged. Side
B sets a penalty of 10 litrai. This, then, provides a substantive offence and pen-
alties, but no procedure. 86 (= SEG 4:64, 6th c bc) is a highly fragmentary law
on bronze. The readable words suggest a law on homicide; some terminology
relating to penalties is preserved.
9 Crete50
The richest source of early legal inscriptions is Crete; by far the majority derives
from Gortyn. We will begin with the non-Gortynian material. 87 (= GP Lyktos
1A) comes from Lyktos and dates to c. 500. It contains a (damaged) substantive
rule on receiving foreigners, followed by a penalty for infraction; no procedure
is included or preserved. 88 (= GP Lyktos 1B), which is carved on the reverse side
of the monument on which 87 appears, provides substantive rules on the pool-
ing together of animals, perhaps to do with grazing land, and specifies exactly
where the boundaries of this zone are to lie; no procedural or penalty provi-
sions are preserved. 89 (= GP K 2) is a damaged inscription from Knossos from
c. 500 which mentions fines and further provisions for non-payers. 90–93 are
from Dreros, dating to c. 650–600. 90 (= GP Dr 1) is the famous law on the kos-
49 See Maffi 1988 for a detailed study.

50 We omit 99 and 100 as too damaged to yield any sense.
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mos. It is composed of substantive rules and penalties: the man who serves
as kosmos is banned from holding the same office again for ten years. He who
contravenes this is subject to severe penalties: if he passes judgment, he owes
double the penalty that he imposes; furthermore, he is stripped of civic rights,
and all of his orders are rendered void. The kosmos and the damioi and the
Twenty of the polis swear to the rule. There are no procedural provisions. 91
(= GP Dr 5) is difficult to interpret; it prevents an official named the agretas
from punishing someone who serves (in what capacity, it is hard to say). But
the rule is complete, obviously substantive, and lacks procedure and penalty.
92 (= GP Dr 3) is also difficult to interpret; Gagarin and Perlman offer several
possible reconstructions of the text. What is clear is that it is a substantive rule
lacking penalties and procedure, and is to do with etaireiai, setting a limit of
the twentieth of the month Hyperboios. 93 (= GP Dr 4) contains a substantive
rule about paying wages, but is incomplete.
94 (= GP Elt 2) is from Eltynia and dates to c. 500; it provides rules on assault
and injury, including variations based on who is to blame for starting the fight,
the nature of the injury, and the place where the assault occurred. Fines of
five and ten drachmas are mentioned; and the third line contains a procedural
detail, viz. that the victim should report an assault within a certain (unpre-
served) number of days, and that the kosmos is to exact the fine (cf. Dem. 23.49;
[Dem.] 47.70).51 95–99 come from Lyktos and date to c. 500; all are heavily
damaged. 95 (= GP L 2) mentions the kosmos and appears to contain some
manner of substantive instructions. 96 (= GP L 3) mentions a judge; it prob-
ably contained at least some procedural rules. 97 (= GP L 4) appears to contain
substantive rules concerning sale. 98 (= GP L 5) appears to contain proced-
ural rules and mentions slaves. 101–105 are from Axos and date to c. 525–500.
101 (= GP A 1) is damaged and difficult to interpret, but appears to preserve
rules on the employment of workers hired by the city, granting them immunity
from taxation and providing for their subsistence. There seems to be a proced-
ural rule at lines 4–5, which mentions the impositions of fines and individuals
coming forward within five days. 102 (= GP A 2) is badly damaged, but seems
to contain substantive rules on workers, and is possibly connected to 101; the
same goes for 103 (= GP A 3) and 104 (= GP A 4). 105 (= GP Axos 1) also regu-
lates workers and mentions the kosmos, but is highly fragmentary. 106–107 (=
GP A 9), also from Axos, dates to c. 500–450, and provides cult regulations. It
bans priests from carrying off those portions of the sacrifice to which they are
not entitled, providing penalties for those who do so; lines 8–9 contain a pro-
51 See Harris 2016a.
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cedural rule for prosecuting such priests. The kosmos is instructed to enforce
the judgment or to pay a penalty for non-performance of his duty. The final
provision instructs the council to provide money for the sacrifices in the third
year. Our final text from Axos, 108 (= GP A 12), is fragmentary, mentioning pro-
duce and not owing some manner of payment. 109–115 are from Eleutherna
and date to the late sixth or early fifth century bc. 109 (= GP Ele 3) mentions
citizens of other communities and appears to contain a procedural rule with
an oath and a curse. 110 (= GP Ele 4) is heavily damaged but seems to pertain to
foreigners. 111 (= GP Ele 9) mentions payments to a cloak-maker. 112 (= GP Ele
11) is comparatively well preserved, giving five (almost) complete lines of text
concerning those who sail abroad; it contains substantive elements concern-
ing harvesting, and procedural elements concerning a lawsuit. 113 (= GP Ele
13) is in a similar state of preservation, and contains sums in kind, penalties,
and a procedural clause mentioning a witness. 114–115 (= GP Ele 16) contains
fragmentary substantive rules on sale and pledge, and also mentions a harpist
(kitharistas).
These non-Gortynian Cretan laws, though for the most part highly fragment-
ary, nevertheless show a broad range of interests in specifying correct beha-
viour in various arenas. Procedure is present in some of them, but it is hardly a
dominant feature.
9.1 Gortyn52
116–126 are Gortyn’s earliest extant laws and date to c. 600–525. 116 (= GP G 1)
appears to contain five separate (and damaged) rules; Gagarin suggests a com-
mon theme of damages involving humans and animals.53 The rules mention
both substantive and procedural aspects: in the former case, rules on assault
and (possibly) debt; in the latter case, a trial. There are numerous provisions
for fines set by cauldrons. 117 (= GP G 4) is difficult to interpret. Line 1 con-
tains a substantive rule forbidding some sort of sale or exchange; it is followed
in line 2 by mention of pigs and sheep, and line 3 contains a procedural rule
on co-swearers to an oath. The final line alludes to the andreion, but in what
sense remains unclear. 118 (= GP G 8) is very fragmentary; it contains a pro-
cedural rule about oath-swearers plus a penalty clause specifying one tripod
worth ten cauldrons as blood money; the original, complete rule thus probably
treated homicide. 119 (= GP G 9) is also very fragmentary, but mentions killing,
a gathering place, and judgment; it may be a procedural law relating to hom-
52 We omit 143 and 144 as too damaged to yield any sense.

53 Gagarin and Perlman 2016: 268.
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icide. 120 (= GP G 13) also provides detailed (but heavily damaged) procedural
rules plus penalties. 121 (= GP G 14) contains some damaged, but apparently
substantive, rules, followed by a penalty and an enforcement clause penal-
ising the kosmos who fails to exact the fine. After a further damaged section
of text, we find substantive rules of a constitutional nature: the same person
is not to serve as kosmos again for three years, as gnomones for ten years, and
as ksenios kosmos for five years. This part of the inscription is similar in scope
to 90 from Dreros. 122 (= GP G 20) is fragmentary but appears to provide sub-
stantive rules about inheritance. 123 (= GP G 21) concerns inheritance law and
provides procedural rules on how to litigate over disputes, plus penalties. The
interpretation of 124 (= GP G 22) is contested, depending on what one takes
the word prothesin to mean.54 125 (= GP G 23) is heavily damaged, but appears
to concern substantive rules about a slave (woikeus) and cohabitation.55 126 (=
GP G 30) is heavily damaged, but mentions a fine and the ksenios kosmos, the
‘kosmos for foreigners’; perhaps this rule fell within that magistrate’s jurisdic-
tion.
A number of laws date to c. 500–450. 127–128 (= GP G 41) is the so-called
‘Little Code’, composed of seven columns (the upper portion of each column is
missing). The first three columns deal with animals. The rules begin with pro-
cedure, stating that the owner of an animal injured by another person’s animal
may choose to exchange the damaged animal with a healthy one belonging to
the offending party, or to accept its monetary value. If he does not present the
injured or dead animal to the offending party, then no legal action can occur. If
a boar wounds or kills a cow, the cow’s owner is to receive the boar. Column ii
begins with a wounded animal being led to the owner of the wounding animal:
if the wounded animal dies, then its owner has to summon the wounding
animal’s owner to view the body within five days in the presence of witnesses,
who have to swear an oath. The column ends with an incomplete rule about
attack by a dog. Column iii begins by stipulating the grounds for legal action
involving some sort of similar dispute over injury by an animal. Lines 7–17 deal
with the borrowing of an animal and subsequent failure to return it; this merits
payment of the animal’s value, but if the borrower takes the dispute to trial and
loses, he must pay twice that amount. Column iv switches to a different sub-
ject, viz. fugitive slaves. If the slave (woikeus) takes asylum in a sanctuary, he is
not to be sold, nor can he be sold during the year after he has run away. Similar
rules govern the slave of a kosmos. These substantive provisions are followed by
54 Koerner 1993: 374; Gagarin and Perlman 2016: 285–286.

55 For the term woikeus see Lewis 2018: 150–153.
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a procedural rule about trials and the judge swearing an oath about the term of
interdicted sale. Columns v and vi concern legally free persons serving in debt
bondage, and are largely procedural. Column v deals with offences by a debt
bondsman. Here, we have three parties: the debtor, his creditor (for whom he is
working in debt bondage), and a third party who is the victim. If the bondsman
was instructed to perform the offence by his creditor, then he is not liable. If the
creditor disputes this, then he must swear an oath of denial. If the bondsman is
found guilty, he is liable to pay the damages. There follows a clause dealing with
this circumstance if the bondsman lacks the wherewithal to pay the fine; but
the text is damaged at that point. Column vi deals with the bondsman as vic-
tim: if a third party harms the bondsman, then the creditor can sue the offender
and split any winnings with the bondsman. If the creditor does not bring suit,
then the bondsman can do so unilaterally once he has paid off his debt to the
creditor. Column vii deals with sales and contains provisions on terminating
purchases within 30 days and contested ownership. The ‘Little Code’, then, sets
out substantive offences and provides detailed procedural guidance on how to
resolve various disputes.
129 (= GP G 42) concerns property boundaries and provides procedural
instructions to the judge and litigants on how to conduct the suit. 130–133 (= GP
G 43) are basically substantive: 130 bans a creditor who has seized his debtor’s
threshing floor in restitution for an unpaid debt from preventing the debtor
using it to process his harvest. 131 bans creditors from unjustly seizing slaves
or their clothing in restitution for an unpaid debt and provides a penalty. 132
asserts that the land at Keskora and Pala is public property and bans it from
being sold and mortgaged, but allows individuals to grow crops there. 133 per-
mits individuals to divert river water onto their own land, but limits the amount
that can be diverted. 134 (= GP G 44) is badly damaged; it sets out substantive
rules about the heiress and her marriage. 135 (= GP G 45) is also badly pre-
served, but contains procedural rules in cases of property seized in restitution
for a debt. 136–137 (= GP G 46) contains two substantive rules: the first bans
individuals from breaking through the wall or smoke-hole of a house, setting a
penalty; the second permits funerary processions to cross private land if there
is not an accessible road, and sets a penalty for those who prevent its passing.
138 (= GP G 47) mirrors the debt bondage provisions of the ‘Little Code’ but
treats instances where the debtor’s slave is sent in loco domini to work off his
owner’s debt, and thus resides with his owner’s creditor. If the bondsman of
slave status harms a third party, litigation is to proceed against the slave’s owner
if the slave acted of his own volition, but against the owner’s creditor (who is in
temporary charge of the slave) if the creditor issued the instruction that led to
the offence. If a third party harms the slave, then both the slave’s owner (viz. the
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debtor) and the creditor can jointly sue the perpetrator and split the winnings
if successful. If one of them chooses not to sue, the other can proceed unilat-
erally; if he wins the suit, he keeps all of the damages. The law then considers
the disappearance of a slave placed in debt bondage: the creditor must swear
before a judge that he is not to blame and does not know the slave’s where-
abouts. If the slave dies, the creditor must show the body to the slave’s owner;
if not, he must pay the owner the value of the slave. If the owner accuses the
creditor of selling or hiding his slave, he receives double the value of the slave as
damages if he wins the suit. Finally, the creditor is obligated to show the debtor
where his slave is if the slave flees and takes up asylum in a temple. This rule
is largely concerned with rights and duties regarding dispute resolution; it has
little to say about the trial procedures themselves.
139 (= GP G 51), dealing with oaths, is procedural. 140 (= GP G 52), like 133,
deals with water rights, and contains a substantive offence (negligently releas-
ing water, presumably onto the land of a neighbour; cf. Dem. 55) and a penalty.
141 (= GP G 55) is heavily damaged but seems to provide a procedure in cases of
the wounding of slaves. 142 (= GP G 57) is heavily damaged but preserves pen-
alties seemingly in relation to sales. 145–146 (= GP G 73) deals, like 133 and 140,
with water rights; here, leading water across a neighbour’s land without permis-
sion is banned and made subject to penalties; regulations also prevent water
courses from damaging housing or washing away manure heaps. The law is thus
substantive. 147–149 (= GP G 75) concern security for loans: 147 is substantive
and provides a list of items that cannot be pledged. 148 is also substantive and
empowers an agent to seize property in restitution for a debt if the creditor is
too old or unable to do it himself. 149 is procedural, and presumably relates
to enforcing the substantive rules set out in 147–148. 150–151 (= GP G 76B) is
substantive and gives rules to heirs on the purification of a corpse. 152 (= GP G
77) regulates the public distribution of produce. Its substantive part regulates
the office of karpodaistas, ‘produce distributor’, whilst the remainder sets pen-
alties for theft or non-distribution of the produce. 153 (= GP G 78) regulates the
position of freedpersons as residents at Latosion and protects them from re-
enslavement. It is substantive with penalty clauses, and is clearly aimed at the
lower end of the social spectrum rather than being focused on the elite. 154 (=
GP G 79) is substantive with penalties, and imposes an obligation on certain
persons to work on civic projects whilst providing for their subsistence. 155 (=
GP G 81) provides extensive substantive rules on how to go about foreclosing
on a debtor’s property. 156 (= GP G 82) is a procedural law about arbitration. 157
(= GP G 83) is also procedural, and concerns those taking asylum in a temple.
158 (= GP G 84) is badly damaged; the surviving text outlines a series of fines.
159 (= GP G 85) is to do with pledges and contains a damaged procedural pro-
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table 9.1 The ‘Great Code’ of Gortyn
Topic Location Contents
1. Col. i.2–ii.2 Seizure of persons

2. Col. ii.2–10 Rape
3. Col. ii.11–16 Rape of a slave
4. Col. ii.16–20 Attempted intercourse
5. Col. ii.20–45 Seduction
6. Col. ii.45–iii.16 Divorce
7. Col. iii.17–37 Separation of spouses
8. Col. iii.37–40 Special payments to a spouse
9. Col. iii.40–44 Separation of slaves
10. Col. iii.44–iv.8 Children of divorced women
11. Col. iv.8–17 Exposure of children
12. Col. iv.18–23 Unwed slave mothers
13. Col. iv.23–v.1 Distribution of property among women
14. Col. v.1–9 Nonretroactivity of law on gifts to women
15. Col. v.9–54 Inheritance and division of the estate
16. Col. vi.1–2 Gifts to a daughter
17. Col. vi.2–46 Sale and mortgage of property
18. Col. vi.46–56 Ransom of prisoners
19. Col. vi.56 (?)–vii.15 Marriage of slave men and free women
20. Col. vii.10–15 Liability of an owner for his slave
21. Col. vii.15–viii.30 Marriage or remarriage of the heiress
22. Col. viii.30–ix.1 Further provisions for heiresses
23. Col. ix.1–24 Sale or mortgage of heiress’ property
24. Col. ix.24–40 Liability of heirs
25. Col. ix.40–43 The son as surety
26. Col. ix.43–x? Business contracts
27. Col. x?–25 Gifts of males to females
28. Col. x.25–32 Restrictions on the sale of slaves
29. Col. x.33–xi.23 Adoption
30. Col. xi.24–25 Amendment to topic 1
31. Col. xi.26–31 The duty of judges
32. Col. xi.31–45 Amendment of topic 24
33. Col. xi.46–55 Amendment of topic 6
34. Col. xii.1–5 Amendment of topic 27
35. Col. xii.6–19 Amendment of topic 22
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vision concerning trial. 160 (= GP G 86) is badly damaged; like 157 it mentions
temple asylum; it also mentions a penalty. 161 (= GP G 87) is quite damaged but
clearly contains substantive instructions on the collection of debts. 162 (= GP
G 91) is damaged, but seems to provide instructions on pledging property.
163–181 cover the so-called ‘Great Code’ (= GP G 72) of c. 450. As this is a
familiar and lengthy text, we will present its basic subject matter (table 9.1,
p. 253, organized following Gagarin 1982) before proceeding to some general
statements on its balance of substantive and procedural elements.
First, this twelve-column document is organised substantively, not by pro-
cedure. The various laws in column ii, for instance, are thematically linked
by the subject of sexual intercourse, which segues into thematically linked
rules in column iii to do with separation of spouses. The topics in columns
IV–V (Gagarin’s topics 13–16) sit well together in regulating property transfers
and limiting the property rights of women.56 To be sure, some units interrupt
the flow (for example the rules on ransom), whilst various amendments are
tacked on at columns XI–XII which supplement earlier rules and were evid-
ently carved after the earlier laws that they modify were set in stone. But the
overall organisation is clearly substantive, not procedural. The laws of Gortyn
were not unusual in this regard. When Aristotle (Pol. 1274b) discusses the laws
Philolaos enacted for Thebes, he singles out those about bearing children,
which are called the laws of adoption, a substantive category. Hippodamos of
Miletus believed that there should be only three categories of laws, correspond-
ing to the main sources of actions: hybris, damage, and homicide (Pol. 1267b).
He also proposed that elected officials address three main areas: public mat-
ters, matters concerning aliens, and matters concerning orphans (Pol. 1268a).
In each case he organised statutes into substantive categories. These may be
utopian, but in a broad sense they reflect actual practices.57
Second, the overall content of the Great Code is largely substantive, provid-
ing detailed instructions on rights and duties in various domains, but particu-
larly in relation to property and the family. The only substantial sections that
are overtly procedural are the rules in column i on the seizure of persons, and
in column xi on the duty of judges. In all there are eleven columns of 53 to
56 lines and one column of 19 lines, altogether a total of 625 lines. Only 101
lines contain instructions to a judge about how to decide a case; another 35
lines indicate situations in which the plaintiff might bring an action but do
not indicate how to resolve the dispute; another 12 lines describe situations
56 See Bresson 2016.

57 See further Harris 2013: 146–147 and Kristensen 2004.
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in which a plaintiff cannot bring an action; 4 lines mention the swearing of

oaths as the prescribed method of resolving a dispute though they do not men-
tion a judge; and 12 lines prescribe rules for what to do when the judge for
orphans is not available. One might argue that these sections do contain pro-
cedural rules, even though they are very brief. Yet even if one were to add
these 35 lines to the total, this increases the lines dealing with procedural
matters to 136 lines out of 625 lines. This means that over three quarters of
the code contain no reference to legal procedure. Major questions about pro-
cedure receive no answer: the reader does not learn how to bring an action,
where and when judges decide cases, how judges are to be selected, how long
litigants can speak, or how judgments are recorded. The substantive provi-
sions can get quite detailed; the references to procedures are often brief and
cryptic. The code does little to enlighten us about the meaning of key pro-
cedural terms such as dikadden and krinen, still the subject of debate among
scholars.
Taken as a whole, it is false to claim that Gortyn’s laws are mainly procedural
(although many laws do mention procedure, and several are wholly devoted to
the subject). Far more effort is expended on substantive law, setting out the
rights and duties of individuals in society. These laws go well beyond the nar-
row function of channelling conflict into the courtroom, showing much more
interest in the regulation of status, orderly relations between neighbors, and
the preservation and orderly transfer of property. These are issues which are
not confined to the elite, but to all classes of society.
10 Conclusion
When it comes to formulating generalisations about early Greek law, it is vital to

take into account a wide range of evidence. Claims such as the law’s alleged pre-
occupation with regulating elite conflict and sharing access to office are based
on a highly selective reading of the evidence. Indeed, beyond the Dreros law
on the kosmos (90) and another (121) from Gortyn, one searches in vain for
evidence of the apparent obsession with turn-taking among the elite. (Besides,
these two rules are probably better interpreted as curbs on the power of the
individual, not intra-elite turn-taking.58) What these laws show is the response
58 The idea that these were to do with turn-taking (e.g. Foxhall 1997: 120; Forsdyke 2005: 26;
Hall 2014: 144) seems like an anachronistic backwards projection of the principle noted by
Aristotle at Politics 1317a40–1317b13; and this, one should note, is Aristotle’s idea of demo-
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to a concern shared in contemporary literary sources, viz. fears about a tyr-

ant coming to power (e.g. Alcaeus fr. 70; 141; 348; Solon fr. 32; 33; Theognis
39–52 [West]). These fears led to the widespread use of several institutional
responses: the powers exercised in the nascent state were split into sub-fields;
colleges of magistrates were empanelled to oversee these specific sub-fields;
term limits were placed on the tenure of their offices; and penalties were
imposed for malfeasance.59
The idea that Archaic laws were mainly designed by and for elites owes more
to academic fashions than to what can be read in the evidence. The notion—
popular in the 1990s and early 2000s—of the long slumber of Rip van Demos
(who apparently slept through several centuries in which Greek societies were
little more than elite playgrounds, before springing into action in 508/760) is
now rightly treated with increasing scepticism.61 Perhaps the most compel-
ling critique is Hans van Wees’ essay ‘Stasis, destroyer of men’ of 2008, which
demonstrates that even in that archetypically elite-focused genre, Homeric
epic, a close reading shows the demos to be far from an inert, bovine mass of
bystanders; rather, they are closely engaged in the affairs of the community, and
liable to rise up in force to lynch or drive out abusive leaders if their prerogat-
ives are too often trod upon or ignored (e.g. Od. 16.376–384; 424–430).62 Early
Greek elites had neither the ideological tools (such as religious mandate) or the
military strength required to get away with ruling oppressively over a much lar-
ger number of their poorer compatriots for any extended length of time. When
Solon (fr. 4 [West]; cf. Hes. Works & Days 189–201) mentions the misdeeds of the
elite, he does not claim that they will get away with such behaviour indefinitely,
or that such behaviour was the normal state of affairs in Archaic Attica, but that
social breakdown will ensue in which the elite themselves will be reduced to
misery. We might also note warnings such as that of Theognis (39–52 [West])
that even if for the time being the demos were placid, corruption and misbeha-
viour among the elite could lead to civil strife and tyranny.
cratic ideology, not elite ideology. On the misleading idea in this section of the Politics that
democratic ideology was concerned with allowing the individual to do as he wished, see
Filonik 2019.
59 See Davies 2003; Harris 2006: 18–21.
60 e.g. Foxhall 1997: 119, ‘I would argue that generally the poleis of Archaic Greece were little
more than a stand-off between the members of the elite who ran them’, a view endorsed
enthusiastically in Anderson 2005: 179. Hawke 2011 passim presents a similar view. Fors-
dyke 2005: 15–29 presents an only slightly toned-down version of this picture.
61 See inter alia Schmitz 2004; van Wees 2008; Kõiv 2011; Allan & Cairns 2011; Simonton 2016:
9–20; Ma 2016. Cf. from a Marxist angle Rose 2012.
62 Van Wees 2008.
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The demos, then, was always a serious concern of Archaic elites: as a source
of potential threat, but also a potential ally to enlist against rivals by appeal-
ing to broadly shared notions of how a harmoniously run society ought to
work. That does not mean that we should exclude the element of intra-elite
conflict from our explanations of Archaic political developments. Rather, the
challenge is to integrate this dynamic with the rest of society, instead of believ-
ing in a politically comatose pre-Cleisthenic demos that the elite could safely
ignore. So even if many of the laws considered above were conceived of and
enacted by elites, this process was not inward-looking and concerned only with
power-sharing among a narrow establishment: it had to take into account a
much wider range of problems and claims. Indeed, the enactment of laws—
on those occasions when we learn about who indeed enacted them—seems
often to have involved assemblies, with the attendant need to garner support
from a much broader section of the free community.63 When Hall writes that
‘the elites of seventh-century Greece contracted with one another to distrib-
ute, share, and rotate political offices as part of a voluntary self-regulation that
entailed, as its necessary function, the exclusion of non-elites’, his mistake is
one of omission, not commission. The result is a seriously incomplete picture
of reality. Archaic politics comprised very much more than a closed elite circle
that could comfortably ignore the claims of the rest of the free community.
What the sources suggest is that early Archaic poleis represented an uneasy
and highly unstable compromise between the demos and its leaders. On the
one hand, the demos acknowledged the elite’s right to make political decisions,
enjoy the greatest prestige, and impose payments on the populace for protec-
tion and the provision of justice.64 In return, the elite had to hold up their
side of the bargain, fighting at the forefront in battle, distributing largesse, and
providing straight justice. Unfortunately, the ferocious demand for wealth that
was created by intra-elite competition (expressed through resource-hungry
practices such as conspicuous consumption and display in clothing, votives,
weddings, funerals, gift-giving among xenoi, chariot racing, patronage of poets,
vel sim.) meant that rich men were constantly tempted to take bribes, seize
resources, and augment their workforce by enslaving the poor either through
predatory lending or by naked force.65 Predation upon the demos and the
63 Papakonstantinou 2008: 47–70; Werlings 2010.

64 Van Wees 1992: 85–86; Harris 1997.
65 Solon fr. 36 [West]; cf. Hom. Od. 17. 249–250; 20.374–383. For slaves as the core workforce of
archaic elites see Harris 2012; Lewis 2018: 114–119. For Solon’s ban on enslavement for debt
see Harris 2006: 249–269. The rules in IC iv 41 iv = 128 may represent a similar measure at
Gortyn.
- 978-90-04-51363-1
breakdown of justice were, accordingly, perennial problems; and the demos

could kick back violently if maltreated too often or pushed too far, leading to
stasis (that of Solon’s Attica being the most conspicuous example). The pro-
mulgation of written law across the early Greek world gradually introduced
much-needed stability to this volatile mix. It limited the extent to which elite
men could exercise personal power, holding them accountable for misdeeds in
office as well as strengthening the rights of weaker members of society. But as
we have seen, Archaic laws went much further than this. They regulated almost
every conceivable area of life, stabilising rights and duties for all members of
society and providing redress against violations of the rules.
If we consider Archaic law-making in its wider historical context, we can
see how it interlocks with broader processes of centralisation, institutionalisa-
tion, and state formation that occurred in Greece over the period c. 750–500bc.
This period saw the evolution of small poleis that were not too different from
the sort described by Homer and Hesiod—communities ruled by charismatic
but unregulated basileis—into the fully fledged state societies of the period just
prior to the Persian Wars.66 Inter alia, this period saw the growing centralisation
and elaboration of fiscal institutions, allowing Archaic poleis to invest in e.g.
expensive circuit walls,67 temples and public amenities,68 and trireme fleets;69
it saw the gradual formulation of rules defining magistrates and citizens;70 the
eventual state monopolisation of force and the suppression of private forms
of violent acquisition, including a decline in the carrying of weapons in daily
life;71 the incorporation of territorial units, and the consolidation of borders.72
Rather than representing merely the legacy of elite efforts to ensure the long-
term survival of a gentlemen’s agreement for sharing power, early Greek laws
reflect one facet of a much larger set of historical processes that forged the civic
societies of the Classical period.
66 On the classical polis as a state, see Harris 2013: 21–59.

67 Fredericksen 2011.
68 Mazarakis Ainian 1997.
69 Van Wees 2013.
70 e.g. Seelentag 2015. On debates over citizenship, see the recent studies of Blok 2017; Fröh-
lich 2017; and the essays in Duplouy & Brock 2018.
71 Gabrielsen 2013; van Wees 1998.
72 Canevaro 2017.
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Appendix: Was Solon’s seisactheia a mīšarum Edict?
In a recent article, J. Blok, in collaboration with the Near Eastern special-

ist J. Krul, argues that Solon’s Seisachtheia was an abolition of debts inspired
by Near Eastern debt-abolition edicts which Solon learned about during his
travels.73 Admittedly, it would be fascinating were this thesis true. However, we
consider it implausible, and in lieu of a full critique draw attention to several
serious flaws. (We have no objections to Krul’s admirable discussion of the Near
East on pp. 624–636.)
First, Blok trusts (pp. 618–619) to a ‘unanimous tradition’ that Solon abol-
ished debts; indeed her entire argument stands or falls on this point. However,
the ‘tradition’ is a fourth-century rationalisation of Solon fr. 36 [West], depend-
ing on an anachronistic misunderstanding of the word horoi as debt-markers
whose removal must signify debt-cancellation (see [Arist.] Ath.Pol. 12.4, actu-
ally quoting Solon fr. 36 as evidence for this view, a fact that Blok glides over).74
Nobody in [Aristotle]’s day knew for sure what the seisachtheia involved; they
hunted for clues to solve the riddle, [Aristotle] fixating on the word horoi in
Solon’s poems, Androtion on terms for weights and measures in Solon’s laws.
These writers further assumed that stasis must have been caused by debt, based
on fourth-century assumptions about the causes of stasis (cf. Pl. Resp. 565e–
566a; [Dem.] 17.15; FD iii 1, 294; Justin 6.4.2; D.S. 19.9.5). This finds no sup-
port in Solon’s poetry, which mentions a violent breakdown of law and order,
but says nothing about debt. Again, Blok falls for fourth-century rationalisa-
tions. Finally, Blok misrepresents the arguments of Harris 1997 as claiming that
(p. 615; cf. 617) ‘The horoi marked off the territories in Attica that each of these
elite groups claimed as their own.’ We note for the record that Harris wrote no
such thing (this is an argument of Ober in a volume that Blok co-edited). Blok
claims (p. 617) that Harris’ argument that the hektemoroi paid Homeric-style
gifts at a fixed rate is ‘plausible enough’, but lacks Archaic parallels, but forgets
that Harris drew a parallel with the compulsory gifts to Peisistratus.75 In sum,
this ambitious study fails to treat the ancient evidence and modern scholarship
with sufficient care, and its flaws (particularly the uncritical acceptance of the
tradition of a debt crisis and debt abolition) vitiate its thesis.
73 Blok and Krul 2017.

74 Harris 1997: 104–107.
75 Harris 1997: 107–111. Peisistratus: [Arist.] Ath. Pol. 16.4 [one-tenth]; Thuc. 6.54 [one-twen-
tieth]; Homeric gifts: Iliad 9.149–156; 12.310–321; Odyssey 13.13–15; 19.194–198.
- 978-90-04-51363-1
Acknowledgements
This chapter is based on talks given by both authors during the last decade
(Harris in Oxford in May 2010 and Mainz, November 2018; Lewis in Athens,
September 2010; both Harris and Lewis in Edinburgh, June 2014). We thank the
several audiences for their questions, suggestions, and criticisms. We would like
to thank Mrs Anne White for proof-reading this chapter.
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part 3
Leaders and Reformers
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chapter 10
Against the Rules: The Plurality of Oikists and New

Perspectives on Greek ‘Colonisation’
Sebastian Scharff
1 Why the History of Greek Colonisation (Still) Matters
Greek foundation tales are wonderful stories. They offer fascinating narrat-
ives of adventurous journeys, heinous crimes, and even new beginnings.1 What
makes them particularly interesting for ancient historians is the fact that they
allow us various insights into the way Greek communities wanted their origins
to be understood. That is to say, they are good sources for what Hans-Joachim
Gehrke calls ‘intentional history’.2 Nevertheless, there is more to the study of
Greek colonisation than that. I am not convinced that we should ‘eradicate’
‘chapters on Colonization (…) from books on early Greece’,3 as Robin Osborne
put it. It is true that literary sources concerning colonising ventures are com-
plicated to deal with, but it is possible to detect some reliable historical inform-
ation, as I will demonstrate in what follows. This does not negate that ‘we can
still learn a great deal’4 by analysing the political purposes of the telling of
these foundation stories in later times. I think, however, that Greek colonisa-
tion remains a topic worth studying in its own right as well.5 The history of
1 The Greeks themselves loved these stories. So it is with good reason that Santo Mazzarino
1974: 11 once pointed out: ‘Tutta la storia greca era considerata dagli antichi, in buona parte,
storia di apoikiai.’
2 Gehrke 1994 (English version: 2001); Gehrke 2014: 9–36; see also the volume Foxhall, Gehrke
and Luraghi 2010.
3 Osborne 1998: 269. I am not the first to criticise Osborne’s ‘total rejection of (sc. literary)
sources as related to colonization’ (Morakis 2011: 461); cf. e.g. Malkin 2002 and Mele 2006.
On the contrary, Wilson 2006, and Hall 2007: 110–117, 172; 2008, support his view. In my opin-
ion, Osborne’s article is groundbreaking in the way he deconstructed ‘the traditional model
of Greek colonisation as a state-guided enterprise’ (Morakis 2011: 461). I follow his view of col-
onising ventures as a process, not as a single event (cf. also Murray 2019: 21), but I also think
that his picture is not in contrast, but rather in accordance with the (early) literary sources.
Consequently, I take his article as a contribution which was meant to be provocative and shift
the debate.
4 Dougherty 1993: 179.
5 Cf. Zuchtriegel 2018: 12–45 who similarly insists on the importance of the history of fifth-

266 scharff
so-called Greek colonisation remains one of the most important processes, if

not the most import process, in the entire Archaic period. It is truly a topic
worth studying at a time where people are again ‘constantly moving across the
seas’6 escaping internal struggles.7 Like the Syrian refugees today, their ancient
predecessors were not just ‘adventurous souls to whom the grass of Campania
looked greener than the meadows of homeland Greece’,8 but rather the ‘miser-
able people of all Greece (Πανελλήνων ὀϊζύς)’,9 as Archilochus famously put it.
The colonists often had to leave their mother-city, a fact that is reflected in a
typical pattern of foundation narratives: the foundation of a city is frequently
connected to violence, not only in the establishment of the new colony, but also
at home; in the words of Carol Dougherty: ‘It’s Murder to Found a Colony’.10 So
it is with good reason, that inner conflict has been characterised as the main
driving force behind the ‘desire’ to found a colony.11 However, it was not the only
reason to found a colony, many of the other possible reasons would be dictated
by specific circumstances or events, specific to the founding of that particular
colony.12
The main focus of this chapter is the leading circle of colonisation enter-
prises. Older studies concerning Archaic colonisation have painted a picture of
a process, which was target-orientated and prearranged, in which certain rules
like ‘one oikist to one colony’ were followed. This version of the phenomenon is,
in my opinion, highly doubtful. Instead, the experimental character, at least of
the early foundations, should be emphasised. Greek colonisation was an open
and fourth-century colonisation underlining his argument by a rich catalogue including

the relevant foundations of that period.
6 Osborne 1998: 268 with reference to Archaic Greek colonisation.
7 That this historical parallel has a true fundamentum in re is best illustrated by the way
Bernstein 2004 has described colonisation enterprises. He called them ‘Fluchtbewegun-
gen’ (1). We find settlers explicitly called φυγάδες e.g. at Sinope (Ps.-Scymn. 995) and at
Himera (Thuc. 6.5.1).
8 Osborne 22009: 128.
9 Archil. fr. 102 West = Strab. 8.6.6.
10 This was recently called with quite dismissive undertones a ‘poeticist’ interpretation (Hall
2008: 385; see also Morakis 2011: 468 n. 53).
11 Bernstein 2004.
12 Modern research has spent a lot of energy discussing the motives that lead Greek settlers
to leave their homes (commercial reasons: Blakeway 1933: 202: ‘the flag followed the trade’;
Boardman 41999; need for land: Gwynn 1918; Snodgrass 1980; inner struggle: Bernstein
2004). As a result of this debate, we should emphasise the plurality of possible reasons for
colonising enterprises. Differentiation is necessary here, not only because we are dealing
with a process that covers more than 250 years, but also because the historical circum-
stances in each mother-city were unique.
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against the rules 267
process, which functioned according to a trial-and-error method. Part of this

‘method’ were foundations including more than one oikist. Still, the purpose
of this chapter is not only to demonstrate that foundations by a ‘plurality of
oikists’13 were an important phenomenon of Archaic colonisation, but also to
offer an explanation for this specific type of foundation. This explanation can
be found by linking the ‘plurality of oikists’ to another major phenomenon
of the Archaic period, namely the aristocratic cooperation that reached bey-
ond the borders of each polis. Surprisingly, such an attempt has not yet been
made.
2 ‘Rules of Colonisation’ as a Problematic Element of Previous

Research on the Topic
Previous attempts to analyse Greek colonisation often shared one feature:

they applied, more or less, strict rules to the study of Greek ‘colonisation’.
Such scholarship reached a first peak in the nineteenth century, when classi-
cists like Ernst Curtius used the topic to serve the political purposes of their
own—imperialistic—era. Curtius, for instance, wrote an article bearing the
remarkable title ‘Die Griechen als Meister der Colonisation’.14 In this article,
the ancient Greeks became a model15 for good behaviour in colonisation. For
Curtius, colonisation is a ‘national task’ (‘nationale Arbeit’),16 the foundation
of a city considered a ‘mission’ (‘Mission’).17 The indigenous population of the
areas infiltrated by the Greeks is referred to as ‘Eingeborene’18 and colonists
are rendered ‘Helden’.19 Studies of this kind, and the spirit they represent,20
13 Malkin 1987: 254.

14 Curtius 1883: 1. The whole article was written as a speech ‘zum Geburtsfeste Seiner Maje-
stät des Kaisers und Königs’, Wilhelm i.
15 Indeed, Curtius 1883: 4 in his own words speaks of the Greeks as of ‘Vorbildern’.
16 Curtius 1883: 4.
17 Curtius 1883: 6.
18 Curtius 1883: 8.
19 Curtius 1883: 7 uses the term ‘Heldenzeit’ for the whole era of Greek colonisation.
20 A good illustration of such a spirit is given by a copper engraving of T. de Vivo printed in
the ‘Album Storico del Regno di Sicilia’, Naples 1833. The title of the picture is ‘I Greci ven-
uti d’Euboa e di Calcide sotto la condotta d’Ippocle e Megastene’. On the image, we see
a young woman, probably an indigenous person, who joyfully receives the two founders
elevated in size and standing in front of the armed Euboean settlers. By this iconography
the Greeks become ‘conveyers of culture’ who were longed for long since. A good image
of the engraving is to be found in d’Agostino and Fratta and Malpede 2005: 6.
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268 scharff
are one of the reasons why one feels the need to put the word ‘colonisation’ in
italics so strongly, today.21 Needless to say, Curtius’ approach is not the way one
would treat the subject nowadays.
Other studies, however, labelled the enterprises as guided by the state. The
foundation of a new city was seen as an attempt to permanently link colony and
mother-city22 and the colonial enterprise itself was conceived as prearranged
and target-orientated. An important part of the overall picture that these stud-
ies painted were certain rules concerning the choice of an oikist: at the top
of the enterprise stood a powerful and autocratically ruling founder who con-
trolled a homogenous track of settlers originating from one city. In modern
research, the simple rule ‘one oikist to one colony’23 was proposed. According
to Timothy Cornell, the founder was ‘mit uneingeschränkter Autorität ausge-
stattet und handelte wie ein Monarch, wenn ihm auch dessen Name fehlte.’24
Wolfgang Leschhorn viewed the ‘former mighty oikists’ of the Archaic period
in contrast to the ‘Gründungsbeamte(n)’25 of the fifth century, and Irad Malkin
judged: ‘The oikist probably had absolute powers.’26
Examples of foundations including more than one oikist are not entirely
omitted from the works cited above, but these studies either tend to see them
as part of a later development or to formulate very strict ‘rules’ concerning the
choice of the oikists. According to Wolfgang Leschhorn, for instance, the found-
ation of a sub-colony always required an oikist from the mother-city of the
founding polis.27 Leschhorn deduced this ‘rule’ from a reference to a παλαιὸς
νόμος in Thucydides.28 However, as far as we can tell, the Greeks simply did
21 For practical reasons, I will refuse to do so in the rest of this chapter. The problematic
nature of the term, however, comes not only with an imperialistic attitude, but is routed
in the fact that there was no ancient Greek equivalent for the word ‘colonisation’ (see
Morakis 2011: 460 with n. 1). The Greeks called the communities from which the initiative
to found a city started metropoleis, the newly founded cities apoikiai or emporia and said
apoikoi when they meant ‘settlers’.
22 Graham 21983. Morakis 2011 has recently tried to solve the discussion whether colonial
enterprises were run by the state or were merely private enterprises with a ‘Stufenmodell’,
according to which the first Greek settlements on Sicily are to be interpreted as the initiat-
ive of private individuals, whereas ‘the second-generation colonies (…) were state-guided,
founded thanks to the initiative of specific poleis.’ (490).
23 Malkin 1987: 257. It is to be emphasised, however, that the overall picture Malkin creates
is a more complex one.
24 Cornell 1983: 1122.
25 Leschhorn 1984: 163.
26 Malkin 1987: 89.
27 Leschhorn 1984: 49 with n. 4. The idea goes back to Mazzarino 1964: 65–67.
28 Thuc. 1.24.2.
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not follow this rule.29 In my opinion, the reason why Thucydides refers to this
παλαιὸς νόμος in connection with the foundation of a Corinthian colony is that
he does not intend to give a universal ‘rule’ which was equally true for all pos-
sible sub-colonies, but a limited one concerning only Corinthian sub-colonies.
Therefore, Thucydides himself applied this ‘rule’ only to a very small number
of colonies. What is more, it must be noted that even in the case he refers to,
we hear of only one oikist.30
In short, what should be ‘eradicated’ ‘from books on early Greece’31 are not
chapters on colonisation in general, but attempts to compress a very complex
and multifaceted process into rather simplistic and singular rules.
3 New Perspectives on the History of Greek Colonisation
However, while I do not share Osborne’s (pessimistic) conclusion about the

impossibility of writing a history of Greek colonisation, there is no doubt that
at least three of his key observations are well taken: first, colonising ventures
were private enterprises of single adventurous aristocrats, not guided undertak-
ings by the state, since the city-states of the Greek motherland were not fully
developed poleis at this early stage of history. Thus, he rightly speaks of ‘indi-
viduals and small groups out for their own gain’.32 Second, these enterprises
should better be understood as a process, rather than as a single event, and
third, this process was initiated within a culture the most important character-
istic of which was its enormous mobility.33
This last aspect is also emphasised by Uwe Walter, who noticed a huge reser-
voir of ‘schlicht mobiler Menschen’.34 In his opinion, for all these seamen,
merchants, pirates, mercenaries, and ‘fortune seekers’35 the Homeric epics,
29 Malkin 1987: 256: ‘In fact, there is no evidence that in such “sub-colonies” more than
one oikist was ever involved, although this explanation (quite plausible in itself) is often
offered.’
30 Malkin 1987: 256.
31 Osborne 1998: 269.
32 Osborne 1998: 268.
33 Ibid. An important addition to Osborne’s observations number one and two has recently
been made by Morakis 2011, who comes, by means of a deep analysis of the Thucydidean
Sicilian logos, to the conclusion that Osborne’s picture of private enterprises and colon-
isation as a process and not as an instant event holds merely true for the early ventures of
the eighth and seventh centuries, whereas the later (sub-)colonies ‘were mostly planned
settlements, overseen by the authorities of fully formed city-states’ (Morakis 2011: 492).
34 Walter 2004: 67.
35 Ibid.
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270 scharff
and especially the Odyssey, provided excellent ‘role models’.36 According to his
interpretation, the homecoming stories of Achaean heroes returning from Troy
are not only to be understood as a mirror of colonising ventures, but also as
a means of shaping the Archaic Greek horizon of thinking. Therefore, these
stories played a significant role in making this period a time that Anthony Snod-
grass has famously labelled as the ‘Age of Experiment’.37
Uwe Walter casually mentions two other important aspects, which refer
to the nature of colonising ventures: first, he uses the term ‘ports of depar-
ture’ (‘Auswanderungshäfen’)38 when referring to the starting points of colon-
ising activities, such as in Chalcis, Eretria, Corinth, and Miletus. Such a term
fits very well into the picture drawn by recent archaeological research, which
has emphasised the character of colonising ventures as ‘joint foundations’.39
Second, Walter stresses the vital role of individual aristocrats. There is no doubt
that many of them were involved in internal struggle. Yet, the easiest way to
solve internal conflicts was to send the less powerful group abroad.40 We know
from the Classical period that staseis were often fought with foreign support.41
For the moment, we should bear this aspect in mind, and ask the question: how
do the oikists fit into this new picture of Greek colonisation?
4 Foundations including More Than One Oikist
Already in the Archaic period, Greek aristocrats had a complex network of con-
nections that did not end at the borders of their hometowns. They met with
their peers at the great panhellenic festivals,42 were bound to each other via
marriage,43 and also through guest friendship.44 This is certainly not to say that
36 Ibid.; cf. Osborne 1998: 256.

37 Snodgrass 1980: 1.
38 Walter 2004: 67.
39 Tsetskhladze 2006; Yntema 2010; Domínguez 2011.
40 Walter 2004: 68. The same aspect is emphasised by Bernstein 2004 in a systematical study
of the topic.
41 Gehrke 1985.
42 Stahl 1987: 97.
43 Greek aristocrats married among their peers (social homogamy): Davies 1971: 118; Stahl
1987: 93–96; Duplouy 2006: 79–118, Schmitz 2008: 41. The most famous example certainly
is the story about the wedding of Agariste, the daughter of Kleisthenes of Sicyon, and
the Athenian Megakles who belonged to the family of the Alkmaionidai (the wooing is
described in detail in Hdt. 6.126–130).
44 Herman 1987 is crucial here; see also Stahl 1987: 96–97; Stein-Hölkeskamp 1989: 79–80;
Konstan 1997; Wagner-Hasel 2000; Raaflaub 2004: 198.
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the element of inner-aristocratic competition should be downplayed. Rather,

both aspects constitute different sides of one and the same coin.
It cannot seriously be doubted that the oikists stemmed from this stratum
of society. For some oikists, the sources even explicitly state that they were
of aristocratic origin.45 In my opinion, these aristocratic connections are the
missing link, which explains the hierarchical structures of colonising ventures.
However, I shall first take a deeper look into these structures, by analysing the
examples of the relevant foundations, before delving into an explanation of the
phenomenon in a second step.
4.1 The Expedition of Dorieus

My first example is a late one: according to Herodotus, the Spartan prince
Dorieus, who could not accept the reign of his older half-brother Cleomenes,
went away and tried repeatedly to found a colony in Libya and Sicily.46 Al-
though his attempts were unsuccessful, we can nevertheless learn a great deal
about his undertakings.
The first important aspect for our analysis is that he is said to have been
accompanied by four συγκτίσται.47 These ‘co-founders’ were all Spartiates and
clearly held a higher position, well above the group of the ordinary settlers.
This was demonstrated by the fact that one of these συγκτίσται, Euryleon, fol-
45 Aristocratic origin is attested e.g. for Archias, the founder of Syracuse (Thuc. 6.3.2–3),
Chersicrates, Corcyra’s oikist (Timae. FGrH 566 F 80 = Sch. Apoll. Rhod. 4.1216; Strab. 6.2.4)
and Phalios who founded Epidamnos (Thuc. 1.24.2); cf. Leschhorn 1984: 85.
46 Hdt. 5.39–48, esp. 42–46; see also Paus. 3.4.1. For this expedition, see Leschhorn 1984: 53–
56; Malkin 1987: 22–23; 78–81; Malkin 1994: 192–218; Bernstein 2004: 26–27 and Raaflaub
2004: 202. There has been a debate on the question of the character of this enterprise.
Whereas Schenk von Stauffenberg 1960 and Braccesi 1999 saw it as part of a political
agenda of the Spartans to secure their merchant routes (‘Handelsverbindung’) and to
avoid a ‘Umklammerung’ by Persians and Carthaginians, Welwei 2004: 115 is certainly
right when he points out that one must not assume ‘eine derart weiträumige strategische
Planung (…) für diese Epoche’. That there was a certain military character to the enterprise
is beyond doubt (Leschhorn 1984: 93). This, however, is equally true for most of the known
colonising ventures of the Archaic period. Besides, there is a strong narrative emphasis on
the obligations of a founder. The failure of Dorieus is presented as the consequence of his
negligence in the fulfillment of his duties as oikist (for example, the consultation of the
oracle in Delphi).
47 The term is not very common and only to be found, elsewhere, in Poll. 9.6 who clearly
marks it as Herodotean vocabulary: καίτοι παρ’ Ἡροδότῳ ἔστιν ὁ συγκτίστης; cf. Leschhorn
1984: 55; Casevitz 1985: 70. Since Herodotus differentiates between these ‘co-founders’ and
the rest of the settlers who are referred to as παντὶ στόλῳ it seems clear to me that συγκτί-
στης is a Herodotean terminus technicus describing settlers who were part of the leading
circle of the expedition.
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272 scharff
lowed Dorieus in the chain of command after his death, conquered Minoa,
a colony of Selinous, and died in an attempt to establish a tyranny in Selin-
ous. In addition to these συγκτίσται, even an Olympic victor took part in the
enterprise: Philippos48 of Croton was not part of the expedition to Libya, but
joined the colonising venture later, providing his own ship. The fact that Phil-
ippos was able to pay for the expenses of his entire crew clearly demonstrates
his wealth.49 Thus, we can safely assume that he was a member of the upper-
class of his hometown Croton, all the more so since Philippos had been pre-
viously engaged to the daughter of the tyrant of Sybaris. Therefore, among
the members of the colonising venture to Sicily we find at least five individu-
als whose social rank was significantly higher than that of common settlers.50
Their superior position is marked by the fact that one of these aristocrats even
commanded his own trireme, and that another later became the successor of
Dorieus. Herodotus’ description of the entire enterprise, and his use of the ter-
minus technicus ‘συγκτίστης’, makes it very clear that the pater historiae himself
imagined the leading circle of this expedition as a kind of a primus inter pares-
constellation.
Moreover, the participation of Philippos demonstrates another aspect of
this colonising venture very clearly: the historical phenomenon of aristocratic
cooperation across the borders of the polis. Obviously, Philippos joined an
expedition initiated by aristocrats from another city. Therefore, the actual
cooperation did not start before the colonising venture was already underway.
Yet, it is not very plausible to assume that he was allowed to take part in the
expedition despite never having previously met Dorieus or one of his συγκτί-
σται.51 The fact that it seems to have been relatively unproblematic for him
to join an ongoing expedition is suggestive of the very flexible character of
Archaic colonising ventures. It is important to note, again, that the expedition
of Dorieus is a late example of a colonising enterprise. Therefore, the observed
flexible character holds true even at the very end of the Greek colonisation
wave of the Archaic period. Consequently, it is with good reason that Kurt
48 For Philippos, Olympic victor in an unknown discipline in 520, see Moretti 1957: no. 135
and Mann 2001: 171, who emphasises the aristocratic origin of this athlete.
49 Hdt. 5.47.1: οἰκηίῃ τε τριήρεϊ καὶ οἰκηίῃ ἀνδρῶν δαπάνῃ.—‘bringing his own trireme and cov-
ering all expenses for his men.’ (trans. Godley).
50 Stibbe 1996: 242–245, referring to Paus. 3.16.4 and IG v 1.1521 even tried to identify two other
settlers of the expedition by name.
51 Since there can be no doubt that athletic festivals at major sanctuaries provided an ideal
framework for elite interaction (Nielsen 2018), a possible occasion for such a meeting is
given by Philippos’ Olympic victory in 520 (cf. n. 48).
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Raaflaub took the venture as ‘an illuminating example’52 of how the Greeks
travelled around the Mediterranean.
4.2 The Expeditions of Lamis and Theocles

The flexible nature of colonising ventures can be verified by a quick look into
the Thucydidean Sicilian logos, where the enterprises of Lamis and Theocles
clearly display the experimental character of early foundations. Whereas a
talented oikist like Theocles was able to found a multiplicity of cities—such
as, Naxos,53 Leontinoi,54 and Catane55—a less gifted oikist, such as Lamis,56
could fail more than once in his attempt to establish a colony.57 The found-
ing of a colony was not an easy thing to do. There was no simple script to be
followed. The oikists and their settlers needed to adjust very quickly to new
situations and different circumstances. According to Irad Malkin, this flexibil-
ity was necessary, even after the foundation of a colony. In his opinion, the case
of Catane demonstrates that a ‘plurality of oikists was an ad hoc solution to the
particular circumstances of foundation’.58 He interprets the choosing of a cer-
tain Euarchos as founder, mentioned by Thucydides, as an act of the settlers to
distinguish their new city of Catane from Theocles’ other foundations, Naxos
and Leontinoi. According to Malkin, the case of Catane precisely demonstrates
the above cited ‘tendency toward one oikist to one colony’.59 Yet, the founda-
tion of Catane has recently been interpreted quite differently.60 Moreover, the
52 Raaflaub 2004: 202: ‘[s]uch colonizing ventures were frequent from the second quarter of
the eighth century.’
53 Thuc. 6.3.1; for the foundation of Naxos see e.g. Leschhorn 1984: 8–11, Domínguez 2006:
256–258 and Morakis 2011: 467–468; the Thucydidean date of 734 seems to be confirmed
by archaeological data (Lentini 1998; Lentini 2009: 62).
54 Thuc. 6.3.3.
55 Thuc. 6.3.3.
56 Thuc. 6.4.1; for the expedition of Lamis see Morakis 2011: 469.
57 Malkin 2002: 212 is right when he states: ‘Lamis was a miserable oikist who died en route.’
58 Malkin 1987: 257.
59 Ibid.; similarly Leschhorn 1984: 13: ‘Für diese frühe Kolonisationszeit scheint es mir erfor-
derlich gewesen zu sein, daß eine Person nur in einer einzigen Stadt Oikist sein konnte.’
60 Moscati Castelnuovo 2003 (against the ‘old orthodoxy’ represented e.g. by Malkin 1987:
256–257 and Leschhorn 1984: 11–13) dates the deliberate choice of the Catanaians ‘to make’
(Thuc. 6.3.3 uses the middle form ἐποιήσαντο) Euarchos their founder to the year 466
and combines it with a re-foundation of Catane after the death of Hieron of Syracuse.
Strab. 6.2.3 actually tells us that the Catanaians were heavily engaged in ‘politics’ when
they re-excavated Hieron from the agora of Aetna whose citizens had worshipped him
as their founder. Regarding the question if there also were settlers from Cycladic Naxos,
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274 scharff
very fact that the name used here is ‘Euarchos’61 does raise some doubts on
whether we should really trust that a settler with such a name actually took
part in the foundation of the colony. We simply do not know if the inhabitants
of Catane felt some pressure to distinguish their own settlement from the two
earlier foundations. What we can say, with some confidence, is that Theocles
successfully founded colonies thrice.
Thus, in my opinion, the cases of Theocles and Lamis are evidence of phe-
nomena which are closely connected to that of the multiplicity of oikists: a
‘founder’ who does not succeed, an oikist who founds a multiplicity of colon-
ies, and colonies which are founded by a multiplicity of oikists—all of these
phenomena are part of the same picture, and refer to a world where there were
no fixed rules of migration, or handbooks on how to found a colony.62 It was a
world where flexible solutions had to be invented.
4.3 Thucydides’s Sicilian logos

There are no less than five colonising ventures, mentioned in the Sicilian
logos, which had more than one founder. Yet, before I start analysing these
foundations in detail, there is one methodological question which needs to be
addressed. The issue at stake here is to identify where the information Thucy-
dides used came from. The Sicilian logos relies, as is commonly and rightly
assumed,63 on Antiochus of Syracuse, who wrote in the middle of the fifth cen-
tury. But how did Antiochus himself gain this knowledge? According to his own
writing, he used the following method:
Ἀντίοχος Ξενοφάνεος τάδε συνέγραψε περὶ Ἰταλίας, ἐκ τῶν ἀρχαίων λόγων τὰ

πιστότατα καὶ σαφέστατα.
as Hellanic. FGrH 4 F 82 wants us to believe, see van Compernolle 1950–1951; Kontoleon

1967; Consolo Langher 1993–1994 and 1996.
61 The LSJ3 s.v. εὔαρχος gives for instance ‘beginning well’ and ‘making a good beginning’.
62 This does not mean that there were no requirements for an oikist at all—there definitely
were some like the consultation of the Delphic oracle. However, such a requirement did
not concern the organisation of the venture or the actions on the expedition, but was a
measure to gain knowledge (Malkin 1987: 25–27) and to minimise the lack of information
about the new world the oikists wanted their people to lead to (Malkin 1987: 25–27; some-
what sceptical Leschhorn 1984: 106). Another ‘important aspect of the oikist’s consulta-
tion at Delphoi’ clearly ‘was his personal designation by Apollo and the implied religious
authority with which he was invested’ (Malkin 1987: 27).
63 Most important are Wölfflin 1872 and Luraghi 1991; Morakis 2011: 463–467 with further lit-
erature.
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Antiochus, the son of Xenophanes, wrote this account of Italy, which

comprises all that is most credible and certain out of the ancient tales.64
It is apparent that Antiochus used a historical method here:65 first, he collec-

ted his sources (ἀρχαῖοι λόγοι) and then chose what information seemed most
reliable to him (πιστότατα καὶ σαφέστατα). Although we cannot know about his
exact criteria, it is obvious that he applied a form of critical investigation in
selecting his sources. According to Nino Luraghi, who emphasised the fact that
the cited passage continued as follows: τὴν γῆν ταύτην, ἥτις νῦν Ἰταλία καλεῖται,
τὸ παλαιὸν εἶχον Οἰνωτροί,66 it is quite probable that Antiochus even used the
same method as Herodotus (and maybe Hecataeus), by referring to the words
of locals as his source for events before the arrival of the Greeks.67 However,
the crucial issue here is determining what exactly ἐκ τῶν ἀρχαίων λόγων means.
It could refer to oral traditions, as well as written records. Admittedly, written
records would be better suited for the purpose of this article, and there are
indications that such material could have existed.68 It is also possible that there
was a kind of oral public commemoration connected to the founder’s cult,69 a
cult which seems to have been celebrated annually.70
64 FGrH 555 F 2 = Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 1.12.3 (trans. Carey).

65 The passage stood at the beginning of Antiochus’s work Περὶ Ἰταλίας (Luraghi 1990). Yet,
there is no reason to doubt that he applied the same method to his Σικελικά as well. For
Antiochus’s historical method, see Lendle 1992: 32–35.
66 FGrH 555 F 2 = Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 1.12.3: ‘this country, which is now called Italy, was
formerly possessed by the Oenotrians.’ (trans. Carey).
67 Luraghi 2002: 72.
68 Since we have references in the Archaic poetry of mainland Greece relating to colonisa-
tion and since we know that the poet Eumelus participated in the foundation of Syracuse,
it is a fair assumption that there must have been western poetry referring to the col-
onisation of Sicily. The second important observation is that the introduction of Greek
alphabetical writing coincides with the first colonial activities; cf. Pearson 1987: 16; Mora-
kis 2011: 466. Furthermore, it is now the opinio communis that the colonies functioned as
an engine of innovation. This aspect, however, is not restricted to town planning; rather it
could be argued that the gain in experience triggered new modes of ‘literary processing’
of these ventures. In the epigraphic record, for instance, it is possible to detect a link
between ‘colonial’ innovation and new forms of writing in the case of the practice of erect-
ing treaty-stelai in panhellenic sanctuaries, a practice that is first attested for poleis from
Southern Italy (Scharff 2016: 98–100). Possible forms of written record that were sugges-
ted to have been among Antiochus’s ἀρχαῖοι λόγοι are local chronicles (Morakis 2011: 466),
poetic sources (Mele 2006; Morakis 2011: 466), lists connected to the founder cult (Asheri
1970: 621–622), family archives (Pearson 1987: 16) or even an archive at the altar of Apol-
lon Archagetes (discussed and dismissed by Morakis 2011: 465; the altar was still visible in
Thucydides’s time [Thuc. 6.3.1]).
69 Leschhorn 1984: 99.
70 Malkin 1987: 195–200.
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It goes without saying that we cannot answer this question with absolute cer-
tainty, but whatever Antiochus’s sources may ultimately have been, it is clear
that the Sicilian logos goes back to an author from the island itself, who not
only had access to relevant information, but also possessed a kind of ‘proto-
awareness’ of the historical method.71
4.4 The Foundation of Gela

The first of the foundations in the Sicilian logos with more than one founder is
the city of Gela.72 It is explicitly said to have been ‘jointly founded (κοινῇ ἔκτι-
σαν)’73 by Antiphemos of Rhodes and Entimos of Crete.74 However, there is not
only one version of the foundation story, but at least three. While one version
can easily be identified as a late aition, deriving from the name of the city (the
oikist is laughing [γελεῖν] when receiving the oracle),75 the other two stories
should be analysed in more detail.
According to Herodotus, there was only one founder, Antiphemos, accom-
panied by a certain Deinomenes, from the island of Telos.76 There is, however,
71 In the words of Morakis 2011: 466–467: ‘So what remains in Thucydides’s narration for
the foundation of the Greek colonies is what was left, after what Antiochus considered
πιστότατα καὶ σαφέστατα from the written material to which he had access, and then what
Thucydides considered reliable or important from Antiochus’ work. To conclude, what
we possess in Thucydides’ narration is the result of the critical thought of two historians
concerning the stories recorded in writing about the foundation of the colonies.’
72 According to the chronology established by Thucydides, Gela was founded in 689. Yet,
the (almost exclusively) Corinthian pottery found at the site seems to belong to an earlier
date, 20 to 30 years older than the Thucydidean chronology (Orlandini 1963; Pizzo 1999:
165; Morakis 2011: 471–472); but see also the methodological caveats expressed by Fischer-
Hansen 1996: 334, Mannack 2002: 55 and Morley 2007: 6. As Morakis 2011: 472 puts it: ‘we
cannot know whether the pots found belong to the colonists themselves, were brought by
traders or belonged to precolonial inhabitants. […] Moreover, […] there is always the pos-
sibility that the colonists who came in 689 brought with them and used pottery older than
the types that were in circulation at this period.’ For Gela’s foundation, see also Asheri 1980:
124–126, Leschhorn 1984: 43–48, Anello 1999: 385–396, Sammartano 1999 and Domínguez
2006: 279–283.
73 Thuc. 6.4.3. A hypothesis of Wentker 1956, who, based on this passage, identified two stages
of foundation here, has been proven wrong on philological reasons (see de Wever and van
Compernolle 1967: 479–482, Casevitz 1985: 101, 157–158 and for the entire discussion Mora-
kis 2011: 470–472).
74 Morakis 2011: 470 is certainly right in emphasising the active role played by the founders
in the Thucydidean version.
75 For this version see Theop. FGrH 115 F 358 = Sch. Thuc. 6.4.3, Aristain. FGrH 771 F 1 = Steph.
Byz. s.v. Γέλα, Etym. Magn. 225 s.v. Γέλα; an allusion to laughing is already to be found in
Ar. Ach. 606.
76 Hdt. 7.153.1: τοῦ δὲ Γέλωνος τούτου πρόγονος οἰκήτωρ ὁ ἐν Γέλῃ, ἦν ἐκ νήσου Τήλου τῆς ἐπὶ Τριο-
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no source mentioning Entimos only. How is this imbalance to be explained?

The context of the episode in Herodotus is illuminating: the story is told as an
excursus framed by diplomatic negotiations between the Sicilian tyrant, Gelon,
on the one hand, and embassies from Sparta and Athens, on the other, which
took place before the expedition of Xerxes. The focus of the episode is to explain
who Gelon is. Thus, it comes as no surprise that Herodotus, while providing
the ktisis of Gela, actually focuses on the family history of the Deinomenids.
The mere fact, however, that a humble settler is mentioned in the ktisis, is an
important indication that the whole story is told from a Deinomenid point of
view, since the naming of a simple colonist is a very random phenomenon in
Greek foundation stories, especially when the settler does not even have special
expertise. The entire episode, which also tells us how the Deinomenids became
hereditary priests in Gela, seems to have been invented to connect the Deino-
menids with the foundation of the city.77 Having an ancient lineage was always
a good argument in Greek political discourse. Herodotus, too, did not buy the
whole story: when he refers to Telines shortly afterwards, another progenitor
of Gelon, he makes his doubts very clear: θῶμὰ μοι (…).78 Therefore, we should
not give too much credit to this version of the Geloian ktisis. Instead, it is with
good reason that we accept the Thucydidean version, which goes back at least
to Antiochus of Syracuse.
However, at a certain point in time, the memory of the participation of Enti-
mos was lost. The foundation of Gela is a crucial example for the study of found-
ations with more than one oikist, because it illuminates what could happen to
the founder’s cult when there were originally two oikists. A unique early fifth-
century inscription from Gela, records a dedication to Antiphemos: Μνασιθάλες
ἀνέθεκε Ἀντιφάμοι—‘Mnasithales dedicated (this) to Antiphemos.’79 Therefore,
thanks to the generosity of Mnasithales, we know two things: first, there was
πίῳ κειμένης· ὅς κτιζομένης Γέλης ὑπὸ Λινδίων τε τῶν ἐκ Ῥόδου καὶ Ἀντιφήμου οὐκ ἐλείφθη.—
‘The ancestor of this Gelon, who settled at Gela, was from the island of Telos which lies
off Triopium. When the founding of Gela by Antiphemus and the Lindians of Rhodes was
happening, he would not be left behind.’ (trans. Godley).
77 Malkin 1987: 259.
78 Hdt. 7.153.4. The fact that in the year 99 this Deinomenid tradition was even accepted
in Lindos, the hometown of Antiphemos, does not mean that it was based on histor-
ical facts, but only that the Hellenistic Lindians were pleased by the connection to the
winner of the battles of Himera and Cyme. Thus, they just made Deinomenes a Lindian:
Δεινομένης ὁ Γέλωνος καὶ Ἱέρωνος καὶ Θρα|συβούλου καὶ Π[ο]λυζάλου πατὴρ Λίνδιος ὑπάρ-
χων | καὶ συνοικίξας Γέλαν μετὰ Ἀντιφάμου.—‘Deinomenes, the father of Gelon and Hieron
and Thrasyboulos and Polyzalos, was from Lindos and founded Gela together with Anti-
phemos.’
79 Arena 1992: no. 27 (‘primi decenni del v secolo’).
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a founder cult at the beginning of the fifth century at Gela and second, it was
possible to make a single dedication only to one founder, even if there were,
or originally had been, two of them. What we cannot know for sure is if a ‘sin-
gularity in cult’ always corresponded to a ‘plurality of oikists’, as Irad Malkin
tentatively assumed.80 Still, the idea is stimulating, but as the evidence con-
sists of only one testimony, it simply does not allow us to verify such a guess.81
Moreover, the existence of a cult for Antiphemos does not prove the inexist-
ence of a cult for Entimos, may it be in the form of a single cult or of a combined
cult for both founders. So we should not postulate a rule nor a general tendency
here, but must accept the possibility that there were cases where a single oikist
better served the political interests of the day, since we can plausibly argue that
Mnasithales acted on behalf of the Deinomenids by making his dedication,82
for these tyrants connected their ancestry back to Antiphemos.
The Thucydidean tradition of the joint foundation of the city by Antiphemos
and Entimos is also to be found in Diodorus, who additionally passes down to
us the text of the foundation-oracle.83 This oracle, which, according to Diod-
orus, was explicitly given to both oikists,84 runs as follows:
Ἔντιμ’ ἠδὲ Κράτωνος ἀγακλέος ὑιὲ δαΐφρον,

ἐλθόντες Σικελιὴν καλὴν χθόνα ναίετον ἄμφω,
δειμάμενοι πτολίεθρον ὁμοῦ Κρητῶν Ῥοδίων τε
πὰρ προχοὰς ποταμοῖο Γέλα συνομώνυμον ἁγνοῦ.
Entimos and the cunning son of famous Kraton, go both to Sicily and
inhabit that fair land, when you have built a town of Cretans and Rho-
dians together beside the mouth of the holy river Gela, and of the same
name as it.85
80 Malkin 1987: 254–260.

81 We have only one uncertain parallel from Sinope: i.Sinope 62; see recently Firicel-Dana
2007 who republishes this inscription and interprets it as a dedication to the hero Phlogios
who founded Sinope together with his brothers Autolykos and Deileon.
82 We cannot prove this either, because we do not know anything else about our dedicant.
Yet, the inscription is clearly dated to the Deinomenid era, which makes an innocent
attempt solely intended to worship a hero less plausible.
83 Although there has been much debate about the authenticity of this oracle, the fact that
it should be dated not later than the sixth century seems to be commonly agreed; see
Malkin 1987: 52–54, who prefers a sixth-century date; regarding the authenticity see e.g.
Parke 1956: 64–65.
84 Diod. Sic. 8.23.1: Ἀντίφημος καὶ Ἔντιμος οἱ Γέλαν κτίζαντες ἠρώτησαν τὴν Πυθίαν, καὶ ἔχρησε
ταῦτα. ‘Antiphemos and Entimos, the founder of Gela, asked the Pythia (for help) and
received this oracle.’ (trans. Parke).
85 Diod. Sic. 8.23.1 (trans. Parke).
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There is, obviously, a strong emphasis on the joint character of the found-
ation (ἄμφω; ὁμοῦ Κρητῶν Ῥοδίων τε), an aspect which is further stressed by
the fact that it is Entimos who is mentioned first and by his name, while Anti-
phemos is called only by his patronymic.86 If we accept the opinio communis
that the text of the oracle goes back to at least the sixth century,87 it demon-
strates that in the Archaic period, there was no problem in imagining that an
oracle could be given to two founders.
To sum up, the picture of the foundation of Gela that emerges is as follows: in
the first decades of the seventh century, Gela was founded by different groups
of settlers led by Antiphemos of Rhodes and Entimos of Crete. When Gela
was dominated by the Deinomenids, these tyrants tried to secure their own
position by connecting themselves to an ancestor who had been part of the
foundation of the city. Since they chose to link him to the Rhodian Antiphemos,
the Cretan tradition lost momentum. The case of Gela is an illuminating one,
because it demonstrates how the memory of the foundation of a settlement
could change over time. It is not implausible to assume that attempts like that
of the Deinomenids, to support the memory of only one founder, were more
successful elsewhere.
4.5 The Foundation of Zancle

The case of the foundation of Zancle88 is important for the argument of this
chapter for two reasons: first, it affirms the underlying premise that Greek col-
onisation is to be understood as a process, rather than as an instant event;
second, it provides a different insight into what could happen to the founder’s
cult in a colony in whose establishment more than one oikist was involved.
The first aspect becomes quite clear when we take a look at how Thucydides
describes the foundation of the settlement:
86 Correspondingly, the Cretans are referred to before the Rhodians in v. 3.

87 Malkin 1987: 54 plausibly argues that ‘it does not seem likely that the joint aspect of the
foundation would have been emphasised at a later period, when the Rhodian element had
finally overshadowed the Cretan.’
88 Zancle was founded in about 730. Its traditional foundation date preserved in Eusebius
Chronicle is 757/56, but this date contradicts Thucydides, who does not give a found-
ation date for Zancle, but clearly considers Naxos to be the earliest Greek colony in
Sicily (734). What is more, Zancle must be founded after the establishment of Cyme
which is dated according to archaeological data to 740 (Coldstream 1994: 53–54). For
Zancle’s foundation, see Ehlers 1933, Vallet 1958: 59–66, 69, Leschhorn 1984: 16–23, Con-
solo Langher 1985, Antonelli 1996–1997, Domínguez 2006: 263–269 and Morakis 2011:
473–476; for the pottery, Bacci 1998: 387–388, Bacci 2002: 33, 35 and Morakis 2011: 475–
476.
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Ζάγκλη δὲ τὴν μὲν ἀρχὴν ἀπὸ Κύμης τῆς ἐν Ὀπικίᾳ Χαλκιδικῆς πόλεως λῃστῶν
ἀφικομένων ᾠκίσθη, ὕστερον δὲ καὶ ἀπὸ Χαλκίδος καὶ τῆς ἄλλης Εὐβοίας πλῆ-
θος ἐλθὸν ξυγκατενείμαντο τὴν γῆν· καὶ οἰκισταὶ Περιήρης καὶ Κραταιμένης
ἐγένοντο αὐτῆς, ὁ μὲν ἀπὸ Κύμης, ὁ δὲ ἀπὸ Χαλκίδος.
Zancle was originally founded by pirates from Cuma, the Chalcidian town
in the country of the Opicans: afterwards, however, large numbers came
from Chalcis and the rest of Euboea, and helped to people the place;
the founders being Perieres and Crataemenes from Cuma and Chalcis
respectively.89
The most striking aspect of this foundation story is that Zancle appears to be
established in two steps. After a group of pirates (λῃσταί) had visited the place
frequently,90 Perieres from Cyme, and Krataimenes of Chalcis, brought some
Euboean settlers (mainly from Chalcis) there and founded a permanent settle-
ment.91 Determining the choice of the oikists, however, is more difficult than
the simple ‘rules of colonisation’ would suggest. There is an oikist from Cyme,
which was a Chalcidian foundation. So according to the ‘rule’ concerning sub-
colonies referred to above,92 the majority of the settlers should have stemmed
from Cyme, while the old metropolis Chalcis, would have provided the other
oikist. Yet, the majority of the settlers seem to have originated from Chalcis, so
the evidence does not confirm this rule, since it is not even clear if such a set-
89 Thuc. 6.4.5 (trans. Dent). A similar, less accurate account is given by Paus. 4.23.7, cf. Ehlers
1933: 34 n. 84, Vallet 1958: 63–64, Leschhorn 1984: 17, Antonelli 1996–1997: 317 and Raccuia
2002: 482.
90 There was no shame in being a pirate in these days, as Thucydides himself (1.5) makes
unmistakably clear. Rather, it was perceived as a glorious occupation through which one
could gain considerable fame, like in battle. So there is no need to call the λῃσταί ‘Kauf-
leute’ (Ehlers 1933: 33) or to use the flowery term ‘gens de la mer’ (Vallet 1958: 61); cf.
Leschhorn 1984: 16 n. 5.
91 In Ps.-Scymn. 283–290 and Strab. 6.2.3, Zancle appears as a colony of Naxos. This tradition
goes back to Ephorus who is cited by Strab. 6.2.2 directly before he gives his version of
Zancle’s foundation story. Since Antiochus, as Thucydides’s source, had an interest in the
seniority of his hometown Syracuse, he may have played down the role of Naxos in the
colonisation process. So one could argue that the Chalcidian or Cymaean element should
be substituted by a foundation originating from Naxos. Yet, note that even Ps.-Scymn. 290
states about a series of Sicilian poleis, among which he ranks Zancle: εἰσὶν δὲ Χαλκιδέων
αὗται πόλεις. Therefore, Zancle was understood as a Chalcidian settlement even by authors
who stressed the Naxian element in the foundation. So there is no need to attribute the
foundation of Zancle either to Naxian or to a Chalcidian-Cymaean initiative.
92 See n. 28.
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tlement is to be classified as a ‘sub-colony.’93 In any case, we should not try to

press the historical process into too rigid a scheme.
What we definitely can observe here, however, is the phenomenon of cross-
border cooperation between members of the Cymaean and Chalcidian elites.
Although neither Thucydides nor the other sources give any substantial in-
formation concerning the division of functions between the two founders, it
is reasonable to assume that Perieres from Cyme supplied the Euboean settlers
with special knowledge concerning the place.94 This interpretation is based on
the Thucydidean account, since the son of Oloros explicitly states that the pir-
ates who first frequented the area came from Cyme.
The second aspect of Zancle’s foundation that is important to the general
argument of this chapter is based on a fragment of Callimachus’s Aitia. In the
form of a dialogue between a first person voice and Clio, the Muse of histori-
ography, the fragment tells us about a quarrel between Zancle’s two founders,
who debate the question of whom the new settlement should belong to. The
dispute is finally settled by a verdict of Delphic Apollo, who proclaims that
the colony should be owned by nobody. The fragment concludes with the
words:
φῆ θεός· οἱ δ’ ἀϊόντες ἀπέδραμον, ἐ[κ δ’ ἔτι κεί]νου

γαῖα τὸν οἰκιστὴν οὐκ ὀνομαστὶ κ[αλε]ῖ,
ὧδε δέ μιν καλέουσιν ἐπ’ ἔντομα δημ[ι]οεργοί·
‘ἵ]λαος ἡμετέρην ὅστις ἔδειμε [πόλ]ιν
ἐρ]χέσθω μετὰ δαῖτα, πάρεστι δὲ καὶ δύ’ ἄγεσθαι
κ]αὶ πλέας· οὐκ ὀλ[ί]γως α[ἷ]μα βοὸς κέχυ[τ]αι.’
The god spoke, they heard and left; from then to this day the country does
not invoke its founder by name. And the magistrates invite him thus to the
sacrifice: ‘May he, whoever it was who founded our city, be gracious, and
come to the feast: it may come two and more. No little blood of an ox has
been spilt.’95
93 For the heuristic problems concerning the term ‘sub-colony’ which is not based on ancient
terminology see Greco 1999: 289–290; recently Raviola 2015.
94 Vallet 1958: 65–66 (see also Antonelli 1996–1997) doubted the Cymaean origin of the
λῃσταί and postulated that they must have stemmed from Pithekoussai, because Cyme
was simply not old enough a settlement to have produced these pirates. But since new
pottery that dates back to the third quarter of the eighth century was found in Cyme
(d’Agostino 1999: 51–56), the chronological argument has become obsolete.
95 Callim. fr. 43 Pfeiffer 78–83 (trans. Trypanis).
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There is a clear reference to an anonymous founder’s cult in this passage

(γαῖα τὸν οἰκιστὴν οὐκ ὀνομαστὶ κ[αλε]ῖ). So we can safely assume that the exist-
ence of such a cult in Hellenistic Messene96 was the reason behind the inven-
tion of this aition.97 The last three verses may even represent a literal quotation
from the Messenian cult practice.98 In comparison with what we know about
the founder’s cult in Gela, the differences are obvious. We can easily observe
that there was no tendency in Zancle (Messene) towards a single oikist in cult
practice. Yet, Zancle was an exception. If it had not been a special case, there
would not have been the necessity to explain the origin of the cult practice by
means of an aition. Hence, an anonymous founder’s cult seems to have existed
only in Zancle. Its existence was probably due to the special political circum-
stances in this city, that may have needed a new identity after it had received the
Messenian settlers and its new name. All the more so, since prior to the renam-
ing of the city and the arrival of the Messenians, some Milesians and Samians,
who had fled the Persians during the Ionian Revolt, had settled in Zancle, too.
So there really was a lot of change concerning the population of the city at the
beginning of the fifth century (and later as well),99 which may have caused this
irregularity in the founder’s cult.
Nevertheless, we may find further suggestions of what could have happened
in the other founder’s cult in the verses of Callimachus quoted above, since it
is explicitly stated that ‘whoever founded the polis’,100 may it be ‘two and more’
(δύ’ […] [κ]αὶ πλέας),101 should come to the feast. This suggests two observa-
tions: first, that there was a need to remember any possible founder; second,
and more importantly, the idea that there could have been more than one oikist
seemed very plausible to Callimachus’s readers—and to the citizens of Hellen-
istic Messene, if we consider these verses as quoted verbatim.
In a nutshell, the case of Zancle’s foundation demonstrates that there were
no simple paradigms to be followed, neither concerning the establishment of
96 Messene was the new name of Zancle, since the tyrant Anaxilaos of Rhegion had renamed
the city and settled some Messenians there shortly after 490 bc (Thuc. 6.4.6; Paus. 4.23.6–
9; cf. Consolo Langher 2002: 255–258).
97 Malkin 1987: 198 rightly points out that there exists ‘a clear distinction […] between the
aetia themselves and the facts they set out to explain, which are independent.’
98 So Malkin 1987: 198–199, 257 (‘quoted verbatim’) and Raccuia 2002: 483 (‘una formula dal
sapore ripetitivo e, perché no?, testuale’); more carefully Cordano 1984a: 366.
99 As emphasised by Malkin 1987: 199: ‘The irregularity in its (i.e. Zancle’s) oikist cult may
be due to later waves of colonists (Samians, Messenians) or to the restoration of Messina
after the Carthaginians sacked it in 396 bc.’
100 Callim. fr. 43 Pfeiffer 81: ὅστις ἔδειμε [πόλ]ιν.
101 Callim. fr. 43 Pfeiffer 83.
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the colony itself, nor the later history of the founder’s cult.102 Trans-border
cooperation between Greek aristocrats was a very important phenomenon that
made this colonising venture possible, but the cooperation is not to be under-
stood as following precise and pre-arranged rules. If there was an oikist from
Chalcis, and a founder from Cyme, who both led the settlers, this was simply
due to the fact that there had been informal bonds between these particular
aristocrats, or their families, in the past.
4.6 The Foundations of Himera, Camarina and Acragas

Further examples of foundations in which more than one oikist was involved
include the ktiseis of Himera, Camarina, and Acragas. For our purposes, the
case of Himera is of especial importance,103 since it is the only example in
the Sicilian logos where Thucydides mentions three oikists. It is significant
that such a high number of founders did not constitute a problem, either for
Thucydides himself or for his source. Instead of commenting on the number
of oikists, Thucydides gives a rather laconic account: καὶ Ἱμέρα ἀπὸ Ζάγκλης
ᾠκίσθη ὑπὸ Εὐκλείδου καὶ Σίμου καὶ Σάκωνος.—‘And Himera was founded by
Eukleides, Simos and Sakon.’104 We are not told where the founders came from.
Yet, since there are three ‘ethnographic elements’105 mentioned in Thucydides’s
account (Zancle, Chalcis and refugees from Syracuse, the so-called Myletidai),
most scholars believe that each group of settlers had its own oikist.106 Others
have argued that all three founders must have originated from Zancle,107 while
others still leave the question somewhat undecided.108 In my opinion, there
is reason to opt for the first alternative, since, on the one hand, the Myletidai
seem to have played a significant part in the foundation,109 and, on the other,
Thucydides explicitly tells us that most of the settlers came from Chalcis.110
Therefore, we may assume that one of the oikists was from this city as well.111
102 In the words of Raccuia 2002: 486: ‘Il caso di Zancle infatti sembra orientare nel senso che,
nelle fondazioni multiple, non esistesse un rigido paradigma coloniario.’
103 According to Diod. Sic. 13.62.4, Himera was founded in 648/ 47. This date seems to be in
line with the archaeological findings (Allegro 1997: 70–71; Vassallo 1997: 85–88; Fabri and
Schettino and Vassallo 2006: 613; for sixth century-Himera, Mertens 2006: 190–192).
104 Thuc. 6.5.1.
105 Morakis 2011: 483.
106 Leschhorn 1984: 48–51; cf. Bérard 21957: 251; Asheri 1980: 132; Domínguez 2006: 333–334.
107 Mazzarino 1974: 232.
108 Morakis 2011: 482–484.
109 Leschhorn 1984: 49.
110 Thuc. 6.5.1: καὶ Χαλκιδῆς μὲν οἱ πλεῖστοι ἦλθον ἐς τὴν ἀποικίαν.
111 Yet, we should not hold with the above mentioned ‘modello interpretativo’ (Cordano 1984:
136 n. 5) that in sub-colonies one founder was always taken from the mother-city of the
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However, I do not agree with the idea that ‘the appointment of an oikist from
the mother city’ would automatically presuppose ‘an official act organized by
the authorities of the polis.’112 It seems to me more plausible that the basis for
the choice of the Chalcidian oikist is to be found in an informal bond between
the families of the founders (or the oikists themselves), which existed prior to
the colonising venture. In my opinion, such an explanation represents a bet-
ter fit for this period, which was as early as the middle of the seventh century.
Whatever origins we may assume for the founders of Himera, it seems clear
that a form of elite cooperation was the basis for the enterprise.
Some 50 years later, the city of Camarina was founded by settlers from Syra-
cuse.113 Daskon and Menekolos thus became oikists.114 Although the words of
Thucydides are quite clear, scholars have not been very happy with the easiest
solution that both founders could stem from Syracuse, but have instead spec-
ulated about the origin of the second oikist, Menekolos, and the settlers led by
him.115 In my opinion, Irad Malkin makes a good argument when he points out
that ‘[t]he lack of evidence in such cases should not be pressed to yield artificial
reconstructions.’116 Therefore, we may simply assume that two oikists of equal
standing, both originating from Syracuse, jointly founded the city.117
founding polis, since it is in no way clear if we can classify Himera as a sub-colony when
most of the settlers came from Chalcis itself.
112 Morakis 2011: 483.
113 Thuc. 6.5.3 explicitly states that the foundation took place 153 years after the foundation of
Syracuse; for a date shortly after the year 600, see also Euseb. Chron. 92–93 and Sch. Pind.
O. 5.16. For the foundation of Camarina, see Leschhorn 1984: 51–52; di Vita 1987; Morakis
2011: 484–485.
114 Thuc. 6.5.3: οἰκισταὶ δὲ ἐγένοντο αὐτῆς Δάσκων καὶ Μενέκωλος.—‘its founders became Das-
con and Menecolus.’ (trans. according to Dent).
115 Thus, Pais 1894: 237 saw the participation of Eleans, Ciaceri 1911: 249 that of Rhodians
together with Cretans. Bérard 21957: 135, Seibert 1963: 123–124 and Graham 21983: 93 n. 1
speculated about Geloan settlers and Dunbabin 1948: 105, Schenk von Stauffenberg 1963:
124, Asheri 1980: 123, Leschhorn 1984: 52 and Cordano 1987: 86, 121–122 wanted Corinthians
to be involved. The Syracusan origin of Daskon, however, has universally been accepted,
since there is a harbour of that name in Syracuse, see e.g. Leschhorn 1984: 51, Cordano
1987: 121 and Manni 1987: 68.
116 Malkin 1987: 256 n. 95.
117 When Callim. fr. 43 Pfeiffer lists Camarina with the cities which sacrificed only to one
founder, this is to be explained with the reestablishment of the city by Hippocrates, tyrant
of Gela, in 492 (Hdt. 7.154.3; Philistos FGrH 566 F 15). According to Thuc. 6.5.3, Hippocrates
himself ‘became their founder’ (αὐτὸς οἰκιστὴς γενόμενος κατῴκισε Καμάριναν). κατοικίζω
here means ‘to found again’, see Casevitz 1985: 171. Although this new foundation was des-
troyed by Gelon already in 484 and afterwards rebuilt by the Geloans, we may assume
that Hippocrates was also worshipped as an oikist, since Thuc. 6.5.3 deliberately tells us
that the last foundation was made by ‘the Geloans’ and refuses to give us any indication
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Likewise, two oikists were responsible for the foundation of Acragas, which
according to Thucydides took place 108 years after that of Gela (i.e. in the year
581118).119 The founders, Aristonoos and Pystilos, originated from Gela, since
most of the literary sources agree that the settlers came only from this city.120
Some scholars, however, have argued for the participation of Rhodian settlers
as well.121 This theory is largely based on a passage in Polybius, where Acragas
is called a Rhodian settlement.122 Yet, Polybius’s purpose for this statement was
to explain why there was a cult of Zeus Atabyrius at Acragas. Angelo Buongio-
vanni has convincingly shown that this is a reflection of a philo-Emmenid tra-
dition, going back to the Acragantinian tyrant Theron,123 who wanted to legit-
imise his own position in the city by underplaying his connections to Gela.124
In one version of this tradition, Theron’s ancestors originally stemmed from
Argos.125 By this extension of his family history, Theron may have tried to claim
priority over the Deinomenids of Gela, who ‘only’ originated from Rhodes.
about the name of a founder (Cordano 2004: 284; differently Malkin 1987: 238–239). For
fifth-century Camarina as a planned city, see Mertens 2006: 351–353.
118 The date seems to be confirmed by other sources as Pind. Ol. 2.93–96; Sch. Pind. Ol. 2.166,
168 and the archaeological findings (de Waele 1971: 96; de Miro 1988: 240–244; de Miro
2009: 245–246).
119 Thuc. 6.4.4: ἔτεσι δὲ ἐγγύτατα ὀκτὼ καὶ ἑκατὸν μετὰ τὴν σφετέραν οἴκισιν Γελῷοι Ἀκράγαντα
ᾤκισαν, τὴν μὲν πόλιν ἀπὸ τοῦ Ἀκράγαντος ποταμοῦ ὀνομάσαντες, οἰκιστὰς δὲ ποιήσαντες Ἀρι-
στόνουν καὶ Πυστίλον, νόμιμα δὲ τὰ Γελῴων δόντες.—‘Near one hundred and eight years after
the foundation of Gela, the Geloans founded Acragas, so called from the river of that
name, and made Aristonous and Pystilus their founders; giving their own institutions to
the colony.’ (trans. Dent).
120 In addition to Thuc. 6.4.4, see Ps.-Scymn. 292–293, Strab. 6.2.5, Timae. FGrH 566 F 92 = Sch.
Pind. O. 2.15a and Artemon FGrH 569 F 1 = Sch. Pind. Ol. 2.16b.
121 Leschhorn 1984: 53 (with older literature), Braccesi 1988: 5.
122 Pol. 9.27.8: τοῦ γὰρ Ἀκράγαντος ὑπὸ Ῥοδίων ἀπῳκισμένης, ὁ θεὸς οὗτος τὴν αὐτὴν ἔχει προση-
γορίαν ἣν καὶ παρὰ Ῥοδίοις.—‘For as Agrigentum was founded by the Rhodians, it is natural
that this deity (sc. Zeus Atabyrius) should have the same appellation as at Rhodes.’ (trans.
Shuckburgh). That the archaeological findings (mostly Corinthian pottery and two single
pots from Rhodes [de Miro 1988: 243–244]) cannot help to solve the question here is rightly
stressed by Morakis 2011: 482 n. 130: ‘The sample is not large enough for safe conclusions
to be made. Moreover we cannot be sure who brought this material to Acragas. It could
either originate from Rhodes or have been brought from Gela by Geloans. […], many of
the Geloans were of Rhodian origin.’
123 In Pind. fr. 119 Snell, Timae. FGrH 566 F 92 = Sch. Pind. O. 2.15a and Artemon FGrH 569 F 1
= Sch. Pind. O. 2.16b it is stressed that the ancestors of Theron came directly from Rhodes.
124 Buongiovanni 1985; see also Baghin 1991: 11–12; Musti 1992; Caserta 2000. For the erection
of the Olympieion of Acragas as another element of Theron’s attempt to legitimise his rule,
see Vonderstein 2000; for his Olympic victory in 476 (Moretti 1957: 220 praised in Pind. O.
2 and 3) and the way Theron used it to stabilise his rule, see Mann 2001: 274–281.
125 Sch. Pind. Ol. 2.16c.
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To sum up, there can be no doubt that the foundations of Himera, Camarina,
and Acragas were led by more than one founder. In the case of Himera, we even
find three oikists, a fact that did not bother Thucydides and his sources at all.
Each oikist seems to have represented a group of settlers participating in the
foundation of the colony. In the cases of Camarina and Acragas, however, both
oikists originated from the same city. Therefore, as far as Himera is concerned,
we can assume aristocratic cross-border cooperation as the basis of the colon-
ising activities, whereas in the cases of Camarina and Acragas, elite cooperation
among the members of one and the same polis appears to be at play.
4.7 Cyme
Colonies with more than one oikist were not restricted to Sicily. Even prior
to the earliest Greek foundations on the island, Greek presence is attested
for colonies in Magna Graecia as well. We have already learnt that an oikist
from Cyme participated in the foundation of Zancle. The city of Cyme itself
may have been founded around 740,126 some years later than the first western
colony, Pithekoussai.127 The main source for this is Strabo, who tells us that the
colonising venture was jointly led by Hippocles from Cyme and Megasthenes
from Chalcis, who made an agreement not only about the name of the newly
founded city, but also about the question of which polis should be regarded as
Cyme’s mother-city.128 Again, there is more than one oikist. We do not know,
exactly, how Hippocles and Megasthenes divided the various tasks. What we
126 Coldstream 1977: 231; Coldstream 1994: 53–54; d’Agostino 1999.

127 Liv. 8.22.5–6: Cumani Chalcide Euboica originem trahunt. Classe, qua aduecti ab domo
fuerant, multum in ora maris eius, quod accolunt, potuere primo ⟨in⟩ insulas Aenariam et
Pithecusas egressi, deinde in continentem ausi sedes transferre.—‘The Cumani derive their
origin from Chalcis in Euboea. Thanks to the fleet in which they had sailed from their
home, they enjoyed much power on the coast of that sea by which they dwell; having
landed first on the island of Aenaria and the Pithecusae, they afterwards ventured to trans-
fer their seat to the mainland.’ (trans. Foster). For the archaeological of both settlements,
Mertens 2006: 36–39.
128 Strab. 5.4.4: δ’ ἐφεξῆς ἐστι Κῦμη, Χαλκιδέων καὶ Κυμαίων παλαιότατον κτίσμα· πασῶν γάρ ἐστι
πρεσβυτάτη τῶν τε Σικελικῶν καὶ τῶν Ἰταλιωτίδων. οἱ δὲ τὸν στόλον ἄγοντες—Ἱπποκλῆς ὁ
Κυμαῖος καὶ Μεγασθένης ὁ Χαλκιδεύς—διωμολογήσαντο πρὸς σφᾶς αὐτοὺς τῶν μὲν ‹τὴν› ἀποι-
κίαν εἶναι, τῶν δὲ τὴν ἐπωνυμίαν· ὅθεν νῦν μὲν προσαγορεύεται Κύμη, κτίσαι δ’ αὐτὴν Χαλκιδεῖς
δοκοῦσι.—‘After these [cities] comes Cumæ, the most ancient settlement of the Chal-
cidenses and Cumæans, for it is the oldest of all [the Greek cities] in Sicily or Italy. The
leaders of the expedition, Hippocles the Cumæan and Megasthenes of Chalcis, having
mutually agreed that one of the nations should have the management of the colony, and
the other the honour of conferring upon it its own name. Hence in the present day it is
called Cumæ, while at the same time it is said to have been founded by the Chalcidenses.’
(trans. Hamilton and Falconer).
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do know, however, is that they are explicitly referred to as founders. The expres-
sion used here is οἱ δὲ τὸν στόλον ἄγοντες.129 In this way, the oikists are described
as the driving force behind the colonising venture. It is very plausible that this
included some forms of interaction between the two; in other words: a cross-
border cooperation between aristocrats.130
Concerning the settlers, it is clear that Chalcis counted as the metropolis
of Cyme. This is unequivocally confirmed by all sources referring to Cyme’s
foundation.131 With Velleius Paterculus, we even have a testimony that seems
to suggest that both founders originated from Chalcis.132 Yet, there is a strong
Cymaian element in Strabo and Pseudo-Skymnos, which provides the addi-
tional information that some Αἰολεῖς took part in the establishment of the
settlement.133 So, the first option would be to combine both pieces of inform-
ation and to assume that Strabo, as well as Pseudo-Skymnos, referred to Cyme
in Aeolis as the place where some additional settlers came from.134 Still, there
was another, less famous, Cyme on Euboea as well. This Cyme is known almost
exclusively from a reference by Stephanus of Byzantium.135 Archaeological
research, however, has been able to identify ‘an important Geometric centre’,136
129 I do not share the belief expressed by Leschhorn 1984: 2, 6 that only people who are expli-
citly called οἰκιστής, ἀρχηγέτης or κτίστης by our sources could be regarded as ‘real’ oikists.
This seems to me a rather simplistic assumption, since ἄγοντες bears the same root as
ἀρχηγέτης. What is more, Vell. Pat. 1.4.1 refers to Hippocles and Megasthenes as duces.
130 Yet, we should not speculate too much about the precise shape of their arrangement.
When Leschhorn 1984: 80 assumes that Hippocles was in charge of the ‘religious aspects’
of foundation, whereas Megasthenes’ job was to take a look at ‘the actual construction pro-
cess and the set-up of the institutions’, this is kind of a ‘hypothetical text-interpretation’,
as Leschhorn himself admits.
131 Thuc. 6.4.5; Ps.-Scymn. 235; Vell. Pat. 1.4, 1; Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 7.3.
132 Vell. Pat. 1.4.1: Nec multo post Chalcidenses orti, ut praediximus, Atticis Hippocle et Megas-
thene ducibus Cumas in Italia condiderunt.—‘Not long afterwards, the Chalcidians, who,
as I have already said, were of Attic origin, founded Cumae in Italy under the leadership
of Hippocles and Megasthenes.’ (trans. Shipley).
133 Ps.-Scymn. 235.
134 Frasca 1998: 279 saw confirmation for this interpretation in some Euboean pottery found in
Cyme in Aeolis. He calls this pottery ‘la miglior conferma sul piano archeologico della trad-
izione sulla partecipazione di Kyme eolica alla fondazione di Cuma campana’. Yet, this is
quite an optimistic view, since these pots are hardly enough to prove more than some kind
of connection between Euboea and Cyme in Aeolis. They may be a sign that long-distance
cooperation between Euboean aristocrats and their peers from Cyme in Asia Minor were
possible in this period, but a confirmation for the participation of settlers from Aeolian
Cyme in the establishment of Cyme in Southern Italy cannot be ascertained from these
findings alone.
135 Steph. Byz. s.v. Κύμη.
136 Sapouna-Sakellaraki 1998: 87.
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on the hill of Viglatouri on Euboea, and to pinpoint the location as ancient

Cyme.137 What is more, scholars have long since acknowledged that Pseudo-
Skymnos, at least on the occasions when he concurs with Strabo, probably
relies on Ephorus as his main source.138 Yet, since Ephorus himself originated
from Aeolian Cyme, and demonstrably showed some local patriotic tenden-
cies,139 it is a fair assumption that he had a vivid interest in exaggerating (or
in this case just making up) the participation of settlers from his own homet-
own. Therefore, I tend to understand the mentioning of the Cymaian element
in Strabo’s account as a reference to Euboean Cyme.140 A manipulation by
Ephorus would have had a good chance of success, given the fact that there
was no longer an Euboean Cyme in his time. Plus, even if we do not want to
accept the idea of a deliberate manipulation by Ephorus, Euboean Cyme still
remains a kind of lectio difficilior, and thus the more plausible reading.
It is important to note that the foundation of Cyme was not an exception,
but has to be seen as part of a broader process, during which the Euboeans were
very active in founding new settlements overseas. During this process, the cit-
ies of Chalcis and Eretria functioned as early ‘ports of departure,’ whereas the
strong aristocracies on the island provided the leading men for these ventures.
Best attested is the case of Chalcis, where the ruling class were called hippobotai
(‘knights’).141 There is an ancient reference that closely connects the hippobotai
with the city’s colonising activities. The passage, found in Strabo’s Geography,
runs as follows:
καὶ τῆς Ἰταλίας δὲ καὶ Σικελίας πολλὰ χωρία Χαλκιδέων ἐστίν· ἐστάλησαν δὲ αἱ
ἀποικίαι αὗται, καθάπερ εἴρηκεν Ἀριστοτέλης, ἡνίκα ἡ τῶν Ἱπποβοτῶν καλου-
137 Sapouna-Sakellaraki 1998: esp. 85–87. Since the settlement seems to have been abandoned
at the beginning of the seventh century, it comes as no surprise that our sources remain
mainly silent about the city.
138 Von Wilamowitz-Moellendorff 1881: 134. Mele 1980 challenged this view based on the two
observations that Ephorus considered Naxos and Megara to be the oldest colonies in
Magna Graecia (for Strabo it was Cyme) and had a strong pro-Athenian tendency which is
to be found in Velleius Paterculus (1.4.1), but not in Strabo. Yet, both arguments are hardly
compelling, since Strab. 5.4.4 clearly demonstrates that Strabo consulted Ephorus for his
description of Cyme. Moreover, the fact that he does not follow Ephorus in every detail
does not necessarily mean that his version of Cyme’s ktisis is independent from Ephorus’
account.
139 Such passages include e.g. FGrH 70 F 1; 114 and 236.
140 This may be supported by a reference of Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 7.3 who points out that some
Eretrians participated in the colonising venture as well. Considering the observation that
Archaic Cyme seems to have been completely absorbed in Eretria (Sapouna-Sakellaraki
1998: 59), this note makes even more sense.
141 Hdt. 5.77.2–3; Arist. Pol. 4.3 (1289b 36–40).
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μένη ἐπεκράτει πολιτεία· προέστησαν γὰρ αὐτῆς ἀπὸ τιμημάτων ἄνδρες ἀρι-
στοκρατικῶς ἄρχοντες.
And many places in Italy and Sicily are also Chalcidian. These colon-
ies were sent out, as Aristotle states, when the government of the Hip-
pobatae, as it is called, was in power; for at the head of it were men chosen
according to the value of their property, who ruled in an aristocratic man-
ner.142
The essence of the passage goes back to Aristotle, and is commonly understood
as a fragment belonging to his Πολιτεία Χαλκιδέων.143 However, besides the well-
known philosopher from Stagira, there also existed a less famous bearer of the
name, a local historian from Chalcis,144 who may have written in the fourth
century, and could be the source for his more famous namesake’s collection of
Euboean politeiai.145 In any case, the passage in Strabo goes back to a source
that was well-informed about Chalcidian matters, and must be dated at the
latest to the fourth century. Thus, there is good reason to believe that Cyme’s
founder Megasthenes from Chalcis was a hippobotes, and that his colonising
venture profited considerably from the excellent connections of this ruling
class—connections that could have made the cross-border cooperation with
an oikist from another city possible.146
To sum up, Cyme in Southern Italy was an Euboean foundation, originat-
ing at least from Chalcis, but probably also from Cyme Euboica.147 The early
142 Strab. 10.1.8 (trans. Jones).

143 Aristot. fr. 603 Rose.
144 FGrH 423 (Aristoteles of Chalcis).
145 The date goes back to Schwartz 1895 and is not rejected by Jacoby in his commentary on
FGrH 423 (Aristoteles of Chalcis). Yet, Jacoby also points out that the date is not set, but
up to debate.
146 We cannot say if other members of the Chalcidian elite participated in Cyme’s foundation
as well, but it is a tempting assumption that the seven impressive ‘tombe principesche’
(Caputo et al. 1996: 112) excavated in Cyme would represent the top of Chalcidian society
transferred into the new settlement. Yet, it is not clear to which generation exactly the
tombs that date to the last quarter of the eighth or the beginning of the seventh century
belong (Albore Livadie 1975: 57 thinks of the third or fourth generation after the departure
from Euboea, but seems to include in his calculation Pithekoussai as a first ‘step’). For the
‘tombe principesche’, see also Johannowsky 1975: 102–103, Valenza Mele 1981: 99–100 and
Rescigno 2011.
147 It should be noted, however, that it is a modern perspective to speak of an ‘Euboean found-
ation’, since in antiquity the establishment of a settlement originating from an Euboean
city was always connected with the city itself, not with the entire island. This is striking
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date of the foundation shows that the basis for this colonising venture should
be understood in terms of aristocratic cooperation, rather than in terms of an
effort directed by the state. A strong Chalcidian aristocracy can be identified as
the backbone of this enterprise.
5 Cross-Border Cooperation of Aristocrats in the Archaic Period
The observation that a strong ruling class was the basis for colonising ventures
does not only hold true for the Chalcidian foundations, but is also evident in
examples concerning the elites of other Greek cities, active in the colonisation
efforts of the eighth and seventh centuries. For instance, as in Chalcis, there
was also a strong aristocracy in its neighbouring town, Eretria. The term that is
used to describe this ruling class focuses on the ability to buy a horse: compar-
able to the Chalcidian hippobotai, their Eretrian peers were called hippeis.148
It does not matter if this really was the defining criterion of the aristocracy in
both cities. What is important here is the fact that both cities at the core of the
first colonising ventures were ruled by a strong elite whose members had strong
connections with their neighbouring peers. The same is true, also, for Archaic
Corinth, which was ruled by the aristocratic family of the Bakchiadai, who con-
sidered themselves descendants of Herakles. The oikistai of Corcyra (Chersi-
crates)149 and Syracuse (Archias)150 belonged to this family. In the course of the
seventh century, when the Bakchiadai had lost their power and tyrants reigned
in Corinth, the Kypselidai adapted the practice of the Bakchiadai for their own
purposes, and developed a new strategy: they sent their extramarital offspring
to found a colony, and thereby expanded Corinthian influence into the Gulf
of Ambracia.151 From this, we may conclude that the three most important
‘ports of departures’ of eighth and seventh-century colonising ventures were
because it was different for foundations which saw the participation of settlers from Crete
or Rhodes. In these cases the polis-identity of the settlers was usually not mentioned (Lom-
bardo 2012).
148 Arist. Pol. 5.1306a 35–36.
149 Strab. 6.2.4.
150 Thuc. 6.4.3; de Luca 2008: 14–16.
151 This practice is best attested in Nikolaos of Damaskos FGrHist 90 F 57–59, where the
author refers to the νόθοι Pylades (founder of Leucas), Echiades (oikist of Anactorion) and
Euagoras (Poteidaia); see Graham 1962; Graham 21983: 30; Salmon 1984: 387–396 and de
Luca 2008: 16–17 for the political reasons behind these ventures. Yet, the phenomenon was
not restricted to Corinth (Hdt. 5.94.1: Hegesistratos, Peisistratos’ extramarital son becomes
the founder of Sigeion).
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cities where important families of aristocratic origin strongly engaged in the

foundation process. The colonising ventures with a ‘plurality of oikists’ profited
considerably from the cross-border connections of these families with aristo-
crats from other cities.
Therefore, the phenomenon of foundations with more than one oikist must
be put into the larger context of trans-border cooperation between Greek aris-
tocrats. These connections were established through ritualised guest friend-
ship, secured by mutual gifts and deepened by marriages.152 They came in
handy, particularly in the case of internal struggles, when the inferior party
had to leave the city and sought external help from their aristocratic peers to
be able to return to the hometown and to change the political situation in their
own favour.153 Another solution for such aristocrats, following defeat, was to
found a colony—and again, good connections to aristocrats from other cities
proved particularly convenient.154 These are the cases to which Frank Bernstein
refers when he rightly stresses that internal struggle was frequently the reason
behind colonising ventures.155 So, it is not only true what Michael Stahl pointed
out—that external relations were a constitutive element of Greek aristocrats
of the Archaic period;156 it can also be argued that these connections formed
the background of the colonising ventures of the eighth and seventh centur-
ies.
152 See n. 44.

153 Stahl 1987: 97.
154 Ibid.: ‘Zur Mehrung des Reichtums trugen weiterhin wirtschaftliche Unternehmungen
bei, wie sie z.B. Peisistratos zugeschrieben werden (…). Auch Kolonisation hat hier ihren
Platz (…). Beides ist insoweit von Belang, als daraus ebenfalls persönliche Beziehungen
zu anderen Aristokraten erwachsen konnten.’
155 Bernstein 2004. This motive is, for instance, explicitly stated by Thuc. 6.5.1 for the Myleti-
dai, who participated in the foundation of Himera: they had to take part in the foundation
στάσει νικηθέντες (cf. Morakis 2011: 491). An alternative view would be to describe the oiki-
sts as farsighted aristocrats and compare them to aisymnetai (Stein-Hölkeskamp 1989:
73–74). The middle ground is held by Figueira 2015 who argues that colonisation was the
response of Greek aristocrats to internal pressure; cf. also Schmitz 2008: 49 n. 50.
156 Stahl 1987: 96–99 (98: ‘Die vielfältigen Außenbeziehungen sind jedenfalls ein konstituie-
rendes Moment der archaischen Aristokratie’); cf. already Heuss 1946: 42–49; Duplouy
2006: 114–116. Mann 2001: 232–233 refers to an especially illuminating example from
the late-Archaic period, when he points out that the excellent trans-border cooperation
between Greek aristocrats can be seen in the fact that we can find a lot of Athenian
coaches for Aigenetan athletes in the late sixth and early fifth century, a time of open
political antagonism between the two cities; see now Fisher 2015.
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292 scharff
6 Conclusion
In summary, the aim of this chapter was to demonstrate that a plurality of

oikists was a frequent and important phenomenon of Greek colonising ven-
tures. Enterprises with more than one oikist were symptomatic of a world with
an astonishingly high degree of mobility. Yet, this mobility should not be con-
sidered a process which unfolded following a specific set of rules. Rather, it is
the experimental character of the ventures that should be stressed. A success-
ful oikist, like Theocles, was able to found more than one colony, whereas a
less talented one, such as Lamis, failed more than once. Early colonisation was
an open process, and oikists had to find flexible solutions to the particular cir-
cumstances they were confronted with. Therefore, the obvious approach was to
make good use of the trial-and-error method. Yet, this experimental character
was not restricted to the enterprises of the eighth and seventh centuries only. At
the very end of the Archaic period, we hear of a colonising venture (the expe-
dition of Dorieus), during which even the number of (co-)founders changed.
This expedition further demonstrated that there could be a hierarchy within
the leading circle of an expedition (as a primus inter pares-constellation). All
in all, the examples analysed in this chapter make it very clear that we should
expect a broad variety of different constellations at the top of colonising ven-
tures.
All colonising ventures with a plurality of oikists shared the common fea-
ture that they were based on aristocratic cooperation.157 In the cases of Cyme,
Zancle, Gela, and Himera, the cooperation exceeded the borders of a single
polis. Especially in the cases in which such trans-border cooperation was long-
distance (Cyme, Gela, partly Himera), it is not very reasonable to assume that
the connection arose out of thin air. Instead, previous informal bonds between
the different founders, or their families, prior to the colonising venture, seem
to be the logical background. Yet, there was cooperation of aristocrats inside a
polis, as well (Acragas, Camarina).158 If I stressed the aspect of elite cooperation
here, that is not to say that the political climate inside Archaic Greek cities was
157 This is not to say that there would have been no cooperation between the non-aristocratic
participants of the colonising ventures, but the initiation of the contact between differ-
ent groups of settlers would have been easier for persons who knew each other before the
enterprise, and this must have been persons with a network of connections that exceeded
the borders of their hometown: aristocrats. The non-aristocratic world was vital already in
the Archaic period, as Schmitz 2004: 27–104 has demonstrated. Trans-border connections,
however, were not part of this world.
158 The expedition of Dorieus even represented both possibilities (trans-border cooperation
and collaboration within a single polis) during one and the same colonising enterprise.
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overly harmonious and peaceful. There can be no doubt that Greek aristocrats
were driven by a competitive ethics, and that internal strife was a very common
phenomenon in this period; however, political antagonism towards one family
could result in cooperation with another. For this reason, I see a close connec-
tion between the two phenomena of stasis, on the one hand, and aristocratic
cooperation resulting in colonising ventures with a plurality of founders, on
the other.
The frequency with which the phenomenon of foundations with more than
one oikist appears in our sources further helps to come to terms with a problem
concerning the later history of the settlements abroad: if the oikists had always
had ‘absolute powers’159 during the enterprise, and had ruled in an aristocratic
manner, then why do we have only one case in which monarchical rule was
permanently established (sc. Cyrene)?160 The answer to this could very well be
found in the existence of colonising ventures of the type I have analysed in this
chapter.161
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chapter 11
Turannoi in Archaic Greece: A New Phenomenon

or a New Name for an Old Phenomenon?
James Taylor
The tyrants of Archaic Greece are generally described as having ‘risen’ or

‘emerged’ in the seventh century.1 Their supposed rise has been attributed to
various factors including class conflict, population pressure, fierce aristocratic
competition and the demands of a newly politically aware middle-class. Des-
pite their differences these views all present turannoi as a new phenomenon.2
In this chapter I argue that tyrants such as Peisistratus of Athens were not a
new phenomenon and that they employed traditional means of gaining power
that had been used since at least the eighth century. What made men like Peis-
istratus unacceptable to the Greeks and gave them the new label turannos was
the rise of the rule of law in many Greek cities in the seventh century. The
transition of one-man rule from a socially acceptable norm to a threatening
and destructive phenomenon was facilitated by the division of powers and the
checks and balances that were fundamental aspects of the earliest Greek laws.
The term basileus continued to be applied to public office and a new word
was required to describe the unrestricted rule of one man. The early turannoi
represented individuals who persisted in using the traditional methods of gain-
ing and maintaining power despite the development of measures to limit and
check authority.
To explain this view this chapter will examine the evidence for society and
tyranny from an Archaic perspective as far as is possible, making use of Homer
and Hesiod as evidence for early society and then moving on to the most
complete and closest source to the rule of Peisistratus, namely Herodotus.
This chapter deliberately avoids imposing the anachronistic categorisations of
fourth-century philosophers on the Archaic period, instead focusing on the
society that preceded the tyrants. This chapter will address three questions:
first, how did men take power before the rise of the rule of law, between roughly
1 All dates are bc.

2 For tyranny as a new phenomenon see for example Andrewes 1956: 8; 36–37; Berve 1967: 3–13;
Mossé 1969: 2–9; Anderson 2005: 176–177; Lewis 2009: 16–21.

302 taylor
750–650? To answer this, we need to examine the social practices of the soci-
ety depicted in Homer.3 Second, can we see continuity between the methods
the basileis of Homer used to gain and maintain power and the methods used
by the Archaic tyrants? Here we will look at the career of Peisistratus as a case
study. Third, why did the rise of the rule of law make a traditional and normat-
ive form of ruler unacceptable and cause the Greeks to apply to him the new
label turannos?
1 Homeric basileis
The leading men of the society depicted in Homer, referred to as basileis,4

achieved and held their position through possession of private wealth, military
success, and by engaging with certain social practices. Each of these methods
will be discussed in turn.
1.1 Private Property

A firm concept of private property existed in Homeric Greece.5 Telemachus is
troubled that the suitors are destroying his property, not that they are attempt-
ing to usurp an office. Telemachus makes this clear when he states his intention
3 Homeric society’ can certainly be discussed as a valid historical phenomenon. Anthropolo-

gical studies have shown that a fundamental feature of oral societies is the gradual ‘dropping’
of references to forgotten or unused social practices. Therefore oral poetry generally reflects
the practices of the society that created it. See Parry 1933: 377; Lord 1960: 45; 141–147; Finnegan
1977: 244; Ong 1982: 46; Vansina 1985: 94; 100; Morris 1986: 82; 87; Raaflaub 1997: 627–628. For-
tunately the regular appearance of datable archaeological phenomena in the Homeric poems
has enabled the dating of Homeric social practices to a relatively narrow period of Greek his-
tory, c. 750–700. For Homer and archaeology see Crielaard 1995: 201–235; van Wees 1994a: 1–18;
1994b: 131–155.
4 The term basileus has been investigated by Carlier and Lévy. Both scholars generally agree that
anax describes a leader with great power over subordinates, possibly equating to ‘master’, as
individuals in Homer can be anax of their household, slaves, animals and other property. This
would explain why anax was not used as a title for living men in later periods in Greece, but
was applied to gods. Such a supreme position over free men would have been unacceptable.
Neither scholar regards basileus and anax as interchangeable. Their understanding of basileus
differs. Lévy interprets basileus as a first among equals within a political system, with an anax
wielding the greater power. Carlier argues that basileus describes a hereditary position within
a hierarchical system, with a man being more or less basileus. See Carlier 2006: 101–103. Cf.
Levy 1985: 300–301; 313–314; in particular regarding anax: ‘Avec les progrès de la liberté dans
les cités grecques cette domination, qui s’ exerce de la même façon sur les hommes libres […]
et sur la domesticité, voire les animaux, ne paraîtra plus tolérable.’
5 Finley 1981: 101, Harris 2012: 353–355.
- 978-90-04-51363-1
turannoi in archaic greece 303
of summoning an assembly to the suitors: ‘But if you decide it is more profitable

and better to go on, eating up one man’s livelihood (biotos), without payment,
then spoil my house. I will cry out to the gods everlasting in the hope that Zeus
might somehow grant a reversal of fortunes’ (Od. 1.376–379).6
Telemachus then states his intent to hold his own property: ‘But I will be
the anax over my own household and my slaves’ (Od. 1.397–398). Telemachus
appeals to the gods to punish the suitors’ offence, the destruction of his prop-
erty. Should a man’s property be seized by another, he expects recompense.
Neleus takes a share of the booty his son Nestor won from the Epeians because
they stole his horses and chariot (Il. 11.697–700). Agamemnon’s seizure of
Achilles’ slave Briseis causes Achilles’ anger and compels him to threaten to
kill any man who takes any of his other possessions (Il. 1.300–303).
Although booty is sought after, the Homeric poems do not depict war over
the possession of land. This has been noted by several scholars but not fully
explained or investigated.7 Conflict in the epics is generally carried out in retali-
ation or for plunder. When individuals such as Telemachus (Od. 1.376–379;
397–398; 2.367–369; 15.10–13) or Astyanax (Il. 22.488–489)8 are threatened with
the loss of their property the threat comes from predatory individuals exploit-
ing their weakness, not from ‘land-hungry’ foreign communities. Two migrant
communities settle in Phaeacia (Od. 6.6–10) and Rhodes (Il. 2.661–668) without
displacing any natives. Noëmon grazes animals on the Greek mainland without
any apparent difficulty (Od. 4.634–637). Land is awarded freely as a gift or a
reward to outstanding leaders and warriors.9 To describe Laertes’ farm the poet
uses the participle τετυγμένον, meaning to have produced, built or created. The
poet explains that Laertes worked hard to build up his farm (ἐπεὶ μάλα πόλλ’
ἐμόγησεν) (Od. 24.206–207). This suggests Laertes went out into the hinterland
and cultivated a portion of unused land, rather than working an existing farm.
Hesiod mentions many problems faced by a modest free farmer, but lack of
farmland is not one. There is no shortage of land in Homer or Hesiod. There is,
however, a very high demand for labour to work privately owned land.10 One
6 All translations of Homer are those of Lattimore.

7 Finley 1977: 95; Jackson 1993: 70–71.
8 Richardson 1993: 160, speculates on the specific threats within and beyond Astyanax’s
immediate family.
9 Land given through marriage (Il. 6.191–195), as a reward for fighting (Il. 9.576–580; 12.313–
314; 20.184–186).
10 Bintliff 2006: 327–328 (see also in this volume), has noted that the shortage was one of
labour, not land, but does not investigate in detail the relationship between the practices
of the elite and slave labour.
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of Hesiod’s prime concerns was labour. He advised on what slaves to buy (Op.
405–407) and what kind of work they should undertake (Op. 458–461; 469–471;
502–503; 573; 597–598). The Works and Days does not depict a farmer constric-
ted by a land shortage, but a modest farmer relying almost totally on slaves.
The Odyssey depicts Laertes working himself because of poverty and otherwise
relying entirely on slaves (Od. 24.386–390; 497–498).11
Slaves and land were accumulated by the basileis because they were essen-
tial to funding their pursuit of power. As noted by Harris: ‘the elite exploited
slave labour to maintain their dominance in society.’12 Consequently a surplus
of wealth, including agricultural produce and treasure, was absolutely essen-
tial to maintaining the position of the basileus. Without a surplus he could not
engage in practices such as xenia, broker marriage alliances, or maintain his
relationships with his hetairoi. Furthermore, without a surplus a basileus could
not perform the acts that benefited the community and maintained popular
support, such as sacrificing animals and distributing gifts. The basileis aimed
at producing an agricultural profit, not merely achieving self-sufficiency.13 The
need to produce an agricultural surplus also created a very high demand for
labour to work the property of wealthy individuals, essentially a demand for
slaves.14 Slaves in Homer appear to be readily available either through purchase
or raiding. Hesiod takes the availability of slaves for granted, merely advising
on what slave to buy.15 Homeric slaves were property owned by their mas-
ters, who enjoyed completely exclusive rights to their use.16 Slaves could be
put to work all year round and their master could feed and clothe them as he
11 The almost exclusive reliance of Laertes on slave labour is noted by van Wees (2013) 225–
226.
12 Harris 2012: 364. See also Thalmann 1998: 50: ‘It is their work and its products that support
the way of life and the activities of the families at the head of the various oikoi: the feasts
and sacrifices, the hospitality, and the (primarily horizontal) redistribution of goods in the
form of gifts that is the basic mechanism in the functioning of elite society.’
13 Van Wees 1992: 49–53. See also van Wees 2009: 448–450.
14 Finley 1980: 86, believed that three factors created the demand for slaves in archaic Greece:
the private ownership of land, availability of markets and commodity production and
the unavailability of an internal source of labour. Finley did not draw the connection
between the maintenance of the elites’ position and slave labour. Note also the comments
of Scheidel 2013: 13, on supply and demand and the ancient slave trade: ‘Under these cir-
cumstances, it would make sense to own slaves instead of hiring laborers in only two cases:
if slaves were significantly more productive than free labour, and if hired labour was hard
to come by and or/unreliable.’ For slavery in Sparta and some of the problems therein see
Luraghi 2009: 261–285 and Lewis in this volume.
15 Rihll 1996: 97.
16 Harris 2012: 352–358. See also Lewis 2018: 110–114.
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saw fit. Once slaves were purchased they were cheap to maintain compared
to free labourers.17 These factors made slavery a more dependable and attract-
ive source of labour than transient free workers.18 Despite the large numbers
of slaves encountered in the Homeric poems and the obviously widespread
practice of slavery, enslaved workers did not always meet the demand for agri-
cultural labour. The Homeric poems (Il. 21.441–454; Od. 11.489–491) and Hesiod
(Op. 602–603) mention the use of free labourers to supplement slave labour.
Hesiod’s use of free labourers was seasonal, only supplementing the existing
and more substantial force of enslaved workers.
The Homeric concept of private property clearly extended to slave owner-
ship and the wealthiest men in the epics all possess slaves. Fifty female slaves
are in the house of Alcinous (Od. 7.103–105) and another fifty in the house of
Odysseus (Od. 22.421–423). Many more male slaves are found tending herds or
crops in the countryside. Odysseus, disguised as a beggar, claims to have once
been rich and an owner of ‘countless’ slaves (dmoes … myrioi) (Od. 17.422). Even
the poverty-stricken Laertes owns at least eight slaves (Od. 24.386–390, 497–
498). The estate of Odysseus provides an indication of how heavily the basileis
relied on slaves to maintain their position.19 Outside of the town five slaves
including Eumaeus care for a herd of pigs (Od. 14.24–28). Although Homer’s
numbers are almost certainly exaggerated, the depiction of a wealthy man like
Odysseus relying totally on slave labour for his wealth is quite consistent with
other Homeric and Hesiodic depictions of slavery.
Let us now turn to social practices as a means of gaining and maintaining
power in Homeric society. These practices gave the basileis opportunities to
increase their personal power by creating ties between them and other indi-
viduals or their communities. The practices that will be discussed are warfare,
religious practices, guest-friendship and the maintenance of hetairoi, marriage
and protection payments.
1.2 Warfare
Warfare gave the basileis of the eighth and seventh centuries opportunities
to increase and justify their status, to accumulate wealth, and seize slaves.20
17 Eumaeus and his fellow slaves have only one set of clothes each (Od.14.513–514).
18 This is precisely the point made by Lewis 2018: 269–273.
19 As noted by Garlan 1988: 33, the apparently greater number of female slaves in Homer is
an ‘optical illusion’, particularly in the Odyssey where much of plot takes place in domestic
settings. See also Harris 2012: 360.
20 The scholarly view of warfare in the epics has changed drastically in the last 50 years.
Finley 1977: 74; 106, held that only aristocrats made any meaningful contribution on the
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Sarpedon asks of Glaukos: ‘why is it you and I are honoured before others with
pride of place, the choice meats and the filled wine cups in Lycia …?’ (Il. 12.310–
312). He answers his own question by stating that ‘there is strength and valour in
them, since they fight in the forefront of the Lycians’ (Il. 12.320–321). When Hec-
tor wishes to mock Diomedes for retreating he uses this theme to criticise him
(Il. 8.160–163). Hector claims that Diomedes’ unwillingness to stand and fight
renders him undeserving of the privileges and status he had previously earned
in battle, linking military success with privilege, honour and gifts.21 These pas-
sages indicate not only the benefits of fighting, but show that the basileis were
under enormous social pressure to be successful in battle and conspicuous at
the front of their followers.22
Conflict and predatory violence also enabled a successful warrior to carry off
booty. Achilles states that the cities captured by the Achaeans during the war
against Troy were immediately plundered (Il. 1.123–129). Odysseus also regards
the looting of the Trojans’ city as the inevitable conclusion of the war (Il. 9.279–
280). Organising raids specifically to acquire plunder also appears to have been
common in the eighth and seventh centuries. Odysseus recalls how he sacked
battlefield. This view was largely based on a flawed reading of Homer that interpreted
the prominence of ‘heroes’ such as Achilles as exclusive ‘aristocratic’ domination of war-
fare. For this view see also Berve 1967: 10–11; Mossé 1969: 3–8; Pleket 1969: 35–37; Cartledge
1977: 23. A study was published by Latacz which proved that the mass of warriors decided
the outcome of Homeric battles, not duels between heroic champions: ‘Der allgemein
verbreitete Eindruck fachkundiger wie fachfremder Homerleser, die zur Entstehungszeit
der Ilias vorherrschende Kampfesweise sei der ritterliche Einzelkampf gewesen, ist, wie
im Folgenden gezeigt werden soll, das Ergebnis einer perspektivischen Verzerrung der
Realität’ 1977: 45. Mass participation in Homeric combat has been decisively proven by
subsequent scholarship, see Pritchett 1985: 33; van Wees 1986: 235–303; 1988: 1–24; 1994a:
1–18; 1994b: 131–155.
21 The significance of participation in warfare to increase social standing is also acknow-
ledged by McGlew 1989: 287: ‘Yet heroes such as Aeneas, who are not bound to the war
through family ties or personal destiny, fight to gain the conspicuous recognition that war
alone offers.’
22 Leaders are exhorted to fight meta protoisin (Il. 4.341; 12.315; 321; 13.270), or are said to stand
eni promaxois (Il. 4.253). Hector (Il. 4.505; 16.588), Agamemnon (Il. 11.188; 203), and Nestor
in his youth, are found among the promachoi (Il. 11.744). If a hero wishes to hurl a missile
he goes among the promachoi as does Odysseus when he kills Democoon (Il. 4.495). When
Hector tries to locate Deiphobos, Helenus and Asius, he looks first among the promachoi
(Il. 13.760). Echepolus is described as esthlon eni promaxoisi before being killed by Antilo-
chus (Il. 4.458). When two leaders, such as Aeneas and Achilles, engage in combat, they
advance through the promachoi (Il. 20.111). Idomeneus states that a brave man goes for-
ward among the promachoi (Il. 13.291). When Odysseus, disguised as a beggar, wishes to
boast of his skills to Eurymachus he claims that, should he regain his arms and armour, he
would be among the promachoi (Od. 18.379).
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the city of the Kikonians for no obvious purpose other than to acquire booty
(Od. 9.39–43). Odysseus later tells the false tale of travelling to Egypt with the
explicit intention of raiding and seizing goods (Od. 17.428–434). The collection
of booty as a route to status and power is summarised by one of Odysseus’ false
tales.23 Odysseus states that raiding enabled him, a bastard son with an unim-
pressive inheritance, to arrange a marriage to a woman from a wealthy family
(Od. 14.211–213)24 and the ‘Cretan’ Odysseus soon becomes a figure of import-
ance in his community (Od. 14.229–234).25 Odysseus, confronted with the ghost
of Agamemnon, asks Agamemnon if he was killed while stealing livestock (Od.
11.401–403). Agamemnon in the underworld asks the slain suitors how they
died, drowned at sea or killed in a raid (Od. 24.106–113)? Odysseus and Agamem-
non are depicted considering death on a raid to be the most likely fate of dead
men. This should indicate how widespread this practice must have been and
that basileis regularly took part in it.
The need for wealth and surplus resulted in raids for slaves. Such was the
need for slaves that raiding parties would prolong their attack to seize indi-
viduals rather than merely departing quickly and safely with their loot (Od.
14.245–265). The depiction of the enslavement of the entire or a large portion
of defeated communities indicates that enslaving was highly profitable, dis-
posing of the slaves as labourers or selling them (Il. 3.301; 4.238–239; 17.224;
24.731–734; Od. 9.41).26 The abduction or seizure of higher-ranking individu-
als suggests their value as property to be sold or as labourers could surpass
their value in ransom payments. Eumaeus and the Phoenician woman who
kidnaps him are both depicted as the offspring of wealthy individuals, yet they
23 This is supported by Donlan 1999: 4, who sees the rich man and the successful war-
rior/raider as an inseparable unit: ‘As a general rule … one grew rich, stayed rich or became
richer, by fighting; the successful warrior was a wealthy man, and […] a rich man was a
successful warrior.’ See also Harris 2002: 427–428, for this phenomenon in archaic Attica.
24 For early Greek piracy in the Near East see Luraghi 2006: 21–47.
25 This conclusion is in direct opposition to Finley 1977: 53, who writes: ‘The economy was
such that the creation of new fortunes, and thereby of new nobles, was out of the ques-
tion. Marriage was strictly class-bound, so that the other door to social advancement was
also securely locked.’ The example of the ‘Cretan’ Odysseus proves that successful warriors
were in no way barred economically from advancement. They were also not barred from
marriages to women from wealthy families. Duplouy 2006: 43–44, has noted that society
at this time was fluid, with instances of dramatic social mobility.
26 Kirk 1985: 356, is probably wrong to see Il. 4.238–239 as implying mere captivity. The obvi-
ous profitability of slavery, the many references to enslavement elsewhere in the poems
and the fact that once Troy was destroyed no one would be left to pay ransom, indicate
that the women and children would almost certainly be enslaved. Merely holding them
captive would have been pointless.
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are bought and sold as slaves rather than ransomed (Od. 15.417–484). Chryseis’
father offers Agamemnon ransom for his daughter, but Agamemnon would
rather have Chryseis put to work as a slave (Il. 1.29–31). Achilleus chose to
sell a number of Priam’s sons into slavery rather than ransom them despite
Priam’s obvious wealth and ability to pay (Il. 21.77–79; 24.750–753). Raiding and
violent seizure of individuals was a particularly effective method of accumu-
lating slaves as captives appear to have been considered slaves, and therefore
property, upon the point of capture. The rapidity with which captives made
the transition from free to slave is demonstrated by the phrases ‘day of free-
dom’ and ‘day of slavery’.27 Hector expresses his fear that Andromache may be
led away by some Achaian, taking away her day of freedom (ἐλεύθερον ἦμαρ)
(Il. 6.455), and explains how he defends her from the ‘day of slavery’ (δούλιον
ἦμαρ) (Il. 6.463).28 While mocking Patroclus Hector claims that Patroclus had
desired to sack Troy and take the ‘day of freedom’ (ἐλεύθερον ἦμαρ) from the
Trojan women (Il. 16.831). Odysseus also lies about a treacherous crew who con-
spire to seize and enslave him, ‘devising the day of slavery for me’ (Od. 14.340).
These examples demonstrate the attractiveness of violent seizure as a method
of acquiring slaves. The Iliad and the Odyssey depict military success and raid-
ing for wealth as a route to higher status in the community and continuing
success as justification for a privileged position. Raiding and the profits of war
also enabled the basileis to distribute booty and captives to their followers, as
well as providing them with a valuable source of slave labour.
1.3 Religious Practice

The conspicuous engagement of the basileis with religious practice is also signi-
ficant. Nestor is able to sacrifice nine victims brought in by the communities he
rules (Od. 3.4–8). Agamemnon sacrifices a bull to Zeus, praying for the success
of their expedition (Il. 2.402–431). The poet explains that Agamemnon made
this sacrifice on behalf of the entire enterprise. With a similarly communal aim
in mind the Trojans offer twelve heifers to Athena, asking the goddess to protect
their city (Il. 6.92–95; 273–278). Alcinous sacrifices twelve bulls to Poseidon on
behalf of the Phaeacians (Od. 13.181–183). These animal sacrifices were intended
to benefit the immediate community by averting the gods’ anger or by making
it more likely that the gods would grant their requests. The fact that these sac-
rifices were either provided by the leading men of the community or organised
on their initiative suggests that the basileis performed an important religious
27 Lewis 2018: 60–61.

28 For comments on this phrase see Kirk 1990: 221.
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role by using their wealth and influence to provide the largest and most con-
spicuous sacrifices, linking themselves with the prosperity of the community.29
The consumption of wealth through sacrifice reaffirmed the position of the
basileus, as did his interaction with the seer (mantis). These individuals, such as
Calchas and Theoclymenus, recognised signs sent by the gods or knew the gods’
will through a special skill or god-given ability. These specialists could recom-
mend specific courses of action at times of indecision or apotropaic rituals
to avoid misfortune or catastrophe (Il. 1.68–100). The predictions of seers also
granted a unique kind of legitimacy to the basileis. Calchas predicted Agamem-
non’s victory over Troy (Il. 2.300–332). Theoclymenus not only predicts the
deaths of the suitors (Od. 20.351–370) and the return of Odysseus (Od. 17.152–
161), but that Telemachus’ family will rule Ithaca forever (Od. 15.531–534). The
basileis’ involvement with these individuals and in wider religious practice con-
tributed to the justification of their position by directly linking their activities
to the gods’ favour.
1.4 Guest Friendship and hetairoi

The basileis could find allies outside their community through the practice of
guest-friendship. Xenoi (guest-friends) could be created through exchanging
appropriate gifts (Od. 21.13–35). Xenoi relationships could also be maintained
across generations.30 An individual was obliged to treat a xenos in a certain
way. This usually manifests as the provision of food and drink, entertainment
and lodging, gift-exchange, and general assistance. There was also pressure to
ensure that a xenos enjoyed physical protection. Telemachus laments his inab-
ility to perform this particular function: ‘For how shall I take and entertain a
xenos in my house? I myself am young and have no faith in my hand’s strength
to defend a man, if anyone else picks a quarrel with him’ (Od. 16.69–72). The
concept of conflict or confrontation with a xenos is regarded as deeply inappro-
priate, Diomedes’ and Glaucus’ unwillingness to fight being the most obvious
example. Furthermore, Harpalion and Sarpedon are xenoi of Paris and Hector
respectively and fight with them against the Achaeans (Il. 13.660–661; 17.150).
A guest-friendship represented safety, a potential source of favours and even
military aid.
29 Mazarakis Ainian 2006: 185: ‘In Homer the basileus had a significant religious role, apart
from a social one. He appears to have been responsible for the celebration of sacrifices
and guarantees the preservation of ritual custom (Mondi 1980: 201). Likewise, important
religious duties were attached to the kings of the Archaic and Classical poleis, regardless
of whether these basileis were hereditary monarchs or elective officials (Carlier, Royauté).’
30 Il. 6.215–236; Od. 1.187–188; 15.196–197; 17.522; 24.105–114.
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The Homeric basileis also looked to their hetairoi for assistance. Hetairoi
appear as a man’s close friends and although depicted in a subordinate role
they are not treated as servants or bondsmen. The bond between a man and his
hetairos could be particularly close and is generally depicted as a relationship
characterised by a very high level of trust and mutual obligation. Agamemnon
and Telemachus give feasts for their hetairoi (Od. 15.505–507). Agamemnon dis-
tributes booty to the basileis who follow him, one of whom, Idomeneus, calls
himself Agamemnon’s erieros hetairos (a faithful or trustworthy hetairos) (Il.
4.264). Odysseus’ crew, who are called his hetairoi, express an expectation that
they will share in the wealth he collects on his journey (Od. 10.38–45). Het-
airoi are, importantly, warriors who add military strength to a basileus, and in
the Odyssey they are recruited for clandestine actions, such as assassination or
ambush (Od. 4.669–672; 13.267). On the battlefield they will defend a basileus
and expect to be defended in return. Achilles makes this clear as he laments his
failure to protect Patroclus or his other hetairoi from Hector (Il. 18.99–103). The
richest basileis seem to have been able to afford to maintain their relationships
with many hetairoi, as Achilles and Odysseus are able to crew multiple ships
with these men. Private wealth, such as slaves, livestock and lands, gave the
basileis a surplus of wealth which they could freely distribute to their friends
and followers. By generously distributing his wealth a basileus could engage
with the practice of guest-friendship, creating useful relationships with foreign
individuals as well as maintaining a positive relationship with his hetairoi by
giving gifts.
1.5 Marriage
Marriages also ensured that a powerful man could call on a network of friends
and family in times of need.31 In the case of Priam, he can call upon an exten-
ded family to go to war on his behalf. Sarpedon reminds Hector: ‘you said once
that without companions and without people you could hold this city alone,
with only your brothers and the lords of your sisters’ (Il. 5.472–474).32 This pas-
sage indicates the importance of children and allies obtained through marriage
as fighters. Odysseus, disguised as a beggar, asks Telemachus if his brothers
31 See Lacey 1966: 55–68, for some of the customs involved in Homeric marriage. Snodgrass
has argued for the opposite, that ‘Homer is describing a mixture of practices, derived from
a diversity of historical sources.’ In his study Snodgrass 1974: 118, recognises two forms of
exchange, ‘bridewealth’ and ‘dowry’. Another complex analysis of Homeric marriage, and
opposed to Snodgrass, can be found in Morris 1986: 105–115. Morris denies that Homeric
marriage was a ‘rigid institution’ and argues for more flexibility in the practice.
32 Donlan 2007: 34. This idea is also present in McGlew 1989: 286.
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have failed to support him against the suitors. Odysseus’ feigned expectation
implies that relatives would be called upon to fight (Od. 16.96–99). He also
states: ‘For I myself once promised to be a man of prosperity, but, giving way to
force and violence, did many reckless things, because I relied on my father and
brothers’ (Od. 18.138–140). Odysseus clearly believes that a man will be encour-
aged to carry out violent acts by the knowledge that he had the support of
his relatives. Marriage of course also produced legitimate children (gnesioi)
who could inherit their father’s property. However, the use of bastard chil-
dren (nothoi), in a military capacity, as attendants for the legitimate offspring,
is also a phenomenon that appears in Homer.33 Priam’s illegitimate daughter
Medesikaste is married to Imbrios, who then moves into Priam’s household and
fights for him (Il. 13.170–176). The promise of marriage into a powerful family
could provide military allies in the form of suitors seeking to impress the bride’s
kinsmen. Othryoneus of Cabesus agrees to fight on the side of Troy in return for
a guarantee of marriage to Priam’s daughter Cassandra (Il. 13.363–369). In these
final examples the military capacity of Priam’s house was directly influenced by
his ability to create marriage alliances.
1.6 Protection Payments and Justice

The final practice I would like to review is what can simply be called protection
payments.34 In the epics, basileis appear to receive gifts on the understanding
that they would protect their people from attack and maintain order among the
communities they ruled. The portions of land and food mentioned by Sarpedon
are representative of this phenomenon: ‘Glaucus, why is it you and I are hon-
oured before others with pride of place, the choice meats and the filled wine
cups in Lycia, and all men look on us as if we were immortals, and we are
appointed a great piece of land by the banks of Xanthos … Therefore it is our
duty in the forefront of the Lycians to take our stand, and bear our part of the
… battle’ (Il. 12.310–316). Sarpedon’s speech revolves around the core of this
practice: the basileis fight in the forefront of battle, in return for which they
possess plenty of land and they are given the means to eat and drink. This is
reinforced at Il. 24.261–262, where Priam verbally abuses his surviving sons and
calls them ‘the plunderers of their own people in their land of lambs and kids’.
Here Priam is criticising his sons for taking gifts despite being poor warriors
and failing to do their duty.35 In a similar situation Agamemnon scolds Men-
33 See Meister, this volume.

34 Van Wees 1992: 85–86, Harris 1997: 57.
35 As noted by Van Wees 1992: 86: ‘Priamos’ sons do not go round at dead of night stealing the
citizens’ livestock. Presumably, the people give them sheep and goats to slaughter and eat.
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estheus and Odysseus, explaining a practice almost identical to that described

by Sarpedon: the Achaeans provide Menestheus and Odysseus with food and
drink, therefore they should fight hard at the front (Il. 4.341–346).
As well as engaging in combat, the basileus would maintain order among
their people, pass judgements and uphold themistes; the customary norms of
the community. This practice is hinted at when Achilles is offered a number of
towns by Agamemnon: ‘All these lie near the sea, at the bottom of sandy Pylos,
and men live among them rich in cattle and rich in sheepflocks, who will hon-
our you as if you were a god with gifts given and fulfil your prospering themistas
underneath your sceptre’ (Il. 9.295–298). Achilles will give these people com-
mands and they will pay him for keeping order. In Hesiod we also see this
practice in action, although Hesiod grumbles about the gift-devouring basileis
because they were not fulfilling their part of this arrangement by giving him
justice (Op. 38–39). The ability of the basileis to collect gifts from their people
is mentioned on several other occasions in Homer. Hector states that he does
‘wear down my own people for presents and food’ (Il. 17.225–226). Alcinous sug-
gests that he and the other basileis make a collection from the Phaeacians, to
make up for the expensive gifts they gave to Odysseus (Od. 13.13–15). Odysseus
in disguise pretends to have once entertained Odysseus in Crete. To do this he
states that he collected barley, wine and cattle from the people (Od. 19.197–
198).36
Displaying fairness and appearing just extended to athletic competition.
Achilles appears in concord with the wishes of the spectators at the funeral
games for Patroclus, deciding to give a gift to Eumelus (Il. 23.536–538). The
Achaeans commend Achilles’ decision (Il. 23.539–541). Achilles divides prizes
between Ajax and Diomedes (Il. 23822–23825), using his position as host to
resolve disagreements between the participants. He resolves the disputes be-
tween Ajax and Idomeneus (Il. 23.492–498) and between Antilochus and
Eumelus (Il. 23.543–565). Achilles stops the wrestling between Aias and Odys-
seus, promising equal prizes to both (Il. 23.735–737). Athletic competition
provided a further opportunity for a basileus to demonstrate his fairness and
it is significant that the host was seen to do this conspicuously. When Achilles
conformed to the collective will of the assembled Achaeans he did so in full
view of his peers and the spectators, receiving praise and acclamation.
The difference is that Priamos […] declares that his sons do not deserve these gifts, because
they are ‘best’ only at dancing—not in battle, as Hector was, and as princes in general are
supposed to be.’
36 Van Wees 1992: 35. This kind of behaviour is also described by Athenaeus, quoting Aris-
totle’s Constitution of the Naxians. See Deipnosophistae 8.348a–d.
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The practices depicted in Homer suggest that power in eighth- and seventh-
century Greece was personal and informal. A man held power as long as his
wealth and prowess allowed him to do so. They do not suggest the existence
of formal institutions such as organised citizen-militias or publicly appoin-
ted generals to counter external aggression, or formally regulated public courts
or magistrates selected by lot to maintain internal order. Instead, an informal
arrangement seems to have existed between the basileis and their people.
Ideally, a powerful man would collect gifts and food, as well as portions of
land, and would maintain that position by maintaining order, upholding social
norms and fighting at the head of his people.
2 Archaic Tyrants
As it has been shown that these were the practices used to gain power before
the mid-seventh century, it must now be established that there were individu-
als who persisted in using these traditional methods in the Archaic period. This
section will examine the three occasions on which Peisistratus and his family
took power in Athens, showing that their methods of gaining power did not
depart from those of the eighth century.37
2.1 Private Property

Many Archaic tyrants or potential tyrants were wealthy individuals. Personal
wealth was required to use many of the methods required to take power,
such as hiring soldiers, establishing friendships with other powerful men, and
arranging marriage alliances with influential families. Wealth was also needed
for less overt methods of constructing power such as distributing largesse,
building temples, offering sacrifice and providing expensive offerings for sanc-
tuaries. The Peisistratids were able to maintain varying numbers of armed
men and construct temples and buy dedications for the gods. To afford any
of these Peisistratus and his family must have had access to large amounts
of wealth. This wealth came from a number of sources. Peisistratus almost
certainly owned estates in Attica itself as his property (chremata) was sub-
stantial enough to be noted by Herodotus as being put up for sale during
his exile (Hdt. 6.121). The Peisistratids probably owned property around the
river Strymon in northern Greece as they were able to gather revenue (chre-
37 See Andrewes 1956: 107–113, for an outdated but still useful account of how Peisistratus
maintained his power.
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314 taylor
mata) from there (Hdt. 1.64). Their rule over other regions beyond Athens,
such as Sigaeum,38 may also have provided income through tithes or private
property. The Peisistratids also received wealth from friends and supporters.
During his second exile Peisistratus received gifts (δωτίνας) from poleis that
owed him something (Hdt. 1.61). These contributions were probably the fruit of
personal and informal connections as Herodotus uses the noun δωτίνη, mean-
ing a gift or present, to describe them and Peisistratus was able to acquire
them at his own discretion. Unfortunately Herodotus only names one of the
contributors, Lygdamis, who provided men and chremata. The relationship
between Peisistratus and Lygdamis appears to have been reciprocal, as Peis-
istratus would later give him the island of Naxos to rule (Hdt. 1.64), further
supporting the theory that Peisistratus collected gifts through personal con-
nections. Peisistratus’ private property and his ability to collect more wealth
through his friends and personal connections enabled him to secure military
support and engage with a plethora of activities that were beneficial to his
standing.39
2.2 Warfare
Military prestige, military success, the use of violence and armed supporters
all continued to be used by tyrants or prospective tyrants in their pursuit of
power.40 Before any of his three attempts to become tyrant Peisistratus already
enjoyed the fame and prestige won through his military success against Megara
(Hdt. 1.59; Ath.Pol. 14.1), although he later added to his reputation by conquer-
ing Naxos (Hdt. 1.64) and Sigaeum (Hdt. 5.94). The Peisistratids were particu-
larly careful to amass armed support from various sources at critical moments.
Peisistratus’ particularly consistent success in this area not only speaks to his
accomplishments as a soldier but also reveals the remarkably diverse practices
through which a tyrant could gather military support. Peisistratus acquired a
38 Sigaeum was secure enough for Hippias to flee there when he was driven from Athens in
511/10.
39 Other archaic tyrants or potential tyrants were wealthy men. Cylon and Miltiades the
son of Cypselus were both Olympic victors (Hdt. 5.71; 6.35; 39), Miltiades was said to be
wealthy enough to purchase and maintain horses and chariots. Miltiades the son of Cimon
was able to afford to maintain five hundred men once he established himself as tyrant in
the Chersonese (Hdt. 6.39). Cypselus seized the property of his enemies upon coming to
power (Hdt.5.92e).
40 Drews 1995: 139–144, perhaps goes too far in claiming military power as almost the sole
tool by which tyrants secured their power. Such a claim overlooks the many nuances of
the phenomenon of tyranny and the social practices that secured military support in the
first place.
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band of armed men (korunephoroi)41 through a ruse that he used to seize con-
trol of Athens for the first time in 561/0 (Hdt. 1.59).42 Peisistratus was assisted
in his third and final coup (c. 546) by Argive soldiers assembled through his
marriage to the Argive woman Timonassa (Hdt. 1.61; Ath.Pol. 17.4).43 These
are generally called ‘mercenaries’ by historians. However, their status as mer-
cenary troops is debateable. The Argives were led by Peisistratus’ son, Hegis-
istratus. Hegesistratus was the son of Peisistratus and Timonassa, suggesting
they were allies secured through the ties established through marriage and
friendship. The Athenian Constitution also mentions armed support from Ere-
tria and Thebes and claims that Peisistratus hired (μισθωσάμενος) soldiers from
around Pangaeum for his final coup (Ath.Pol. 15.2). Peisistratus was able to
return to power for the third and final time by defeating the Athenian army
at Pallene (Hdt. 1.63). Once installed in power Peisistratus continued to cultiv-
ate armed support, collecting more soldiers (epikouroi) (Hdt. 1.64).44 When in
power Peisistratus and his family successfully pursued conflicts on behalf of
Athens (Thuc. 6.54). The Peisistratids were later able to call in support from
the Thessalians against their enemies. The Thessalians are called epikouroi by
Herodotus (Hdt. 5.63). The sources say little about how the Peisistratids built
a relationship with the Thessalians, although Peisistratus probably had a son
named Thessalus which suggests a connection, the lack of evidence prevents
meaningful discussion (Thuc. 1.20; Ath.Pol. 18.2; Diod. 10.17). The attitude of the
later sources towards Peisistratus’ soldiers was to view them as mercenaries
in the fourth-century sense: warriors contracted and paid a wage by the gov-
ernment. However, a social practice, marriage, lies behind Peisistratus’ ability
to recruit at least one substantial body of soldiers and in Homer the Trojans
give their epikouroi food and gifts despite the existing ties of friendship, kin-
ship and marriage with their leaders. Peisistratus almost certainly collected
41 Lavelle 2005: 95–96, doubts the reliability of Herodotus’ account of these men, ques-
tioning if these were even ‘club-bearers’ at all, given the uselessness of such weapons
against conventionally armed soldiers. Lavelle does not, however, doubt that Peisistratus
had armed supporters at this time.
42 The dates for Peisistratus used here are those of Rhodes. For a valuable summary of the
source material for Peisistratid chronology see Rhodes 1976: 219–233; 1981: 191–199. For a
summary of the problems inherent in establishing a Peisistratid chronology see Ruebel
1973: 125–136.
43 Note Cawkwell 1995: 73–86, for some of the serious problems with the Athenian Constitu-
tion as a source for the Peisistratids.
44 Thucydides also believed that Hippias appeared in public with doruphoroi (Thuc.6.57). For
an informative discussion of the nature of Peisistratus’ epikouroi see Singor 2000: 112–119;
and 110–111 for a useful summary of Peisistratid military activity.
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316 taylor
military support through conventional methods such as marriage, personal

connections and distributing private wealth.45
2.3 Marriage
The practice of marriage was instrumental in securing the power of Peisistratus
and his family. Peisistratus was able to return to power in 557/6 or 556/5 on the
strength of an alliance with his former rival Megacles through a marriage to
Megacles’ daughter (Hdt.1.60–61).46 In preparation for his third coup in 546/5
Peisistratus recruited Argive warriors through a friendship with the Argives
established by marriage to an Argive woman, Timonassa (Hdt. 1.61; Ath.Pol. 17).
For Peisistratus an influential marriage carried as much military potential as
the marriage alliances of the Homeric basileis.47 Marriage of course produced
offspring and relatives whose loyalty was relatively secure. Peisistratus and his
family made extensive use of their relations in times of need. Like the basileis
they employed them as councillors, soldiers, public figures and political agents.
Several of Peisistratus’ descendants held the archonship at Athens (Thuc. 6.54;
SEG 10:352)48 and Herodotus tells us that Peisistratus set up his son Heges-
istratus as ruler of Sigaeum (Hdt. 5.94). Peisistratus’ son Hippias continued to
use marriage as a political tool, marrying his daughter to Aeantides, the son of
Hippocles tyrant of Lampsacus. Thucydides attributes the marriage to Hippias’
desire to secure an overseas refuge and tap into Hippocles’ influence with the
Persian king (Thuc.6.59). Marriage and the relatives and political connections it
created continued to be a significant aspect of Peisistratus’ pursuit of power.49
45 Other archaic tyrants were noted for their military prowess. Polycrates was famed for mil-
itary success and indiscriminate plundering (Hdt. 3.39). Miltiades became tyrant in the
Chersonese by offering his leadership to the Dolonci (Hdt. 6.36). Gelon first distinguished
himself while serving under Hippocrates (Hdt. 7.154).
46 Many tyrants married into the families of other tyrants; however, it is unlikely that tyr-
ant families consciously tried to restrict marriage to other tyrants. As noted by Anderson
2005: 192: ‘they [the tyrants] were playing the same game […] as everyone else. There was
no shadowy confederacy of dictators’. Marriages among the elite involving exchanges of
wealth are found in Homer and a number of influential archaic Greeks married into the
families of tyrants without ever aiming at tyranny themselves. For example the Alcmae-
onidae won prestige through a marriage to Agarista, daughter of Cleisthenes, tyrant of
Sicyon (Hdt. 6.126).
47 As noted by Gernet 1968: 292: ‘Of necessity, a marriage contracted with a foreigner was
packed with military significance, even when the wife stayed in her own country …’.
48 By maintaining the customary offices Peisistratus may have been attempting to avoid the
charge of overthrowing the laws, a complaint against tyranny stated explicitly by Hero-
dotus (3.80) and implied by Solon.
49 Periander married the daughter of the tyrant of Epidaurus (Hdt. 3.50). Anaxilaus, tyrant
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2.4 Religious Practice

Peisistratus paraded into Athens accompanied by an impersonator of the god-
dess Athena (Hdt. 1.60; Ath.Pol. 14.4)50 and on his final attempt at seizing power
enjoyed the support of a favourable prophetic utterance (Hdt. 1.62–63). Peis-
istratus later followed the command of an oracle by cleansing the island of
Delos (Hdt. 1.64). During their rule the Peisistratids took control of all the
proper state sacrifices (Thuc. 6.54) and placed themselves conspicuously in
control of the Panathenaea, directing and perhaps appearing in the procession
(Thuc. 5.56–57; Ath.Pol. 18.3). Diodorus wrote that the daughter of Peisistratus
also took part in the procession (Diod. 9.37). Hippias, grandson of Peisistratus,
dedicated the altar of the twelve gods in the marketplace and the altar of Apollo
in the Pythium (Thuc. 6.54).51 The Peisistratids also worked on the temple of
Olympian Zeus (Arist.Pol. 5.1313b).52
Peisistratus and his family carefully observed religious tradition and ensured
that religious norms continued to be practised of behalf of the community
when they were in power. They also took a conspicuous part in religious rites,
visibly connecting themselves with the favour of the gods and consequently
the safety and prosperity of the polis.53
of Rhegium, secured aid for Terillus, tyrant of Himera, because he married to Terillus’
daughter (Hdt. 7.165). Miltiades son of Cimon secured his rule of the Chersonese partly
by marrying Hegesipyle, daughter of a Thracian king (Hdt. 6.39).
50 This probably occurred in 557/6 or 556/5. Bibliography on this event and discussion of the
recreation of epiphanies in ancient Greece can be found in Asheri, Lloyd and Corcella
2007: 122–123.
51 For the Altar of the Twelve Gods see Shapiro 1989: 133–141.
52 Many archaic tyrants were committed to funding religious practice. Polykrates dedicated
the entire island of Rhenea to Apollo (Hdt. 1.13) and built temples (Arist.Pol. 5.1313b).
Cypselus built a treasury at Delphi, later rededicated as the treasury of the Corinthians
(Hdt. 1.14, Plut.Pyth. 13). The expensive dedications of Cypselus at Delphi and Olympia are
mentioned by the philosophers (Arist.Pol. 5.1313b; Plat.Phdr. 236.b) and by later writers
(Plut.Pyth. 13; Apollas. 5; Agaklytos. 1; Strabo. 8.20; Pausanias. 5.2.3). Theagenes of Megara
was believed to have built the altar to Achelous (Pausanias. 1.41). Gelon dedicated large
amounts of booty to the gods (Diod. 11.25). Like the Peisistratids, Grinnus of Thera per-
formed religious duties conspicuously on behalf of his community (Hdt. 4.150). Although
not called a tyrant by Herodotus he is clearly the ruler of the community, taking charge of
religious affairs and possessing the authority to organise and command an expedition of
settlers. The family of Gelon had traditionally held the office of priest of the earth goddess
at Gela (Hdt. 7.153).
53 Many archaic rulers received oracular predictions of their rule or attracted often favour-
able traditions of prophesy during or after their lifetimes. Cylon attempted his coup after
receiving an oracle promising him the tyranny of Athens. Cylon misinterpreted the oracle
and the attempt failed (Hdt. 1.126). The Heraclids of Lydia had their power approved by
an oracle (Hdt. 1.7) as did Gyges (Hdt. 1.13). Cypselus had his rule of Corinth prophesied
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318 taylor
2.5 Justice
Herodotus mentions that, once in power for the final time, Peisistratus raised
revenue in Attica (Hdt. 1.64). Thucydides and the Athenian Constitution states
that this was a percentage tithe on produce (Thuc. 6.54; Ath.Pol. 16.4), and the
Athenian Constitution states that Peisistratus visited the countryside admin-
istering justice (Ath.Pol.16.5).54 Peisistratus was concerned with maintaining
order and administering justice, or at the very least in appearing to uphold
justice,55 developing a reputation for justice and moderation that endured after
his death. Peisistratus not only observed the laws but apparently administered
them himself with great fairness (Hdt. 1.59; Thuc. 6.54; Ath.Pol. 16.1,5). A story
was circulated that he granted tax exemption to a farmer who grumbled about
his tithe (Ath.Pol.16.6) and appeared in court to face prosecution (Ath.Pol. 16.8).
Although the authenticity of these later tales are doubtful they fit with the
by the oracle at Delphi (Hdt. 5.92b, 92e). Battus of Cyrene received the approval of Delphi
that confirmed his position and that of his family (Hdt. 4.155). His descendant Arcesilaus
had his position confirmed by Delphi (Hdt. 4.163). Miltiades received oracular support for
his leadership of the Dolonci (Hdt. 6.34).
54 Several modern accounts of Peisistratus’ rule perhaps overemphasise the image of the
tyrant as a reformer and innovator. Peisistratus’ distribution of loans to farmers and the
judging of cases find precedent in Homer and Hesiod, they were not innovative. Applying
terms such as ‘reform’ to Peisistratus reveals an overreliance on Aristotle’s anachronistic
account of the tyranny. Andrews 1956: 111; Lewis 2009: 38.
55 The idea that the Archaic community had a social or moral obligation to rise against, or
even lynch, unjust leaders is well established by Van Wees (2008) 26–27. It was essential for
archaic tyrants to maintain popular support. The archaic demos, just like the communities
depicted in Homer (see n. 65 below), was not a silent body incapable of defending itself.
More than one instance exists of an archaic polis successfully defending itself against
tyranny. When Cylon seized the acropolis of Athens in 632 Herodotus describes the oppos-
ition being directed by the public officials. Herodotus even names the specific officials that
he believed handled the crisis as the prytaneis of the naukraroi (Hdt. 5.71). Cylon was not
opposed and defeated by a rival family or by a specific social class, but by the Athenian
community led by its magistrates. Thucydides corroborates Herodotus’ account, stating
that ‘Athenians’ opposed Cylon and that the siege of the acropolis was directed by the
public officials (Thuc. 1.126). Peisistratus’ third attempt to become tyrant was opposed by
the ‘Athenians’ who had not joined him (Hdt. 1.62). After being appointed archon in 508
Isagoras was set up as tyrant by Cleomenes of Sparta (Hdt. 5.74). After seizing the acro-
polis with his supporters and allies Isagoras was besieged by ‘the Athenians’ (Hdt. 5.72).
The Athenian community of the seventh and sixth centuries had the inclination and the
means to defend itself. This implies the existence of an archaic prejudice against tyranny
and undermines the theory that battling over tyranny was the preserve of the elite. Consid-
ering the evidence of Homer, the failed attempts at tyranny at Athens, and the substance
of early Greek laws, it is unlikely that the archaic community was a passive observer of
elite competition, as suggested by Forsdyke 2005: 19; 26.
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other sources’ descriptions of Peisistratus as conspicuously just and moder-

ate. In behaving in this manner Peisistratus was not doing anything radical.
Basileis were expected to uphold themistes (Il. 9.295–298) and dike (Od. 19.107–
115; Hes. Op. 38–39), maintaining popular support by doing so. This template
matches with Herodotus’ tale of Deioces’ rise to power over the Medes. Deio-
ces abused his reputation as a just man, gaining leverage over the populace who
granted him tyrannical power in return for maintaining order (Hdt. 1.96–100).
Peisistratus conformed to this practice either by dispensing justice himself or
providing his own travelling judges (Ath.Pol. 16.5). Not only would this have
brought order and stability to Attica but would have disrupted the need for
Athenians to approach other powerful men to settle disputes, such as Peis-
istratus’ old rivals Megacles and Lycurgus, while cultivating a great deal of pop-
ular support for Peisistratus himself.56
In order to take power we have seen Peisistratus use private wealth, military
prestige, personal connections, marriage alliances, religious practice and the
administration of justice. Peisistratus and his family did not depart from the
established practices of the Homeric basileis as each of these practices finds
precedent in Homer. Even when the family took control of activities other-
wise performed by public officials, such as making war and offering sacrifice
on behalf of the city, they were not behaving in a particularly novel manner,
but simply using the opportunity to pursue traditional practices themselves.57
Although the careers of other Archaic tyrants are not as well documented in the
sources as that of Peisistratus, they conform to the same template, employing
traditional practices to take power (see the footnotes above).
3 Conclusion
If the basileis of the eighth and seventh centuries and the Archaic tyrants used
the same methods to take power, why were the Archaic tyrants no longer an
56 Traditions of justice have survived regarding other tyrants. Aristotle believed Pittacus was
elected as aisymnetes in Mytilene to combat civil discord (Arist.Pol. 3.1285a), the Athenian
Constitution states that Pheidon of Argos introduced a system of weights (Ath.Pol. 10.2).
It was believed that Cleisthenes personally altered the tribal system of Sicyon (Hdt. 5.67).
In later times Pittacus, Periander and Peisistratus were named among the Seven Sages of
Greece (Plat.Prot. 342a; Diog.Laert. 1.13).
57 As noted by Sancisi-Weerdenberg 2000: 12: ‘The tyrants did what the state was supposed to
do: in Thucydides’ vision political duties were taken over from the city by the ruling family.
They were seen by Thucydides as actions on behalf of the collective entity, the polis, and
the discharge of some of the city’s tasks.’
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320 taylor
accepted form of ruler? Why did a traditional form of ruler once regarded as
normative and socially acceptable become so unacceptable to the Greeks?
A great change that occurred in seventh-century Greece was the rise of the
rule of law and of ideas of eunomia (good order) and isonomia (equality before
the law).58 Solon and Herodotus can be exploited to understand the Greek view
of why the rule of law was desirable and what it did for their communities.
In Solon’s poetry we read that: ‘Lawlessness (dysnomia) brings the city count-
less ills, while Lawfulness (eunomia) sets all in order as is due … it straight-
ens out distorted judgements, pacifies the violent, brings discord to an end,
brings to an end ill-tempered quarrelling. It makes all men’s affairs correct and
rational’ (Solon.4.32–39[West]). The law according to Solon promotes fair deal-
ing, order and peace while restraining violence and preventing corruption.59 It
is this orderly state of affairs that the sole ruler now threatens, as Solon goes
on to compare living under the rule of a single man, a monarchos, to slavery
(Solon 9). Herodotus has Otanes the Persian say: ‘Contrast with this (a mon-
archos) the rule of the people: first, it has the finest of all names to describe
it—isonomia’ (Hdt. 3.80). Herodotus expresses a principle that the rule of one
man was opposed to the rule of law. During the debate on the return of Hip-
pias to Athens, Herodotus has Sosicles the Corinthian say: ‘this is like turning
the universe upside-down … now that you Spartans are proposing to abolish
isokratia (equality of strength) and restore tyrannidas in the cities’ (Hdt. 5.92).
Herodotus has Sosicles describe tyrants as opposed to good order and equal-
ity.60 The fear and distrust of an absolute ruler can be seen influencing certain
58 The extent to which one can talk of ‘Greek law’ as any kind of unified concept has been
debated elsewhere. A summary of the debate can be found in Gagarin 2005: 29–32. Fin-
ley 1975: 134–146, argued that ‘Greek law’ could not be referred to as each polis had its
own laws. However, see Harris 2018: 188–194. This chapter discusses laws from numerous
Greek poleis that display various shared principles. On the shared principles of the Greeks
regarding international law see Chaniotis 2004: 185–213.
59 Thomas 1996: 30, has observed that written law was ‘fundamental in checking arbitrary
judgement’ and unwritten law was ‘open to arbitrary judgement and inconsistency.’
60 Monarchos and turannos are both discussed in relation to tyrants because these words
are, at this stage, interchangeable. Solon compares the rule of a monarchos to slavery and
later links tyranny with violence (Solon 32). Sosicles in his tale of the Corinthian tyrants
associates tyranny with violence and lawlessness (Hdt 5.92). Otanes the Persian not only
states that monarchs overthrow the laws, violate women, and kill men without trial, but
Herodotus employs both turannos and monarchos in the Persian constitutional debate
when referring to a single ruler (Hdt. 3.80–81). Neither term is considered more legitimate
or milder than the other and both are depicted as violent and the polar opposite of the
rule of law. It is not necessary, at this stage of Greek history, to draw a constitutional line
between these two terms.
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laws of the Greeks concerned with limiting, controlling, and formalising power.
The aspects of the laws that illustrate this distrust are the safeguards that pre-
vented the concentration of power in the hands of one man.
The idea that powerful offices could lead to tyranny had already become a
concern by the sixth and fifth centuries (Solon. 32–33; Hdt. 1.96–102). Before
the time of Solon the Athenians tried to combat this problem by assigning
certain responsibilities to different officials. The oldest and highest offices at
Athens had once been the polemarch, who was head of the army, the basileus
and the archon (Ath.Pol. 3.1–4).61 In the Classical period it was believed that
Solon had divided the Athenians into four property classes, opening up the
offices of state to the first three, but restricting the thetes to participation in the
assembly and the law-courts (Ath.Pol. 7.2–4).62 Perhaps the greatest dissimil-
arity between Solon and the Homeric basileis was that Solon used his position
to distribute responsibilities, not to empower himself or accumulate wealth.
As Harris notes: ‘Solon does not see law and order (Eunomia) as one part of
a simple opposition between authority and chaos, but as a mean between the
extremes of anarchy and tyranny.’63 A late fifth-century inscription from Athens
republishing Draco’s homicide law states that the responsibilities of deciding
the verdict and giving the penalty will be divided between two groups of offi-
cials, the Ephetai and the Basileis (Meiggs and Lewis (1988) #86).64 The careful
division of powers can also be seen in action outside Athens. Herodotus writes
61 On Solon’s reforms in the Athenian Constitution see Rhodes 1981: 136–163.

62 There is no firm evidence to support the view that Solon’s reforms were primarily con-
cerned with the ‘elite’ and were an attempt to ‘defuse intra-elite tension’ as claimed, for
example, by Ober 1989: 61. Solon’s poetry and the Athenian Constitution depict Solon giv-
ing laws to the entire free community and the concerns explicitly expressed in his poetry
are to do with greed, violence, hybris and avoiding tyranny; not elite competition. See
also Gagarin 2008: 82: ‘a larger public interest, not the interests of a small ruling elite, as
the main motivation for the writing and public display of these laws.’ Duplouy 2014: 630,
has posited that ideas of citizenship and inclusion in the community do not necessarily
require formal legal groups and institutions, such as the ‘census classes’ of Solon, but can
be formed through participation in certain social practices. This may be correct as the free
communities depicted in Homer such as Troy, Ithaca and Pylos, are shown participating
in religious ritual, feasting and deliberation without possessing formal courts and magis-
tracies.
63 Harris 2006: 12. See also Lewis 2007: 13: ‘The Greeks needed to maintain order in their cit-
ies, but not at the price of tyranny; as time passed, they developed forums in which to
argue their cases openly, and (in many cases) they wrote laws to guide the decisions of
those forums.’
64 As noted by Harris 2013: 98, the reforms of Cleisthenes may have aimed at breaking up
the areas of local support enjoyed by men like Peisistratus, as opposed to just creating a
system of checks and balances. On Cleisthenes’ reforms see Whitehead 1986: 16–38.
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322 taylor
that Demonax of Mantinea, when organising the government of Cyrene, took

certain powers from Battus the basileus and made them open to the people
(Hdt. 4.161–162).65 A seventh-century law from Dreros on Crete regarding term
limits on the office of Kosmos states that three groups of officials, not just the
Kosmos, but also the Demioi and the Twenty, will take the oath to abide by that
particular law (Fornara (1983), Koerner (1993), 90.).66 A sixth-century law from
Chios, although badly preserved, lists some duties assigned to certain officials,
the basileis and the demarchs, and to a δημοσίη βουλή. The council seems to have
been composed of fifty members from each phyle (tribe) and probably repres-
ents an attempt at distributing deliberative and judicial power among the com-
munity (Nomima 1:62 Lines C. 1–9; Tod (1946) 1. Lines 15–20). The Greeks gave
authority to boards of public officials rather than individuals to further divide
power. In this paper we have already encountered the Demioi and the Twenty
at Dreros and the Ephetai and Basileis at Athens, the Platiwoinarchoi and Plati-
woinoi at Tiryns. The Athenian Constitution mentions over a dozen boards of
officials operating in Athens between 600 and 400.67 Distributing power to
boards of officials allowed magistrates to monitor their colleagues and there-
fore facilitated accountability, one of the crucial aspects of isonomia described
by Herodotus (Hdt.3.80). In light of this fact there is no reason to conclude
that collegiality was solely ‘a consequence of the jealousy that accompanied
Greek ambition’.68 It is more likely that this practice was a sincere attempt at
decentralising power and providing effective checks on the power of officials.
Distributing duties to different sections of the population and dividing judicial
and executive authority would have decentralised political power and made it
more difficult for one man to seize control.
Once these powers and responsibilities were given out, they were no longer
held until the holder died or became physically or economically incapable of
ruling, as was the case with the basileis depicted in Homer. The rise of the rule
65 On Demonax of Mantineia see Hdt. 4.161–162 and Arist.Pol.2.12.1274a.22. On the myths of

the Greek lawgivers see Szegedy-Maszak 1978: 199–209.
66 See Hölkeskamp 1992: 95, for a helpful discussion of these early decrees. ‘These magistrates
must obviously have a minimum degree of authority to implement, or enforce the imple-
mentation of, the norms and rules that refer to their functions. That is exactly what much
of early legislation relies on and indeed revolves around. Not only does it presuppose the
existence of such definable, specialized, impersonal and transferable functions, but this
kind of ‘institutionalized’ public duties—namely obligations of implementation, tasks of
control and enforcement—is also regularly an important, if not the central element of
many early statutes.’
67 For a comprehensive list of boards of magistrates see Harris 2006: 22; 25–28.
68 Sealey 1994: 115.
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of law brought limits on the duration for which an official held their powers
or how often a man could hold the same office.69 The seventh-century law
from Dreros (see above) prohibits a man who held the office of Kosmos from
being Kosmos again for ten years (Fornara (1983), Koerner (1993): 90). Similarly
a sixth-century law from Gortyn forbids the same man being Kosmos within
three years, occupying the office of Gnomon within ten, or to be Kosmos for for-
eigners within five (IC.iv.14.G-P). Term limits for high office were necessary to
prevent individuals from using their positions as a steppingstone to tyranny, a
suspicion entertained by Solon, Herodotus and Aristotle. The fact that several
of the earliest examples of Greek law in existence are concerned with limit-
ing the duration of magistrates’ powers suggests that this was an early and very
serious concern for Archaic Greek legislators.
Homer and Hesiod both say the gods punish injustice. In the Iliad, the Odys-
sey and the Works and Days, there are no legal penalties for the basileis should
they not uphold justice.70 During and after the seventh-century the Greeks’
distrust of those given power can be seen in the penalties they set out for offi-
cials who failed to perform their duties.71 A seventh-century law from Tiryns
threatens the Platiwoinarchoi with a double fine if they do not fine the Plati-
woinoi should they commit a certain infraction (Koerner (1993), 31). This law
employs an independent group of officials as enforcers over another group
of officials, presumably to facilitate accountability and to balance the powers
of the Platiwoinoi by granting the authority to punish them to other officials.
A sixth-century law from Eretria contains a fine for officials who do not act
according to the law regarding what might be the payment of debts or fines
(Nomima 91).72 The kosmos at Gortyn could also be tried and fined, probably
for making an unlawful arrest (1l. 51–55).73 This law aimed at preventing the
unlawful seizure of persons by threatening the appropriate magistrate with
69 Harris 2006: 18.

70 Homeric society was not, however, incapable of censuring its rulers. Homer depicts com-
munities taking coordinated action against those who harmed them or acted against their
will. Athene, disguised as Mentor, criticises the Ithacans for not checking the excesses of
the suitors, implying they had the power to do so (Od.239–241). The father of Antinoös fled
for his life when the people tried to lynch him for raiding the Thesprotians (Od. 16.424–
429). When Odysseus tells Laertes he has killed the suitors he admits to being troubled
by the potential consequences: ‘But now I am terribly afraid in my heart that speedily the
men of Ithaca may come against us here’ (Od. 24.353–354). Both Telemachus (Od. 2.40–
79) and Eupeithes (Od. 24.426–437) appeal to the assembly to take action against those
whom they claim are hurting the community.
71 Van Effenterre and Ruzé 1994–1995: 1; 393.
72 See trans. Gagarin 2008: 58–59, n. 49.
73 There are several interpretations of this law. See Gagarin 2004: 179; 182 n. 30.
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324 taylor
punishment. An early fifth-century inscription from Teos, containing regula-

tions regarding traitors, threatens the Timouchoi with a curse if they themselves
fail to invoke the curse against traitors (Fornara (1983) 63). The Spartan Ephors
also had the power to fine and imprison magistrates as well as the power to
deprive them of their office (Xen.Lac.Pol.8.4). These laws existed to ensure that
the behaviour of officials conformed to the law rather than private interest and
profit, addressing the problem of corruption already apparent in Hesiod where
these safeguards and deterrents are conspicuously absent.
What these examples show is that from the seventh century onwards there
was a movement across the Greek world to divide and limit power. In the cen-
turies before this development the basileis of Homer and Hesiod had been mil-
itary leaders, judges, arbitrators, religious functionaries and ambassadors. The
basileis built their power on private wealth, military power and participation
in certain social practices. Prior to the advent of the rule of law powerful men
were encouraged to abuse their position to collect wealth and slaves because
gaining power in Homeric Greece required engagement with social practices
that in turn demanded the expenditure of wealth in the form of treasure and
agricultural produce. It also incentivised those who administered justice to per-
vert or ignore accepted norms of justice to acquire bribes or seize the property
of others. The fear of this kind of corruption and of the unrestrained power
of a sole ruler is reflected in the safeguards the Greeks placed in their earliest
laws, safeguards designed to prevent the concentration and abuse of power.
The rise of the rule of law across the Greek world made the traditional ruler
incompatible with ideas of eunomia and isonomia. Solon and Herodotus depic-
ted sole rulers as the polar opposite of the rule of law because tyrants persisted
in using old but discredited methods to take power. Peisistratus and his con-
temporaries employed precisely the same methods as the Homeric basileis to
gain and maintain power: private wealth, military power and participation in
key social practices. The word basileus continued to be applied to public offices
and would later be used by the philosophers to describe their ideal monarch.
A new word was therefore needed to describe the sole ruler. The word turan-
nos is of uncertain origin, but was probably brought into the Greek language
from another people, possibly the Lydians.74 It would have been logical for
74 Hippias of Elis believed turannos appeared in Greek in the seventh century (FGrH 6 F 6).
The possibility that turannos is of Lydian origin is entertained by Andrewes 1956: 22; and
Lewis 2009: 7. Austin 1990: 289, believes the word originated in Asia Minor. Parker 1998:
145–149, has identified Hittite and Old Testament terms for rulers and judges that are sim-
ilar to turannos. See also O’Neill 1986: 26–40.
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the Greeks to have adopted a new word, such as turannos, to describe a ruler
who was wealthy, ruled alone and remained unaccountable to his subjects,
examples of which were readily available in the kingdoms to the east. Archaic
turannoi did not ‘emerge’ in Greece, but were traditional rulers transformed
and given a new label by the appearance of a truly new phenomenon, the rule
of law.
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chapter 12
Tyrannical and Civic Reception of Homer—

A Problem of Sources
Lars Hübner
1 Introduction1
The numerous problems involved in examining the historical period generally

known as ‘Archaic Greece’ have been discussed time and again, especially when
it comes to the complexities of using Homer as a historical source.2 Against
the backdrop of these challenges, every scholar dealing with Archaic Greece
must also face the question—crucial to every historian—‘On what foundation
is my knowledge based?’. What every historical investigation into this time-
period has to face more generally holds especially true for the study of Homeric
reception in the sixth century bc.3 In this context, one can divide the written
1 This paper presents a modified excerpt of my recently published doctoral thesis, cf. Hübner
2019: 92–150.
2 I regard five issues to be of significant importance. The first is related to the reconstruction
of the physical, epigraphical, and poetic fragments. Second, the possibility or impossibility of
using literary artefacts for the purpose of historical reconstruction remains highly disputed;
see Hübner 2019: 25–26; 32–45; 192–193 with additional literature. Third, analogous questions
emerge in interpreting archaeological artefacts, especially when it comes to their relation-
ship to literary sources. This aspect has been discussed at length during the recent dispute
over new findings at Troy; see Cobet/Gehrke 2002 for an excellent overview of the different
positions. Fourth, there remain often ample differences between the conclusions which one
can draw out of the early historical material such as physical, epigraphical or poetic remains,
and the later narrative tradition. This begs the question of the grounds on which later nar-
rative sources base their accounts. This very point is even more relevant as—fifthly—one
can often note fundamental contradictions within these two kinds of sources when it comes
to the presentation of particular issues such as the Tyrannicides; see Jacoby 1949: 152–168;
Thomas 1989: 238–251; Murray 2001a; Gehrke 1993; Nicolai 2001. It is perhaps because of these
multiple problems with the source material that recent theories such as the linguistic turn or
anthropological approaches to oral history are called on, as it were, to fill the gaps in the study
of Archaic Greece; see Evans 1980; Cobet 1988; Thomas 1989: 238–251; Murray 2001a; 2001b;
Gehrke 1993; Nicolai 2001; Koiv 2003: 19–33.
3 In the following, Homeric, as a metonym, indicates the Trojan War as the central subject of
Iliad, Odyssey, and the whole of the Epic Cycle. Thus, while aware of the numerous ancient
discussions which consider which separate literary works can be regarded as Homeric, for the

tyrannical and civic reception of homer 331
sources handed down to us into two categories: contemporary and retrospect-

ive. Ibycus’ Ode to Polycrates,4 Stesichorus’ narratives, and the Hymn to Apollo5
are the only contemporary sources (‘relics’) whilst, from Herodotus onwards, a
broader narrative tradition focuses on that time retrospectively (‘traditions’).6
The latter more or less unanimously reports that Homeric themes had a coher-
ent impact on the demos as a whole. From here on out, I denote this kind
of Homeric reception as ‘civic’, as it was carried out by, or referred to, the
demos. This civic reception of Homer, however, affects two fields. It is said that
Homeric themes served Athens as an argumentum ex auctoritate during its ter-
ritorial conflicts with Sigeion and Megara in Solonian and Peisitratean times.7
Others claim that the tyrants of Athens and Sicyon, Hipparchus and Cleis-
thenes, initiated or terminated the public recitation of Homer to gain influence,
for different purposes, each with his respective demos.8 The picture drawn by
these late narrative sources is, in and of itself, more or less consistent: Homeric
themes served as a political tool in internal and external affairs. From this per-
spective, the demos appears to have been the key actor or the main beneficiary
in Homericis. It is this picture of a broad, civic reception of Homer during the
purposes of the current discussion, I have limited the use of ‘Homeric’ to indicate this partic-
ular material; see Graziosi 2004 and Reichel 2011: 66–71. When I speak of Homer, however, I
refer to the figure which has been connected to the subject of the Trojan War since the sixth
century bc; cf. Xenophan. DK 21 B; DK 21 B 11; Heraclitus DK 22 B 56; DK 22 B 42. For the
purposes of the current discussion, it is irrelevant whether the Trojan War, and Homer as an
individual, are historic realities. As this paper discusses Homeric reception, the ample and
confusing post-Wolffian discussions regarding the Homeric Question and the historicity of
the Trojan War can be put aside. Furthermore, I use the term reception in a broader sense
than one could expect from a philological point of view; cf. Hose 2020 and, on the contrary,
Lamberton 2020. While analysing the adaption or modification of Homeric themes in certain
literary texts, the focus of this historical paper lies, above all, in the socio-political impacts of
textual Homeric reception. See Giuliani 2003 for pictorial Homeric reception.
4 POxy. 1790 frr. 1–3, 10, 12 + 2081 (f) = 282a PMG.
5 Hymn.Hom.Ap. Allen-Halliday-Sikes.
6 By talking of—unmediated—relics—and—mediated—traditions, I follow Bernheim 1926:
104–132 with his simplification of the complex historical hermeneutics put forward by Droy-
sen 1857: 71–100. See also Heuss 1934: 134–135 and Oexle 2004: 170–176 with an excellent
review of these theoretical discussions. Though applying Bernheim’s terminology, which has
become conventional for German historiography, this paper is indebted to Droysen’s critical
philosophical thinking. On the basis of the available historical materials and following meth-
odological guidelines, it tries to argue for the plausibility of certain socio-political ‘Erschei-
nungsformen [manifestations]’ of Homeric reception (Droysen 1857: 10; for the reference to
Kant’s epistemology cf. ibid.: 17).
7 Hdt. 5.94–95; Diog. Laert. 1.57 = FGrH 485 F6; Plut. Sol. 10 = FGrH 486 F4.
8 Pl. [Hipparch.] 228b–229d; Hdt. 5.67.
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332 hübner
sixth century bc, which has been widely accepted, without any substantial cri-
ticism, by the few modern scholars who explicitly work in this difficult field of
research.9
These reconstructions, however, must be handled with caution, for three
reasons. First, the narrative tradition regarding Homeric reception in the sixth
century bc spans from Herodotus to Plutarch. Therefore, these authors are
writing at a significantly later point than the period with which they are con-
cerned. This raises questions as to their reliability. Secondly, the historical value
of these sources can be doubted for several reasons, which I will discuss in
detail below. Thirdly, we have the aforementioned poetic sources at our dis-
posal. However problematic they may be, due to their fragmentary state, these
relics can offer first-hand insights into the mechanisms of Homeric reception
during the sixth century bc. For these reasons, it is somewhat surprising that
said scholars do not carry out a thorough assessment of the aforementioned
narrative sources.10
In light of the complex problems with using these sources, the central ques-
tion of this paper is: to what extent does the picture drawn from the later
sources correspond to that of the earlier material? Furthermore, if the two do
not match, how, then, do we explain such divergent pictures?
I want to stress from the outset that the picture of a civic reception of Homer,
which is emphasised quite univocally by the later sources, cannot be found in
the early poetic material. Homer’s reception at the Samian court of Polycrates
exclusively focuses on praising the tyrant. One must also approach in a sim-
ilar way the rhapsodic agones which Polycrates had organised at the Pythian-
Delian games, shortly before being murdered. Yet, by offering Homeric themes
to a broader public, the tyrant paradoxically enhanced their popularity. This
process heightened the cohesivity of the demos. Finally, one can connect the
genuinely civic dimension of Stesichorean Homeric reception to those cities
where a ‘trend towards isonomy’11 had already taken hold, such as the colonies
of Magna Graecia, and Sparta. Once we look at the poetic remains in their own
right, we soon realise that the picture of Homer’s reception presented by later
sources is too simplistic.
9 To date, Burkert 1987 remains the primary work on this topic; see also Graziosi 2002: 201–
234. There is, however, a huge amount of philological research regarding the Homeric
Question which inevitably covers Homeric reception of the sixth century bc, though in
a rather subordinated manner; see recently West 2001: 8–9; Nagy 2010; Bierl 2015. For a
historical approach, see Slings 2000.
10 See esp. Nagy 2010 and in this respect Hübner 2019: 17–20.
11 Ch. Meier 1990: 29.
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In this chapter, I aim to investigate the differences between the late tradi-
tions and the early poetic material, by evaluating two of the cited late narratives
(ii). Following this, I will analyse the available poetic sources to determine how
they can help us reflect on how Homeric themes were received during the sixth
century bc, by whom and for what purposes (iii). Finally, I will compare both
source-groups and discuss various hypotheses for the reasons behind their dif-
ferent perspectives (iv).
2 Evaluation of the Narrative Sources
In this section, I focus, first, on examining the narrative sources about the
Athenian-Megarian conflict for the island of Salamis and, secondly, on the cul-
tural policy of the Peisistratid Hipparchus. Both are exemplary instances of the
argumentative tendencies of the available narrative sources as a whole. In lit-
erary and philological scholarship, these sources are usually studied under the
rubric of the Solonian interpolation of Homer, the Panathenaic performance of
Homer, or the Panathenaic rule.12 I assess at length all of the available narrative
sources regarding Homeric reception of the sixth century bc in further work.13
2.1 Homer, Athens, and Salamis

In the fourth century bc, the Megarian local chronicler Dieuchidas reports
in a note transmitted by Diogenes Laertius, that Solon introduced a special
form of Homeric recital ex hypoboles, a kind of sequential singing. Further-
more, Solon is said to have contributed more to the understanding of Homer
than Peisitratus did. In order to illustrate this latter point, the Megarian quotes
a line from the Homeric Catalogue of Ships.14 These three points, however,
seem to have been taken out of context. Thus, the missing links are usually
filled by referring to Plutarch’s Life of Solon, as this text also cites the Cata-
logue of Ships.15 Plutarch provides an extensive account of the conflict between
12 It is impossible to mention all of the research literature regarding these issues since they
represent the centre of the Homeric Question. Wolf 1795; Wilamowitz-Moellendorf 1884:
235–266 are still of relevance; see also Allen 1924: 225–248; Scott 1914 for a unitarian point
of view; furthermore with detailed discussions Merkelbach 1952; Davison 1955; Jensen
1980; Nagy 1992; Slings 2000; Burgess 2004; Finkelstein 2017; for summaries see Haslam
1997; West 2001: 3–32; Bierl 2015.
13 Cf. Hübner 2019: 92–150.
14 Diog. Laert. 1.57 = FGrH 485 F6.
15 Plut. Sol. 10 = FGrH 486 F4. See Merkelbach 1952 following Leaf 1900: xvii–xviii. For critical
remarks see Davison 1955: 216.
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Athens and Megara regarding the Megarian island of Salamis. He notes that
Sparta had been chosen by both parties to arbitrate the case, which Athens
then won. It remains unclear precisely what the parties’ arguments were before
their arbitrators. By citing unspecified sources, Plutarch, however, notes that
the Megarians complained about the arbitration. The Megarians emphasised
that Solon, as the Athenian spokesman, had made use of the Homeric Cata-
logue of Ships by interpolating a line which describes the Salaminian battle
formation next to that of the Athenians.16 For this reason, according to the
Megarians, the Spartan verdict had shaky foundations and, therefore, should
have been revoked. Plutarch then reports how the Athenians reacted: they
are told to have found the Megarian allegations absurd. After comparing the
reports of Dieuchidas and Plutarch, it seems quite plausible that Diogenes
Laertius excerpted his Megarian source, which focuses explicitly on Solons’
putative fraud. By contrast, it seems that Diogenes’ intention was to uphold
a positive image of Solon.17 On the other hand, Dieuchidas’ sarcastic com-
ment that the fraudulent Solon contributed more to the understanding of
Homer than Peisistratus did evidently mirror the anti-Athenian attitude of the
Megarian.18
If the reports of both Dieuchidas and Plutarch are true, then Solon used
an argumentum ex auctoritate in the context of the Athenian-Megarian con-
flict regarding Salamis. In this case, then, Homeric themes had an integrative
impact on the Athenian polis, whose interests had been pursued during the
Spartan arbitration.
This report of Dieuchidas and Plutarch should be considered problematic,
for two reasons. First, there are several chronological difficulties regarding
the framing narrative of Solon’s intervention in the Athenian-Megarian con-
flict. Second, the manner in which Solon is told to have argued before the
Spartan arbitrators is highly questionable. Regarding the first point, the narrat-
ive sources give contradicting information on whether Solon, Peisistratus, or
both, participated in one way or another in the events.19 Plutarch himself gives
two differing accounts.20 If accepted as authentic, the Salamis Elegy would
confirm Solon’s participation in the Athenian action against Megara, but in a
16 Hom. Il. 2.557–558.

17 Cf. Jensen 1980: 146–147.
18 Diog. Laert. 1.57 = FGrH 485 F6.
19 Hdt. 1.59; Dem. 19.252 and 255; Dem. [61] 49; Arist. [Ath. Pol.] 14.1 and 17.2.
20 Plut. Sol. 8.2 points out that Solon and Peisistratus both participated in the actions. Plut.
Sol. 9 solely notes Solon. It is disputed whether the latter episode is dependent on Hdt.
1.59; see Libero 1996: 53; Lavelle 2005: 52–56.
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rather exhortative way.21 The root of this conflict is generally accepted to be

the unfortunate attempt by the Olympian victor Cylon to establish a tyranny
at Athens. Cylon is said to have received support from the Megarian tyrant
Theagenes, which, in turn, resulted in the resistance mounted by the Athenian
Alcmaeonidae.22 As such, this conflict is generally assumed to have been initi-
ated after 640bc, which is the year of Cylon’s Olympian victory.23 At some point
later, both parties seem to have turned their focus on the strategically import-
ant Megarian island of Salamis. As Herodotus notes, Peisistratus’ seizure of the
Megarian port of Nisaea played an important role during the conflict. Taking
into consideration our scanty knowledge of Peisistratus’ biography, this incid-
ent is generally assumed to have taken place before his first tyranny—when
exactly, however, remains open to speculation.24 If Solon intervened in the
conflict, this must have occurred before 594bc—the year of his archontate.25
Although theoretically possible, such an assumption is extremely difficult to
maintain. Plutarch recounts several of Solon’s supposed activities before his
archontate, including travelling,26 participating in the assemblies of the Seven
Sages,27 attending the First Sacred War,28 as well as mediating the Cylonian
Affair.29 If one assumes Solon’s birth to have taken place in the second half of
the seventh century bc, the sheer number of proposed activities raises con-
siderable doubts that he could have been present at the Spartan arbitration,
which must have put an end to the perpetual Athenian-Megarian fights. If,
however, one takes for granted the historicity of this event, it is more likely
that it took place at some point during one of Peisistratus’ periods of tenure
as tyrant—although it is extremely difficult to determine the exact date.30 This
hypothesis is easier to reconcile with Peisistratus’ seizure of Nisaea, which must
have happened before the arbitration. Peisistratus, therefore, rather than Solon,
21 Plut. Sol. 8.2 and Diog. Laert. 1.46 = Sol. fr. 2 G.–P. = 1–3 W2. See Lardinois 2006; Lavelle
2005: 41–42; Noussia-Fantuzzi 2010: 203–216.
22 Hdt. 5.70–72; Thuc. 1.126–127; Plut. Sol. 12. For the socio-political impacts of the conflict,
see Libero 1996: 48–49; for the Megarian perspective, see Lavelle 2005: 34–36.
23 It is impossible to give an exact date of the incident. The given estimate bases on Eusebius’
problematic Chronicon which reports Cylon’s Olympian victory; see Euseb. Chron. 35; cf.
Oliva 1988: 27 and Lavelle 2005: 36.
24 See Libero 1996: 52–54 with further literature.
25 For the dating of Solon’s archontate, see McGregor 1974: 33–34.
26 Plut. Sol. 2; see Oliva 1988: 37–38.
27 Plut. Sol. 4 and 6; see Noussia-Fantuzzi 2010: 9–17.
28 Plut. Sol. 11; see Oliva 1988: 45–46.
29 Plut. Sol. 12; see also Arist. [Ath. Pol.] 1 and Diog. Laert. 1.110–113. Cf. Stanton 1990: 24.
30 See the differing assumptions of Beloch 1913: 312–313; Picirilli 1978: 10–11; Oliva 1988: 40–45;
Lavelle 2005: 60–64; Noussia-Fantuzzi 2010: 208–210.
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should be regarded as the Athenian spokesman before the Spartan arbitrators.

Accordingly, my proposed reconstruction of the Athenian-Megarian conflict
goes as follows.
After 640bc, Cylon’s attempt to establish a tyranny at Athens had been
supported by Theagenes of Megara; this, however, was met with resistance
by the Alcmaeonidae and, therefore, Cylon’s attempt failed. Despite this, con-
flict between Megara and Athens continued and extended to the strategically
important Megarian island of Salamis. At some point before 594 bc, Solon inter-
vened in the conflict by boosting the fighting morale of his fellow Athenians.
Before the beginning of his first tyranny, Peisistratus seized the Megarian port
of Nisaea. At some point afterwards, Peisistratus attended a Spartan arbitration
tribunal which was called by both Athens and Megara in order to adjudicate
the case of Salamis. The dispute was arbitrated in favour of Peisistratus’ Athens
which led to violent protests by the Megarians.
Now we turn to the second issue, about the nature of the particular argu-
ments brought forward by both parties at the Spartan arbitration. In this con-
text, the alleged use of Homer is essential. The earliest available source is
Dieuchidas, who is cited by Diogenes Laertius and also by Plutarch, who refers
to several Megarian sources.31 How credible is the Megarian chronicler? Re-
search has long held that, as a rule, local chroniclers were patriotically biased.
The information they provide, therefore, has long been considered inferior to
that of the great historians, Herodotus and Thucydides.32 More recent scholar-
ship, however, taking advantage of research in oral history and narratology, has
rightly challenged this one-sided approach to the ancient sources more gener-
ally.33 Nevertheless, the conclusions of older scholarship appear to be accurate
when it comes to the case in question. Plutarch mentions the differing and
biased views of the Athenians and of the Megarians in the case of Salamis in
general and, in particular, points to the biases of the arguments raised during
the arbitration.34 Plutarch highlights Dieuchidas’ alleged reference to the Cata-
logue of Ships as a case in point: an argument characterised by a strong anti-
Athenian bias. Other contemporary Megarian historians at that time expressed
similar political attitudes.35 All of these considerations lead us to question the
historical value of Dieuchidas’ report of Solon’s reputed use of Homer. This is
31 Plut. Sol. 10.3.

32 Cf. Jacoby 1949: 70–79.
33 See in particular Koiv 2003: 19–33.
34 Plut. Sol. 10.1–2.
35 This especially holds true for the chronicler Hereas, see Plut. Sol. 10.3, Thes. 20.2 and Thes.
32.5. On the Megarian local historiography, see Piccirilli 1975: 3–4.
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especially true if we consider that the allegedly interpolated lines do not in fact
offer much in terms of argumentative advantage for the Athenians.36
To sum up, the later narrative sources offer, at best, vague accounts of Athens’
early expansive activities. A closer look reveals that they are unreliable in terms
of chronology, the main actors involved, and their motives. This is also true of
Aristotle, who in his Rhetoric refers, very generally, to an Athenian argumentum
ex auctoriate Homeri during the Spartan arbitration as a paradigm of rhetor-
ical technique.37 From the fourth century bc onwards, there was a widespread
assumption that Homeric themes were used instrumentally during the Salamis
conflict, yet it remains unclear to what degree the later sources provide reliable
evidence in this respect, given that the events occurred at least 200 years before
the time of writing.
2.2 Homer and the Panathenaia

As mentioned above, the issues commonly referred to under the rubric of Pan-
athenaic performance of Homer and Peisistratean rule are part of an extremely
controversial debate in Greek literature and philology. In part, this is because
they are related to central questions about the pre-Hellenistic transmission of
the Homeric poems. For the purpose of the current discussion, these philolo-
gical problems are somewhat irrelevant. As such, instead of focusing on these
debates, in what follows, I will examine the historical value of one key source,
Pseudo-Plato’s Hipparchus.38
This dialogue addresses the question of how to define the term philokerdes,
which describes one characterised by love of gain. The two speakers in the dia-
logue start from different premises. The Pseudo-Platonic Socrates considers
love of gain to be part of human nature. Consequently, it should not be judged
on a moral basis. His anonymous hetairos takes an opposing view.39 As the con-
versation threatens to come to a halt, the Pseudo-Platonic Socrates widens the
scope of the debate by referring to the Peisistratid Hipparchus.40 He describes
Hipparchus as a paradigm of an honourable and wise man who favoured the
Attic demos by devising an education policy of sorts, which included pat-
ronage of the lyric poets Anacreon and Simonides, the erection of herms,
36 See Heitsch 1968: 657–660; West 2001: 10–14; Haslam 1997: 83–84 with differing views on
the question whether Hom. Il. 2.546–547 is interpolated or not.
37 Arist. Rh. 1375b30; see also Quint. Inst. 5.11, 40.
38 See Leisegang 1950: 2367; Schorn 2005: 225–226 for the discussions regarding authorship
and dating.
39 Pl. [Hipparch.] 232a–c.
40 Pl. [Hipparch.] 228b–229d.
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which were engraved with aphorisms, and, finally, the introduction of the
Panathenaic performance of Homer.41 Thus, education serves as the com-
mon thread throughout the claims of the Pseudo-Platonic Socrates. As a con-
sequence, he maintains that Hipparchus has been killed due to envy in educa-
tional matters and not—as others believe—because of amorous jealousies.42
If this report were accurate, the implication would be that Homeric themes, as
part of a popular policy of the tyrant, would have had an integrative effect on
the Athenian demos.
The Pseudo-Platonic Socrates himself subtly questions this rather one-sided
argument. He emphasises that Hipparchus imposed his education policy not
only to create wiser citizens, but also to rule over them.43 He also stresses
that Hipparchus considered himself wiser than the Oracle of Delphi.44 Thus,
Pseudo-Plato’s Socrates characterises Hipparchus as an ambivalent character
whose pursuit of education led to his murder. All these aspects reinforce the
basic argument of Pseudo-Plato’s Socrates that love of gain does not actually
result in profit for Hipparchus since, in general, it is just part of human nature.
This rhetorical emplotment,45 however, makes one doubt the historical value of
his reasoning.46
These doubts further increase if one reviews the concrete assertions of
the Pseudo-Platonic Socrates, particularly his account of the tyrannicide.47
It is clear that different versions of this central event circulated in Athens.48
In modern historiography, Thucydides’ report is widely accepted, after Jac-
oby.49 Thucydides states, first, that the murder was motivated by jealousy,
and, second, that the tyranny continued under the Peisistratid Hippias.50 The
Pseudo-Platonic Socrates seems to refer directly to this account. He discredits
Thucycides’ report that Harmodius’ sister was insulted during a ceremony,51
claiming instead that this is the opinion of hoi polloi.52 In this regard, one
41 Pl. [Hipparch.] 228b–229b.

43 Pl. [Hipparch.] 228c.
44 Pl. [Hipparch.] 228e.
45 On the term emplotment, see White 1986: 103–105.
46 I share that point of view with Schorn 2005: 226–227.
47 Pl. [Hipparch.] 229b–d.
48 Ath.15.50 = PMG 893, 895–896; Hdt. 5.55–57, 1; Thuc. 1.20, 1–2 and 6.53.3–60, 1; Arist. [Ath.
Pol.] 18.
49 See Jacoby 1909: 152–168; Podlecki 1966; Stahl 1987: 6–18.
50 Thuc. 1.20.1–2; 6.53.3–60.1. For the continuation of the tyranny after Hipparchus’ death see
also Hdt. 5.55.
51 Thuc. 6. 56.
52 Pl. [Hipparch.] 229b–c.
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can view this objection to Thucydides raised by the Pseudo-Platonic Socrates

as a step towards dissociating himself from the unreflected opinion of the
plethos.53 Indeed, Pseudo-Plato’s Socrates claims hoi chariesteroi anthropoi as
his sources.54 This gives a special kind of dignity to his report, particularly
because in his account Hipparchus was murdered due to an educational, not
an amorous, dispute.55 This suggests that the Pseudo-Platonic Socrates account
seeks to ironize Thucydides’ account, which raises further doubts about the his-
torical value of the information provided by the philosopher.56
Analysis of the dialogue’s structure, as well as the intertextual compar-
ison of the dialogue to Thucydides’s template, raises general doubts about the
historical value of the report of Pseudo-Plato’s Socrates. What are the con-
sequences of the concrete educational measures Hipparchus is said to have
taken? Indeed, a herm with an inscription has been found in the area indic-
ated by the text,57 although it does not have the exact aphorism mentioned by
Pseudo-Plato. Research has identified a number of different functions for these
herms, particularly to do with representation.58 This matches with the brief
comment of the Pseudo-Platonic Socrates that Hipparchus intended to com-
pete with the Delphic Oracle by spreading his wisdom.59 However, this hardly
warrants the inference that this initiative was solely concerned with educa-
tional purposes. If one further examines the alleged patronage of Anacreon
and Simonides, it would seem that the Pseudo-Platonic Socrates overestim-
ates the educational aims of Hipparchus. There is no proof of any activities
of Anacreon and Simonides at the court of Hipparchus. Additionally, what is
known of the two lyric poets and the Peisistratids does not support the idea
of a close relationship between the tyrants and the poets. Anacreon is said to
have praised some aristocratic enemies of the Peisistratids,60 while Simonides
took a critical stance towards the Persians,61 which is incompatible with the
attested close relationship between the Persians and the Athenian tyrants.62 In
53 Thuc. 1.20.
54 Pl. [Hipparch.] 229b.
55 Cf. Schorn 2005: 232–234.
56 See also Hirsch 1926: 166–167; Fornara 1968: 419.
57 CEG 304; see Peek 1935; Lavelle 1985.
58 See Schorn 2005: 240–242; Libero 1996: 130–131; Slings 2000: 59–60; furthermore Lavelle
1985: 419; Quinn 2007: 93–95.
59 Pl. [Hipparch.] 228e.
60 Pl. Chrm. 157e; see Slings 2000: 60–61; Schorn 2005: 237–238.
61 Simon. 11 W2; see Hübner 2019: 178–183.
62 Thuc. 6.59.
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addition to this, Hipparchus did not hold a monopoly, in Athens, as a patron

of poets.63 The Pseudo-Platonic Socrates seems to refer to this when he notes
the vast sums of money Hipparchus had to offer for Anacreon’s and Simonides’
services.64 For all these reasons, the picture we find in the text of Hipparchus
maintaining a kind of temple to the Muses seems to be rather exaggerated.
Finally, it must be questioned whether Hipparchus brought Homer’s poems
to Athens and introduced the Panathenaic performance of Homer. If this is
true, such a measure would imply a civic reception of Homer, since, as Pseudo-
Plato’s Socrates emphasises, the tyrant intended to educate the Athenian de-
mos.65 Unfortunately, such an interpretation cannot be verified due to a sig-
nificant lack of clear contemporary evidence on the matter: the few later nar-
rative sources concerning the Panathenaic performance of Homer do not give
any particular information about the origins of the institution. This holds true
for Plato’s Ion,66 but also for Plutarch’s short note that Pericles installed the
artistic agones at the Panathenaia,67 which included the Homeric perform-
ances.68 Dieuchidas’ aforementioned report concerning Solon’s introduction
of the recital technique ex hypoboles has been connected by some scholars to
the Panathenaic performance of Homer.69 But, once again, one must doubt
these assertions, for the same reasons we doubted Solon’s alleged spokes-
manship during the Spartan arbitration regarding Salamis. Finally, the wide-
spread assumption that one can connect the appearance of Iliad-related illus-
trations on Attic vases after approx. 520bc to the beginnings of the Panathenaic
Homeric performances is misleading,70 for correlation does not equate caus-
ation. This view has in fact recently come under criticism.71 Only one Pana-
thenaic amphora, dated to approx. 540bc and depicting a rhapsode, seems
to confirm the installation of the Panathenaic performance of Homer in Peis-
istratid times.72 It remains unclear, however, whether the depicted rhapsode
63 See Osborne 1996: 285; Slings 2000: 60–66.

66 Pl. Ion 530a–531a.
67 Plut. Per. 13.6.
68 Isoc. Paneg. 159.
69 Basis for these considerations is the assumption that Dieuchidas’ wording and the Pseudo-
Platonic ex hypolepseos (Pl. [Hipparch.] 228b) are synonymous; see Wilamowitz-Moellen-
dorff 1884: 262–263; Mazon 1948: 253; Merkelbach 1952: 31; on the contrary Davison 1955:
9–10; Jensen 1980: 145–149; Slings 2000: 69–70.
70 Cf. Friis-Johansen 1967: 223–243.
71 Cf. Giuliani 2003: 77–114.
72 Cf. Shapiro 1993: 97–103.
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is actually reciting Homeric passages. Overall, it seems likely that the Pseudo-
Platonic Socrates praises Hipparchus for a coherent educational policy that the
tyrant did not actually carry out.
So far, our assessment of the Hipparchus has highlighted two important
problems: first, the historical account is constructed in such a way as to rein-
force the overall argument of the Pseudo-Platonic Socrates. This alone raises
doubts as to the historical value of the information provided. Second, the
picture of an altruistic Hipparchus trying to educate the Attic demos can-
not withstand serious criticism. Hipparchus’ selfless philanthropy—erecting
herms with aphorisms, installing a poetic centre, and finally introducing the
Panathenaic performance of Homer—seems to be a rather optimistic inter-
pretation of scanty evidence and information, if not an entirely fictional ac-
count. On the other hand, it would be unwarranted to doubt the introduction,
at a rather early stage, of the Panathenaic performances of Homer. The Attic
orators Lycurgus and Isocrates both remark on the creation of this institution
by the ‘ancestors’ (progenoi).73 During the fouth century bc, vague assump-
tions about the origins of this important event circulated. Isocrates, in par-
ticular, stresses the exhortative purpose of the Panathenaic performance of
Homer,74 providing therefore an account that is alternative to the view that
Hipparchus’ reception of Homer served entirely educational goals. Ultimately,
the Hipparchus fails to provide definitive evidence for the originator of the
Panathenaic performance of Homer—be it Hipparchus or Peisistratus—or the
reasons behind the creation of the institution.
To sum up, our analysis up to this point has shown that the late narrative
tradition unanimously draws the picture that in Solonian-Peisistratean times
Homeric reception had an integrative impact on the demos as a whole. The
Pseudo-Platonic Socrates explicitly emphasises this point, describing Hippar-
chus’ alleged education policy. However, Dieuchidas, Aristotle, and Plutarch
suggest that Homeric themes had a deeper identity-establishing impact on
the Attic demos. Without this premise, their reports that Homeric or pseudo-
Homeric themes had been used for Athenian purposes during the Salamis
conflict would not make sense. Such an account, however, does not withstand
substantial scrutiny: Plutarch’s report reveals significant chronological incon-
sistencies, while Dieuchidas’ quick notes appear to be politically biased. The
Pseudo-Platonic Socrates’ praise of Hipparchus pursues rhetorical effective-
ness rather than historical precision. For all these reasons, it is all the more
73 Isoc. Paneg. 159; Lycurg. Leoc. 102.

74 Isoc. Paneg. 159.
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necessary to carry out a critical review of the traditional picture of sixth-

century Homeric reception. To this end, I now move to the few poetic remains
from the sixth century bc that evidence Homeric reception: Ibycus, Stesi-
chorus, and the Hymn to Apollo. My aim is to compare their contemporary
poetical reflections on Homeric reception to the account provided by the late
narrative tradition.
3 The Early Sources
3.1 Ibycus’ Ode to Polycrates

In the heavily fragmentary 48 verses handed down to us, the Ode to Polycrates75
‘receives’ Homeric themes in a rather idiosyncratic manner. At the beginning
of the first fragment, the speaker notes the departure of the Achaean coali-
tion from Argos in order to take revenge for the kidnapping of Helen.76 At the
beginning of the second triad, the textual focus begins to change. Through an
extensive praeteritio, the speaker explicitly emphasises that he will not recount
the virtues of the Homeric heroes or the enormous size of the Achaean armada.
As a mere human being, he regards himself incapable of doing so. Instead, he
calls upon the Heliconian Muses to undertake the task.77 This kind of task-
sharing between a mortal persona and the divine Muses is well-known from
the Homeric Catalogue of Ships.78 In stating his limits, however, the poet of the
Ode marks himself as significantly different from the Homeric model, because
in the last triad he refers to his immediate surroundings by appealing to a cer-
tain Polycrates. The poet promises imperishable glory (kleos aphthiton) to Poly-
crates, which in return will secure his own fame (emon kleos).79 This epanalep-
sis, arranged in a chiastic manner, underlines the reciprocal, even symbiotic
relationship, which exists between the poet and his addressee. Thus, the poet
seeks to differentiate between the role of the Muses and his own. He will be
responsible for present fame, whereas the Muses will occupy themselves with
past glory. In the climax, the speaker leaves no doubt as to which of the two
roles he considers more important. Yet, contrary to his stated intention, the
speaker does not properly maintain this division. If one credits the extens-
75 POxy. 1790 frr. 1–3, 10, 12 + 2081 (f) = 282a PMG.

76 282a PMG, 1–9. See Barron 1969: 133 for possible intertextual relations between the ode
and the Cypria.
77 282a PMG, 10–23. For possible relations to Hes. Theog. 1 see Barron 1969: 134.
78 Hom. Il. 2.484–493. See Barron 1969: 133–134; Woodbury 1985: 200–201.
79 282a PMG, 46–48.
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ive textual reconstruction accomplished by Barron, the speaker justifies the

greatness of Polycrates by comparing him to the mythical heroes Cyanippus,
Zeuxippus, and Troilus, as paradigms of outstanding beauty.80
The poet establishes a paradigm shift away from the Homeric model in
two ways. First, he does not invoke the mythical past for its own sake. On the
contrary, he uses it in order to glorify his current circumstances. The glory of
the Homeric past, therefore, helps give meaning to the present circumstances,
regarded as equally exceptional. Although Homeric heroes are, in fact, seen as
unparalleled and thus unattainable in their fame,81 their kleos now serves as
a basis for comparison.82 By interweaving past and present, the poet evokes
Homeric themes in an intentional manner.83 Second, this revaluation of the
myth demands a new definition of the poet’s self-representation. He does not
defer to the gods as an unquestionable authority, as the Homeric poeta vates
used to.84 Instead, by mediating between past and present, he draws a further
distinction between himself from that traditional role. The poet gives fame to
those who merit it, not just to mythical heroes. As a consequence, his persona
appears as the turning point of the final climax: without the poet, there is no
fame. Thus, it is not a coincidence that in the ode’s end, everything is focused
on the element which connects the poet with his addressee, that is, kleos.85
The historical contextualisation of the ode creates substantial difficulties. It
could be suggested that the Polycrates mentioned in the ode could be the fam-
ous tyrant of Samos, and the ode’s speaker, the Western Greek poet Ibycus.86
Indeed, Suda notes that a poet’s sojourn on the island of Samos took place
during the 54th Olympiad (564–561bc), when king Croesus ruled over Lydia
and ὁ Πολυκράτης τοῦ τυράννου πατήρ [sic!] over Samos.87 Things, however, are
80 Ibid., 36–45. For the textual reconstruction see Barron 1961; 1969: 130–131. On beauty as a
topos in archaic poetry see Fränkel 1962: 328–329; Woodbury 1985: 201; Tosheva 2018.
81 Hes. Op. 156–178.
82 See also Simon. 11 W2 with a very similar construction of glory of the Plataiomachoi by
remembering the Homeric past; cf. Hübner 2019: 178–184.
83 For his concept of ‘intentionale Geschichte [intentional history]’, see Gehrke 1994; 2000;
2014. See Hübner 2019: 20–23 with a contextualisation of the concept and further literat-
ure.
84 Hom. Il. 1.1–7; also Hes. Theog. 1–4; 22–23.
85 See also Woodbury 1985: 204–205.
86 Cf. POxy. 15 (1922) ad 1790 as well as 17 (1927) ad 208; Wilamowitz-Moellendorff 1922: 512–
513; Page 1951; Bowra 1961: 250–257; Snell 1965: 119–120; Sisti 1967; Fränkel 1969: 328; Barron
1969: 132–133; Gianotti 1973; Gentili 1978: 394–395; Woodbury 1985: 206–218; MacLachlan
1997: 191–192; Bonanno 2004; Giannini 2004; Tosheva 2018. On the contrary, see Maas 1922:
578.
87 Suda s. v. Ibykos Adler 80 = Ibyc. TA1 PMGF.
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not that simple, and the three pieces of chronological information provided
by the Suda have in fact led to a great deal of confusion. Two points are prob-
lematic. First, the Suda entry contradicts chronological statements made by
others who estimate Ibycus and Polycrates to have lived in the 540s bc,88 which
roughly matches Herodotus’ cursory comments regarding the predecessors of
Polycrates.89 Second, this entry shows clear indications of corruption and can
be emended in two different ways: ὁ Πολυκράτης ⟨ὁ⟩ τοῦ τυράννου πατήρ90 or ὁ
⟨Πολυκράτους⟩ τοῦ τυράννου πατήρ.91 The first emendation would suggest that
Polycrates had a homonymous father, which would contradict Herodotus.92
Elsewhere, I have argued at length that reconstructing the rather obscure early
Samian history is indeed possible, yet only by discounting this highly problem-
atic Suda entry.93 Against this backdrop, it is highly likely that the Polycrates
addressed in the ode is in fact the Samian tyrant. This is further suggested by
the text of the ode itself. The reference to the Homeric Catalogue of Ships can
be interpreted as a subtle allusion to the thalassocratic power of Polycratean
Samos.94 Beauty, moreover, is often emphasised as a tertium comparationis
between Polycrates and the mythic heroes, as this attribute forms a topos within
the aristocratic catalogue of virtues.95 Thus, the interpretation of the ode as
one of the earliest examples of an enkomion handed down to us is in fact
plausible.96 As the same holds true for the Homeric references, their purpose
lies in the justification of the tyrant’s superiority, insofar as they help sharpen
the social distinction between Polycrates, other aristocrats, and the remaining
laoi.97 By deepening those divides, this ‘tyrannical’ Homeric reception stands in
88 Jer. Chron. LIX Helm 103b = Ibyc. TA 2 PMGF; see also Cyril. Adv. Iul. 1.13 Migne 512b. See
Mosshammer 1979: 290–304 for a concise summary of the manifold chronological prob-
lems; also Woodbury 1985: 210–220.
89 Hdt. 3.39–44. See Strasburger 1956: 138 for the chronological reconstruction of Herodotus’
assertions.
90 Cf. Barron 1964: 223.
91 Cf. Flach 1884: 524; Schmidt-Stählin 1959: 490; Page 1951: 170; West 1970: 208; Woodbury
1985: 208. For other possible emendations, see Labarbe 1962: 181.
92 Hdt. 2.182; 3.39.
93 Cf. Hübner 2019: 131–135.
94 Cf. Snell 1965: 120–121. See Libero 1996: 262–268 on Polycrates’ naval policy.
95 See Tosheva 2018 for a similar conclusion. For the aristocratic catalogue of virtues, see
Stein-Hölkeskamp 1989: 104–110. See also Ibyc. fr. 288 Page in which the speaker praises
the exceptionality of a certain Euryalus by honouring his beauty. If we take into account
this background, the judgement of Maas 1922: 578 must be misleading.
96 Cf. Page 1951: 165; Gianotti 1973: 408–410; Gentili 1978: 396; Cingano 1995. For the genre of
enkomion, see Gentili 1983: 175–179.
97 See Bourdieu 1987: 62; 107–108; 382–383 for the social implications of distinctions.
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the tradition of aristocratic Homeric reception, which can be traced, through

the Archaic poets, back to the aoidoi, who performed at the beginnings of the
Archaic period in Ionia.98 Since it focuses on the single ruler and does not rule
out an entire elite group, it intensifies these distinctive aristocratic mechan-
isms.
The ode further interacts with this tradition in an additional way. The apo-
strophe of Polycrates evokes the direct communication between poet and sym-
posiasts, which can be proven for early Archaic poetry on the basis of deictic
references.99 Most current scholarship assumes that the Ode to Polycrates must
have been performed within a sympotic context, although its triadic struc-
ture rather points to choral lyric, which was more commonly performed at
public occasions, such as, feasts.100 Recently, Ibycus has been regarded as a
wandering kitharode, who performed at different tyrannical courts.101 Though
plausible, this assumption lacks concrete proof, and is, therefore, hypothet-
ical.
It is certain, however, that it is the purpose of Ibycus’ Ode to Polycrates to
praise the Samian tyrant by constructing his kleos aphthiton in reference to the
Homeric past. In doing so, the tyrannical reception of Homer broadens social
boundaries, and thus is in line with a kind of aristocratic reception which can
be traced to Homeric Demodocus. By focusing on a single ruler, instead of an
elite group, the tyrannical reception of Homer goes beyond that aristocratic
model.
3.2 The Homeric Narratives of Stesichorus

In recent years, the highly fragmentary texts of Stesichorus, commonly dated
to the early sixth century bc, have garnered a lot of attention.102 And, there-
fore, the distinctiveness of the Stesichorean reception of Homer has also been
often discussed.103 How fond Stesichorus was of Homeric themes was already
remarked upon by Simonides.104 This affinity is evident even just when con-
sidering the titles of his poems, such as Iliupersis, Wooden Horse, Helen, or
98 Cf. Hübner 2019: 31–91.

99 See in particular Rösler 1980: 11–20; 33–45.
100 Cf. Page 1951: 165; Snell 1965: 121; Gianotti 1973: 419; Gentili 1978: 394.
101 Cf. Vetta 1999: 208–215; Davies 1988: 53–54; furthermore Barron 1964: 224–225; Bowie 2009:
122–125; Finglass 2014: 24–25.
102 Cf. Finglass/Kelly 2015; Davies/Finglass 2014.
103 Cf. Peek 1958: 173; Fränkel 1962: 319–321; Santini 1970; Maingon 1980; Bowie 2012; Finglass
2014: 32–39; Kelly 2015: 34–44.
104 Ath. 4.172e = Sim. fr. 564, 4 PMG; see Pallantza 2005: 91.
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the famous Palinodie(s).105 Furthermore, Stesichorus’ reception of Homer has

been connected to places which the poet himself had allegedly visited. The
Oresteia and the Palinodie(s) in particular are regarded as evidence of a close
relationship between Stesichorus and Sparta.106 This holds especially true for
the poet’s portrayal of Helen. In the Palinodie(s), it is stated that it was not
the spouse of Menelaus who was abducted to Troy, but her eidolon.107 Con-
sequently, Helen cannot be accused of being the cause of the Trojan War. This
redemption of Helen has been interpreted as favouring Sparta, where Helen
had been worshipped as a local heroine since the eighth century bc.108 Though
likely, a direct relationship between Stesichorus and Sparta cannot be conclus-
ively proven.109 What is missing is clear deictic references, such as can be found
in Ibycus’ Ode to Polycrates. On the contrary, in all of the fragments handed
down to us, Stesichorus neither praises individuals, nor emphasises aristocratic
values. The poet seems to have formulated his poetic narratives for a broader
public, for instance through the use of scenic elements such as dialogues.110
Thus, the dramatic features of Stesichorus’ numerous narratives are suggestive
of performances in public contexts.111 It remains uncertain, however, who actu-
ally performed these narratives. Some think of Stesichorus as a kitharode112—
perhaps being accompanied by a mute choir113—whereas others think a choral
performance more likely.114
But if one accepts that the performance of the narratives occurred in the
broader, institutionalised context of a public feast, then this would require a
more or less socially and politically institutionalised community, in the Weberi-
an sense.115 Therefore, the demos in front of which the Stesichorean narratives
would have been performed must have considered itself as an autonomous,
socio-politically relevant power, able to act regardless of an aristocratic elite.
105 Cf. Kelly 2007; on the Palinodie(s) see Pallantza 2005: 98–122; Davies/Finglass 2014: 308–
312.
106 Cf. Wilamowitz-Moellendorff 1931: 113; Bowra 1934: 116–117.
107 For the text, see Davies/Finglass 2014: 312–516.
108 Cf. Seeliger 1886: 8–9; Premerstein 1896: 634; Bowra 1934: 115–117; Rossi 1983: 24–25; West
1968.
109 See the criticism expressed by Pallantza 2005: 105–111; Finglass 2014: 25–29.
110 See in particular Burkert 1987: 209–211.
111 Cf. Burnett 1988: 141–147; Cingano 1993: 356–361; Finglass 2014: 29–30.
112 Cf. Barret 2007, 22–23; West 1971: 307–313.
113 Hom. Od. 8. 261–264; see also Phemius in 23.143–149. Cf. Gentili 1983: 197–198.
114 Cf. Cingano 1993; Burkert 1987: 209–210; Burnett 1988: 129–135; Nagy 1990: 361–362; Finglass
2014: 30–32.
115 See Weber 1922: 782–783.
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In this context, Meier speaks of the ‘Institutionalizing of Civic Presence’.116

Such developments can be traced particularly in the Western Greek colon-
ies. These major projects are generally interpreted as the result of joint action,
even though an aristocratic oikist may have been tasked with organisational
duties.117 There is ample evidence that these particular political entities had a
decisive impact on the genesis of the polis as a socio-political institution for the
whole of the Greek oikumene, thanks to the effects of their experiences on their
metropoleis.118 At other locations, there is also evidence of a mounting ‘Civic
Presence’, for example, in Sparta. Though certain aspects may be disputed, the
so-called Great Rhetra generally demonstrates instances of early institutional-
isation of the Spartan damos, which was granted specific powers.119 Further-
more, Tyrtaeus’ elegies reflect, through poetry, the political priorities of the
public interest before traditional aristocratic claims.120
It is, perhaps, not a coincidence that Stesichorus is commonly related to the
Western Greek colonies and Sparta.121 In comparison to other Greek poleis of
that time, all of these places are, to a certain degree, characterised by a high
degree of institutionalisation. This, resulting in significant levels of ‘Civic Pres-
ence’, was the precondition of any form of public Homeric reception. Public
feasts such as Sparta’s Karneia, and others in the Western Greek colonies,122
would provide the basis for any performances of the Stesichorean narratives.
In this context, it is possible that the Spartan damos or the newly established
communities in Magna Graecia might have influenced how the Stesichorean
narratives were actually performed.123
If this picture is accurate, then the narratives of Stesichorus utilised Homeric
themes in an intentional manner, for the purpose of satisfying the expecta-
tions of his broader audience. This public and civic form of Homeric reception
116 Ch. Meier 1990: 53–54. For the underlying socio-political developments that led to the
genesis of the Greek polis see Gehrke 2013.
117 Cf. Stein-Hölkeskamp 2015: 104–105.
118 Cf. Malkin 2013: 377–378; Stein-Hölkeskamp 2015: 119–121.
119 Plut. Lyc. 6 and Tyrt. fr. 14 G.–P. Cf. M. Meier 1998: 186–207.
120 For the necessity of subordinating personal interests under a common good see in partic-
ular Tyrt. fr. 9 G.–P. Cf. Hübner 2019: 76–85.
121 See West 1971: 302–305 with a summary of all relevant sources; Finglass 2014: 6–18.
122 Cf. Burnett 1988: 141–145 and Morgan 2012: 35–39.
123 Cf. Bowra 1934, 116–117 and West 1968 for Stesichorus’ possible ties to Sparta. Recently, the
interrelations between the rise of the polis in Magna Graecia and Stesichorus’ founda-
tional poetic role have been stressed; cf. Burnett 1988: 137; Willi 2008: 82–90; Morgan 2012:
44–46. The formative function of Homeric reception in the Eastern and Western Greek
colonies deserves far more attention; see Hübner forthcoming.
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provides a counterpoint to Ibycus’ Ode to Polycrates, which was presumably

performed in honour of Polycrates in a rather ‘closed’ sympotic context. So far,
the poetic remains of the sixth century bc provide a picture of the Homeric
reception of their time which oscillates between these two opposing extremes.
3.3 The Hymn to Apollo

The Hymn to Apollo plays a major role in the discussion of Archaic Homeric
reception.124 In this text, an anonymous speaker recounts a feast in honour of
Apollo which took place on the island of Delos.125 Recent research after Burkert,
Janko, and West, relates this account to the Suda’s reports of Pythian-Delian
games.126 This connection has been identified by these scholars in the very
composition of the Hymn to Apollo, which consists of two parts.127 The first is
about Delian Apollo, his birth on Delos and his worldwide wanderings;128 the
second is concerned with Pythian Apollo and the installation of the Delphic
Oracle.129 This is however also problematic, as the hymn’s speaker repeatedly
emphasises that one should not sing of Pythian Apollo.130 Many have tried to
explain this apparent contradiction historically: Thucydides reports that Poly-
crates dedicated Rhenaea to Delian Apollo after conquering the neighbouring
island of Delos.131 Modern research has tried to connect the Pythian-Delian
games to this specific historical context—they would be a celebration of this
connection.132 The combination of the hymn’s Delian and Pythian parts has
been interpreted as a reflection of this historical process. If the information
provided by Suda is accurate, the violent death of Polycrates, which is generally
dated to 522bc, must have occurred shortly after the Pythian-Delian games.133
The speaker of the Hymn to Apollo emphasises the existence of poetic agones
that took place in the context of the Pythian-Delian games, at which men and
124 Cf. Burkert 1979: 58–60; ibid. 1987: 212–214; Janko 1982: 109–114; West 1999: 368–369.
125 Hymn. Hom. Ap. Allen-Halliday-Sikes: 146–150.
126 Suda s. v. Πύθια καὶ Δήλια Adler 3128 = Epicurus fr. 136 Usener. Cf. Burkert 1979: 58–60; ibid.
1987: 212–214; Janko 1982: 109–114; West 1999: 368–369.
127 Cf. Ruhnken 1782: 7–8.
129 Ibid., 178–546.
130 Ibid., 165–166, 177–178.
131 Thuc. 1.13.6 and 3.104, 2. Cf. Libero 1996: 276–277.
132 Cf. Parke 1946; Burkert 1979: 58–60; ibid. 1987: 212–214; Janko 1982 109–114; West 1999: 368–
369. For a putative pan-hellenic quality of the feast see Berve 1967: 109; Shipley 1987: 96
and Libero 1996: 276–277.
133 Cf. Burkert 1979: 59 on the basis of Parke 1946 who assumes the feast to have taken place
in 523 bc; see also Santerre 1958: 307–309.
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women would sing of past events.134 The topic of such songs is reminiscent of
the Homeric Demodocus, who presents klea andron, used to indicate Homeric
themes.135 The agonal context of these songs, however, seems to be similar
to that discussed in Plato’s Ion.136 Despite the existence of other sources, it
remains unclear how precisely those poetic competitions took place. The Hel-
lenistic local chronicler Hippostratus, cited in the scholia to Pindar, notes that
a certain Cynaethus, a Homeride from Chius, composed the whole of the Hymn
to Apollo. Furthermore, Cynaethus is said to be the first to recite all of Homer’s
epics at Syracuse.137 This information cannot be otherwise verified. On the con-
trary, the Hymn to Apollo emphasises the anonymity of its author. Thucydides,
however, regards Homer himself as the Hymn’s poet.138 The question of the
author’s identity remains controversial,139 and it is impossible to resolve these
problems in a satisfactory manner.
Despite these unresolved issues, the Hymn to Apollo is accepted as the earli-
est evidence of rhapsodic Homeric reception,140 although there is no other
extant evidence for either the Pythian-Delian games or its rhapsodic com-
petitions. It is possible, however, to support tentatively the existence of such
Pythian-Delian poetic agones by carefully analysing the hymn itself. On the
basis of linguistic analysis, Janko regards the Delian section to be post-Homeric;
furthermore, he argues that the Pythian section is even later, and it depends
on the first section.141 This alone supports the hypothesis that both parts ini-
tially existed separately, and that they were put together at a later date. It is
possible to narrow down the relevant period. In particular, the initial reference
of the hymn’s speaker to the Delian temple dedicated to Apollo142 provides
valuable chronological coordinates, given that the complex was built in approx.
550bc.143 Against this textual backdrop, it is at least possible that both parts of
the hymn were combined in the context of the Pythian-Delian games, which
took place shortly before Polycrates’ death in 522 bc.
If all of this is correct, then it is possible to argue that there existed a pub-
lic Homeric reception within the context of the Pythian-Delian games. This is
134 Hymn. Hom. Ap. Allen-Halliday-Sikes: 149–150; 160–161.

135 Hom. Od. 8.72–78; 487–520.
136 Pl. Ion 530a–b.
137 Schol. Pind. Nem. 2.1 = FGrH 568 F 5.
138 Thuc. 3.104.
139 Cf. Fehling 1979: 193–199; on the contrary Burkert 1979: 54–55.
140 Cf. Herington 1985: 5–10; Haslam 1997: 81–83; Reichel 2011: 49 with further literature.
141 Cf. Janko 1982: 99–122; on the contrary West 1975: 162–165.
143 Cf. Santerre 1958: 138; 251; 301; Burkert 1979: 62; Càssola 1975: 86–89.
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reminiscent of the aforementioned performance of the Stesichorean narrat-

ives. The purpose of this Pythian-Delian reception, however, shows similarities
with the Ibycean Ode to Polycrates: on both occasions, the reception of Homeric
themes was aimed at praising a tyrant. Thus, the Pythian-Delian rhapsodic
agon can be located between the tyrannical and the civic extremes of Homeric
reception: a form of public Homeric reception with a tyrannical purpose. On
the one hand, it served to legitimise the tyrant’s supremacy over the Samian
aristocracy, the whole of the Samian demos, and ultimately the entire Aegean
region. On the other, such public reception, nolens volens, enhanced the pop-
ularity of the Homeric themes, which became part of the basic cultural baggage
of a wider public.144 Furthermore, as intentional history, such foundational
Homeric knowledge could potentially legitimise a growing ‘Civic Presence’—
which it did de facto, as later the Simonidean Plataea Elegy demonstrated.145
Such a dialectical interpretation of the Pythian-Delian reception of Homer
would be consistent with the view that the Archaic tyrants, unintentionally,
contributed to the institutionalisation of citizenship within the polis.146
4 Homeric Reception in the Sixth Century bc: Comparing the Late

Tradition with Early Poetic Remains
The source material concerning Homeric reception in the sixth century bc

is rather problematic. The narrative tradition since Herodotus unequivocally
paints the demos as the central social-political agent of Homeric reception.
In this paper, I have demonstrated this tendency through explorations of the
Athenian-Megarian conflict about Salamis, as well as of the Panathenaic per-
formance of Homer. Dieuchidas emphasises Solon’s use of Homer’s epics in
order to manipulate the Spartan arbitrators, so that the strategically important
island of Salamis be awarded to Athens.147 The Pseudo-Platonic Socrates, on the
other hand, praises Hipparchus as a philanthropic ruler who aimed to educate
the Attic demos by introducing the Panathenaic performance of Homer.148
144 See Gehrke 2001: 10 using the term ‘Rezeptwissen [recipe knowledge]’ by Schütz/Luck-
mann 1979: 158–183, which, as a metaphorical term, is difficult to translate. See Ber-
ger/Luckmann 1969: 69–71 concerning the impact of knowledge on societies.
145 See Hübner 2019: 175–183.
146 Cf. Martin 1976: 154–160; Ch. Meier 1990: 86–67. For the ambivalent influence of archaic
tyranny on the genesis of the polis see in particular Kolb 1977: 136–138; Gehrke 1986: 42;
Libero 1996: 412–413; Stein-Hölkeskamp 2013: 112–114; 2015: 251–253.
147 Plut. Sol. 10 = FGrH 486 F4 and Diog. Laert. 1.57 = FGrH 485 F 6.
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There are two main objections against this picture: the first has to do with the
unreliability of the narrative tradition; the second is that the picture provided
by the poetic sources is incompatible with it. First of all, we have shown the nar-
rative tradition to be mostly unreliable. The Dieuchidean-Plutarchian report
about Solon’s use of the epics is problematic in two ways: first, Plutarch’s back-
ground story of the Athenian-Megarian conflict is incomplete, and suffers from
serious chronological problems which prevent an exact reconstruction of the
events. If one accepts, however, the remarks about the Spartan arbitration,
then that event must have taken place in Peisistratean, as opposed to Solo-
nian, times. Second, Dieuchidas’ accusation that Solon misled the arbiters by
interpolating some lines in the epics is clearly biased against Athens. Thus, it is
impossible to distinguish between polemics and fact. Furthermore, the report
of the Pseudo-Platonic Socrates that Hipparchus introduced the Panathenaic
performance of Homer for educational purposes is governed by Plato’s argu-
mentative and rhetorical purposes. This one-sided account obscures other
available interpretations of this instance of tyrannical reception, such as its
likely exhortative or autocratic function.
In contrast, despite being fragmentary, the poetic sources paint a different
yet consistent picture. Being an enkomion, the Ibycean Ode to Polycrates glor-
ifies the Samian tyrant by comparing him to the Homeric heroes, which illus-
trates Polycrates’ kleos aphthiton. Thus, the reception of Homeric heroes and
a Homeric past helps construct an image of a present which is perceived as
glorious. It is this interweaving of past and present which determines inten-
tional history.149 The Ode’s speaker uses Homeric themes to sharpen the social
boundaries between the tyrant, other Samian aristocrats, and the remaining
laoi. The Homeric reception here is therefore rather distinctive, as argued by
Bourdieu,150 in that it represents a continuation of the tradition of aristocratic
Homeric reception that we find in much Archaic poetry. The beginnings of
this aristocratic Homeric reception can be traced to Homeric times.151 The Ode
makes use of this tradition by connecting Homeric heroes with the tyrant, or
by using the aristocratic term kleos. It reinterprets, however, these existing lyric
techniques and terms by focusing on the individual, namely the tyrant, and
not on a group. This similarity between aristocratic and tyrannical Homeric
reception is also evident in the setting of the performance: the symposium.
This holds true for the Ibycean Ode, for the elegiac poets, and—with some
149 See in particular Gehrke 2003: 64.

150 Cf. Bourdieu 1987: 62; 107–108; 382–383.
151 Cf. Hübner 2019: 31–91.
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qualification—for the Homeric Demodocus.152 These similarities between aris-

tocratic and tyrannical Homeric reception, confirm, yet again, the interpret-
ation of Archaic tyranny as performing ‘a redistribution of power within the
nobility’.153
At the other end of the spectrum we find the Stesichorean narratives. It is
very likely that these were performed publicly, probably in the Western colonies
or in Sparta. In such a context, the poet appears to have taken into considera-
tion the demands of his respective audiences in an intentional manner. His
Laconian interpretation of Homeric themes, at least, strongly suggests this is
the case. The Stesichorean case appears to be the first in which the demos
becomes the explicit target of Homeric reception, which we can, therefore,
describe as ‘civic’. The more institutionalised poleis, such as Sparta or the West-
ern colonies, seem to have provided the socio-political preconditions for such
performances: without a civic public, there is no civic Homeric reception.
The Pythian-Delian rhapsodical agon mirrored by the Hymn to Apollo ap-
pears to fall between these two extremes of a tyrannical and a civic Homeric
reception. On the one hand, it shows distinctive similarities with the Ibycean
Ode to Polycrates: the honour of the tyrant is demonstrated by recalling the
glorious past of Homeric heroes. On the other hand, these competitions were
publicly performed. This is the main difference between the two: one was per-
formed in a public context; the other in a sympotic one. Through such perform-
ances, the tyrant unintentionally stimulated the spread of the Homeric epics
which, in the following period, contributed to the socio-political cohesion of
the demos. The circulation of Homeric themes led to the possibility for broader
social groups to refer, in an intentional manner, to a Homeric past. The pop-
ularisation of Homeric themes is contemporary to the ongoing socio-political
institutionalisation of the polis—and vice versa. Both processes are mutually
dependent.
Thus, the poetic sources demonstrate a spectrum of possible receptions of
the Homeric poems between a tyrannical and a civic pole. The late narrative
tradition needs therefore to be judged against the evidence of these contem-
porary ‘relics’. First, the Dieuchidean-Plutarchian account of Solon’s alleged
use of Homer in front of the Spartan arbitrators: if one wants to believe that
an argumentum ex auctoritate Homeri was actually used in that context, des-
pite the obvious anti-Athenian bias of the Megarian chronicler Dieuchidas, one
should consider Peisistratus rather than Solon to be responsible. This would
152 Cf. ibid.: 47–49; 85–89.

153 Ch. Meier 1990: 37.
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better match the chronological framework provided by Plutarch. If the tyrant

did in fact exploit Homeric themes during the arbitration, he must have done
so with the objective of enhancing his power. Such an interpretation matches
the tyrannical way of receiving Homeric themes displayed in the Ibycean Ode
to Polycrates.
Now we turn to the report of Pseudo-Platonic Socrates that Hipparchus pur-
sued an educational policy by introducing the Panathenaic performance of
Homer. After our discussion of the few existing sources regarding the begin-
nings of this institution, we can at least suggest that Peisistratus, instead of
Hipparchus, is likely to have established this performance. Regardless of the
originator, the Panathenaic Homeric reception resembles that of Polycrates’
Pythian-Delian games, which aimed to glorify the tyrant publicly. In this tyr-
annical approach to Homeric reception lies the central difference to the per-
spective of Pseudo-Platonic Socrates, who attributes philanthropic motives to
Hipparchus. With the Pythian-Delian model in mind, and taking into consid-
eration the rhetorical emplotment of the Pseudo-Platonic Socrates’ report, it is
probable that the Panathenaic performance of Homer also had a legitimising
impact on the Athenian tyrant. Analogous to Polycrates and his Pythian-Delian
reception of Homer, the Peisistratids would have unintentionally stimulated
the socio-political cohesion of the Attic demos by commissioning the public
recitation of Homeric themes.
Finally, it needs to be pointed out that the late narrative tradition overestim-
ates the role of the demos as the central target of Homeric reception during the
sixth century bc. If one takes into consideration the few poetic materials which
provide first-hand accounts from the period, it is mainly the tyrants who appear
to have been the main recipients of Homeric themes. However, by commission-
ing large public events like the Panatheneia or the Pythian-Delian games, these
rulers, nolens volens, contributed to spread of the Homeric epics across social
groups. Overall, a public reception of Homeric themes as it can be deduced
from the Stesichorean narratives remains the exception rather than the rule.
Over time, however, this changed. During the fifth century bc, the tendency
towards a popularisation of the Homeric epics significantly increased, particu-
larly under the rising ‘trend to isonomy’ throughout the Greek oikumene.154 In
this regard, the Simonidean Plataea Elegy is a shining example.155
One possible reason why the late narrative tradition overestimated the role
of the demos in Homeric reception lies in the broader audience of Homeric
154 Cf. Hübner 2019: 156–175.

155 Cf. ibid.: 175–184.
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themes from the fifth century bc onwards. On the basis of recent anthropo-
logical research about oral history, it has been argued that the late narrative
tradition, from Herodotus onwards, tended to interweave present and past
contexts whenever the writer lacked an institutionalised source of historical
knowledge.156 This certainly holds true for the sixth century bc, given that
this period lies beyond the historiographers’ ‘communicative memory’ which,
according to Aleida and Jan Assmann,157 is formed by everyday interaction and
communication, and therefore extends no farther than three generations. Chal-
lenged by a lack of stable historical transmission, it is not surprising that the
historiographers—to varying degrees—tended to fill the gaps in their know-
ledge with elements taken from their own cultural and intellectual horizon. It is
thus plausible that the late narrative sources emphasised the demos as the cent-
ral recipient of Homeric themes during the sixth century bc because this was
the case in their time. This intentional relationship between past and present
can also be demonstrated elsewhere, for example in the foundation stories
of many colonies.158 Similarly, the detailed dialogues with which Herodotus
intersperses his account of the Ionian Revolt can be interpreted as a narrat-
ive technique meant to fill the gaps left by historical transmission.159 Evidently,
the Athenian historiographer had no direct witnesses for those dialogues at
his disposal, as these had taken place in the Ionian-Persian border region, and
many years earlier. When it comes to the narrative sources for Archaic Greece,
the boundaries between historiographical akribeia and narrative freedom are
rather blurred.160 For the modern historian it is, therefore, all the more neces-
sary to evaluate critically the information provided by later narrative traditions.
The two analytical steps performed in this paper—first, the evaluation of the
historical value of the late narrative sources by examining possible contradic-
tions, biases, and rhetorical patterns, and, second, the comparison with historic
material from the actual period under examination, such as poetry—should be
regarded as a two-step methodology for such a critical examination.161
What, then, are the results of our investigation? The historical value of
the narrative tradition in question, the Dieuchidean-Plutarchian report con-
156 See in particular Gehrke 1993: 1–5; furthermore Murray 2001a; 2001b.
157 Cf. J. Assmann 1992: 50–51; ibid. 2008; A. Assmann 1999.
158 Cf. Stein-Hölkeskamp 2015: 110–121.
159 See in particular Solmsen 1943.
160 For the term akribeia see Thuc. 1.22.3. On the two-sidedness of Greek historiography as a
narrative and a scientific genre, see Gehrke 2005.
161 See Hall 2007: 19–20 who proposes a similar approach by promoting his evaluating tech-
nique of contextual fit.
- 978-90-04-51363-1
cerning Solon’s use of Homer, and the assertions of Pseudo-Platonic Socrates

regarding Hipparchus’ education policies, is questionable for a variety of reas-
ons. This especially holds true for their univocal emphasis on the demos as the
central actor in Homeric reception during the sixth century bc. By contrast, the
poetic fragments from the period offer a more varied picture, which emphas-
ises that the tyrants utilised Homeric reception for their own purposes. A civic
Homeric reception sustained by the demos seems to have been restricted to
poleis characterised by higher levels of institutionalisation, such as Sparta and
the Western colonies. Thus, the comparison of these two kinds of source mater-
ial suggests that the late narratives overestimated the role of the demos. This
can be explained by considering the gaps within the communicative memory
of the late historiographers, which they needed to fill by weaving—more or less
liberally—their contemporary models or values into their historical accounts.
If one takes these anachronisms in the late tradition into account, the tyrants
appear to have been the main recipients of Homeric themes during the sixth
century bc. While doing so, they adapted traditional aristocratic reception
techniques in order to sharpen distinctions between themselves, other aristo-
crats, and the remaining laoi. By publicly celebrating the relationship between
Homeric themes and their power through rhapsodic competitions, it was the
tyrants who helped spreading Homeric knowledge beyond aristocratic circles.
The popularity of Homeric themes intensified as a result, as demonstrated in
the Western colonies and in Sparta. Thus, the tyrants created the preconditions
for Homeric reception by the masses, which emerged during the 5th century
bc.
One must acknowledge, however, that all of these considerations are to a
considerable degree hypothetical. Adequate sources do not exist—and will
never exist—which directly refer to the identity of those who were the main
‘receivers’ of Homeric themes, or shed light on the manner, and the purpose of
Homeric reception during the sixth century bc. Nevertheless, there are good
reasons to argue that comparing the late narrative tradition to the early poetic
remains can lead to more plausible results. This is all the more true because
the Homeric reception of the sixth century is part of a process which spans
from early Archaic times to the Greco-Persian Wars. Elsewhere, I have argued
at length for how the various socio-political actors of Archaic Greece drew their
legitimacy from Homeric reception, which in turn, led to its broader popularity
within those social groups.162 Thus, Homeric reception and the socio-political
developments of Archaic Greece are, to a large degree, interconnected in an
162 Cf. Hübner 2019: 199–204.
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356 hübner
intentional manner. It is rather unlikely, then, that this should not be the case
for the relationship between Archaic tyrants and Homer.
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chapter 13
Social Mobility vs. Societal Stability: Once Again on

the Aims and Meaning of Solon’s Reforms
Mirko Canevaro
1 Introduction
What the ‘Solonian programme’ of socio-economic reforms intended to

achieve—in fact, the very possibility of identifying such a programme in the
legislative action of the Archaic Athenian lawgiver Solon—has long been one
of the most hotly debated topics in Archaic Greek history. This chapter goes
back to this much-threaded question and makes a series of interconnected
claims. First, it argues that much historical research on Solon has started from
the wrong place: the poetry and the scanty evidence of Solonian laws are nor-
mally scanned to find confirmation of information, interpretations and recon-
structions of Solon’s aims and political and legislative action derived from later
sources, in particular in the Ath. Pol. and in Plutarch’s Solon. Section ii discusses
the issue of the reliability of the Ath. Pol.’s account of Solon’s reforms (and, to
a lesser extent, of Plutarch’s account), analysing several passages in which the
Ath. Pol. quotes and interprets lines of Solon’s poetry. It shows that Aristotle’s
extrapolations are normally unwarranted by the text, and generally occasioned
not by awareness of additional sources, but rather by later preoccupations and
the requirements of his own normative political theoretical concerns.
The rest of the chapter (Sections iii and iv) attempts a different approach,
striving to isolate a ‘Solonian programme’ and to understand Solon’s reforms in
their own Archaic context, in the light of recent developments in our under-
standing of the workings of Archaic society and of the place and composition
of the elite, and of Archaic morality and thought. Because our fragments of
Solon’s laws are few and deal with individual and mostly unconnected issues,
the only way to gain a more general understanding of Solon’s overall aims and
programmatic concerns is by reading his poetry as a form of political speech
and political action, attempting thus to reconstruct a ‘programme’ on the basis
of his poetic fragments, and then check this ‘programme’ against the evidence
for his laws and reforms. Through close readings of the most important and
explicitly political fragments of his poetry, Section iii looks for a specific dia-
gnosis of the problems the lawgiver meant to address, and for his overarching

364 canevaro
aims, his overall recipe for a better polis. It argues that the social evils that
Solon identifies are remarkably consistent with the picture of a society with
high levels of social mobility that has been gaining currency in recent studies
of the Archaic polis, and that Solon’s intention was to give order to this society,
to create a kosmos, to replace social mobility with societal stability. Finally, Sec-
tion iv discusses a series of specific (and well attested) reforms, exploring how
the abolition of slavery for debts and of loans on the security of one’s own per-
son, the laws about inheritance and the management of the household, and
finally the Solonian classes can be accommodated within this framework, at
the same time shedding light on their functions and on the concerns behind
them.
2 The Evidence for the Solonian Reforms
If a fourth-century Athenian were asked who the father of the Athenian con-
stitution was, there is no doubt that he would answer Solon. Some scholars
have argued that Solon assumed this role in the historical imagination of the
Athenians only from the very late fifth century, and others have gone as far as
to claim that Solon was recognised as such only in the 350s.1 Yet the difference
between the fourth and the fifth century seems to be only in the nature of the
extant evidence, and, as far as we can tell, Solon performed in the fifth cen-
tury the same ideological role he would perform in the fourth: Herodotus (1.29)
introduces him as the man who gave laws to the Athenians at their request,
and Cratinus (fr. 274 Kock = fr. 300 Kassel-Austin) refers to him and to Draco
while mentioning the kyrbeis where the laws were written down. Aristophanes’
Clouds (1187), performed in 423bc, has Pheidippides explaining to his father
the law on summons by appealing to the intent of Solon, just as litigants do in
fourth-century speeches; in the Birds (1660) a law on bastard sons not being
entitled to inherit is also attributed to Solon. These few sources show strong
similarities with fourth-century material, and suggest that if our evidence for
the fifth century were comparable to that for the fourth, we would find that
Solon had the very same role: the role of the father of the Athenian constitu-
tion and of the laws of Athens.2 And, in fact, at the end of the fifth century,
1 Late fifth century: Hignet 1952: 2–8; Hansen 1989; Rhodes 2006: 6. 350s: Ruschenbusch 1958;
Mossé 1979; 1996. For the terms of the debate see Raaflaub-Ober-Wallace 2007.
2 The case for Solon’s centrality also to the fifth-century Athenians’ understanding of their own
past and of the origin of their political regime and their laws is now made persuasively by
Loddo 2018: 39–88 and passim (see also the essays in Noussia-Fantuzzi and Nagy 2015, as well
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social mobility vs. societal stability 365
as at the end of the fourth, successive constitutional revolutions, representing

themselves as constitutional restorations, claimed to be restoring the patrioi
nomoi of Solon, whether we are talking of oligarchic syngrapheis who go look-
ing for Cleisthenes’ laws because they are most similar to Solon’s (Arist. Ath.Pol.
29.3), of the Five Thousand who try to connect their action to that of Solon,3 of
the democrats of 410 who undertake approving and re-inscribing all the laws
of Solon, or of the democrats of 403 who in addition stipulate that until laws
are enacted only the thesmoi of Solon and Draco are to be valid.4
In the fifth century, as in the fourth, Solon was therefore very much alive,
to such an extent that calling a statute a law of Solon was often, in particular
in the orators, equivalent to calling it a law of Athens.5 A law could be called
a law of Solon if it had been properly enacted, according to the correct pro-
cedures, and if it conformed to the spirit, to the ethos of the laws of the city
as a whole.6 For this reason, it is very difficult to identify the authentic laws of
Solon from the evidence of the orators,7 and even more so the authentic legis-
lative intent behind them—the programme of the historical Solon—because
appeals to the intent of the lawgiver in the orators are instruments to foster a
specific, and consistent, interpretations of particular statutes, regardless of the
intent of the actual lawgiver, Solon or someone else.8
as Sheppard 2016). Hansen 1989: 83–85 drew a distinction between Solon author of laws and
Solon author of a constitution, and claimed that Solon’s laws were mostly concerned with
private law, and not with ‘constitutional’ law, because this was mostly regulated by custom.
The very idea of a Solonian constitution and of Solonian ‘constitutional’ laws is, according to
Hansen, fourth-century ideology, anachronistic for the sixth century, and could assume the
shape it did precisely because the actual laws of Solon failed to give precise indications in
this area. More realistically Ruschenbusch 1966: 26, Rosivach 2002: 39, Rhodes 2006: 251–252
and Loddo 2018: 89–122 argue that Solon probably did not enact a full constitution, because
much was regulated by custom, but he certainly did enact individual ‘constitutional’ laws. It is
certainly justified to look for a politeia in Solon, in the way Aristotle did: as Gehrke 2006: 280
n. 11 correctly points out, ‘from Aristotle’s orientation towards law and observation of laws
as crucial for the character and stability of a constitution (politeia) it seems obvious to me
that we need not draw a strict distinction between the nomoi and the politeia’. In the ancient
Greek world politeiai (as constitutions) were made of individual ‘constitutional’ laws—on the
meaning of politeia see Rhodes 2018.
3 Cf. Shear 2011: 51–53.
4 Cf. Canevaro-Harris 2012: 110–119; 2016–2017: 33–46; Canevaro 2015.
5 Cf. e.g. Hansen 1989: 80–82; Harris 2006: 3–4; Canevaro 2018a: 272–273, 281–289. A few
examples of later laws attributed to Solon: Dem. 20.90; 22.30–31; 24.211–212; Hyp. In Ath. 21–22.
6 Cf. Canevaro 2018a; 2019a.
7 For various attempts cf. Ruschenbusch 1966; 2010; Blok 2006; Gagarin 2006; Rhodes 2006;
Scafuro 2006; Leão-Rhodes 2015.
8 On the arguments based on the intent of the lawgiver cf. Johnstone 1999: 27–30; Harris 2013:
201–205; Canevaro 2019b.
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366 canevaro
Scholars agree about all this—the orators are notoriously unreliable; they
are known to be liars. The disagreements start, however, when it comes to
other sources that claim explicitly to be offering a historical account of Solon’s
reforms: the Constitution of the Athenians, written by Aristotle or by a student of
his, and Plutarch’s Life of Solon.9 Hansen, for example, has argued that there is
no real difference between the constitution of Solon as we find it in the orators
and the reconstruction provided by the Ath. Pol. They both offer only slightly
different versions of the same fourth-century cultural construct, of the same
piece of ‘intentional history’.10 Mossé has also displayed the utmost scepticism
when dealing with the material from the Ath. Pol.11 On the other hand, Rhodes
has defended the reliability of at least some of the information about Solon’s
legislation that we find in the Ath. Pol., in Plutarch and elsewhere, arguing that
what we find in the Ath. Pol. in particular is history, not myth.12 Many scholars
in recent years have also used that information quite liberally in very influential
reconstructions of Archaic Athens.13
And yet even if we accept that for example the laws of Solon mentioned at
Plut. Sol. 20–24, for two of which we have even the axon number, are all actual
laws enacted by the historical Solon,14 all we have are a few particular and
mostly unconnected measures: laws on neutrality, epikleroi, dowries, speaking
ill of the dead and (in some contexts) the living, bequests, funerals, learning
a trade and the obligation for sons to support their fathers, seduction, sacrifi-
cial victims, wells and the planting of trees, the export of agricultural products,
injuries inflicted by animals, grants of citizenship to immigrants, public meals
in the prytaneion. We crucially lack any context and therefore we are unable
to isolate anything specific, programmatic, about Solon’s political and legal
action. Because of the piecemeal state of preservation of the laws of Solon, it
9 Cf. Rhodes 1981: 118 and more recently Gehrke 2006: 287–288.
10 Hansen 1989. For the concept of intentional history see Gehrke 2001 and Foxhall-Gehrke-
Luraghi 2010.
11 Mossé 1979 and 1996.
12 Rhodes 2006; see also Loddo 2019, who, however, by concentrating mainly on constitu-
tional matters and not on economic ones, does not express a firm view about the reliability
of the many economic reforms discussed in the Ath. Pol.—these are the main topic of the
following pages. Loddo 2018 offers an insightful analysis of Aristotle’s and Plutarch’s cri-
teria for selecting the laws to be mentioned and discussed, which underpins the strong
authorial dimension of these accounts. For the Aristotelian account of the successive con-
stitutions of Athens, its place in Aristotle’s political thought and its implications, see now
Poddighe 2014; 2018; see also Bertelli 2018 and Canevaro-Esu 2018.
13 See e.g. Gagarin 2006; van Wees 2006 and 2013; Zurbach 2013; 2017.
14 Although the reliability even of these laws has been questioned, e.g. recently by Joyce 2018.
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is impossible to rely on them alone to decide what Solon’s stance was, what his
‘programme’ was. And this is why the laws of Solon have been interpreted by
different scholars as evidence of Solon’s aristocratic concerns, of his attempts
to control elite competition, of his popular stance, of his middling ideology and
of much else besides.15 The substantive contents of Solon’s laws, when we can
identify them, are indeed a guide to Solon’s positions in the areas which they
cover. Yet they fail to provide us with an overarching principle to shed light on
Solon’s ‘programme’ and stance.
Were ancient, yet much later, writers such as the author of the Ath. Pol. and
Plutarch in a better position? Aristotle appears to have written a comment-
ary on Solon’s axones, and therefore to have had access to the full run of his
legislation.16 Yet it is unlikely that, even if we had the full text of the (at least)
twenty-one axons17 on which the laws of Solon were written, we would be look-
ing at a systematic legislative effort, with aims and intentions made explicit.
Hölkeskamp is probably right when he warns us that the laws of Solon amoun-
ted to a collection, not to a ‘code’ in any meaningful sense.18 Hölkeskamp,
however, goes so far as to argue that there was in fact nothing programmatic
about the legislative activity of Archaic lawgivers like Solon, and theirs were no
more than ad hoc measures with no overarching principle behind them. In fact,
Archaic laws, as Harris and Lewis show very well in this volume, were not ad
hoc measures, and were not exclusively concerned with managing the tensions
and limiting aggression between members of the elite.19 They were concerned
first and foremost with behaviour: they provided substantive rules as to how
one should conduct oneself at all levels of social interaction, from the private
15 Loddo’s approach (Loddo 2018) is different from these, inasmuch as she is not strictly
speaking interested in arguing that Solon’s reforms were deliberately ‘popular’ or even
‘democratic’, but rather that there were enough measures among them, as they were pre-
served and understood in the fifth and fourth centuries, to explain (perhaps even justify)
the Athenians’ tenet of a demotikotatos Solon (on his ‘democratic’ credentials see below
pp. 401–403).
16 Hesychius s.v. Ἀριστοτέλης. Cf. Rhodes 2006 for a vindication of the source material avail-
able to the author of the Ath. Pol. and to a lesser extent to Plutarch. For recent accounts
(with comprehensive references to previous scholarship) and new hypotheses about
kyrbeis and axones see Davis 2011 and Meyer 2016.
17 Harp. ο43 Keaney s.v. ὅτι οἱ ποιητοί mentions the twenty-first axon, and Plut. Sol. 19.4 is even
more precise, and states that a particular law is the eighth on the thirteenth axon.
18 E.g. Hölkeskamp 2005.
19 This is the position of Hölkeskamp 1992; 1995; 1999; 2000 (cf. Osborne 1996: 185–192; 1997);
and more recently Hawke 2011: 158–189. It relies on an understanding of archaic law as
primarily procedural in scope which is not supported by the evidence. See Harris-Lewis
in this volume.
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368 canevaro
to the political. They should therefore be, at least in principle, a reliable guide
to what forms of social compact, and what forms of social behaviour, Solon
deemed desirable; to the positions he espoused. Yet ultimately extrapolating
from them a coherent account of Solon’s stance, of his concerns, of his pro-
gramme, is a matter of historical interpretation.
Are Aristotle, the author of the Ath. Pol. and Plutarch reliable interpreters of
this material? I think it is fair to say that, whatever the quality of their source
material, their aim was not primarily to do justice to Solon’s authentic effort,
or at least that any aim of that sort was compromised by very strong theor-
etical or ideological authorial agendas. De Blois has shown that the account
of Solon’s political and legislative activity in Plutarch’s Life of Solon is highly
influenced by Plutarch’s own favourite stereotypes, which in turn reflect the
debates of his age.20 Some good source material was available to him, but it was
used in such a way as to bear on second-century ad debates, not to reconstruct
sixth-century bc ones. And Aristotle’s account of Solon’s constitutional action
in the Politics (ii 12, 1273b27–1274a21) is also geared towards fourth-century
debates, however many axones Aristotle had read and commented upon.21 He
takes his cue from the various opinions circulating in his day on whether Solon
had been a good lawgiver (Σόλωνα δ’ ἔνιοι μὲν οἴονται νομοθέτην γενέσθαι σπου-
δαῖον) and proceeds to argue that he had, because his constitution was a middle
constitution.22 Aristotle’s own preference for a middle constitution determines
the interpretation of Solon’s reforms. Aristotle even claims that Solon was a
mesos polites (iv 11.1296a18–20), and the only reason for this interpretation is
that he is arguing that a mese politeia is typical of poleis in which the middle
class is politically dominant. He is also very keen on taking Solon away from
the democrats’ Pantheon, and therefore argues, against anti-democratic crit-
ics of Solon, that his reforms were not democratic, and that the later demo-
cratic developments cannot be seen as consequences of his legislation.23 It is
20 De Blois 2006; see also Loddo 2018 for his criteria of selection of the materials to discuss.
21 Gehrke 2006: 276–278. See Pezzoli-Curnis 2012: 382–396 for a commentary on this discus-
sion.
22 Cf. Besso-Canevaro-Pezzoli-Curnis 2012: 18–20 and passim, and Canevaro-Esu 2018: 112–
119 on the middle constitution. For a general account of Aristotle’s notion of mixed con-
stitution see Lintott 2002. See also Accattino 1986: 92–99; Miller 1995: 252–276; Lockwood
2006; Balot 2015. For a general overview of the mixed constitution in Greek thought see
Hahm 2009.
23 Arist. Ath. Pol. 41.2, in denying that Solon’s constitution was in fact a democracy, still makes
the point that it was the arche demokratias (on which see Loddo 2019: 9–10 and passim).
See below pp. 401–403 for whether the basis for the later democratic developments can in
fact be found in Solon’s legislation.
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certainly anachronistic to argue that Solon’s aim was to create a middle consti-
tution, or that he was or was not trying to create a democracy, given that the
very word is not even attested in Athenian inscriptions until the last decade
of the fifth century.24 Yet this is how Aristotle reads the source material; this
is the methodology he employs when he discriminates between sources and
interpretations. This is the kind of ‘historical’ judgment he makes. Unsurpris-
ingly, he is a political theorist, a political thinker, an intellectual, but not strictly
speaking a historian.
And the Ath. Pol., whether it is written by Aristotle or by a student of his, is
no exception. If, as van Wees has argued, plausibly in my view, the Constitution
of Draco discussed at Arist. Ath. Pol. 4 is a late fourth-century fabrication cre-
ated to justify Demetrius of Phaleron’s reforms,25 this has wider consequences
for the overall reliability of the historical part of the Ath. Pol. If such a fab-
rication could make it in, one should be very cautious with everything else
in that section—scholars have often attempted to dismiss the Constitution of
Draco specifically as an interpolation, but, as Verlinski has persuasively argued,
there is nothing that makes this particular section stand out compared to the
accounts of the other constitutions in the Ath. Pol.26 And Solon’s constitution
was in fact a particularly sensitive and contentious subject on which, polit-
ically, a lot depended, in particular at a time when, in the years around the
Hellenic War, regimes with various restrictions of census were being discussed
and established in Athens. For all these reasons we must be alert to the fact that,
as Gehrke as shown, the discussion of Solon in the Ath. Pol. (not unlike that
in the Politics) is heavily shaped by contemporary debates, which are acknow-
ledged by the author himself (e.g. at Arist. Ath. Pol. 9),27 and that the author
makes a lot of effort to argue that the Solonian constitution was not a radical
democracy. The author of the Ath. Pol. does not always make his sources expli-
cit, but when he does, and quotes his sources, we have indeed reasons to worry.
24 In Stroud 1971, normally dated to 403/2, but see Matthaiou 2011: 71–81, who predates it to
409. The decree at Andoc. 1.96–98, attributed to 410, is a forgery, cf. Canevaro-Harris 2012:
119–125 and Harris 2015. Note that Hansen’s (1986) argument that the early appearance
of the name Demokrates—proven by the evidence of a loutrophoros (SEG 29.203) and of
Plato’s dialogue Lysis—is proof that the word demokratia has wide currency in Athens
already in the 460s is undermined by the analyses of Giangiulio 2018 and Lambert 2019,
who show that, given the form of the name, this is rather an ‘aristocratic’ name that implies
dominion over the demos, and not by the demos.
25 Van Wees 2011: 96–101.
26 Verlinski 2017 with an extensive literature review. For previous positions see particularly
Rhodes 1981: 108–181; Van Wees 2011: 94–114.
27 Gehrke 2006: 278–286.
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370 canevaro
A notable example is Arist. Ath. Pol. 5.2, where the author claims (according
to the normative needs of Aristotle’s description of the middle constitution)
that Solon was one of the mesoi, and brings as evidence of this some verses
(fr. 5 G.-P2 = 4b–c West) in which the poet urges the wealthy not to be greedy
and blames their greed (φι[λαργυρ]ίαν) and their haughtiness (ὑπερηφανίαν) for
the ἔχθρα in the city.28 It is easy to see why the author of the Ath. Pol. must
have thought that these verses could support his account of Solon’s background
and therefore of the origin and nature of his constitution: the fragment ends
with these two lines ἐν μετρίοισι τίθεσθε μέγαν νόον· οὔτε γὰρ ἡμεῖς / πεισόμεθ’,
οὔθ’ ὑμῖν ἄρτια τα[ῦ]τ’̣ ἔσεται. Solon urges the wealthy to set their μέγας νόος (an
expression which has in later texts negative connotations) ἐν μετρίοισι, that is
to moderate themselves, and then proceeds to warn them that ‘we’ shall not
comply, and that ‘such things’ are not suited even to them.29 This fragment has
an explicit reference to τὰ μέτρια and moreover uses ἡμεῖς to contrast the poet
and his unidentified associates with the rich. This is why the author of the Ath.
Pol. uses it as evidence of Solon’s background as a mesos polites, and this inter-
pretation has been endorsed also by some modern scholars.30 Yet all it proves
is that Solon wants to create a contrast between the wicked rich and everyone
else, and he obviously sides with everyone else, stressing also the isolation of
those who behave with greed and haughtiness.31 Such a strategy may have been
used by Solon before a large crowd of Athenians, as West believes, or could be a
very typical scenario of mimetic dramatisation within the context of the sym-
posium, in which Solon would assume the role of a popular leader.32 Whatever
the context, the use of ἡμεῖς is a rhetorical move that does not warrant the
conclusion that Solon was a mesos polites. The fact that the author of the Ath.
Pol. has no doubt that it does is evidence of his method in this section: the
historical reconstruction presented derives not from a critical analysis of the
sources, but from ideological and normative political-theoretical concerns. The
28 Plut. Sol. 14.2 mistakenly assigns the greed to the poor and the haughtiness to the rich, con-
ditioned by Aristotle’s insistence on Solon favouring a political middle ground (see Spahn
1977: 125–127 and Noussia-Fantuzzi 2010: 273).
29 Cf. Mülke 2002: 177 and Noussia-Fantuzzi 2010: 276–277 for a discussion of the meaning
of these verses.
30 E.g. Bowie 1986: 20. Plut. Sol. 3.2 uses fr. 6 G.-P2 = 15 West in the same way to prove that
Solon classified himself among the poor.
31 This is Masaracchia’s (1958: 276) interpretation. Incidentally, this is the same rhetorical
strategy used by Aeschines at 1.141: ὑμεῖς δὲ εὐσχήμονές τινες καὶ περιφρονοῦντες ἱστορίᾳ τὸν
δῆμον, ἵν’ εἰδῆτε ὅτι καὶ ἡμεῖς τι ἤδη ἠκούσαμεν καὶ ἐμάθομεν, λέξομέν τι καὶ περὶ τούτων.
32 Cf. West 1974: 12 for a public gathering as the context of performance; Vetta 1983: XVIII–
XVIX and Melissano 1994: 53–54 for mimetic dramatization.
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evidence of Solon’s poetry is called in only to confirm pre-existing convictions

but is not the source of these convictions.
One wonders how many of the statements and historical assumptions in
the Ath. Pol. are founded on similarly flimsy grounds. The pelatai and the hek-
temoroi of Arist. Ath. Pol. 2.2 seem to refer to Archaic realities, all the more
so because these terms are not commonly used in Classical Athens.33 But
we know from other Classical evidence how difficult it was in fourth-century
Athens to interpret Solon’s and Draco’s language, to such an extent that some
‘think that Solon made his laws intentionally unclear’ (Arist. Ath. Pol. 9.2).34
We have notable examples of such difficulties at Lys. 10.6, where Lysias quotes
a couple of passages from Solon’s laws to show how outdated their language
is.35 Dem. 23.37–39 is a good example of fourth-century authors’ attempts to
explain obscure expressions like agora ephoria and of the dangers of such later
attempts.36 On the other hand, the evidence for the reconstruction of these
realities provided in the Ath. Pol.—for the fact that all the land was concen-
trated in the hands of few—is nowhere to be found, and one wonders whether
this is anything more than the author’s assumption, based, for instance, on his
reading of fr. 30 G.-P2 = 36 West. We have seen how reliable such readings are.37
The only statement in this passage that seems to rely on Solon’s laws (and which
is repeated at Arist. Ath. Pol. 6.1, 9.1) is that he forbade the Athenians from tak-
ing loans on the security of their own persons.38 That many Athenians were
enslaved and that Solon freed them is also shown by fr. 30 G.-P2 = 36 West
and elsewhere in Solon’s poetry (see below pp. 385, 392). But no evidence is so
33 See e.g. Faraguna 2012: 178–179, who plausibly argues that such terms as are found also in
the lexicographers might actually come from Solon’s laws—the next question, however,
is whether the lexicographers had any basis for interpreting these terms the way they did.
For an ingenious theory about the origin of the term hektemoroi see Meier 2012: Meier
proposes that no hektemoroi were ever mentioned by Solon, nor did any hektemoroi ever
exist, but the author of the Ath. Pol. made up the word by misreading a lost Solonian poem
that elided the words ktema and horos. Regardless of whether they existed or not (and of
whether Meier’s theory is tenable), see Lewis (forthcoming) on the likelihood of the exist-
ence of a class of sharecroppers in pre-Solonian Athens.
34 Cf. Chaniotis 2005: 178 on the Gortynian Code ‘[t]he Law Code does not define any of the
social, economic, legal and political institutions, for which norms are introduced, modi-
fied, or just written down; it presupposes the understanding of all these institutions, and
this is why the interpretation of terms and clauses is still a matter of controversy’.
35 Cf. Todd 2007: 680 and Canevaro 2013: 162–163.
36 Cf. Canevaro 2017 for the meaning of this expression.
37 For a compelling argument against this interpretation of this fragment cf. Harris 1997 (see
also below pp. 390–392).
38 For the meaning of this law, which makes enslavement for debts, and not debt-bondage,
illegal, see Harris 2006: 249–271.
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372 canevaro
explicit about the regime of land ownership in late seventh- and early sixth-
century Attica.39 Did the author of the Ath. Pol. rely on some further source
lost to us? Perhaps. Or perhaps he was simply extrapolating from (and misin-
terpreting) Solon’s poetry and laws.
Likewise, the author of the Ath. Pol. states that Solon was elected archon
and diallaktes in a context of actual stasis between the rich and the poor (Arist.
Ath. Pol. 5.1–2). This is the same passage in which he states that Solon was a
mesos polites. To be sure, Solon’s poetry, as we shall see below (pp. 384–385),
does mention stasis, but more as a danger if the koros and hybris of the elite
are not restrained than as the current and actual condition of the city. Did the
author of the Ath. Pol. have some further reliable evidence about the political
events surrounding Solon’s legislation, or was he once again extrapolating from
his poetry? We know how interested Aristotle was in stasis and the conditions
that make constitutions stable or unstable—this is the theme of Arist. Pol. 5.
Interestingly, at Arist. Ath. Pol. 6.4, when the author makes reference to his evid-
ence for the power and position of Solon (cf. Arist. Ath. Pol. 4.1–3), he claims
that the difficult situation of Athens is itself proof (τά τε πράγματα νοσοῦντα
μαρτυρεῖ) that Solon was given such great powers, and that this is witnessed
also in several poems. It appears that the author of the Ath. Pol. is once again
extrapolating from the poems, and, once again, we know how unreliable his
extrapolations are.
The same doubts are warranted in plenty of other instances. One instance is
with the word seisachtheia, which is explained by Arist. Ath. Pol. 6.1–2 (as well
as by Plut. Sol. 15.2–3) as debt cancellation for the poor. According to Aristotle,
the poor were tied up in a sharecropping relation with a small class of landown-
ers who owned all the land (and with whom they went into debt), and thanks
to Solon’s seisachtheia they ‘shook off their burdens’. This interpretation has
been unquestioningly accepted by many historians,40 yet what are the actual
grounds for the Aristotelian interpretation of the word? Did the author of the
Ath. Pol. have additional sources that explained its meaning to him—perhaps
a lost poem? Or was his interpretation yet another rather wild extrapolation
from one of the poems we can still read? Arist. Ath. Pol. 12.4 makes the grounds
for this interpretation of seisachtheia explicit: for the author of the Ath. Pol. (as
for Plut. Sol. 15.2–3) evidence that the seisachtheia was a cancellation of debts is
found in a poem by Solon, fr. 30 G.-P2 = 36 West, whose relevant lines (5–7) are
39 See below p. 391 for a discussion of the allusions to the earth and the land in Solon’s frag-
ments.
40 E.g. by Snodgrass 1980: 94; Andrewes 1982: 377; 381–382; Ober 1989: 61; Morris 2002: 31;
Forsdyke 2006: 94; Wallace 2007: 59; Cartledge 2016: 53; Blok-Krul 2017.
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actually cited in the text—his account is once again extrapolated from a couple
of lines of a poem. These mention the removal of horoi (see below pp. 391–392),
and these are read as horoi erected on mortgaged property—removing them
equated to cancelling the debts they marked. The problem with this interpret-
ation, however, is that it is anachronistic: as shown by Harris, the word horos
does not indicate a mortgage marker until the fourth century, and in the earlier
sources it invariably indicates boundary markers.41 Thus, this explanation of
the seisachtheia as cancellation of debts is based on an anachronistic reading
of fr. 30 G.-P2 = 36 West. Is it possible that the author of the Ath. Pol. might have
had further, more substantial evidence—perhaps a lost poem or a Solonian law
that mentioned, and explained the meaning of, seisachtheia? The word might
conceivably be Solonian (as it is used almost exclusively of Solon’s reforms),
but is in fact never directly ascribed to Solon.42 And, as Linforth once pointed
out, if Solon’s poetry were indeed the source of this word, then it is difficult to
explain how both the author of the Ath. Pol. and Plutarch could fail to quote
the relevant lines.43 Most importantly, Androtion (FGrH 324 F34 = Plut. Sol.
15.2–4 = Harding 2008 no. 94) could in fact claim that the seisachtheia had noth-
ing to do with the cancellation of debts for the poor, and that the reduction
of their obligations was a consequence of a reduction of the interest on their
debts as well as of the reform of measures and the increase in the purchas-
ing power of money. He also claimed that the term seisachtheia was the name
the poor gave to these measures given their effects on their condition. Andro-
tion’s reconstruction is clearly anachronistic,44 but it is evidence, first, that the
meaning of seisachtheia was a topic of heated debate in the fourth century bc,
second, that what seisachtheia meant exactly was not explained in Solon’s laws
or poetry, and third, that the word itself was not included in Solon’s laws or
41 Harris 1997 (see now also Harris 2013, superseding previous work). De Ste. Croix 2004: 115
tries to avoid this issue by postulating wooden mortgage horoi that would have since disap-
peared, but this is grasping at straws, and is moreover made unlikely by the fact that we do
have archaic boundary horoi in stone (likewise Osborne 1996: 211 proposes that there exis-
ted horoi on the ground marking the obligation of paying one sixth of the produce, but
this is also guesswork, which moreover runs into the same issues as the mortgage horoi
interpretation: horos is only used in archaic texts to indicate boundary horoi, and the only
horoi found from the archaic period are boundary horoi). See also below pp. 390–392.
42 See Noussia-Fantuzzi 2010: 31 on the ‘metaphorical quality of both parts of the compound
[…] which could potentially belong to the realm of poetical language’. Contra Mülke 2002:
375–376. The word is almost invariably referred to Solon’s reform: Arist. Ath. Pol. 6.1; Diod.
Sic. 1.79; Plut. Sol. 15; when it is used about something else, the point is normally to draw
an analogy with Solon’s reforms: Plut., Luc. 20.2; Caes. 37.1.
43 Linforth 1918: 269–271.
44 See e.g. de Ste. Croix 2004: 110.
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374 canevaro
poetry, otherwise Androtion would not have been able to claim that this appel-
lation was given to the reforms by the poor, and not by Solon. Thus, regardless of
whether a cancellation of debts at this time is in theory a possibility—based on
comparative evidence from other cities or even from the Near East—the prob-
lem remains that our only real sources for Solon’s seisachtheia having such a
meaning do not base their interpretation on anything substantial, on any fur-
ther evidence no longer available to us.45 They base it rather on a reading of
a particular poem (still available to us!) which is in fact very likely to be mis-
guided,46 and which is clearly affected by their own experience in the fourth
century.47
We have similar problems with Solon’s census classes, discussed at Arist. Ath.
Pol. 7.3–4. It seems safe to assume that the names of the classes are indeed
Archaic and Solonian—the hippeis and the thetes are mentioned in the inscrip-
tion on Diphilus’ statue quoted by Aristotle, the pentakosiomedimnoi seem
to have appeared in the Solonian law about the election of the treasurers of
Athena (Arist. Ath. Pol. 7.4, 47.1). Poll. 8.132 mentions a tax called zeugesion paid
by those who held a pair of oxen, which must be the zeugitai.48 But the author
of the Ath. Pol. states clearly that there was a debate on their identification:
some argued for instance that the hippeis were identified on the basis of the
possession of a horse, and not of a certain agricultural income of 300 medim-
noi, as proven by the inscription and by the statue of Diphilus, who had risen
from thes to hippeus, and had accordingly erected a statue representing a horse
on the Acropolis. The author of the Ath. Pol., on the other hand, argues that
45 Cf. Cuniberti 2011: 13 n. 50 and 18 n. 65 who also expresses healthy scepticism about those
reconstructions that, on the basis of later sources, read the seisachtheia as to do exclusively
with agrarian issues.
46 This is the issue for instance with Blok-Krul 2017: the comparative evidence from the Near
East is indeed fascinating and compelling, but for it to confirm the information found in
the Aristotelian account, we need to be sure that the Aristotelian account is based on
actual information and not on wild extrapolation. Unless we can prove this (by assessing
the Aristotelian account, something that Blok-Krul 2017 do not do), all that can be gauged
from the comparative evidence is that cancellation of debts was not generally impossible,
not that it was actually carried out by Solon. Similar problems are found also with the
approach of Zurbach 2013: 631–632 and 2017: 335–397 to Solon’s reforms (yet Zurbach 2017
is, regardless, a milestone that has much to contribute to the problems explored in this
chapter, see below e.g. pp. 395–396 and nn. 126–128).
47 For how frequent calls for the cancellation of debts were in the fourth century see now
Cecchet 2017.
48 See van Wees 2006: 352–353 and 2013: 86; contra Whitehead 1981: 283–285. Cf. de Ste. Croix
2004: 5–72 for a survey of the evidence for the Solonian census classes, which shows their
archaic origin, and now Guía-Gallego 2010.
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it is more logical (εὐλογώτερον) that they would be identified on the basis of

a given census, by analogy with the pentakosiomedimoi. There was therefore a
debate on whether the Solonian classes, with the obvious exception of the pen-
takosiomedimnoi, were defined by certain status symbols or by explicit figures
of agricultural income, and therefore by a certain clearly stated level of wealth.
The very possibility of such a debate is in itself proof that the figures for the
three lower census classes were nowhere explicitly mentioned in the laws of
Solon, otherwise such a debate would not have been possible.49 Foxhall and
others have noted that in fact a census of 200 medimnoi for the zeugitai is too
high, because it implies a considerable household of around 15 individuals,50
which could afford well in excess of a pair of oxen, while a household which
could afford a pair of oxen51 would not in most cases have made it to the census
of 200 medimnoi. Van Wees has brought some strong arguments in defence of
the reliability of the census figures,52 yet considerable problems remain: in par-
ticular, it is hard to believe that, in a society in which, as Duplouy has shown,53
one’s status was determined to a considerable extent by status symbols, a large
number of people who could afford and owned a pair of oxen could not call
themselves zeugitai. De Ste. Croix and Rosivach have argued very compellingly
that these figures must in fact be fourth-century scholarly constructs,54 and one
may also want to note that in the fourth century the debate about the Solonian
census classes was not drily academic, as in those very same years in which the
Ath. Pol. was composed Antipater revolutionised the Athenian constitutional
system, imposing a very high franchise to exercise citizen rights.
For all these reasons, I believe the Ath. Pol. should be used with great cau-
tion in our reconstructions of Solon’s reforms, and in particular of his socio-
economic reforms. The Ath. Pol.’s account of these reforms seems to rely to a
considerable extent on extrapolation from obscure and partial sources, guided
49 Even van Wees 2006: 363–364 and 2013: 85–91, who argues for the historicity of these fig-
ures, admits that they cannot have been stated explicitly in the laws.
50 Foxhall 1997.
51 This must be what zeugitai means, cf. van Wees 2006: 252–260.
52 Van Wees 2006 and 2013: 85–91.
53 Duplouy 2006; cf. Duplouy 2014 for this model applied specifically to the problem of
Solon’s census classes; and now Duplouy 2019 for its application to the wider issue of
archaic citizenship (see also Duplouy in this volume).
54 For interpretations of these figures as later constructs de Ste. Croix 2006: 5–72, esp. 48–
49; Rosivach 2002: 39–41, 47; see also Rhodes 1997: 4; 2006: 253; Duplouy 2014. Raaflaub
2006 argues that the figures are not Solonian, but later; Guía-Gallego 2010 argue that the
figures were added to the Solonian census classes with the revision of the laws of the end
of the fifth century, in order for the zeugitai to become liable to eisphora.
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376 canevaro
by contemporary concerns and the theoretical/ideological framework of the

author, rather than by genuine historical, or at least aseptically antiquarian,
curiosity. True, the laws of Solon were probably available to the author, but they
were individual measures, they covered only part of the ground, and not organ-
ically, and therefore failed to provide ancient authors with a definite framework
for interpreting the intention and stance behind them. The author of the Ath.
Pol., and Plutarch after him, retrojected such interpretative frameworks from
the debates and concerns of their own times onto the extant laws of Solon.
Solon’s poetry was often used a posteriori to reinforce a point and was also read
with certain interpretations and debates already in mind. Modern efforts to
reconstruct the historical reality of Solon’s legislative action cannot therefore
be limited to old-style Quellenforschung on these texts, because this runs the
risk of perpetuating many unwarranted ancient assumptions, which, however
modified and refined, still govern much historical scholarship on Solon. This is
apparent, for instance, in the never-ending debate on the causes of the ‘Solo-
nian crisis’, on the origins of the stasis, on the reasons for the dramatic eco-
nomic juncture tackled by Solon. Archaeological research has shown that no
dramatic shift is identifiable in the years of Solon, no overpopulation problems,
no changes in the patterns of cultivation of land, no shifts in the occupation of
the countryside, which are found in the material only from the fifth century.55
And yet many scholars are still looking for a specific instance of stasis and its
economic reasons as the occasion for Solon’s reforms. Where is the evidence
for this stasis and for these dramatic economic conditions—is it in Solon or in
the Ath. Pol.? Likewise, the Solonian reforms are still viewed by many scholars
in the context of a very polarised and fixed—stratified—social and economic
55 See e.g. Morris 1987; Osborne 1987; 1996; Foxhall 1992; 1997; Bintliff 2006; Forsdyke 2006
(with a useful summary of traditional explanations of the crisis at pp. 334–340); van Wees
2006; Rose 2012: 201–266 (all with plenty of references to previous works—the biblio-
graphy on the Solonian crisis is enormous). See Foxhall 1997: 122–129 for the mismatch
between current accounts of the Solonian crisis and the archaeological evidence, and
Bintliff 2006 for a useful summary of what the archaeological evidence (from landscape
studies and excavations, coalescing in critical analyses of the overall settlement evidence)
can tell us (pointing out that no clear break is visible at the time of the alleged crisis;
see also particularly Lohmann 1992; 1993; Fachard 2013: 94–95; Kellogg 2013: 7–72). Bint-
liff recognises (p. 327) that ‘[i]n nearly all discussions of the Solonian crisis and the likely
nature of Athenian society around 600 bc, there is a natural tendency to squeeze the his-
toric sources to exhaustion, despite their recognized problematic nature and lack of clear
contemporaneity’ and accordingly questions explanations of the crisis that rely on these
sources. What he does not question, however, is the historical reality of the crisis itself,
yet this is exclusively based on the literary sources he doubts. For scepticism about the
‘Solonian crisis’ see also Bernhardt’s chapter in this volume.
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order, in which there are the rich (an aristocracy) and there are the poor (the
demos), and no fluidity or social mobility enter the equation. This is once again
a legacy of Aristotle’s (and his school’s) concerns and interpretative categor-
ies, but a series of studies, from Duplouy’s important book Le prestige des élites
to Fisher’s and van Wees’ magisterial introduction to their volume Aristocracy
in Antiquity, have questioned such a picture of Archaic society.56 Likewise, the
widespread belief that both the Solonian crisis and the Solonian reforms had
to do with issues of land tenure is also a legacy of these ancient debates (see
above pp. 372–374), yet it is far from clear that this belief is warranted by the
evidence.57
The picture I am painting of our chances of getting at all close to Solon’s
programme, intentions and actual reforms is indeed bleak, because it is dif-
ficult to understand the stance behind the scattered remains of Solon’s legis-
lation without any programmatic statement that can give us a glimpse of how
Solon and his contemporaries viewed these reforms, as opposed to how fourth-
century Athenians did. But we do have the poetry, and that is where we should
start, as some scholars have done in recent years,58 trying to extract as much
of an ideological framework from it as we can, in order to base our interpret-
ation of Solon’s legislation on as much authentic ‘Archaic thought’ as we can
reconstruct.59 The key to an understanding of Solon’s reforms based not on
later reconstructions and instrumentalisations, but rather on source mater-
ial as close as possible to the events, must be direct engagement with Solon’s
poetry on its own terms. Although repetition, expansion, re-orientation and re-
performance surely affected it,60 it is risky and ultimately unwarranted by the
textual evidence to consider these fragments later constructs.61 And, as argued
forcefully by Martin on the basis of a sensible use of ethnographical comparis-
ons, ‘Solon’s poems are more than “prime sources” for politics. They are politics,
56 Duplouy 2006 (see also Duplouy 2019 and de Polignac 1995); Fisher-Van Wees 2015a and
particularly Fisher-Van Wees 2015b (which provides also a comprehensive survey of recent
scholarship). See also Ma 2016. These works do not have the same approach, but all con-
tribute in different ways to the overthrowing of the ‘fixed’ and ‘stratified’ model of an
Archaic society dominated by an aristocracy.
57 A recent and sophisticated version of this line of argument is found in Zurbach 2013: 631–
632; 2017: 335–397. Against such interpretations see (persuasively) Lewis (forthcoming).
58 Cf. in particular Harris 1997; 2006: 3–28; Lewis 2017.
59 Cf. Cairns 2013 on ‘archaic thought’.
60 On the effects of these processes in the Theognidean corpus see the essays in Figueira and
Nagy 1985.
61 This is the position of Lardinois 2006 and Stehle 2006 (see also Aloni-Iannucci 2016), but
see the careful discussion of these aspects in Noussia-Fantuzzi 2010: 45–66.
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378 canevaro
and politics as performed by the most adept practitioners even today, whether
in the first world or the third.’ The ethnographic evidence shows clearly that the
notion of a poet-politician is entirely reasonable, and that these poems were in
themselves forms of ‘political action’, and not, as many scholars have assumed,
a side-activity connected yet distinct from political activity—a ‘hobby’.62 They
should be read alongside Solon’s laws as the only primary evidence for Solon’s
reforms and legislation, for his political persona and his political activity. And,
significantly, they perform a distinctive role, providing precisely what is missing
from the preserved laws: a rationale, a reading of the society on which Solon is
intervening, a diagnosis of its problems, and programmatic statements about
the direction of his intervention. Scholars have lamented that they lack con-
crete details about Solon’s reforms and have dismissed them accordingly, yet
this is a problem only if we consider them a commentary on Solon’s actual polit-
ical activities. Because they are in themselves part of his political activity, we
should not expect them to reduplicate the same functions, and therefore the
same information, as his laws. The concrete details of Solon’s action are in the
laws; here we have the diagnosis of the problems he was addressing, program-
matic statements about the cure he proposed and its aims, as well as a defence
of his stance and of his actions.
3 Solon’s Thought and Solon’s Programme: The Evidence of the

Poetry
Among Solon’s extant poetic fragments the most programmatic is without a

doubt fr. 3 G.-P.2 = 4 West, the so-called Eunomia elegy.63 Many interpretations
of this poem, which have milked it for traces of the development of Greek polit-
ical thought or for evidence of the Solonian crisis and of Solon’s reforms,64 have
attempted to single out its innovative character, stressing for instance the over-
arching sense of community that gives unity to Solon’s diagnosis and political
proposal, or the relevance of an almost Aristotelian ideal of distributive justice
62 Martin 2006, in particular p. 158. For readings of Solon that show a certain embarrassment
with his poetical activity see e.g. Goldhill 2002: 2–3.
63 This poem is preserved at Dem. 19.254–256, but not in manuscripts S and A. Cf. MacDowell
2000: 312–313, who argues that the quotation is too long, and is therefore a later addition,
while Demosthenes probably recited only a few lines. Contra Rowe 1972 and Noussia-
Fantuzzi 2010: 217.
64 E.g. Manville 1990; Balot 2001: 58–99; Lewis 2006, passim; Zurbach 2013: 631–632; 2017:
336–337; 357; 363; Reggiani 2015: 34–38, 50–53, 132–137.
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to his analysis. In fact, what is most striking about this poem is how consist-
ent it is with other Archaic texts in diagnosing the evils of greed, hybris, adikia
and their effects on the city. What is most distinctive about it is rather its use of
such conventional motives as the background for a proposal of political reform
whose main aim is to bring order, kosmos, to society.
The poem starts (lines 1–4) by making the Athenians responsible for their
own misfortunes: because Athena is the patron of the city, Athens is protec-
ted from ruin deriving from the gods. The correlation μέν … δέ (lines 1 and 5)
contrasts Zeus and the gods with the astoi and identifies the latter and their
behaviour as the forces that can lead the city to ruin.65 The first problem here is
who the αὐτοὶ … ἀστοὶ are. On the basis of the following lines of the poem, some
scholars have argued that they are the rich, by analogy e.g. with Theogn. 191–
192 (οὕτω μὴ θαύμαζε γένος, Πολυπαΐδη, ἀστῶν μαυροῦσθαι· σὺν γὰρ μίσγεται ἐσθλὰ
κακοῖς).66 On the other hand, some scholars see an opposition with the follow-
ing lines, and read this as a reference to the demos as a whole. Solon, before
focusing on the rich, stresses how greed (χρήμασι πειθόμενοι) is spreading also
among the ‘not yet rich’.67 I suspect this means reading too much into these
two lines: astos means he who lives in the city, intended mostly (if not exclus-
ively) as the physical space of the city.68 The choice of this word, here as at fr. 14
G.-P.2 = 10 West, is meant precisely to avoid making distinctions of class and
status, and the opposition here is between the gods and those mortals who live
in this particular city, not with the leaders of the demos of line 7.69 The kinds of
behaviour that could bring ruin to ‘the great polis’ are human behaviours in the
city itself: people behave with folly and are willing to destroy their city in their
attempt to gain more riches (χρήμασι πειθόμενοι). There is nothing singular in
this diagnosis: Theognis at 833–836 also argues that men, not the gods, are to
blame for the ruin of the city (and ἀνδρῶν there has the same function as astoi
here), because of their behaviour, characterised by violence, greed and hybris
(ἀνδρῶν τε βίη καὶ κέρδεα δειλὰ καὶ ὕβρις).70
65 Cf. Henderson 1982: 27 and Noussia-Fantuzzi 2010: 225. Lewis 2006: 13–15 sees in this a
pre-Socratic, rationalist stance that deliberately excludes the gods from the equation and
shows Solon’s break with previous thought. It seems to me that excluding the gods from
the equation can be explained as part of the rhetoric of an address urging political reform:
the problems are human, and it is a human task to fix them.
66 Cf. e.g. Spahn 1977: 122.
67 Noussia-Fantuzzi 2010: 225. Cf. also Lavelle 2005: 74; Stahl 1992: 388; Masaracchia 1958:
254–256.
68 Cf. Canevaro 2017: 52–53 and passim.
69 Unlike at Theogn. 41, where the contrast is explicitly between the astoi and the leaders.
70 I speak simply of Theognis throughout, without going into issues of authorship, but for
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380 canevaro
In the next few lines (7–16) Solon zooms in and elaborates on his diagnosis
that the astoi are willing to bring ruin to the city because of foolishness and
greed: it is the leaders of the demos in particular that are guilty of this. This
appears to refer to the elite, the chieftains, the rich.71 They are opposed to the
demos, intended as those that do not rule, that are not rich, that are not mem-
bers of the elite. This is how Solon normally uses the term (cf. line 23 of this
poem and frr. 7 G.-P.2 = 5 West line 1; 31 G.-P.2 = 37 West lines 1, 6).72 After using
astoi to indicate the inhabitants of the city as a whole, apart from any socio-
economic divisions, Solon straightaway introduces such a division, across a
simple polarity: the demos on the one hand and the leaders on the other—two
separate categories, as it were. These leaders have an ἄδικος νόος, unsurprisingly
connected with hybris, which brings much pain and harm as retribution (such
pain and harm is elsewhere referred to as ate).73 The same connection is made
in fr. 1 G.-P.2 = 13 West lines 7–16, which is much more generic and does not
call for political reform, and again at fr. 8 G.-P.2 = 6 West lines 3–4.74 The con-
trast between hybris and dike is typical of Archaic thought in general and very
the Theognisfrage see e.g. West 1974; Ferrari 1987; Aloni-Iannucci 2007, 141–145. On the
relationship between the Theognidean corpus and Solon’s poems see e.g. Lardinois 2006,
passim; Irwin 2006: 51–72; Noussia-Fantuzzi 2010: 45–65; for more references see Cuniberti
2011: 2 n. 3.
71 Cf. Nagy 1985: 43 and Noussia-Fantuzzi 2010: 228. Pace West 1974: 68–69.
72 And how the term is used in hexametric poetry, cf. Donlan 1970: 383–385. Cf. also Page 1951:
177 for Alcaeus and Alcman. See Irwin 2005: 109 for the meaning of demos in Solon. The
same opposition between the demos and the elite (there ἀνδρῶν δ’ ἐκ μεγάλων) is found at
fr. 12 G.-P.2 = 9 West, l. 3. Contra Forti-Messina 1956: 233; Spahn 1977: 123–124; Donlan 1999:
225–231; Noussia-Fantuzzi 2010: 228, who think that demos here has no specific social con-
notations.
73 See Fisher 1992: 72 on the connection between hybris, koros and ate. Cf. on ate and its
multiple meanings, revolving around a prototypical sense of ‘harm’, Cairns 2012 and 2014.
74 This, incidentally, suggests that such genealogical connections of personified vices are
usually referred (also in Homer and Hesiod) not to the demos as demos, but to the elite or
those who struggle to join the elite. One should not therefore uncritically trust the author
of the Ath. Pol. that at 11.2–3 quotes fr. 8 G.-P.2 = 6 West as evidence that Solon was wor-
ried also of the excesses and hybris of the demos, not only of the elite. Pace Santoni 1981
and Noussia-Fantuzzi 2010: 289–290, the fragmentary state of the poem does not allow
us to assume that the reference must be to the vices of the demos, and a previous section
may have discussed, much as in fr. 3 G.-P.2 = 4 West, the behaviour of the leaders. The con-
text in which such statements should be understood is that painted by Duplouy 2006: an
extremely mobile society in which elite status is not one that is safely inherited, but rather
depends on continuous competition for more wealth and therefore further means of dis-
play that allow one either to achieve or to maintain elite status (see below pp. 381–383,
393–395).
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common, for instance, in Hesiod.75 The strong dispositional elements of hybris,

which involve not only the dishonouring of another, but also a miscalculation
of one’s own claims to time, justify the expression ἄδικος νόος.76
The nexus between hybris, ruin and greed, anticipated by the mention of
the desire for wealth at line 6, is strengthened, once again in accordance with
what Fisher has called ‘the characteristic “Archaic chain” of greed, koros, hybris,
and ate’,77 by the reference to koros. This term in its simplest sense means
‘satiety’, ‘satisfaction’, primarily in reference to food but extended to refer to
material wealth more generally and to its display. Yet often, and increasingly
from Homer and Hesiod to Solon and Theognis, it comes to indicate not just
prosperity as ‘satiety’ and ‘satisfaction’ but also the excesses of prosperity, both
in the sense that prosperity leads one to excess, and in the sense that enough is
never enough.78 Koros, that is, assumes strongly negative connotations, indic-
ating the evils of unlimitedness associated with the quest for prosperity (at the
same time, therefore, stigmatising it and affirming a norm of limitedness). In
contexts which refer to elite behaviour, the use of this term, as a result, tells us
more of the social reality, and of the social evils, that Solon, Theognis and oth-
ers diagnose, than simply that the elites are greedy. That the same word (central
and almost proverbial in such diagnoses, cf. Arist. fr. 57 Rose = 76, 1 Gigon) can
both indicate ‘satiety’ (as a norm of limitedness) and stigmatise elite prosperity
as grounded in excess and in a never-ending struggle for more wealth, points
to a society in which, in actual fact, enough is never really enough (which is
what needs to be remedied). The psychological dimension of Solon’s diagnosis
underscores the social reality of a fluid society in which belonging to the elite
depends on wealth and its uses, its display, and in which elite status is never
‘established’, and must always be confirmed and re-negotiated through more
wealth, more display, through new and imaginative uses of that wealth. This
is consistent with the picture of Archaic Greek elite behaviour so forcefully
painted by recent works such as Duplouy’s and Fisher’s and van Wees’, and
keeping it in mind in our interpretation of the meaning of koros in Archaic
poetry makes the uses of this word less puzzling: the charge laid at the door of
the elite is that for them enough is never actually enough, that ‘satisfaction’ and
elite-level prosperity only come through endless accumulation of wealth and
of honour at the expenses of others. The association of koros with hybris char-
75 Cf. in particular Hes. Op. 213 and in general the discussion of Fisher 1992: 186–200 and
passim.
76 See Cairns 1996 and Canevaro 2018b, who stress the dispositional, mental aspects of hybris.
77 Fisher 1992: 72.
78 Cf. Helm 1993; Balot 2001: 79–98; Irwin 2005: 210–220 and Cairns 2013b.
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382 canevaro
acterises their gains, their accumulation of wealth, as unjust, as the expression

of excessive and unwarranted self-assertion which denies the justified claims
to respect and status of others.79
Overall, there is nothing specifically Solonian in these lines: the nexus of
koros and hybris and the connection between hybris and injustice, with ensu-
ing disaster, is typical of Archaic poetry (cf. Theogn. 153–154; Pind. Ol. 13.9–10;
Hdt. 8.77), and the banquet and sympotic setting of lines 8–10 is also very com-
mon (e.g. Pind. Ol. 1.54–58): the dinner/symposium is used as metaphorical of
a stable, well-ordered society as early as Homer.80 Balot sees the centrality of
greed and acquisitiveness in this passage, but, instead of recognising that Solon
is rehearsing here a very common argument, tries to find something distinctive
about his approach in these lines: he claims that there is a difference between
sympotic metaphors and the reference here to the dais, the banquet, because
the dais involves a concern for distributive justice within the community at
large that is absent from the symposium, where hybris and koros have instead
simply to do with immoderation and perturbation.81 Behind Balot’s analysis is
the Aristotelian model (his point of departure), but the text itself, if it implies a
concern for distributive justice, has this in the background, implicit in the con-
cepts at play, and not as the key to understanding the connections between
these terms. Behaving with hybris and koros at the dais is unjust because it
is unjust, not because a further defining value, distributive justice, makes it
unjust. The whole point of Solon’s diagnosis is that it is easily recognisable as
correct, because similar arguments, and appeals to the same chain of evils and
vices, are often used in moral judgement and condemnation of other people’s
behaviour within and outside the elite. Solon is not trying here to be innovat-
ive, he is trying to be recognised as obviously right, so that he can then proceed
to propose a new political programme as the necessary cure for problems that
everyone can see. Van Wees has shown very perceptively that Theognis’ poetry
should not be read as arguing for traditional values against a new rising elite
of wealth. It should be read instead as a series of cross accusations within the
elite (a rather fluid and mobile elite, as Duplouy argues), in which those that
are losing out in the struggle for prominence condemn as immoral the beha-
viour of those who have the upper hand.82 The similarity between Theognis’
79 For this interpretation of hybris see Cairns 1996 and Canevaro 2018b.
80 Cf. Murray 1983; Nagy 1990: 269–275; Schmitt-Pantel 1990: 14–15; Rundin 1996; Levine 1985:
176–191; Anhalt 1993: 91–98.
81 Cf. Balot 2001: 88–89. On the reference to distributive justice see now particularly Reggiani
2015: 132–137.
82 Van Wees 2001. Cf. also Duplouy 2006.
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(and Hesiod’s) arguments and Solon’s, regardless of any chronological consid-

erations, is due to the fact that Solon is here exploiting the same arguments
that were common in the moral thinking of his age, as he does in fr. 1 G.-P.2
= 13 West lines 4–16. The difference is in the use to which these arguments are
put: Hesiod, Theognis and their contemporaries used them to admonish, advise
and condemn their contemporaries; Solon uses them to foster political reform,
which he intends to implement.
Focusing on hybris and koros in a sympotic setting is significant because it
strengthens the link between these psychological conditions and the objective
social situation of a key institution, the dinner/symposium, for the negotiation
of elite status. Prosperity, status symbols, honour are never enough among the
elite; they are disruptive of the banquet/symposium and therefore of elite order
(symbolised by εὐφροσύνη, κοσμεῖν and ἡσυχίη),83 and, Solon continues, they are
disruptive of society at large. Solon is able here to address both the elite con-
cerns that we later find expressed in the poems of Theognis, and the middling
ones that we find earlier in Hesiod. Lines 12ff. are marred by at least two missing
lines, but line 11, with its mention of the unjust deeds by which the leaders of
the demos πλουτέουσιν, suggests that Solon in these lines proceeded to list ways
in which they indulge their koros and exert their hybris. Lines 12–13 describe
the plunder of sacred and demosia kteana, which is often interpreted as sac-
red and public land,84 but which should rather be read as movable goods (or,
at most, as a generic expression referring to all goods, movable and unmov-
able),85 sacred and belonging to the demos, whatever this meant at this stage
of Greek history.86 It is likely, as suggested by Fisher, that the previous missing
83 Euphrosyne ‘was a specialized term used to define the atmosphere of an ordered banquet’,
cf. Noussia-Fantuzzi 2010: 232 and see particularly Latacz 1966 and Irwin 2005: 208-211
(note also that Euphrosyne was in fact one of the Charites). Hesychia is not simply ‘calm’
or ‘tranquillity’. It has to do with the social order and its stability, see particularly Slater
1981; Dickie 1984; see also Edmunds 1987: 1–37; Aloni 1988: 53–63 and Schmitt-Pantel 1990:
14–33, especially 23–24.
84 And, as such, is the foundation, together with fr. 30 G.-P.2 = 36 West, of e.g. Cassola’s (1964),
Manville’s (1990: 111–112), Rihll’s (1991: 106–110) and van Wees’ (1998: 15) contention that
Solon’s reforms had to do with the encroachment of public and sacred land.
85 On the meaning of kteana see now Harris 2006: 264 n. 32; Osborne apud Forsdyke 2006:
338 n. 18; Papazarkadas 2011: 213; Cuniberti 2011: 18 n. 65: ‘è bene evidenziare che l’oggetto
di ricchezza acquisito ingiustamente [scil. nel fr. 3] è indicato come kteana, termine che
sottolinea l’acquisizione del possesso senza qualificare quale mobile o immobile il bene
acquisito e negando quindi una dimensione solamente agraria al problema affrontato
da Solone’. See Faraguna 2012: 186–187 for a good summary of the debate, which leans
however towards reading these kteana as connected to land.
86 See Polignac and Schmitt-Pantel 1998; and Macé 2012; 2014 for the meaning of demosios.
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384 canevaro
lines dealt with parallel plundering of the property of peasants and non-elite
members of the community.87 If this is the case, then Solon is concentrating
here on the description of the rapacious means by which one competes in the
continuous struggle to achieve or secure elite status, as koros and hybris impact
on society at large, including the lower classes. Thus, the topic is rapacious and
hybristic elite behaviour fuelled by competition to achieve and maintain elite
status, in its disastrous effects on the (goods of) the community at large and of
the demos.
The idea that wealth acquired through hybris is unjust, which is expressed
also at fr. 8 G.-P.2 = 13 West lines 4–16 and recalls various Hesiodic passages,88
is also not new, nor is the reference to the tisis of dike, which resembles Hes.
Op. 222–224, 238–241, 256–262. Hybris and injustice bring ruin to the city and
to the community, in the form of slavery, stasis and war. Scholars ancient and
modern have interpreted these lines (17–20) as evidence for the actual nature
of the Solonian crisis, characterised by stasis, enslavement of the poor and
war bringing death and destruction.89 The context should, however, prevent
us from interpreting these lines as factual evidence for the Athenian situation
at the time of Solon, because this description is very consistent with the usual
Archaic understanding of the effects of koros, hybris and adikia. Hesiod (Op.
238ff.) already claimed that hybris can bring about the collapse of states, and
at lines 174–201 (when discussing the fifth race of iron) stated that when aidos
and nemesis leave the land men destroy each other’s poleis. Mimnermus (fr. 9
West) lists the arrival of ‘us’, with hyperbolos bie and hybris, in various cities—
Pylus, Colophon, Smyrna—, bringing destruction. At Theogn. 39–52 the leaders
in Megara behave with hybris, and this will result (in the future) in stasis and
‘bloody killings of men’ and eventually tyranny; at 287–292 aidos has perished
and anaideia and hybris have conquered dike and control the land; at 833–836
bia, base gains and hybris have destroyed the prosperity of the community and
brought in a state of evil. At 603–604 hybris destroyed the Magnesians, and
at 1103–1104 Magnesia, Colophon and Smyrna. And, consistently with these
passages, in Solon’s formulation slavery, stasis and war are not all presently in
Athens; they are the effects of the evils previously described, the manifestation
of the tisis of dike. So the unavoidable wound of dike’s tisis is coming to the city
(ἔρχεται, in the present), and while slavery quickly arrived in its wake as its first
See also Ma 2016 for an account of the archaic polis that gives centre stage to the issue of
‘public’ or ‘common’ goods.
87 Fisher 1992: 72.
88 See Fisher 1992: 186–200 and Balot 2001: 59–73 with references.
89 See above pp. 376–377 and n. 55 for such interpretations.
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effect (ἤλυθε, in the aorist), and lines 24–25 will tell us in what form, stasis and
war, aroused by it (ἐπεγείρει, in the present), are still to come.
These are statements, conceptual connections and predictions that would
have sounded obviously correct to any Archaic audience. They do not reflect in
detail the conditions of the city. Solon is not talking of an actual stasis, of war
raging in Athens, but of the unavoidable effects of koros, hybris and injustice, as
many of his contemporaries would.90 At lines 23–25 Solon makes his diagnosis
even more compelling by referring to the reality of the sale into slavery of the
poor, a problem he would address in his legislation, as we learn from fr. 30 G.-
P.2 = 36 West lines 8–15. Something is missing straight after line 25,91 and one
wonders whether some other actual example might have been provided there.
These examples, and the following lines 26–29 that use them as evidence that
no one is safe from this demosion kakon, not even in his own house—that the
public evils Solon has been describing have very concrete consequences for
each and every Athenian—together with the entire first part of the poem, are
a lengthy and closely argued justification of his call for action, one that would
have resonated with the Athenians precisely because of its conventionality.
Solon’s diagnosis is simple and expressed in straightforward and conventional
terms for an Archaic audience. The competitive, unstable and mobile society of
his time is characterised by a continuous struggle for prominence, for access-
ing or maintaining an elite status secured though the pursuit of more wealth,
prosperity and conspicuous display—through an accumulation of status sym-
bols. This can be sustained only through the systematic exploitation of other
Athenians, with the systematic plundering of sacred, demosia and probably
private goods. This rat race can only end with the city’s ruin, and the first signs
of ruin are already visible in the enslavement of the poor that ensues from the
competition of the elite. The innovation in Solon is not the diagnosis, but its
use. While Hesiod, Theognis and other poets use this conceptual weaponry to
rant against more successful members of the elite, to admonish reckless and
too-ambitious middling peasants and to advise fellow citizens about the cor-
rect behaviour in society, here Solon uses it to convince the Athenians that
wide-ranging reforms are necessary to put this entropy under control and bring
order to the city. That a fixed order in which everyone knows his place and his
role would be the solution is anticipated by the dinner/symposium metaphor
of lines 9–10, with the use of words such as εὐφροσύνη, κοσμεῖν and ἡσυχίη.
90 Cf. Bernhadt’s chapter in this volume, which also argues against the reality of a historical
‘Solonian crisis’, although with different arguments.
91 Three or more lines must be missing here, and the line found in ms. Matrit. 4562 must be
due to a Byzantine forger, see Noussia-Fantuzzi 2010: 253–254.
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386 canevaro
And sure enough, at lines 30–39 this is Solon’s programme, to whose descrip-
tion he moves by assuming explicitly a didactic stance (ταῦτα διδάξαι θυμὸς
Ἀθηναίους με κελεύει). The whole section is built as a mirror image of Solon’s
diagnosis of the Athenian situation, with very precise terminological corres-
pondences: τοῖς ἀδίκοις of line 33 matches the ἄδικος νόος of line 7; the koros
and the hybris of lines 8–9 come back at line 34; the δίκας σκολιάς of line 36
match Δίκης θέμεθλα of line 14; the ὑπερήφανά τ’ ἔργα of line 36 match ἀδίκοις
ἔργμασι of line 11; the stasis of line 19 is recalled at line 37 by ἔργα διχοστασίης.92
The situation described in the first part of the poem is due to Dysnomie, and
the introduction of Eunomie will deal individually with each one of the evils
described, and therefore reveal all that is εὔκοσμα καὶ ἄρτια.93 The poem relies
on poetic personification (note in particular that Eunomie is one of the Horai)
and on the use of the symposion as a microcosm of society (see above pp. 382–
383) to paint a picture of the well-ordered polis, in which everyone knows how
to, and does, behave appropriately, that Solon promises to bring about with
his reforms. The reforms that these few final lines advocate, in a form that
resembles both a hymn and a peroration,94 are founded on the introduction of
a range substantive norms to give each ‘part of the city’, to use the terminology
of Arist. Pol. iv 4, its appropriate, fitting (artios) place, thus making it possible
for everyone to live harmoniously in the polis by behaving in accordance with
his role and time, bringing therefore order to the polis (an order in which, of
course, the unjust end up in fetters, the rough is made smooth, koros is stopped,
hybris weakened, the blossoming flower of ruin dries up and an end is put to
pride and the anger of strife). There has been much debate about the mean-
ing of eunomia in an Archaic context, and scholars usually recognize that the
reference is not specifically to written laws: in fact, if Arist. Pol. v 7, 1307a 1 and
Strab. 8.4.10 are right when they claim that eunomia was the title of the poem
of Tyrtaeus in which he praised the dyarchy and the restoration of the order
of Sparta as a guarantee of its stability, then it is clear that there is no neces-
sary connection between eunomia and written law.95 Solon, after all, gave the
92 All the parallelisms are listed by Halberstadt 1954–1955: 202 and by Noussia-Fantuzzi 2010:
219.
93 For the couple εὔκοσμα καὶ ἄρτια, and particularly for the meaning of ἄρτιος—a veritable
catchword in Solon, conveying the idea of ‘compactness’, ‘internal structural agreement’—
see Noussia-Fantuzzi 2010: 261–263 (see also below).
94 Cf. Solmsen 1949: 117; Mülke 2002: 149; Noussia-Fantuzzi 2010: 258 for the hymnic function
form of these last few lines.
95 See van Wees 1999, who shows that there is no connection between the eunomia poem
of Tyrtaeus and the Great Rhetra. Note also that eunomie is already cited in Hes. Theog.
901–903 as one of the Horai.
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Athenians thesmoi. And yet a connection clearly exists between eunomia and
order, and even the etymological sense of νέμειν, which refers to ‘(due) shar-
ing’ implies that eunomia has to do with the good organisation—allocation—
of roles, kinds of behaviour, functions. And νόμος clearly means in Archaic
texts ‘custom’, which has to do with substantive rules of behaviour, securing
proper dealings with others (including the gods), and the respect of one’s
own and other people’s rights and prerogatives.96 This is why at Hom. Od.
17.487 and Hes. Op. 249–255 the gods test mortals’ hospitality and they find
either their eunomie or their hybris. Eunomie has to do with knowing one’s
place, one’s duties, other people’s rights and prerogatives, and behaving accord-
ingly. Unsurprisingly its opposite is hybris, which has to do instead with dis-
honouring other people as much as with overstepping one’s own claims to
time.
That Solon’s cure for the disease of the city is eunomia, what is orderly (εὔκο-
σμα) and fitting, appropriate (ἄρτια), is not surprising and yet very significant
from a social point of view. It illuminates further the nature of his criticism of
the society of his time, and the solution he offers. The focus on greed as the
continuous attempt to achieve more and more prosperity, to sustain the satis-
faction of one’s elite status, is obviously connected with hybris, the failure of
individuals to recognise and accept their status and prerogatives in relation to
those of others. Statuses, roles, functions, prerogatives are not arranged (and
secured) in an orderly fashion, so everyone is overstepping all the time. Such
behaviours bring about further elements of instability, the depredation of all
kinds of kteana, which is unjust behaviour, and further down in the social lad-
der, the enslavement of free men. Given Solon’s concern for a stable social order
in which everything and everyone is fitting to the appropriate station, secure in
its or his rightful place, it is not surprising that he would find the ultimate loss of
status, from free to slave, unacceptable. Extreme social mobility and instability
is the key problem for Solon. He makes this clear in fr. 6 G.-P.2 = 15 West, when he
complains of the mobility and instability of wealth as a criterion of excellence,
and laments that many kakoi are wealthy and many agathoi are poor. Here with
kakos and agathos Solon characteristically conflates moral qualities with social
status, assuming that in a well-ordered society moral excellency, high status,
wealth and power (these last two not to be sought in excess) should always be
96 Therefore claiming, as e.g. Ostwald 1969: ch. 2, Adkins 1985: 122 and Noussia-Fantuzzi 2010:
259 do, that eunomia had to do with obeying the laws and customs, not with whether the
laws and customs are good, is problematic, because the substantive, behavioural rules of
the nomos must be good to guarantee a well-ordered society in which everyone respects
everyone else and knows his place.
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388 canevaro
found together.97 That the kakoi are wealthy and the agathoi are poor is bad,
for Solon, because this is not how society should work: the agathoi should be
rich and the kakoi should be poor—virtue should be the basis on which wealth
is allocated, and therefore levels of wealth should be reliable markers of dif-
ferential levels of virtue. His solution is to create laws and institutions to bring
stability and order to society, in such a way as to make sure that everyone is
secure in his status, rights and prerogatives, however unequal these may be.
The society he proposes to bring about is one in which everyone knows his
place, and is comfortable in it: in such a society, the unjust is in fetters, koros is
stopped, hybris is weakened, the blooming flower of ruin is dried up, crooked
judgements, which undermine one’s lawful claims, are straightened, and there-
fore pride is tamed and there comes an end to acts of sedition, to the anger of
strife.
This diagnosis is not new, and stressing the importance of order and euno-
mia is not new either. The evils of social mobility and instability are central to
most Archaic poetry, and their counterpoint is always images of societal stabil-
ity and order. What’s remarkable here is that eunomia is not invoked abstractly
or ascribed generically to the gods. Eunomia will be brought about by Solon
through his legislation. This has nothing to do with taking sides, with bettering
the condition of the rich, of the poor or of the mesoi. Solon, in this sense, is
not a social reformer. He is a political reformer who aims to bring stability to
what he considers to be an excessively unstable, socially mobile society. His aim
is not to tackle inequality or to damage or improve the statuses of various sec-
tions of the population. He is simply aware that everyone has certain rights and
prerogatives deriving from his status, and these rights and prerogatives should
be established more firmly. Various other Solonian fragments support this view.
In fr. 7 G.-P.2 = 5 West Solon claims he has given to the demos no more geras than
is sufficient (ἀπαρκεῖν), neither adding nor taking away from the proper time.
Solon’s aim was not to change the status quo, but to make it secure. Likewise, he
made sure that the rich and powerful would not suffer any indignity, that is, that
their own time would be respected. He did not side with any ‘part of the city’
(not even with the mesoi, as Arist. Pol. iv 12, 1296a 18–20 would have him do),
but ‘stood with a mighty shield cast round both sides and did not allow either to
have an unjust victory’.98 The implication is that any victory by one part would
have been unjust, because he would have failed to respect the rights and prerog-
97 See for Solon’s use of kakos and agathos Donlan 1968: 112–113; Cerri 1968: 16–24; Noussia-
Fantuzzi 2010: 279–280.
98 For a discussion of this metaphor, see Anhalt 1993: 124–125; Noussia-Fantuzzi 2010: 70–73,
particularly 72; Stehle 2006: 96–97.
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atives of the other part. In fr. 8 G.-P.2 = 6 West he argues that the demos would
best follow its leaders and should not be given too much rein, nor should it be
restrained too much. Once again, members of the demos (as opposed to the
leaders, the elite) should know their place, without trying to rise in the social
ladder, but also without the risk of being subjected to violence. As I mentioned
before, I am not convinced that lines 3–4, with the reference to koros and hybris,
refer to the behaviour of the demos,99 but it is worth noting that the opposite of
hybris and koros unsurprisingly is a νόος ἄρτιος, which connects a sound psycho-
logical condition with a correct understanding of the social order, of its norms,
limits and requirements, and therefore with appropriate and ‘fitting’ behaviour.
Fr. 29b G.-P.2 = 34 West is also very relevant to these issues, as Solon there
forcefully argues that he did not pursue equality between the kakoi and the
esthloi, despite the expectations of the various ‘parts’ of the city that his action
would mean for them licence to plunder, to achieve wealth and prosperity
(lines 1–2). In acknowledging that his action discontented all parties, Solon
takes pride (as elsewhere, see in particular frr. 29 G.-P.2 = 32 West and 29a G.-P.2
= 33 West) in his refusal of tyranny and violence,100 and then states (lines 8–9)
that he did not attempt to bring about πιεί[ρ]ης χθονὸς πατρίδος … ἰσομοιρίην
between the kakoi and the esthloi.101 The interpretation of this passage has
been the subject of much controversy: scholars disagree as to whether Arist.
Ath. Pol. 34 is right and the poem refers to the poor who want a redistribu-
tion of the land,102 or rather the party ‘coming for plunder’ is, as one would
expect, the rich, in which case the poem would not be referring to specific
policies such as a redistribution of land.103 I personally find it unlikely that
with the expression οὐδὲ πιεί[ρ]ης χθονὸς / πατρίδος κακοῖσιν ἐσθλοὺς ἰσομοιρίην
ἔχειν Solon may be referring to anything as specific and concrete as a redis-
tribution of land. As noted by Noussia-Fantuzzi, Solon hardly ever describes
legislative interventions with such precision in his poems, and the choice of
words is equally understandable as a more generic reference to a redistribu-
tion of the timai between the kakoi and the esthloi.104 The choice of χθών, to
indicate the world in which mortals live (in preference to γῆ, more straightfor-
99 See above pp. 380–381.

100 On which see Harris 2006: 297–301. Cf. Bernhardt’s chapter in this volume who sees such
claims instead as implicit admissions that Solon did attempt to achieve tyranny yet failed
to do so.
101 For this distinction, which straddles the social and the moral (with esthlos here perform-
ing a function similar to agathos in fr. 6 G.-P.2 = 15 West), see above pp. 387–388 and n. 97.
102 See e.g. van Wees 1999: 16–17.
103 See e.g. Brandt 1989; Rosivach 1992; Noussia-Fantuzzi 2010: 446.
104 Cf. Noussia-Fantuzzi 2010: 453–454.
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390 canevaro
wardly connected to agricultural productivity), with the specification πατρίδος

to indicate the fatherland, is compatible with a metaphorical reference to priv-
ileges, prerogatives, powers, conditions of life, ultimately timai of those who
live in Attica.105 The words μοῖρα and μέρος, indicating primarily one’s lot in life
(and here, with the form ἰσομοιρίη, specifically the equal distribution of such a
lot in life), are in fact often connected with the concept of personal time—to
its distribution (e.g. Hom. Il. 9.318–319; PMG 520.4–6).106 Admittedly πιεί[ρ]ης,
irregular feminine of πίων, ‘fat’, gives the expression a concreteness which may
be taken to point to agricultural productivity, yet Noussia-Fantuzzi correctly
notes that ‘the same level of concreteness can also be found in the designa-
tion of the fatherland in 4 G.-P. = 4a West, where the polis as a whole organism
is certainly at stake and certainly not (or not only) its tilled fields’. Ultimately,
and regardless of these issues, it seems clear to me at least that, whoever those
who ‘came for plunder’ may be, Solon is here once again stating that his inten-
tion has never been a redistribution of prerogatives, powers, timai, statuses and
indeed wealth (whether in the form of agricultural land or otherwise) to make
everyone the same. All he is concerned with is to give stability to the current
social structure, without modifying it or tackling its inequality.
The most extensive vindication of Solon’s legislative action is of course fr. 30
G.-P.2 = 36 West. This poem has given rise to plenty of scholarly debate, and
it is not necessary for our purposes to discuss all the problems with its inter-
pretation, let alone to solve them.107 But it is possible to draw several parallels
between its contents and those of frr. 3, 7 8 and 29 G.-P.2 = 4, 5, 6 and 34 West,
which suggest that in this poem Solon vindicates against critics the success of
his political action in bringing about eunomia, the good order promised in fr. 3
G.-P.2 = 4 West (and elsewhere). The poem opens with a rhetorical question
to Solon’s critics: ‘Before achieving what of the goals for which I brought the
demos together did I stop?’108 A vindication of his achievements follows.
105 This is Noussia-Fantuzzi’s interpretation (2010: 453–454): ‘not a redistribution of the

tillable land between rich and poor, but an equal division of the τιμαί inside the insti-
tutions of the fatherland’.
106 Mülke 2002: 359. Cf. still Hdt. 4.154.4: δέεσθαι δὲ οἰκέειν ἅμα τούτοισι μοῖράν τε τιμέων μετέ-
χοντες καὶ τῆς γῆς ἀπολαχόντες.
107 See Noussia-Fantuzzi 2010: 455–486 (with further references) on this poem.
108 At least, the portion we have opens with this question, because the δέ means that this can
be the beginning of the poem only if it was part of a sympotic chain, cf. Noussia-Fantuzzi
2010: 460. Some scholars take this question to be an admission of partial failure, interpret-
ing τί as in interrogative adverb. It is better to take it as a neutral pronoun, the object of
τυχεῖν̣ ̣, qualified by the genitive partitive τούτων. Cf. Jaeger 1945: 452 n. 59, Blaise 1995: 27
and Noussia-Fantuzzi 2010: 461–462.
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His first claim is to have freed Dark Earth, the mighty mother of the Olym-
pian gods, who was previously enslaved, removing the horoi that burdened it.
Many scholars take this to be a reference to the seisachtheia, which would have
to do with freeing the agricultural land, and therefore with specific regimes of
land tenure109 This interpretation depends on understanding the horoi that are
removed in this passage as the kind of horoi that were erected on mortgage
property, so that removing them meant cancelling the debts taken on the secur-
ity of that land. Harris has shown, however, that the word horos does not in fact
indicate a mortgage marker until the fourth century, and in the earlier sources
it invariably indicates boundary markers. It is anachronistic, therefore, to read
this expression literally as an intervention on the regime of land-tenure.110 The
expression, as pointed out by Harris, is more likely to be, in its entirety, figurat-
ive and metaphorical.111 The Dark Earth itself from which the horoi are removed
is in fact, in the expression, personified as witness and guarantor of Solon’s
following statements. Already in Homer the earth and chthonic divinities are
often invoked as witnesses (to oaths; cf. Hom. Il. 3.278; 14.274; 15.36; 19.259;
Od. 5.184) or the black earth is mentioned in a very general sense (without
reference to anything as specific as land tenure).112 And scholars have poin-
ted to Solon’s specific veneration of the Attic earth.113 The enslavement of the
Attic earth (line 7: πρόσθεν δὲ δουλεύουσα, νῦν ἐλευθέρη), moreover, cannot of
course be taken literally, and we should not, accordingly, take its liberation as
literal either. Within such a figurative and metaphorical overall expression, the
removal of horoi from the land, whatever its literal referent (presumably the
action of removing boundary markers from the ground), is unlikely to indic-
ate that Solon’s legislative activity actually involved the removal of horoi. These
horoi are more likely to indicate metaphorically the dire situation of division,
of potential stasis etc. (see above pp. 384–385) in which, according to Solon, the
Attic fatherland found itself. As we have seen, when used literally, horoi always
indicate at this time boundary markers, which mark divisions in the land.
When used figuratively or metaphorically, therefore, horos should be expected
to mark separation, division. This is in fact how it is used in fr. 31 G.-P.2 = 37 West,
where Solon compares himself to a horos: ‘I stood in no-man’s-land between
them like a boundary marker’ (ἐγὼ δὲ τούτων ὥσπερ ἐν μεταιχμίωι ὅρος κατέ-
109 See above pp. 372–374 on the seisachtheia and the debate about it.
110 See above pp. 372–373 and n. 41.
111 Harris 1997.
112 E.g. Hom. Il. 2.699; 15.715; 17.316; Od. 11.365; 11.587; 19.111; cf. Hes. Theog. 69; Hom. Hymn to
Apollo 369; Alcman fr. 89 West; Sappho frr. 1 and 16 West.
113 Cf. Rudberg 1952; Ferrara 1964: 66–68.
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στην). The reference there is to Solon’s position in-between the warring parties,
as a horos that marks the division between them, and separates them, in the
context of stasis. This is also how it was used at Hom. Il. 12.421, where we find
the image of two men contending about a boundary stone (horos) that divided
their plots used as a simile for the wall that surrounded the Greeks’ camp, keep-
ing the Greek and Trojan warriors separated.114 It is likely that the horoi perform
a comparable metaphorical function here: the expression ἐγώ ποτε ὅρους ἀνεῖ-
λον πολλαχῇ πεπηγότας, by metaphorically describing Solon’s action as one of
removing boundary markers, is (probably) an indication that his action was
aimed at preventing stasis, healing division and fostering unity.115 In turn, by
preventing stasis and fostering unity, Solon freed the fatherland.116
After this, Solon goes into detail, and the measures he mentions roughly
correspond to what he promised in the Eunomia poem. The many Atheni-
ans reduced to slavery, sold abroad or working in Attica must be the same
as those of fr. 3 G.-P.2 = 4 West lines 23–25, and Solon adds to these the cat-
egory of those that were forced to flee abroad because of necessity. We do
not have details about the condition of these people, and the reasons for
their slavery or exile, but it is clear that Solon portrays them as Athenians,
who were born free, and whose condition before Solon’s intervention consti-
tuted therefore a fall. Solon restored them to their rightful status and made
it secure. At lines 18–20 Solon explains how he achieved this: he wrote laws
(thesmoi) that defined the rights, prerogatives, duties, timai of all citizens, the
agathoi and the kakoi alike. Some scholars take this to mean that Solon made
all ‘parts of the city’ equal before the law, with the same rights and prerog-
atives,117 but this is unwarranted by the text: Solon claims to have legislated
for everyone, not to have ignored the rights, duties and prerogatives of any
social class, of any ‘part of the city’; he does not state that he made every-
one equal, and this is explicitly contradicted by frr. 7 and 8 G.-P.2 = 5 and 6
114 Cf. also Aesch. Ag. 485 and 1154 for horos used metaphorically to indicate boundary, divi-
sion, separation.
115 This is also the interpretation advocated by Harris 1997: 57. Noussia-Fantuzzi 2010: 468
points in this direction when she states: ‘The obscurity of the concrete legal function of
the ὅροι is in contrast to their symbolic value, which is quite obvious: they are an entity
foreign to the polis, disruptive of its unity and calm’.
116 This overall expression therefore constitutes a complex metaphor in two parts, in one of
which the earth (as a slave) is personified to indicate the dire state in which the father-
land finds itself, while in the other it is the literal place in which horoi are planted, all of
which is itself used as a metaphorical image for the earth as a slave (and therefore for the
fatherland in duress). This is a complex case of interaction, on which see Silk 1974.
117 E.g. Almeida 2003: 231.
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West, where he denies having instituted any form of isomoiria. ὁμοίως, which
implies a concept of ‘geometrical’ and not ‘arithmetical equality’,118 is imme-
diately qualified by the expression εὐθεῖαν εἰς ἕκαστον ἁρμόσας δίκην: with his
laws Solon has fitted the appropriate straight judgment (as opposed to the
crooked ones of fr. 3 G.-P.2 = 4 West line 36) to each person and to each case.
The use of ἁρμόζειν (and of ξυναρμόζειν at line 16) carries the same concep-
tual connotations as the use of artia at fr. 3 G.-P.2 3 = 4 West, lines 32 and 39.
An ordered society is one in which one is secure in one’s position and will be
treated, and will receive justice, appropriately and in accordance with one’s
rights and one’s status. This is confirmed by the evidence of his laws, which we
know for instance gave to some classes and not others the right to be selec-
ted for certain offices.119 The last few lines of the poem (20–27) elaborate on
the way in which Solon has managed not to side with anyone, despite the pres-
sures, and therefore to establish an order in which everyone is provided for. The
simile of the wolf among a pack of dogs nicely summarises the difficulty of the
task.120
To sum up, Solon’s diagnosis as well as his political and social programme
emerge quite clearly from his poetic fragments: in accordance with much
Archaic thought, Solon laments the dangers and the evils of excessive social
mobility, of a society in which acquisitiveness and competitive display are
the only ways to secure one’s status. In such a society one’s elevated status
is secured through causing another’s social fall, at all levels. Solon describes
this mechanism by zooming in on the problems of koros and hybris (see above
pp. 381–383): in his diagnosis, he sets the evil of excessive and insatiable acquis-
itiveness side-by-side with that of hybris, thus characterising the very gains
occasioned by koros as a form of hybris—hybristic behaviour fundamentally
consists in asserting the time of the hybristes beyond what is appropriate and
warranted (thus unjustly laying claim to a certain status—hence it is also
adikia), which normally results in disrespecting the legitimate claims of others
and therefore discounting or actively undermining their status (i.e. occasioning
their ‘fall’).121 Thus, the problem Solon identifies, ultimately, is that of excessive
social mobility and instability (upwards as well as downwards), of the uncer-
tainty of statuses and ranks, to which he opposes the paradigm of societal sta-
bility, in which eunomia, created through fixed laws, stabilises a social order in
118 Cf. Cartledge 1996 and 2001: 72–75 on the differences between isos and homoios.
119 See below p. 400.
120 On this metaphor see e.g. Stehle 2006: 93–94; Noussia-Fantuzzi 2010: 482–485.
121 For hybris see above pp. 380–382, and Cairns 1996 and Canevaro 2018b for this interpreta-
tion.
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which everyone, whatever his status, is secure in his rights, prerogatives, timai,
and is protected from too dramatic a fall. A society in which everyone knows
and is secure in his place. I do not deny that other themes underlie Solon’s
poetry: for instance the opposition to tyranny, to arbitrary rule, as stressed by
Harris.122 But the theme of order, of societal stability, is absolutely central to his
programme.
Solon’s diagnosis, as well as his agenda, confirms, nuances and partially qual-
ifies recent developments in the study of Archaic society and of the evolution
of the Archaic polis. On the one hand, Solon’s focus on the evils of social mobil-
ity (and particularly of downwards social mobility) underscores the important
realisation—which we find most prominently in the work of Duplouy as well
as in the recent collection on Aristocracy in Antiquity edited by Fisher and van
Wees—that there was no long-standing, stable and entrenched social stratific-
ation in the Archaic polis and that Archaic elites were fundamentally elites of
wealth (rather than aristocracies proper)—their members secured and main-
tained their elite status through display and conspicuous consumption, in com-
petition with each other and against the ever present risk of ‘falling out’ of the
elite, of downwards social mobility. To quote Fisher and van Wees, ‘[i]nstead of
having to posit the existence of socially ostracised nouveaux riches, we can con-
template the possibility of fluid up- and downward social mobility into and out
of the propertied class.’123 Solon clearly moves within a society characterised
by a fluid social structure, rather than by stable stratification—some measure
of stability in the vertical articulation of society is rather what he proposes
to bring about through mediating between conflicting interests and by mak-
ing the position and prerogatives of the various differential statuses at play
secure. On the other hand, against certain tendencies, found for instance in
Duplouy, to downplay too much the role of institutions and the very possib-
ility of ‘class’ as a form (however fluid) of stratification, ideologically under-
stood,124 Solon’s poems show that fluidity and social mobility did not occur
122 Harris 2006. See Bernhardt’s chapter for a different perspective, in which Solon’s protest-
ations against tyranny are taken to be evidence of his own frustrated tyrannical ambi-
tions.
123 Fisher-Van Wees 2015b: 10. See most prominently for this development in scholarship
Duplouy 2006 (also Duplouy 2019; de Polignac 1995); the essays in Fisher-Van Wees 2015a
and Fisher-Van Wees 2015b in particular; also Ma 2016 (which combines the recognition of
the social fluidity of at least one type of Archaic polity—what he calls ‘open polity’—with
awareness of the importance of widespread processes of institutionalisation and state-
formation). Wecowski 2014: 19–26 also acknowledges the fluidity of archaic elite status
(‘precarious’) and the centrality of performance, but (unlike Duplouy 2006 and Fisher-
Van Wees 2015b) insists on talking of an ‘aristocracy’.
124 See e.g. Duplouy 2006 and even more Duplouy 2019; Berent 2000 on the polis as a ‘stateless
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in a vacuum—in an open arena in which social stratification was a priori not

contemplated and all there was was competition between individuals and fam-
ilies. Solon makes clear that the dangers of fluidity and social mobility are
particularly serious because they cause people to move (and, most of all, fall)
across social ‘lines’. Two such lines are particularly prominent in his poems.
The first is that which divides the demos from the leaders, from the esthloi: it
is represented as a ‘class’ line sui generis which should correspond not only to
differential wealth but also to differential claims to time and therefore to dif-
ferential prerogatives and political power—it is an ideological line but is also
imagined and represented as an institutional one, decisive for the allocation
of political power itself (Solon talks of the ‘leaders of the demos’, after all). It
is precisely because this line is (at least ideologically) clear that Solon can per-
ceive widespread fluidity and social mobility as such a huge problem—many
kakoi are wealthy and many agathoi are poor! And his very legislative action,
which aims to solidify the social order, is in fact an attempt to institutionalise
and make this ideological line more ‘fixed’. The second line is a ‘legal’ one, that
between freedom and slavery.125 It is set further down the social ladder, and
is represented by Solon as equally porous, to the extent that—another symp-
tom of extreme social fluidity—members of the demos regularly fall below it
and become slaves. Social fluidity, that is, is condemned by Solon as a social
evil precisely because it causes people regularly to cross that most uncrossable
legal boundary between free and slaves—social fluidity is then perceived in all
its dangers precisely through the lenses of already established and institution-
alised legal statuses, rather than (as often claimed) because of the absence of
any such boundaries.126 Thus, a close reading of Solon’s poems confirms recent
ground-breaking findings about the absence of stable and long-standing strat-
ification in, and the widespread social mobility of, Archaic Greek society. At
the same time, it suggests that it is necessary to combine these findings, first,
with a recognition that dynamics of institutionalisation were at play from very
early on (there existed ‘legal’ statuses such as that of slave as early as Homer),127
and, second, with the acknowledgement that conceptualisations of a division
society’; Ismard 2010 on Athens as a network of groups and associations (although note
that Ismard ultimately leaves more room to dynamics of institutionalisation).
125 On this ‘line’ in particular see Lewis (forthcoming); Luraghi 2002. See also Lewis’ and Zan-
ovello’s contributions in this volume.
126 Zurbach 2013: 625–628 has some excellent remarks on the institution of slavery as a seri-
ous blind spot of readings of archaic society that stress social fluidity and the centrality of
competitive performance.
127 See Harris 2012; see also Lewis’ and Zanovello’s contributions in this volume.
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396 canevaro
of society into ‘classes’ (as well as legally defined groups) were widespread and
interacted with that social reality, conditioned its perception, and contributed
to the institutional development of the Greek cities.128
There is more. It seems clear that Solon’s diagnosis of the causes of the evils
affecting the city is mainly focalised on the elite—on the leaders of the demos.
These, bound up in endless competition for ever more wealth for the purpose of
fuelling ever more performative display of their elite status (in order to achieve
it and then maintain it), end up leading the city into ruin—they become stuck
in ‘the characteristic “Archaic chain” of greed, koros, hybris, and ate’.129 Thus,
Solon, to a certain extent, appears to confirm the more elite-centred readings
of Archaic society popular in the 1990s and 2000s.130 Yet note that this is not the
end of Solon’s diagnosis—there is a specific way through which elite compet-
itive behaviour leads the city into ruin: the ‘leaders of the demos’, in their race
to get more that is never actually enough (koros), despoil the goods of the com-
munity and drive many among the demos into misery, to the point that these fall
into slavery and are even sold abroad. Competition to achieve and secure elite
status, then, is both due to (and based on) the very high levels of social mobil-
ity, and ‘produces’ the dangers of downwards social mobility present also in the
lower strata of society. The outcome of these dynamics, however, is not a scen-
ario in which all the ‘action’ takes place among the elite—allegedly the only
real actor in history—while the masses, the demos, remain passive.131 Quite the
opposite: Solon’s intervention is explicitly represented as necessary to mediate
between esthloi and demos. His attempt to institutionalise a stable social hier-
archy, in which everyone—whatever his relative status—is secure in his place
and prerogatives, aims to put an end to the inevitability of the ‘Archaic chain’
of greed, koros, hybris, and ate among the elite, but also to prevent the demos,
excessively exploited by this elite, from rising up and overturning the whole ver-
128 Cf. Zurbach 2013: 642–643: ‘it is particularly erroneous to contrast traditional views,
centred on the question of land and political rights, with a more dynamic vision based
on the idea that social groups are constantly being defined or redefined. To do so is to
empty these definitions of their real content and to turn Archaic Greek societies into
arenas for the display of an abstract and ultimately arbitrary form of prestige’ (see also
pp. 625–628). For an excellent account of archaic society (focused on Crete) which fore-
grounds the importance of the dynamics of institutionalisation see Seelentag 2015 (and
also Seelentag in this volume).
129 Fisher 1992: 72.
130 E.g. Foxhall 1997: 119; Anderson 2005: 179; Forsdyke 2005: 15–29; Hawke 2011, passim.
131 As argued e.g. by Cawkwell 1995; Foxhall 1997: 119 (‘I would argue that generally the poleis
of Archaic Greece were little more than a stand-off between the members of the elite who
ran them’); Anderson 2005.
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tical articulation of society.132 In Fisher’s and van Wees’ words, ‘the struggles for
social justice and economic fairness fought by the lower classes may have been
triggered, not by any new-found power of a middle class or the community, but
by an escalation in the exploitation and humiliation which they suffered at the
hands of the propertied classes’.133
Solon sees this possibility and his legislative action is clearly meant to pre-
vent this scenario. By bringing order (eunomia) to society—by stabilising and
better defining status groups with distinct prerogatives—he aims to make their
vertical articulation independent from the vagaries of competition, replacing
social mobility with societal stability, and thus defusing the tensions between
the elite and the demos. These, he believes, are fuelled by the very competitive
demands of a fluid social order, so they can be cured by the stabilisation of that
order.
4 Solon’s Reforms and Societal Stability
It is not my intention to offer here a full examination of Solon’s legislation and

reforms in the light of the programme I have delineated through the analysis of
his poetry. But a short discussion of four areas of his legislative activity which
would seem at first sight unrelated may support my interpretation of his pro-
gramme and reforms. The first measure is the freeing of the Athenians reduced
into slavery, whether they had been sold abroad or worked for their masters
in Attica. Solon refers explicitly to such measures in fr. 30 G.-P.2 = 36 West. In
fr. 3 G.-P.2 = 4 West he also refers to this problem as one of the most signi-
ficant symptoms of the dysnomia of Athens, and a further piece of evidence
suggests that Solon dealt with it not only by freeing individual slaves, but in
a more permanent fashion: at four points in the text the author of the Ath.
Pol. refers to a law that forbids the taking of loans on the security of one’s own
person (2.1, 6.1, 9.1; cf. also Plut. Sol. 15.2–5). This, as shown by Harris, does not
mean that he made debt-bondage illegal; it means that he made enslavement
for debts illegal.134 What we can see here is likely to be one of the measures
by which he made the enslavement of free Athenians impossible, in any form
132 For accounts that restore the role of the demos as a political actor see e.g. Schmitz 2004;
van Wees 2008; Simonton 2016: 9–20; Ma 2016; as well as Lewis-Harris in this volume. See
also Rose 2012, although from an entirely different perspective (not just in terms of his
Marxism, but more generally of his understanding of archaic society).
133 Fisher-Van Wees 2015b: 10.
134 Harris 2006: 249–271.
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398 canevaro
and in any way. This is certainly what the poems suggest: they argue that the
fall from free status to slavery is the most obvious and serious symptom of the
condition of social instability Solon is trying to remedy, the most dreadful con-
sequence of the excessive social mobility present in Archaic society, in which
the competition for wealth and status at the higher end of society resulted in
the impoverishment and even enslavement of free men. The first issue in bring-
ing about societal stability is to make the distinction between free and slave
clear, secure and uncrossable in Athens. Solon tries to achieve this, in fact, not
only by making the enslavement of free Athenians illegal, but also by forbidding
slaves from engaging in behaviours identified as characteristic of free Atheni-
ans, such as exercising in the gymnasion (γυμνάζεσθαι) and rubbing dry with oil
(ξηραλοιφεῖν), or having homosexual relations (being erastai) with free boys.135
The second area of Solon’s legislative action that is worth mentioning is judi-
cial procedure, and most scholars agree that these reforms must be Solonian.136
These are the ἔφεσις εἰς τὸ δικαστήριον—the possibility for the Athenian who is
found guilty by a magistrate to block the implementation of the verdict and
have his challenge to it assessed by the demos (the plethos, in fact, in the words
of Arist. Ath. Pol. 9.1)—; and the introduction of a generalised standing to sue,
that is ‘entitling the volunteer to exact a penalty in the interest, in the name, and
on behalf of the offended party’.137 Arist. Ath. Pol. 9.1 mentions these reforms
together with the ban on loans on the security of one’s own person, and the
discussion does not seem to give rise to many interpretative problems, as the
author of the Ath. Pol. is doing nothing more than listing Solonian measures
that seem to favour the masses, and the source appears to be Solon’s axones.138
Such reforms are consistent with Solon’s promise, expressed in fr. 3 G.-P.2 = 4
West, that his eunomie would bring the ‘crooked judgements’ of the leaders of
135 The evidence for these measures is collected in Leão-Rhodes 2015: 122–125 (F 74).
136 See Rhodes 2006: 255–256 and now particularly the thorough discussions in Loddo 2019:
passim and especially 113–118 and 125–132 (with plenty of references to the scholarly
debate). On the ἔφεσις εἰς τὸ δικαστήριον see now in particular Pelloso 2016 and 2017; Pel-
loso argues that the ephesis should not be read as a proper ‘appeal’ but rather as a ‘veto’
which is then assessed by the demos. See Pelloso 2017: 517 n. 1 for a synthetic yet compre-
hensive survey of most scholarly positions about the attribution of this reform to Solon.
137 Plut. Sol. 18.2–3, 6–7 and also Arist. Pol. ii 12, 1273b 35–1274a5, 1274a15–18. See Pelloso (forth-
coming).
138 Even Mossé 1979: 433–434 and Hansen 1982 think it is possible that these reforms may be
Solonian, although Mossé mistrusts the possibility of a dikasterion and supposes that the
ephesis may have been to the Areopagus, while Hansen leaves open the possibility that
these reforms may be fourth-century inventions. See Loddo 2019: 113–118 for an up-to-date
discussion of this problem and of the debate around it.
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the people to an end. The possibility to appeal against a judicial decision (in
most cases taken by chieftains and magistrates) and have a case heard by a
dikasterion (the author of the Ath. Pol. tells us that the demos was in charge
of that dikasterion) is consistent with Solon’s claim in fr. 30 G.-P.2 = 36 West
that he made sure that everyone, whatever (and, we may add, in accordance
with) his status, would receive ‘straight judgements’, and see his rights, prerog-
atives and timai upheld. Assigning stable ‘quotas’ of time to every free man in
Athens (however different these ‘quotas’ may be) and making sure that insti-
tutions would be in place to make them secure is precisely what the Solonian
programme of introducing order into society was about. This has not to do with
empowering the masses and weakening the elite; it has rather to do with mak-
ing sure that everyone’s rights and prerogatives are respected and protected.
And, from this point of view, it is easy to see why the introduction of the pos-
sibility for ho boulomenos to sue on behalf of someone else made sense to Solon:
how could an orphan’s rights otherwise be protected?139 How could an old man
sue his own son, who was failing to support him?
Another set of Solonian laws that can without a doubt be connected to the
issue of social stability are those meant to protect the oikos and guarantee its
survival and its material welfare. The nomos argias is listed by Plutarch at Sol.
22.3 in a section in which Plutarch appears to be relying on the axones (or more
likely on a work reporting their contents). Scholars have long recognised it as
a law meant to protect the oikos by making its due care and preservation com-
pulsory, subject to an action that could be brought by ho boulomenos in the
event of dereliction. Dreizehnter has rightly pointed out that the aim of this
law was not that of punishing beggars and the unemployed, but rather farmers
who neglected their households.140 Societal stability depended on the stability
of the oikoi of which the community was comprised, and the maintenance of a
farmer’s level of wealth was necessary to secure the stability of his social pos-
ition, of his status, of his rights and prerogatives. If independent farmers with
households of their own could fall into indigence, that would have been a prob-
lem for the stability of society overall. These same problems are found when
control of the household must pass to the next generation, because the previ-
ous kyrios dies, because he becomes too old to take care of the oikos properly,
or because the new generation wants to assume control to reach proper inde-
139 On Solon’s provisions protecting orphans see now the discussion in Loddo 2019: 132–137
(with plenty of references).
140 Dreizehnter 1978: 371–386; see also Schmitz 1999: 578, 2004: 192–200; Cecchet 2016, for
explanations that also stress that this law was intended for preserving the oikos.
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400 canevaro
pendence and adulthood. The fact that Athenian family law and all the rules of
inheritance are centred on the problem of the survival of the oikos and of the
preservation of its material prosperity is well recognised in scholarship, and
there is no need to argue it here anew.141 It is sufficient to point out once again
that writing laws to set rules in matters such as these that were previously only
subject to custom makes obvious sense as an attempt to found the social order
on a more stable material basis. It is not difficult to read this legislation as an
attempt to prevent downward social mobility.
Finally, we have discussed before some interpretative problems about
Solon’s property classes, yet it is quite clear from the sources that these were
actually Solonian, and that Solon linked belonging to a particular class with
specific rights, prerogatives and duties. For instance, the archonship was open
only to the hippeis and to the pentakosiomedimnoi (Arist. Ath. Pol. 26.2),142 the
position of treasurers of Athena only to the pentakosiomedimnoi (Arist. Ath. Pol.
8.1, 47.1),143 while for those of kolakretai, poletai and the Eleven one had to be
at least a zeugites (Arist. Ath. Pol. 7.1).144 Van Wees has recently reconstructed
the role and functions of the naukraroi, and has suggested that they were also
chosen only from among the pentakosiomedimnoi.145 With membership of dif-
ferent classes came also different obligations, both military and financial, with
different classes having to serve in different capacities and pay the eisphora at
different levels.146 The definition of different classes with different and growing
prerogatives and obligations the higher up one stood in the social ladder can-
not be interpreted as a populist measure, nor does it make sense exclusively
as an elite-oriented reform. Solon, in accordance with his poetic claims, was
legislating for all of society, assigning to all levels, to all ‘parts of the city’, their
appropriate (he would say artios) position, and defining their rights, duties and
prerogatives to make them stable and secure.147
141 See e.g. Harrison 1968: 122–162; MacDowell 1978: 84–108; Griffith-Williams 2013: 3–24. On
their Archaic origin see in particular Schmitz 1999: 576–584 and 2004: 190–232.
142 See e.g. Ryan 1994; 2002 and Surikov 2012 for later reforms changing the criteria of access
to the archontate.
143 Cf. van Wees 2013: 39–40.
144 On the functions of these officials see now van Wees 2013: 40–44.
145 Van Wees 2013: 44–56.
146 On direct taxation in archaic Athens see now van Wees 2013: 83–97.
147 Cf. for proposals that are partially similar to my own Murray 1980: 189–190 and Manville
1990: 124–126, who argue that one of the key aims of Solon’s legislation was to set firmer
boundaries (legally and socially) between statuses.
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5 Conclusion
The picture of Solon that I have painted is perhaps not as exciting as many of
those painted by other scholars. My Solon is not a social reformer, he is not a
democrat, he does not, at first sight, even seem to be particularly innovative.
His concerns, his worries and his intentions seem to be deeply Archaic. They
are the same concerns displayed by Hesiod, by Theognis, by Alcaeus, to some
extent by Homer. If he is critical of the society of his time, his criticism does not
come from a progressive perspective. He simply does not like disorder; he finds
the fluidity, the social mobility of Archaic society dangerous, unstable, poten-
tially violent. But he does not have a problem with there being leaders on the
one hand and lower classes on the other whose job is to obey them—far from
it.
Some scholars have argued that his perspective—his legislation—for the
first time put the community, as a collective entity, before the needs of the indi-
viduals.148 I can see little of this in his poetry. I cannot find any direct appeals
to a common sense of belonging that transcends the individuals’ own status,
needs and prerogatives. When Solon talks about ruin, he talks about the fath-
erland, the Dark Earth of Attica, Athens. He never talks about a community of
Athenians that share rights, prerogatives and concerns. Even the total ruin of
the city has to be made relevant to each individual by claiming that δημόσιον
κακὸν ἔρχεται οἴκαδ’ ἑκάστωι. Solon’s order is meant to establish and protect
individuals’ rights, prerogatives, their differential time. The social, communal
dimension of such an order is not innovative—it is obvious. It is ingrained in
his mindset and in his analysis because time itself is essentially an intersub-
jective, and therefore communal notion.149 By institutionalising the various
claims to time of different groups and strata, Solon institutionalises the com-
munal dimension (vertical as well as horizontal) that is intrinsic to time—this,
however, pre-dates his reforms, and is independent from them.
What is distinctive about Solon is that he is a statesman, that at some point
in his life he managed to enact a series of reforms that aimed to remedy the
social problems he and others had identified. The very Archaic understanding
of the problems of Athenian society that I have highlighted in his poetry and
in his legislation is used as rhetorical weaponry to convince the Athenians to
grant him special powers to deal with the problems of Athens,150 and as the
148 Cf. e.g. Manville 1991: 124–156; Balot 2001: 73–98; Lewis 2006.
149 See Cairns 2011; Canevaro 2018; 2020.
150 This rhetorical dimension of his diagnosis of Athens’ dysnomie, and its role in justifying the
granting of special powers, is central to Bernhardt’s chapter in this volume, which however
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402 canevaro
starting point for providing the polis with a set of formal rules and institutions
meant to take care of social mobility and instability, and replace it with a stable
order (eunomie). He understands that excessive social fluidity and mobility
cause never-ending competition to secure and maintain—to perform—elite
status, which can only be fuelled by ever increasing exploitation of the lower
strata of society. These, in turn, become as a result prey to the dangers of down-
wards social mobility—the poor are even turned into slaves—, creating a state
of affairs so unstable that it becomes a concrete possibility that the demos may
rise up and overturn the whole vertical articulation of society. To prevent this,
Solon needs to act at all levels at once, not modifying this vertical articulation
but rather stabilising it—he proposes to eliminate fluidity and stabilise the
various status groups into an institutionalised stratification within which all
are safe and comfortable in their (differential) rights and prerogatives. In this
sense, his laws, his reforms, are in fact a key step in the development of Athens
into the polis familiar to us from the Classical period, because they create per-
vasive formal institutions to govern communal life.
In the short term, his legislation may seem like a desperate attempt to coun-
teract entropy and force a stable order upon Athenian society. It is fair to say
that, as far as his immediate aims are concerned, to a large extent he failed.
Athenian society did not become peaceful, tyranny ensued, and eventually
(perhaps even worse from his perspective) democracy, which overthrew the
social order to which Solon subscribed and created a polis in which, to a large
extent, the demos did not follow its leaders. But this assessment is perhaps
ungenerous. If a communal sense emerged in Athens, if all the Athenians,
regardless of their socio-economic conditions, came to feel they had a stake in
the life and government of the polis, that is probably to a considerable extent
due to Solon’s attempt to secure and protect the rights and prerogatives of all
‘parts of the city’ by creating formal institutions capable of enforcing these
rights and prerogatives. His ban on the enslavement of free Athenians is par-
ticularly significant in this respect, because it drew a very firm line between
free and slave, and eventually produced a situation in which all free Atheni-
ans, regardless of their different statuses, had something substantial in com-
mon: they were free, and they could not in any circumstance become slaves.
These are significant developments, and it is fair to say that without them there
would have never been a democracy in Athens. In this sense, Solon is indeed
the father of Athenian democracy. But, as Aristotle recognises in the Politics
concentrates rather on the status that Solon was attempting to secure for himself—that,
in Bernhardt’s interpretation, of a tyrant, albeit a failed one.
- 978-90-04-51363-1
(ii 12.1273b27–1274a21), he did not himself create a democracy, nor did he ever
want to.151 The very concept of social, and indeed of political, reform in such
a direction was alien to his culture, to his very mindset. Solon may well have
been the father of Athenian democracy, but in spite of himself.152
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank my co-editor Johannes Bernhardt, as well as, in partic-

ular, Douglas Cairns, Edward Harris, David Lewis and Nino Luraghi, for their
feedback at various stages in the preparation of this chapter. I would also like
to thank audiences in Edinburgh, Princeton and Rostock for extremely pro-
ductive discussions of early versions of my arguments. I gratefully acknowledge
the contribution of the Leverhulme Trust, which has funded, through a Philip
Leverhulme Prize, much of the research that has made this chapter possible.
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chapter 14
A Failed Tyrant? Solon’s Place in Athenian History

Thou hypocrite, first cast out the beam out of thine own eye;
and then shalt thou see clearly to cast out the mote out of thy
brother’s eye.
Mt. 7.5
∵
1 Introduction
Solon is undoubtedly the most important figure of the Archaic period. After the
epic poems of Homer and Hesiod, there is no other political figure for which
a comparable amount of sources is available: on the one hand, there are the
numerous poems and laws attributed to Solon, which were presumably handed
down in collections and were, among other things, the subject of a lost work
by Aristotle;1 on the other hand, there is also an account of some of Solon’s
exploits in Herodotus’ Historiai from the fifth century bc, numerous references
to his legislative action in the Attic orators, and the detailed accounts of the
Athenaion Politeia, written in the fourth century bc in the school of Aristotle,
and of Plutarch’s Vita of Solon, written around 100 ad.2 Of course, ever since
the beginnings of modern research, and under the auspices of Classical Quel-
lenforschung, there have been many debates concerning questions of dating,
the historicity of individual poems and laws, the precise meaning of Solon’s
oeuvre, and the biases of the literary accounts (because of their much later con-
text of composition).3 Despite these debates and different nuances, however,
1 On the poems Mülke 2002; Noussia-Fantuzzi 2010; on the laws Ruschenbusch 1966; Ruschen-
busch 2010; Leão and Rhodes 2015, on the lost Aristotelian commentary on Solon’s laws
Hesychius s.v. Ἀριστοτέλης.
2 Hdt. 1.29–33; Ath. Pol. 5–12; Plut. Sol.; Martina 1968.
3 For older research, see e.g. Linforth 1918; Freeman 1926; Woodhouse 1938; Hoenn 1948; Hignett
1952; Masaracchia 1958; Ehrenberg 1967; Oliva 1988; for an early and very critical assessment
of the mythical Solon Mossé 1979; 1996; 2004.

a failed tyrant? solon’s place in athenian history 415
there was for a long time a broadly supported communis opinio that a mean-
ingful picture of Solon could be gained from synthesising the different strands
of tradition: the Athenians considered Solon to be a reconciler (diallaktes) in a
serious agrarian crisis and in the escalating struggles between the rich and the
poor. In this role, Solon cancelled the debts of the enslaved Athenians (seisach-
theia), committed the Athenians to the common polis with his legislation, and
reformed society by introducing a timocratic class system. Since the fifth cen-
tury bc Solon’s measures were seen as the cornerstone of Athens’ move towards
democracy,4 a view which has remained popular ever since, both in the gen-
eral image of Solon and in interpretations of the Archaic period as prehistory
to Athenian democracy.5
However, in light of recent research this view is no longer tenable. Due to
the increase in archaeological evidence and the cultural turn, the image of
the Archaic period has changed fundamentally over the past 40 years, giv-
ing way to more complex models for oral tradition, the structure of Archaic
aristocracy and peasantry, and the large-scale process of the formation of the
polis.6 Against this backdrop, maximalist images of Solon have increasingly
come under scrutiny, in particular in the landmark volume ‘Solon the Athenian’
edited by Josine Block and André Lardinois in 2006.7 This volume offers a series
of excellent essays, but, after reading it, one gets the impression that the only
remaining communis opinio is that every aspect of Solon’s work is problem-
atic and contradictory.8 In that very volume, André Lardinois argues that the
poems attributed to Solon were handed down orally, like the Homeric epics,
4 Cf. the contributions Nagy and Noussia 2015; Loddo 2018: 39–88.
5 Stahl 1992 interprets Solon’s poem on eunomia as the birth of the democratic idea; on Solon
as the founding father of democracy see also the questionable study Tsigarida 2006. On the
criticism of teleological master narratives of the Archaic period Seelentag 2015: 59–61 as well
as the introduction and Seelentag in this volume. Nuanced interpretations of Solon in the
development of Athens towards democracy Welwei 1992; Bleicken 1995; Raaflaub, Ober and
Wallace 2007; Cartledge 2016.
6 On the archaeological evidence and the cultural turn Foxhall 1997; Bintliff 2006; Bintliff 2012;
Doronzio 2018; Rönnberg 2021; Knodell 2021, and Bachmann-Medick 2016; on orality Thomas
1989; 1992; Murray 2001a; 2001b; on peasantry Schmitz 1999; Schmitz 2004; Schmitz 2014;
Meister in this volume; on aristocracy Stahl 1987; Stein-Hölkeskamp 1989; Duplouy 2006;
Fisher and van Wees 2015a; Ma 2016; Meister 2020; on class and class struggles Rose 2012;
on the development of the polis Walter 1992; Polignac 1995; Schmitz 2004; Vlassopoulos 2007;
Ismard 2010; Seelentag 2015; Duplouy and Brock 2018; Duplouy 2019. Recent attempts at a
synthesis of the Archaic period Osborne 2009; Welwei 2011; Hall 2014; Schmitz 2014; Stein-
Hölkeskamp 2015; D’Ercole and Zurbach 2019; Ulf and Kistler 2020; Lavelle 2020.
7 Blok and Lardinois 2006.
8 See Walter 2008: 685–687.
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416 bernhardt
and supplemented, as in the Corpus Theognideum, by attributing to Solon pro-

verbial statements and non-Solonian poems.9 Eva Stehle, Antonio Aloni, and
Alessandro Iannucci argue along similar lines that most of the poems were
attributed to Solon late or reflect complex processes of written redaction in
the fifth and fourth centuries bc.10 While Herodotus places Solon in the tradi-
tion of the Seven Sages and is mainly concerned with his journey to the court of
Croesus,11 and the Attic orators are highly unreliable when it comes to histor-
ical references,12 Hans-Joachim Gehrke and Lukas de Blois have shown in detail
how much of Solon’s work in the Athenaion Politeia and Plutarch’s Vita of Solon
has been informed by Aristotle’s political theory of the mixed constitution and
by literary topoi. The literary evidence is in essence a form of ancient secondary
literature, which integrates material attributed to Solon into its own interpret-
ative schemes and is often marked by serious misunderstandings.13 If one does
not want to write off Solon’s historicity completely, recent research has shown
a strong tendency towards rather minimalistic studies, which concentrate on
interpretations of single poems and laws, or integrate these, beyond atheno-
centric teleologies, into larger contexts of polis, law and community-formation,
or the development of economic structures and political thinking.14
This situation is problematic in many ways. One could even argue that,
especially in view of the complexity of the source material about the Archaic
period, one cannot afford to lose Solon or surrender entirely to the tendency
towards minimalist research. Fortunately, Maria Noussia-Fantuzzi has convin-
cingly argued that there are clear differences between the tradition of the
Solonian poems, the Homeric epics, and the Corpus Theognideum, so that in
most cases Solon’s authorship should be trusted;15 and in a more balanced per-
spective, Peter Rhodes has defended the authenticity of Solon’s laws as well
as, in principle, the value of the narrative sources about him,16 even though
9 Lardinois 2006.
10 Stehle 2006; Aloni and Iannucci 2016.
11 Shapiro 1996; Hollmann 2015.
12 Cf. Harris 2006: 290–291; Leão and Rhodes 2015: 151–180; Carey 2015: 110–128.
13 Gehrke 2006; Rhodes 2015; Poddighe 2014; Ruschenbusch 1994; de Blois 2006a; 2006b;
Beck 2014.
14 On the development of law Gehrke 1993; 1997; Hölkeskamp 1999; Almeida 2003; Gudopp-
von Behm 2009; Reggiani 2015 and Harris and Lewis in this volume; on the development
of the Athenian community Macé 2012; Dimitriev 2018; on the development of economic
structures as well as land and debt conditions Stanley 1999; Zurbach 2017; on Solon’s place
in the history of ideas and political thinking Anhalt 1993; Lewis 2006; Itgenshorst 2014 and
Itgenshorst in this volume. For a slim synthesis Schubert 2012.
15 Noussia-Fantuzzi 2010: 45–65.
16 Rhodes 2006; Leão and Rhodes 2015.
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significant problems remain, of course, in identifying individual laws.17 From a

hermeneutic perspective it is also not enough simply to ‘reconstruct’ individual
aspects of Solon’s work in ever greater detail and, as it were, to hope that these
pieces would merge into a more stable general image of Solon; on the contrary,
any ‘reconstruction’ can only gain plausibility by interplaying and contrasting
with a general image of Solon.18 The real challenge, therefore, is to read all of the
sources (the poems, laws, and later accounts) critically—each one individually
and on its own merit—in order to situate Solon, without lapsing into an ana-
chronistic, democratic perspective, in the context of the general developments
of the Archaic period, and thus to create a new image.
A starting point for this can be readily identified. The close and, in the
ancient tradition, obvious proximity between lawgivers and tyrants has always
been recognised.19 Elizabeth Irwin has further expanded on this perspective in
her 2005 study ‘Solon and Early Greek Poetry’, and in doing so, has detached
Solon from his traditional image of the democratic founding father. Through
intertextual comparisons with the existing lyrical material from Solon’s prehis-
tory and own time, she has convincingly demonstrated that Solon repeatedly
manipulates his own image by using typical language and metaphors of the
tyrannical discourse; in his own statements he appears as a tyrant, who at the
same time distances himself from tyrannis.20 Kelcy Shannon Sagstetter has
taken up this approach in her 2013 dissertation, further arguing that Solon,
while distancing himself from tyrannis in his poems, in fact claims the power of
a tyrant.21 While Irwin argues primarily on philological grounds and concludes
her study with a brief comparison of Solon and Peisistratus, Sagstetter goes a
step further by interpreting Solon’s alleged cancellation of debts as typical of
the measures employed by tyrants to gain popularity and support among the
people.22 Since the issue of tyrannis brings one closer to the crucial concerns of
17 Scafuro 2006; Davis 2011; Meister 2020.

18 Cf. Stahl and Walter 2009: 142, with different conclusion yet a similar starting point: ‘With
hindsight, Solon’s individual measures and regulations together form a “grand design” for
a comprehensive new communal order. Conversely, the often isolated and fragmentary
notices about his regulations and statements on “social politics,” jurisdiction and the legal
system, citizenship, and political education must always be interpreted from the perspect-
ive of this grand design.’
19 Parker 2007; Wallace 2009.
20 Irwin 2005; 2006.
21 The unpublished dissertation Sagstetter 2013 was not yet available to me at the time of
the original conception of this paper; but I am pleased that she has also taken up Irwin’s
impulses and that the present paper and her study can be read as complementary argu-
ments for a re-evaluation of Solon.
22 Irwin 263–280: Sagstetter 2013: 145–173.
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418 bernhardt
Solon’s time and the formation processes of the polis, this approach will be con-
sidered further in the following pages and confronted more broadly with wider
historical problems;23 in order to stay clear of misplaced constitutional and
democratic terminology, it will prove very useful to explore more in-depth the
sources concerning the legitimacy of Solon’s rule in the wake of Max Weber.24
Or, to reformulate this as a thesis: if one reads the sources critically throughout
and integrates their interpretation into some of the most recent debates about
the Archaic period, the contours of a new image of Solon as a tyrant can indeed
be developed.25
Since it is not possible here to deal with all aspects of Solon’s work, this essay
specifically aims to provide the contours of a model. It proceeds in three steps:
first, the so-called ‘crisis in Athens’ and Solon’s statements about it are critically
examined (ii); second, Solon’s debt cancellation, his legislation, and the reor-
ganisation of society are re-examined against this background, by asking who
benefited from these measures (iii); and, third, this leads to a reinterpretation
of Solon’s alleged educational journey following his reforms as a time of exile
(iv). Finally, the essay concludes with a brief outline of the origins of the image
of a democratic Solon, and why this has become an established image within
the literary tradition (v).
2 The Rhetoric of Crisis
Traditionally, the archonship of Solon is dated according to Diogenes Laertius

to 594/3bc and directly linked to his reforms.26 This chronological approach,
however, creates considerable tension with other information concerning
Solon’s career, with the result that some have in fact proposed the late 570s bc
as the date of his reforms.27 Both approaches have their own merits, and there
is no definitive answer to this question. The most plausible solution, which is
23 On Archaic tyrannis McGlew 1993; Cawkwell 1995; de Libero 1996; Smith 1989; Lavelle 2005;
Anderson 2005; Parker 2007; Stein-Hölkeskamp 2009; Lewis 2009; Mitchell 2013; Taylor
2017 and Taylor in this volume.
24 Weber 1980: 122–148.
25 Cf. also Meister 2020: 310–312.
26 Diog. Laert. 1.62; Ath. Pol. 14.1 dates 32 years before the archonship of Comeas 592/1bc.
27 Since Solon left Athens for 10 years after his legislation and returned at the time of the first
tyrannis of Peisistratus in 561/0 bc, one arrives at the late 570s bc; cf. Ath. Pol. 14.2; Plut. Sol.
29 and on the debate Linforth 1918: 265–268; Hignett 1952: 317; Miller 1968: 62–81; Miller
1969: 62–86; McGregor 1974: 31–34; Rhodes 1981: 120–122; Wallace 1983: 81–95; Parker 1998,
155; Sagstetter 2013, 23–24; Meister 2020: 296.
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frequently proposed and mediates between the two approaches, is to assume a

longer period of Solon’s activity, which only in the later tradition became more
concentrated on his archonship.28 If one begins from this chronological point
and approaches Solon on his own time scale, then, despite the supposed nov-
elty of some of his measures, he must first of all be considered as acting strictly
in continuity with his prehistory.
According to the later tradition, Solon was the son of Execestides, from
the family of the Medontidai, whose lineage stretched back to the last Attic
king Codrus; on his mother’s side, he was related to the later tyrant Peis-
istratus.29 It is particularly difficult to assess the reliability of the information
that Solon’s family was impoverished at the beginning of his political career,
meaning that he was economically dependent on trade and travel.30 On the
one hand, the Athenaion Politeia uses this information deliberately, in order
to place Solon between the rich and the poor, in the context of contemporary
debates between pro- and anti-democrats and in accordance with Aristotle’s
conception of the mixed constitution;31 on the other hand, Plutarch considers
wealth to be one of the foundational characteristics of an ideal statesman, and
therefore tries to pass over Solon’s poor circumstances.32 If one does not allow
oneself to be blinded by these contradictory framings of Solon’s beginnings,
the decisive factor is that ultimately this narrative of humble origins fits per-
fectly with trends in recent research. According to these trends, one should
no longer consider Archaic elites as a firmly established aristocracy that was
structured by birth alone. Rather, Archaic elites were characterized by high fluc-
tuation, since individuals had to continually prove their prestige by competing
for wealth and symbolic capital, through cultivating a distinguished ancestry
or attaining—and performing publicly—a sumptuous lifestyle. Importantly,
however, they could also lose their prestige again.33 Against this background, it
28 Ath. Pol. 6.1; 10.1; Plut. Sol. 14.3–6 already suggest two phases of his activity; Stahl and Walter
2009: 142–143; Noussia-Fantuzzi 2010: 5–7; Schubert 2012: 43–45.
29 Plut. Sol. 1.1–2; Diog. Laert. 1.53.
30 Ath. Pol. 5.3; Plut. Sol. 1–3.
31 Arist. Pol. 1296a18–20; Gehrke 2006: 276–278.
32 Plut. Arist. 1.1–3 and Sol. 2.1; de Blois 2006: 432.
33 Duplouy 2006 is the fundamental study; Fisher and van Wees 2015b discuss the lack of
clearly defined aristocracies in antiquity; Ma 2016: 397–406 offers a useful overview of the
two paradigms elitist-entrepreneurial and communitarian-statist and puts them in rela-
tion, arguing that the performances central to the elitist-entrepreneurial paradigm in fact
needed the stage of the developing polis postulated by the communitarian-statist one.
Meister 2020 argues even further that an aristocracy only developed through the focus
on the polis in the fifth century bc.
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420 bernhardt
is quite plausible that a realistic narrative of events has been preserved in the
later tradition, and that Solon had to start from a rather disadvantageous pos-
ition in the struggle for prestige and initially had little more than an ancestral
name.
That Solon saw himself as a member of the Athenian elite, however, can be
seen throughout in his poetry. The most important point of reference in his
poetry is that of Homeric epic,34 in which the competitive ethos of Greek elites
is both laid down and summated as: ‘to always be the best and to surpass all oth-
ers.’35 In addition, his poems contain numerous references to an elitist lifestyle
such as the symposium, guest friendship, and hunting.36 Finally, it is import-
ant in this context that Solon did not only appear in Athenian politics with his
archonship, but was active in warfare at the beginning of his career: on the one
hand, he was a fervent supporter of the Athenians’ fight against Megara for the
strategically important island of Salamis;37 and, on the other, he campaigned
for the participation of the Athenians in the fight against and the destruction of
the city of Crisa during the First Sacred War.38 Solon’s preserved Salamis-Elegy
explicitly evokes the solidarity of the Athenians in the fight against Megara, and
has therefore repeatedly been seen as displaying the nucleus of his later polit-
ical programme.39 From a critical perspective, however, it is much more plaus-
ible that Solon used both his personal military ventures (with his poetic repres-
entation of them) and the call for solidarity among the Athenians as resources
for building his elitist prestige; in contrast to the wise lawgiver, the reports on
Solon’s military ventures also repeatedly demonstrate how he manipulated the
public opinion of the Athenians by pretending madness, which bears clear
traits of the image of the cunning tyrant.40 Undoubtedly, all of this contrib-
uted to the development of Solon’s charismatic aura and his later election to
the archonship.41
34 Vox 1984; Irwin 2005: 113–153.

35 Hom. Il. 6.208: αἰὲν ἀριστεύειν καὶ ὑπείροχον ἔμμεναι ἄλλων.
36 Solon fr. 11; 16; 17; 24 G.-P.2 = 19; 25; 23; 26 West2.
37 Solon fr. 2 G.-P.2 = 1–3 West2; Plut. Sol. 8–9.
38 Plut. Sol. 11.
39 Cf. Stahl and Walter 2009: 143.
40 Plut. Sol. 8.1; Polyaenus Strat. 1.20.1–2; perhaps Solon fr. 14 G.-P.2 = 10 West2 also belongs in
this context (δείξει δὴ μανίην μὲν ἐμὴν βαιὸς χρόνος ἀστοῖς, | δείξει ἀληθείης ἐς μέσον ἐρχομέ-
νης); Noussia-Fantuzzi 2010: 323; on the image of the cunning tyrant Irwin 2005: 272–277;
Luraghi 2014; Luraghi 2015.
41 On charismatic legitimacy Weber 1980: 124; 140–142; 654–661; Plut. Sol. 11.1 is undoubtedly
correct in this respect: ἤδη μὲν οὖν καὶ ἀπὸ τούτων ἔνδοξος ἦν ὁ Σόλων καὶ μέγας.
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According to the Athenaion Politeia, Solon had already complained about

the catastrophic situation in Athens before he became archon.42 In fact, in
his famous elegy on eunomia and in other poems, he laments the civic unrest
in the polis, the greed of the elite, and a serious crisis; but these statements
could also have been written during or after his political activity.43 The passage
most explicitly concerned with this situation, and the measures he took to rem-
edy it, is in his so-called accountability poem (Rechenschaftsgedicht): in this
poem, he states that he removed the boundary stones (horoi) and thus freed
the black earth (ge melaina); additionally, it records that he brought back to
Attica many Athenians who had been sold as slaves to foreign lands or gone
into exile because of other hardships.44 The Athenaion Politeia then elaborates
on the background of this situation in more detail:
After this there was a long period of strife between the notables (gnor-
imoi) and the populace. For not only was their state oligarchic in all
other respects, but the poor were also slaves of the rich, both themselves,
their children and their wives. They were called dependants (pelatai) and
sixth-parters (hektemoroi), as it was for this rent (of one-sixth of their pro-
duce) that they were working the fields of the rich. All the land was in the
hands of a few; and if they did not pay the rents, both they and their chil-
dren were liable to seizure. Also all loans were made on the security of the
person until Solon’s time; he was the first champion of the people. For the
masses the harshest and most unbearable aspect of the constitution was
their enslavement, though they were discontented on other grounds as
well; for they had, so to speak, no share in anything.45
42 Ath. Pol. 5.2; cf. Plut. Sol. 14.2.

43 Ath. Pol. 5 places Solon fr. 4; 5 G.-P.2 = 4a–c West2 in the period before his political activit-
ies; the dating is not certain, however, as the entire classification of the fragments is not
certain either; cf. Rhodes 1981: 122–124; Mülke 2002: 161; 168–169; Noussia-Fantuzzi 2010:
267–269; 273–274. Also the Elegy of the Muses fr. 1 G.-P.2 = 13 West2 and the elegy on euno-
mia fr. 3 G.-P.2 = 4 West2 are too general to be situated exactly and can be placed in different
contexts due to their paraenetic character; cf. Mülke 2002: 237–240; 99; Noussia-Fantuzzi
2010: 132; 218–220.
44 Solon fr. 30 G.-P.2 = 36 West2 ll. 3–15.
45 Ath. Pol. 2.1–3: μετὰ δὲ ταῦτα συνέβη στασιάσαι τούς τε γνωρίμους καὶ τὸ πλῆθος πολὺν χρόνον.
ἦν γὰρ αὐτῶν ἡ πολιτεία τοῖς τε ἄλλοις ὀλιγαρχικὴ πᾶσι, καὶ δὴ καὶ ἐδούλευον οἱ πένητες τοῖς
πλουσίοις καὶ αὐτοὶ καὶ τὰ τέκνα καὶ αἱ γυναῖκες: καὶ ἐκαλοῦντο πελάται καὶ ἑκτήμοροι: κατὰ
ταύτην γὰρ τὴν μίσθωσιν ἠργάζοντο τῶν πλουσίων τοὺς ἀγρούς (ἡ δὲ πᾶσα γῆ δι’ ὀλίγων ἦν),
καὶ εἰ μὴ τὰς μισθώσεις ἀποδιδοῖεν, ἀγώγιμοι καὶ αὐτοὶ καὶ οἱ παῖδες ἐγίγνοντο: καὶ οἱ δανεισμοὶ
πᾶσιν ἐπὶ τοῖς σώμασιν ἦσαν μέχρι Σόλωνος: οὗτος δὲ πρῶτος ἐγένετο τοῦ δήμου προστάτης.
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According to the Athenaion Politeia, Solon put an end to this situation by

forbidding loans on the security of the body and obtaining a cancellation of
debts.46 Plutarch gives a very similar description, perhaps because he used the
same source in this instance.47 In both texts, Solon’s measures are programmat-
ically called seisachtheia, the ‘shaking off of burdens’. The causes and form of
the described crisis have been endlessly debated by scholars; mostly, however,
the picture of an agrarian crisis has been accepted: there had been problems
with increasingly scarce land and its distribution, the horoi removed by Solon
were in fact debt stones, while the hektemoroi were either an old class of
dependent workers or indebted and, therefore, dependent peasants.48 Anthony
Snodgrass’ proposed calculations of the increase in Attica’s population, based
on archaeological evidence finally seemed to provide a solid foundation for the
argument of increasingly scarce land and the corresponding conflicts.49
Since the end of the 1990s, however, these models have become increasingly
shaky. In fact, a series of articles has questioned every aspect of the agrarian
crisis:
1. Lynn Foxhall has reassessed the alleged problem of the scarcity of land.
Building on the results of archaeological surveys in Attica, she was able
to show that in the first half of the sixth century much land was indeed
unused. As a result, she reinterpreted the crisis in political terms: ‘mem-
bership of the elite group which constituted the state was synonym-
ous with the land-holding group. Those outside this circle, at any socio-
economic level, gained access to land only through them, via the depend-
ency relationships for which so much confused evidence abounds in the
Classical sources (the hektemoroi and all that).’50
2. Edward Harris has reassessed the problem of the horoi. Since the term
horoi in the Archaic period always meant boundary stones, he argued that
the established interpretation of the horoi as debt markers by ancient and
modern authors is impossible. Since Solon’s removal of landmarks would
χαλεπώτατον μὲν οὖν καὶ πικρότατον ἦν τοῖς πολλοῖς τῶν κατὰ τὴν πολιτείαν τὸ δουλεύειν: οὐ
μὴν ἀλλὰ καὶ ἐπὶ τοῖς ἄλλοις ἐδυσχέραινον: οὐδενὸς γὰρ ὡς εἰπεῖν ἐτύγχανον μετέχοντες (trans.
Dillon and Garland 2010).
46 Ath. Pol. 6.1.
47 Plut. Sol. 15.3.
48 See the overviews of the debate Faraguna 2012: 171–193; Sagstetter 2013: 191–211. The thesis
put forward by Henri van Effenterre, and elaborated by L’Homme-Wéry 1996 and 1999, that
Athenian land had come under Megarian rule and had been liberated by the seisachtheia
has hardly any foundation in the sources and has found no support in later scholarship.
49 Snodgrass 1980.
50 Foxhall 1997: 69.
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have been a serious crime, he interprets the passages as a metaphor for

ending a stasis; the hektemoroi, instead, were people who paid one sixth
of their income as protection money. In this reading, the seisachtheia was
not an agrarian or economic reform, but a program to curtail local lead-
ers.51
3. Mischa Meier has reassessed the problem of the hektemoroi. Since the
word does not appear anywhere in the Solonian poems, and only in the
Athenaion Politeia and Plutarch does it refers to a group of people, he
suggested that the word has been incorrectly interpreted as a result of
a misunderstanding on the textual level: the source of the Athenaion
Politeia read a combination of the Greek words ktema and horoi in a lost
poem by Solon, which was probably at one point handed down in scrip-
tura continua, and therefore might have contained the letter sequence of
ktemorous or ektemorous. In this reading one of the cornerstones of the
agrarian crisis is abolished completely.52
Although these models have been developed from very different perspectives,
they yield the same result: the alleged agrarian crisis disappears or at least the
importance placed upon its impact must be significantly reduced. However,
in view of the scant sources available, it must also be stressed that none of
these models is definitive or without problems. For example, the surveys on
the development of the population of Attica have been re-evaluated and it has
been argued that there was a slight intensification of land use in the sixth cen-
tury bc.53 A metaphorical interpretation of the horoi has its weaknesses too,
since Solon, according to his own statement, removed them from the black
earth.54 And the idea of the hektemoroi as a misunderstanding of a Solonian
poem by later authors is problematic, since it would ultimately presuppose that
later authors knew of a social group as hektemoroi and therefore read them into
the text retrospectively.55
Fortunately, there is no need to resort to ever more complicated models, as
the need to limit the centrality of the crisis in our accounts can also be backed
up by simple criticism: the crisis only exists because Solon claims that it does.56
51 Harris 1997; 2002a.

52 Meier 2012.
53 Forsdyke 2006: 340–347; cf. also Bintliff 2006: 321–331; 2012: 237–238, who accepts the
crisis and attempts to provide a new synthesis of the archaeological material; see further
Doronzio 2018; Rönnberg 2021.
54 Cf. also the criticism Welwei 2005: 35–36; Welwei 2011: 142–143.
55 Cf. also the criticism Meister 2020: 296; 306.
56 See also the recent discussions on the hektemoroi of Valdés Guía 2014: 5–24; Zurbach 2017:
335–363. Wagner-Hasel 2018: 295–308.
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Current debates on the post-factual have once again heightened awareness of

the truism that every successful politician needs a crisis; and if he does not
have one, then he at least needs a problem which can be presented as a serious
crisis. Thus, it is not enough to approach critically only the later tradition sur-
rounding Solon, on the grounds that this tradition was shaped by the discourse
on democracy; the same must also apply to Solon’s statements themselves. For
this reason, a critical reading of Solon’s accountability poem must by necessity
lead to a reduced focus on the so-called crisis, since there is undoubtedly much
political self-representation at play in his account of the events. Contrary to
the widespread idea that Archaic poetry can be read as politically neutral com-
mentary, Solon’s poems ought to be read as an integral part of his own politics.57
Although the rarely used term seisachtheia may go back to Solon, it cannot be
found in any of his surviving poems, and cannot be associated with an agrarian
crisis; this association only came about as a result of the interpretations of the
later tradition.58 In light of the scanty evidence, therefore, one should be sat-
isfied with the statement that there was indeed some problem in pre-Solonian
Athens which concerned land, debts, and a group of people called hektemoroi.
This, then, becomes a dramatic crisis of the community first in Solon’s self-
representation, and then with ever increasing detail in the later tradition—
after Solon’s military activities, the rhetoric of crisis was undoubtedly another
cornerstone in his election to the archonship and the start of the foundation of
his power.
In Solon’s poems, one can also find clues as to what all this was aimed at.
In fact, among the surviving fragments are two poems in which Solon looks
back on his political work and distances himself from tyrannis.59 Both poems
are quoted by Plutarch and used accordingly as evidence that Solon resisted the
temptation of tyrannis.60 However, especially with these poems, it is important
not to be seduced by the contextualization of the later sources and the images
of Solon they produce. If one considers the rhetorical dimension of Solon’s
57 Martin 2006: 158 ‘They are politics, and politics as performed by the most adept practi-
tioners even today, whether in the first world or the third.’
58 Androtion FGrH 324 F34 = Plut. Sol. 15.2–4 thinks that Solon did not cancel the debts,
but only reduced the interests, which clearly shows the controversial nature of the exact
meaning of seisachtheia. More important is Androtion’s statement that the poor them-
selves had given Solon’s measures the name seisachtheia. It is quite possible that seisach-
theia was originally a political combat term, taken up by Solon in a lost poem and could
be used differently, depending on context and clientele.
59 Solon fr. 29; 29a G.-P.2 = 32; 33 West2.
60 Plut. Sol. 14.5–6.
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statements and the fact that tyrannis had a bad reputation after the Cylonian
affair,61 the modern truism that hardly any autocrat or tyrant would ever have
called himself that way certainly also applies to Archaic Athens.62 Therefore, it
has rightly been pointed out that the most important reason for the assump-
tion that Solon was not a tyrant is again that he says so himself.63 Moreover,
while the term tyrannis is mostly used in a positive sense in Archaic literature,
these poems are the first evidence of there also being a negative connotation
associated with the term.64 This provides a valuable starting point for exploring
the actual meaning of these poems.
Already the context of the two poems in Plutarch is suspect. Just before
introducing the two fragments, he mentions an oracle from Delphi which
promises that Solon will be the leader of the Athenians, and which is strikingly
similar to the oracle that predicted the tyrannis of Cypselus in Corinth.65 If this
account were historical, the simple existence of the oracle could be considered
a clear demonstration of an attempt to legitimize Solon’s rule as a tyrant.66 Be
that as it may, it is likely that Solon’s quoted poems on tyrannis were originally
addressed to a man named Phocus, and ultimately served an apologetic pur-
pose in an elitist context such as the symposium:67
Solon was not a deep thinker or a wise man;

For when the god gave him good fortune, he did not accept it.
After encompassing his prey, out of amazement he did not pull in the
great
61 Schmitz 2020: 326–327 and Meister 2020: 295 place in this context the thesmion preserved
in Ath. Pol. 16.10 = Solon fr. 37a Ruschenbusch, stating that those who aspire to tyrannis
shall be atimoi.
62 Of course, this is not to exclude that ancient tyrants also boasted of their superior power
(in encomia they could be worshipped for it, cf. for example much later Pind. Pyth. 3.85).
More detail about Cylon in the next section.
63 Parker 2007: 17 ‘In the same way as Alcaeus in his poetry had irrevocably pinned the tag
of ‘tyrant’ on Pittacus, so Solon, by means of his poetry, had incontrovertibly rejected the
label. We today, however, looking back on the two, can see very little difference between
them.’
64 Parker 1998: 155–156; Noussia-Fantuzzi 2010: 416–418; Anderson 2005: 206–208; 213–214
argues for the broad change of meaning to negative tyrannis after the fall of the Peisistrat-
ids.
65 Cf. Plut. Sol. 14.3–4 and Hdt. 5.92β.2.; 5.92β.3.; 5.92ε.3 with the discussion McGlew 1993:
61–74; Irwin 2005: 224–226; Noussia-Fantuzzi 2010: 416.
66 The alternative (found in Plutarch) that Solon simply ignored the oracle from Delphi is
hard to imagine. Taking the oracle as a later invention, it could have been created as a
counterpoint to the fatal Halys oracle for Croesus Hdt. 1.53.
67 Plut. Sol. 14.5 names Phokus as the addressee, about whom nothing else is known.
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Net, failing in spirit and deprived of wits.

I would have chosen to have power, to have taken limitless wealth
And been tyrant of Athens only for a single day,
And then to have been flayed for a wineskin and had my posterity wiped
out.68
The persona loquens in this poem is a staged critic of Solon, who mocks his
weakness in not seizing the opportunity to be a tyrant.69 Prima facie, of course,
this can be read as Solon’s explicit dissociation from tyrannis. Yet, if one reads
this passage critically, two far more important points come to the fore. On the
one hand, Solon provides here—and these are in any case his own words—the
most accurate formulation of what the Homeric ethos of ‘always being the best’
would have entailed for a member of the elite in the context of the develop-
ing polis. That is, ultimately, to become a tyrant and possess boundless wealth.
This undoubtedly must also apply to Solons himself.70 On the other hand, while
Solon allows his own critic to say that he has not taken the power of a tyrant, he
does not say that he has not tried. This point gains even further strength when
one considers the second fragment quoted by Plutarch:
If I have spared
My country, and of tyrannis and cruel violence (bie)
Not laid hold, defiling and disgracing my good fame (kleos),
I am not ashamed; for thus I think I shall be more superior
To all mankind.71
The persona loquens in this poem is Solon himself.72 On a superficial level, of

course, this poem can be read to support the reconstruction that Solon was not
68 Solon fr. 29a G.-P.2 = 33 West2: οὐκ ἔφυ Σόλων βαθύφρων οὐδὲ βουλήεις ἀνήρ· | ἐσθλὰ γὰρ
θεοῦ διδόντος αὐτὸς οὐκ ἐδέξατο. | περιβαλὼν δ’ ἄγραν ἀγασθεὶς οὐκ ἐπέσπασεν μέγα | δίκτυον,
θυμοῦ θ’ ἁμαρτῆι καὶ φρενῶν ἀποσφαλείς. | ἤθελον γάρ κεν κρατήσας, πλοῦτον ἄφθονον λαβὼν
| καὶ τυραννεύσας Ἀθηνῶν μοῦνον ἡμέραν μίαν, | ἀσκὸς ὕστερον δεδάρθαι κἀπιτετρῖφθαι γένος.
(trans. Dillon and Garland 2010).
69 For comprehensive study to this poem see Mülke 2002: 338–347; Noussia-Fantuzzi 2010:
433–443.
70 Cf. also Alc. fr. 70 L.-P.; Archil. 23.20–21 West; Simon. fr. 584 PMG = 298 Poltera.
71 Solon fr. 29 G.-P.2 = 32 West2: εἰ δὲ γῆς ἐφεισάμην | πατρίδος, τυραννίδος δὲ καὶ βίης ἀμειλίχου
| οὐ καθηψάμην μιάνας καὶ καταισχύνας κλέος, | οὐδὲν αἰδέομαι· πλέον γὰρ ὧδε νικήσειν δοκέω
| πάντας ἀνθρώπους. (trans. Dillon and Garland 2010, modified).
72 For comprehensive studies of this poem see Mülke 2002: 329–337; Irwin 2005: 237–244;
Noussia-Fantuzzi 2010: 427–432; Sagstetter 2013: 126–129.
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trying to become a tyrant. But in order to grasp the actual substance of Solon’s
statement, one has to consider this text more closely: on the one hand, Solon’s
poem again makes it irrefutably clear that the highest goal of the elite is tyran-
nis, for not seizing it is something to be ashamed of, and one must therefore
defend his choice. On the other hand, by his insisting on his own fame (kleos),
Solon continues to lay claim to the elitist ethos of ‘always being the best’, so
that tyrannis must now, for the first time in Archaic poetry, be reinterpreted
as something violent (bie), and as such, abstention from tyrannis becomes the
highest aim.73 Taken together, the crucial point becomes clear: given that the
elitist ethos is conveyed throughout Solon’s poems as being almost naturally
oriented towards tyrannis and is only retrospectively rejected, one has actu-
ally to assume that Solon made an attempt to seize the power of a tyrant, but
abstained from its violent enforcement and thus failed.74
Ultimately, the old rule of thumb for the criticism of any political rhetoric
also applies here: not only could autocrats and tyrants in Archaic Athens hardly
call themselves that way, but protesting against such accusations almost always
entails accusing oneself. Thus, if one approaches Solon strictly from the point
of view of the beliefs and context of his own time, and critically reads the
existing evidence, the image that emerges is quite different from the tradi-
tional one. Solon, like his contemporaries, followed the elitist ethos, built up
his own position with his military ventures, used the rhetoric of crisis for his
self-representation, and appears in his own retrospective statements as a failed
tyrant.
3 Law and Order
Turning to Solon’s legislation and his reorganisation of society, one can first of
all state: none of this is in contradiction with tyrannis. First of all, recent schol-
arship has largely overcome the one-sided image of tyrants emerging from the
73 Noussia-Fantuzzi 2010: 416 notes the tension in this poem: ‘Solon’s apology for turning
down the opportunity to become a tyrant would not seem as natural a choice to his con-
temporaries as it does to modern audiences, who almost automatically connect violence
and abuse of power with the notion of tyranny.’
74 Solon fr. 29b G.-P.2 = 34 West2 is comparable to the two poems dealt with here, because of
the tyrannis theme. It has even been argued that all three belong together; Mülke 2002: 329
and Noussia-Fantuzzi 2010: 420 however, have rightly rejected this. In any case, the formu-
lation ll. 7–8 οὐδέ μοι τυραννίδος ἁνδάνει βίᾳ τι [ῥέζ]ειν can be included in the interpretation
developed here. See also Sagstetter 2013: 131–132.
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Classical sources and now places tyrants more firmly in a long continuity start-
ing with the Homeric basileis.75 Under these conditions, it is hardly surprising
that the boundaries between lawgivers and tyrants were fluid in the Greek ima-
ginaire,76 so much so that the lawgivers were referred to as ‘elected tyrants’
by Aristotle.77 In the cases of Pittacus of Mytilene and Periander of Corinth,
these two notorious tyrants belonged in fact to the illustrious club of the Seven
Sages.78 As already mentioned, tyrannis did not have negative connotations
before Solon, so it is hardly surprising that laws enacted by tyrants are recor-
ded and known.79 Having said that, Athens seems to have been a complicated
terrain for the establishment of a tyrannis.
The history of Athens in the pre-Solonian period has long been more or
less a black box.80 Aside from the previously mentioned surveys of land use
in Attica, older research has mostly jumped from the evaluation of Homer and
Hesiod directly to Solon, due to the lack of substantial sources, and has thus
bridged the interim period with various hypotheses. For example, it has been
argued, through the evidence uncovered by an intensification of archaeological
research on funerals, that Athens played a minimal role in the general devel-
opments of Greece, that it fell into recession in the seventh century bc, and
was dominated by a backward-minded elite.81 However, by evaluating all the
existing archaeological evidence, Annarita Doronzio has recently been able to
show that this was not the case: in the seventh century bc, Athens underwent
a process of differentiating public, sacred, and funeral spaces, typical of the
formation of the polis. The Acropolis already functioned as a sanctuary for the
whole of Attica, funeral customs became more differentiated, and the agora
emerged as a public space.82 Against this background of the forming polis and
increasingly complex social structures, it is highly plausible that the elite were
75 Anderson 2005; Mitchell 2013. Taylor 2017 and Taylor in this volume is particularly relev-
ant as he links the negative view of tyrannis to the emergence of law—for the model of
Solon developed here, this approach offers a fitting complement.
76 Gehrke 1993: 62; Hölkeskamp 1999: 12–13; Parker 2007: 13–17; Wallace 2009: 425–426.
77 Arist. Pol. 1285a29–35; 1295a10–18; Syll.3 37 und 38 = Koerner 1993 no. 78 und 79.
78 Pl. Prt. 343a; Diog. Laert. 1.13; de Libero 1996: 151–160; 319–328. McGlew 1993: 94–96 rightly
points out that Pittacus provides a good parallel case to Solon; however, he did not determ-
ine his image himself, but was sharply castigated by Alcaeus fr. 141; 348 L.-P.
79 E.g. Arist. Pol. 1274b18–23; Diog. Laert. 1.79; Irwin 2005: 275–276; Sagstetter 2013: 146–152.
80 Osborne 1989: 297: ‘The seventh century b.c. is the one century of Athenian history which
no one wants to touch.’
81 Morris 1987; Morris 1992; Morris 2009.
82 Doronzio 2018: 283–291 building on the model of Polignac 1995; 2005; on an even broader
archaeological basis and in the same direction now also Rönnberg 2021.
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offered new arenas of competition and that potential conflicts intensified.83

On the one hand, this is substantiated by the most important event of the pre-
Solonian period: the attempt of Cylon, traditionally set in the last quarter of
the seventh century bc, to occupy the Acropolis and establish a tyrannis.84
However, this attempt failed grandiosely and led to a massacre of Cylon’s fol-
lowers;85 according to Athenian memory, the Alcmaeonids played a central role
in this, and, according to Thucydides, also the demos was involved in the res-
istance.86 On the other hand, according to the traditional dating, Draco then
tried, in 621/0bc, to curb the blood feuds with his famous law on homicide.87
However, his position in Athens remains unclear and it is quite conceivable that
he had just established another tyrannis.88 Be that as it may, he was ultimately
unsuccessful and probably driven out of the polis, meaning that the struggles
continued.89 Finally, Peisistratus also required several attempts after Solon to
83 Cf. Rönnberg 2021: 260 ‘Dies bezeugen aufwändige Votive und Reste gemeinschaftlicher
Feste, während das Aufkommen der ersten großen Gruppe simpler Votive in der zweiten
Hälfte des 7. Jhs. v. Chr. schließlich die aktive Partizipation größerer—und vermutlich
sozial uneinheitlicher—Personengruppen wahrscheinlich macht. Gleichzeitig jedoch
finden sich in der Entwicklung der Votive (sowie womöglich der Entstehung der ersten
Kultbauten) erneut Indizien für eine zunehmende innerelitäre Konkurrenz und eine
damit verbundene fortschreitende Verstetigung gesellschaftlicher Vorrangstellungen.’
84 Hdt. 5.70–71; Thuc. 1.126; Plut. Sol. 12; on the problems with dating these events Rhodes
1981: 81 f.; Duplouy 2006: 85 f.
85 Whether the recently discovered mass grave in Phaleron with 80 chained male corpses
can be linked to the failed tyrannis of Cylon is speculative and must remain open, with
Doronzio 2018: 1.
86 Thuc. 1.126.7: τε πανδημεὶ ἐκ τῶν ἀγρῶν.
87 IG i3 104 = Solon fr. 5a Ruschenbusch = fr. 5a Leão/Rhodes.
88 Ath. Pol. 3–4 ascribes a constitution to Draco, but this passage was early on interpreted
as an interpolation and justification of the oligarchic overthrow of 411 bc; on the extens-
ive debate Rhodes 1981: 84–88, van Wees 2011 argues for a composition of the passage
along the lines of the reforms of Demetrius of Phaleron; on the evidence problems the
discussion Verlinsky 2017. Schmitz 2001 argues that Draco only enacted the law, which
is preserved IG i3 104 = Solon fr. 5a Ruschenbusch = fr. 5a Leão/Rhodes and contains
provisions for unintentional, justified and accidental killing; the other laws attributed to
him and, according to Plut. Sol. 17.1 allegedly withdrawn by Solon, are constructs by later
authors. Since Draco is not known to have acted as a reconciler (diallaktes), his law(s)
could in fact only be enforced from the position of a tyrant. Rihll 1989: 282–286 speculates
even further and reads Solon fr. 12 G.-P.2 = 9 West2 as a warning against Draco, who had
acted in the position of a monarchos (on this fragment see n. 149).
89 Suda s.v. Δράκων reports the only biographical information that Draco did not die in
Athens but on Aegina; on the situation after him Ath. Pol. 5, the argumentum e silentio
of Stahl and Walter 2009: 142, that Draco’s law was successful because no political assas-
sination can be proved until 462/1 bc, is hardly conclusive.
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establish his tyrannis against competing members of the elite like the Alcmae-
onids.90 To prevail in such power struggles, aspirants to a tyrannis needed a
base of followers.
Solon’s measures are best understood against this backdrop. As already men-
tioned, it is plausible to approach Solon’s own work not only with reference to
his archonship, but over a longer period of time and, thus, indicating that it
perhaps took several attempts to establish his rule.91 If the rhetoric of crisis
was, first and foremost, to the benefit of Solon’s self-representation and did
not lead to a redistribution of land, that does not mean one must completely
reject his claims that he did something for Athenians and exiles, who were
highly indebted or even sold abroad. A crisis may be evoked rhetorically, but
political actors are measured by their deeds and cannot completely invent
them. As has more than once been suggested, it is also quite possible that,
after the journeys of his early career, Solon drew inspiration for his debt policy
from models in the Eastern Mediterranean and the Near East.92 However far-
reaching Solon’s measures may actually have been, they were undoubtedly pop-
ular among those involved, so much so that those that benefited from them
can certainly be counted among his followers afterwards.93 Following his mil-
itary ventures and the rhetoric of crisis, then, Solon was able to further develop
his charisma and power base.94 If one retains the critical perspective adopted
here, and continues to consider the cui bono in Solon’s measures, the legislation
and the reorganisation of society can also be understood as a means of build-
90 Hdt. 1.59–64; Ath. Pol. 13–17; de Libero 1996: 56–62.

91 With a longer period of activity, Solon may then have competed with other aspirants for
tyrannis; Ath. Pol. 13.1–3 knows in any case for 582/1bc of the attempt of a Damasias to
occupy the archonship permanently until he was expelled. See Rhodes 1981: 180–182; Stahl
1987: 177–178; de Libero 1996: 49–50; Lavelle 2005: 186; Lavelle 2020: 38.
92 On the inspiration of Greek ideas of justice by Near Eastern models Raaflaub 2014; on the
frequently proposed comparison of debt cancellation with neo-Assyrian models and the
often simultaneously dated Nehemiah memoir Sagstetter 2013: 154–155; Blok and Krul 2017:
607–643; on the very different circumstances of Nehemiah, however, see Bernhardt 2017:
72–85, on the critique of the Near Eastern connection Harris and Lewis in this volume.
93 On tyrants, debt cancellation and land distribution Sagstetter 2013: 155–160; the popular
dimension of Archaic tyrannis has been denied by Cawkwell 1995, although he does note
at 85: ‘It would be folly to deny tyrants any popular support. Solon’s championship of the
impoverished put him in his friend’s view in a position to become tyrant (F 32–33a), and
it may well be the case that others used such situations to establish themselves.’ Lavelle
2005: 34 with note 79; 155–167 rejects this approach as too radical and underlines the pop-
ular elements. See also Taylor in this volume.
94 Meister 2020: 306; 309 also places the measures in the context of Solon’s policy around
Salamis and links them to the laws Solon fr. 70 and 75 Ruschenbusch.
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ing traditional and rational legitimacy, in other words, of stabilizing his own
rule.95
Solon’s legislation does not correspond to modern ideas of a systematic law
code or even of a constitution.96 If one starts from the laws publicly accessible
on at least 21 kyrbeis and axones, or critically eliminates parts of the laws sur-
viving in Solon’s name,97 it is in any case ‘only’ a broad collection of individual
measures on private crimes such as murder and moral offences, crimes against
the community, questions of legal procedure, family and neighbourhood reg-
ulations, economic issues such as the export of goods, restrictions on funerals,
and regulations on religious issues such as sacrifices.98 Most of the laws are
concerned with problems arising within the specific historical circumstances
in which they were written. In particular, the restrictions on funerals are not, as
is often assumed, an attempt to limit elite displays of wealth, and thus a result
of the alleged crisis, but rather a consequence of the process of differentiat-
ing social spaces within the emerging polis, with the strict separation between
the spaces of the living and those of the dead.99 The laws were also connected
with the introduction of institutions and procedures: while Solon transferred
the jurisdiction on homicide to the Areopagus, which consisted of the former
archons, he is also said to have introduced a council of 400, whose composi-
tion and competences, however, remain completely unclear—it is likely that
this may be a case of later institutions retrojected to a foundational time.100
95 Weber 1980: 124–140.

96 Hölkeskamp 1992; 1999; 2005; Hawke 2011.
97 On the physical reconstruction and alternative designations as kyrbeis and axones Stroud
1979; Meyer 2016. Davis 2011: 1–35 argues on the basis of a wide range of sources that the
Solonian laws were originally recorded on kyrbeis according to common Archaic practice
and were also named as such; only in the context of the re-recording of the laws from
410 bc onwards were the laws named axones. Meister 2020: 297–299 concludes from this
that the reference to axones in the sources can therefore no longer serve as the ‘gold stand-
ard’ established by Ruschenbusch 1966 for the identification of the Solonian laws. The
argument has its merits, but given the fragmentary source material, it remains hypothet-
ical: on the one hand, only an argumentum e silentio speaks against the original recording
of Solon’s laws on axones; and on the other hand, even with the re-recording of the laws
on axones after 410 bc, this does not argue against at least the majority of the laws being
correctly traced back to Solon. In any case, the perspective put forward here is not called
into question by the attribution of some laws to the time of tyrannis, since section 4 below
argues for a continuity between Solon and Peisistratus anyway.
98 The original classification of the Solonian laws has not been preserved, Ruschenbusch
1966; Ruschenbusch 2010; Martina 1968 and Leão/Rhodes 2015 classify them according to
subject matter.
99 Blok 2006, but see also Hawke 2011: 173–182.
100 Ath. Pol. 8.4, Plut. Sol. 19.1–2. The council of 400 has often been compared with the coun-
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Finally, the Athenaion Polieia counts among the measures most friendly to the
common people the introduction of the prosecution by ho boulomenos, which
allowed anyone to bring charges and have them tried.101 It is clear that the court
responsible for this was the heliaia, even though it remains unclear whether it
was composed of a larger assembly and how it related to the magistrates.102
While all of this may appear in retrospect to be, at most, the first steps towards
a constitution, the laws should not be seen as mere ad hoc measures without
any further objectives.103
Considering Athens’ further development into a polis offers a valuable start-
ing point for the assessment of these laws. In his major study ‘Nachbarschaft
und Dorfgemeinschaft’, Winfried Schmitz argued that the village (kome) was an
important intermediate step in the development from oikos to polis.104 Building
on Hesiod’s Works and Days, he demonstrated that a complex peasant society
had developed in the village context, consisting of so-called full farmers, small
farmers with a little land and landless farm workers.105 In contrast to the elit-
ist world of the Homeric epics, the central principle of this village community
was not primarily competition, but neighbourly solidarity.106 This was regu-
lated by a series of rules and customs, from which a direct line can be drawn
to some of the Solonian laws.107 The nomos argias, preserved by Plutarch and
others, has posed significant problems to modern scholars trying to under-
stand its purpose and serves as a fine example of this.108 According to Schmitz’
approach, the nomos argias can be directly linked to the proverbs of Hesiod,
who urged farmers to work hard and branded idleness in the village community
unacceptable.109 In other respects, the clear emphasis of Solon’s legislation
cil in the Law of Chios dating 600–550 bc (Meiggs and Lewis 8; Gehrke 1993: 51–53), and
has been related to later mentions of a council Diog. Laert. 1.49; Hdt. 5.72 and Ath. Pol.
20.3. Against a Solonian introduction Hignett 1952: 92–96; Mossé 1979: 434–435; in favour
Rhodes 1981: 153–154; Rhodes 2006: 254–255; moreover the discussions Schubert 2012: 59–
66; Pelloso 2016: 33–54; Loddo 2018: 93–100.
101 Ath. Pol. 9.1; Plut. Sol. 18.2–3; 6–7; Arist. Pol. 1273b35–1274a5; 1274a15–1274a18.
102 Lys. 10.16; Dem. 24.105 = Solon fr. 23c–d Ruschenbusch; Hansen 1982: 9–47; Rhodes 2006:
255–256.
103 See also Harris and Lewis as well as Canevaro in this volume.
104 Schmitz 2004.
105 Schmitz 1999: 569–576; Schmitz 2004: 27–42; Schmitz 2014: 31–38.
106 Schmitz 1999: 575–576; Schmitz 2004: 78–82; Schmitz 2014: 33.
108 Plut. Sol. 22.3; Plut. Sol. 31.5; Diog. Laert. 1.55; Lex. Rhet. Cant. 72.3–6; Poll. 8.42 = Solon
fr. 148 a–e Ruschenbusch. On the historicity of the law see also Dreizehnter 1978; Leão and
Rhodes 2015: 111 f.; Cecchet 2016: 117–118.
109 Hes. Op. 498 f.
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on inheritance law, marriage regulations, and the relationship between fath-

ers and sons, also shows the special protection of the peasant oikos.110 Against
this backdrop, the prosecution by ho boulomenos introduced by Solon can be
understood as a deliberate move towards regulating ritualized practices such
as the ethnographically well-known phenomenon of ‘eating out the houses’ of
deviant members of the village community and transforming these practices
into formalized procedures.111
Postulating such an origin for a substantial part of the Solonian laws from
the peasant context allows for important conclusions.112 Schmitz sees the legis-
lation as part of a process of the polis formation, ‘which brought together two
systems of order that had previously existed side by side and subjected both lay-
ers to a new order based on the existing systems of order.’113 However, Schmitz
has interpreted this process against the background of an agricultural crisis
and Solon’s supposed concern that ‘leaders of the people’ could take advant-
age of the tense situation to establish a tyrannis.114 If one sees the agricultural
crisis mainly as a rhetorical construct and interprets Solon himself as aspir-
ing to tyrannis, however, a completely different interpretation emerges: in the
process of the increasing integration and orientation of rural Attica towards
the polis, Solon aimed his laws specifically at the peasant Athenians.115 In the
act of writing down the laws on the kyrbeis and axones, Solon may again have
been influenced by models from the eastern Mediterranean or the Near East;116
however, his legislative action was certainly not intended to create something
new, but rather, to stabilize the existing situation. Since the laws were binding
for all Athenians, many of the laws can even be seen as concessions to the val-
ues of the peasants, thus both inscribing Solon’s rule with the tradition of Attica
and winning new followers. At the same time, the transfer of traditional rituals
111 Schmitz 1999: 584–593; Schmitz 2004: 233–248.
112 At the same time, this deduction also provides an important criterion for assessing the
historicity of individual laws and especially those that are particularly difficult to under-
stand; fortunately, Winfried Schmitz is now also preparing a new edition of Solon’s laws.
113 Schmitz 2004: 256: ‘Die Entstehung der Polis ist vielmehr ein Prozess, der zwei bislang
nebeneinander existierende Ordnungssysteme aufeinander bezog und beide Schichten
einer neuen, freilich auf den bestehenden Ordnungssystemen aufbauenden Ordnung
unterwarf.’
114 Schmitz 2004: 253–254.
115 Meister 2020 and Meister in this volume argues against Schmitz for a higher correspond-
ence between elite and peasant systems of order and places Solon’s work in the context
of differences between city and country.
116 Cf. Burckhardt, Seybold and Ungern-Sternberg 2007.
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434 bernhardt
into the prosecution by ho boulomenos helped to contain potential escalations

of violence, rationalize the social order and stabilize his own rule.117
A similar approach can be observed in Solon’s reorganisation of society. The
Athenaion Politeia reports that a central aspect of Solon’s measures was the
introduction of a class system, ordered by property:
By a property assessment he divided everyone into four classes, as they

had been divided before: pentakosiomedimnoi, hippeis, zeugitai and the-
tes. The magistracies he assigned to the pentakosiomedimnoi, hippeis and
zeugitai, that is, the nine archons, the treasurers, the poletai (sellers),
the Eleven and the kolakretai (financial officials), allocating the magis-
tracies to each class according to the size of their property assessment.
But to those registered in the class of thetes he only gave a share in the
assembly and law courts. Whoever made five hundred measures of dry
and liquid goods both together from his property was to belong to the
pentakosiomedimnoi, while those who made three hundred belonged to
the hippeis, though some people describe them as those who were able to
keep horses. (…) Those who made two hundred measures both together
belonged to the zeugitai; and the others belonged to the thetes and had no
share in the magistracies. Accordingly when anyone who is about to draw
lots for a magistracy is asked what class he belongs to, he would never say
the thetes.118
A similar description of the social order is found in Aristotle’s Politics and in

Plutarch.119 In general accounts of Athenian history, this description has often
117 This approach to the interpretation of the emergence of written law is, as it were, mid-
way between older positions, which saw tyrants as populist leaders, and more recent
approaches such as Hawke 2011, which see law primarily as a means of settling conflicts
within the elite; see also Harris and Lewis in this volume, who emphasize how much the
elite had to take the demos into account in developing written laws.
118 Ath. Pol. 7.3–4: τιμήματι διεῖλεν εἰς τέτταρα τέλη, καθάπερ διῄρητο καὶ πρότερον, εἰς πεντα-
κοσιομέδιμνον καὶ ἱππέα καὶ ζευγίτην καὶ θῆτα. καὶ τὰς μὲν ἄλλας ἀρχὰς ἀπένειμεν ἄρχειν ἐκ
πεντακοσιομεδίμνων καὶ ἱππέων καὶ ζευγιτῶν, τοὺς ἐννέα ἄρχοντας καὶ τοὺς ταμίας καὶ τοὺς
πωλητὰς καὶ τοὺς ἕνδεκα καὶ τοὺς κωλακρέτας, ἑκάστοις ἀνά λόγον τῷ μεγέθει τοῦ τιμήματος
ἀποδιδοὺς τὴν ἀρχήν: τοῖς δὲ τὸ θητικὸν τελοῦσιν ἐκκλησίας καὶ δικαστηρίων μετέδωκε μόνον.
ἔδει δὲ τελεῖν πεντακοσιομέδιμνον μέν, ὃς ἂν ἐκ τῆς οἰκείας ποιῇ πεντακόσια μέτρα τὰ συνάμφω
ξηρὰ καὶ ὑγρά, ἱππάδα δὲ τοὺς τριακόσια ποιοῦντας—ὡς δ’ ἔνιοί φασι τοὺς ἱπποτροφεῖν δυνα-
μένους. (…) ζευγίσιον δὲ τελεῖν τοὺς διακόσια τὰ συνάμφω ποιοῦντας. τοὺς δ’ ἄλλους θητικόν,
οὐδεμιᾶς μετέχοντας ἀρχῆς. διὸ καὶ νῦν ἐπειδὰν ἔρηται τὸν μέλλοντα κληροῦσθαί τιν’ ἀρχήν, ποῖον
τέλος τελεῖ, οὐδ’ ἂν εἷς εἴποι θητικόν (trans. Dillon and Garland 2010).
119 Arist. Pol. 1274a15–21; Plut. Sol. 18.1–2.
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been accepted as more or less historical. However, since the Athenaion Politeia
itself reports that some classes already existed before Solon, that the names
of the classes refer inconsistently to their property and military functions, and
that there were differing opinions on the exact definitions of the class divisions
at the time,120 there has been an increasingly complex debate in recent research
about the historicity and assessment of Solon’s measures:121
1. In the 1970s, Claude Mossé already suspected that the introduction of
the property-based classes was more in line with the actions of a tyrant;
therefore, it could be simply a distortion of the Solonian myth and in fact
a product of the time of Cleisthenes.122 In a study published posthum-
ously, Geoffrey de Ste. Croix argued further that, with the exception of the
pentakosiomedimnoi, the hippeis and zeugitai from the sixth to the fourth
century bc had a purely military function as cavalry and hoplites, and the
census organisation attributed to Solon was a construction of the fourth
century bc.123
2. In the 2000s, the debate came to focus on the socio-economic evaluation
of the census classes. While Vincent Rosivach had already questioned the
military significance of the zeugitai and had in turn conceived the thetes
as a socio-economic group,124 Hans van Wees argued that the zeugitai,
with a very high income of 200 medimnoi, had been part of the Athenian
elite; Athenian society had been completely restructured according to
property levels, and Solon had essentially reorganised the elite through
these measures.125 In direct response to this, Kurt Raaflaub pointed out
the problems with these approaches and argued that the entire timocratic
class system had only emerged in the fifth century bc, under either Ephi-
altes or Pericles, and was retrospectively projected back onto Solon.126
3. In the 2010s, the debate came to focus on the legal status of the census
classes. On the one hand, Julien Zurbach has argued that the classes go
back to Solon, that different definitions of classes coexisting with each
120 Ath. Pol. 7.4 refers to the inscription of Diphilos on the Acropolis: Διφίλου Ἀνθεμίων τήνδ’
ἀνέθηκε θεοῖς | θητικοῦ ἀντὶ τέλους ἱππάδ’ ἀμειψάμενος.
121 The notion of class is maintained here as a descriptive convention and has no Marxist
undertones; for a reading of the Solonian reforms as part of an ancient class struggle see
Rose 2012: 201–266.
122 Mossé 1979: 430–433.
123 De Ste. Croix 2004: 46–51; Whitehead 1981: 282–286.
124 Rosivach 2002; 2012.
125 Van Wees 2006; see also van Wees 2013: 84–91.
126 Raaflaub 2006; Valdés Guía and Gallego 2010 argue similarly that the classification by
medimnoi was only introduced in 403 bc.
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other are implausible—because we have the clearly defined pentako-

siomedimnoi existing groups such as the hippeis must have also been
classified according to their property—, and that, depending on their
status, individuals had differential access to the offices of the polis.127
Alain Duplouy, on the other hand, has argued that the exact connec-
tion of the classes with Solon cannot be determined, and that the idea
of legal status cannot be presupposed for the Archaic period; the classes
are, therefore, to be seen in an open process of polis formation as groups
which differed in lifestyles, formed their identity in relation to specific
economic occupations, and are themselves part of the consolidating of
the polis.128
What can be said in the face of this increasingly paradoxical debate? First of
all, it is clear that nothing can be definitively proven with the existing evidence
and that caution in interpreting the source material is called for. That is not to
say, however, that the assumption that the classes of the hippeis and zeugitai
already existed before Solon and were originally militarily connoted terms for
cavalry and hoplites must be entirely dispensed with. Solon then only intro-
duced the new class of the pentakosiomedimnoi, which was perhaps the only
one defined by economic standards, or, at the same time, led to a redefinition of
the other classes according to income—the confusing figures for the respective
medimnoi qualification may be due to later attempts at systematizing the Solo-
nian measures.129 The attempt to define a highly fluctuating elite competing
for prestige through clear criteria of income was undoubtedly innovative, but
certainly not a reform: what Solon did with this measure was rather consolidat-
ing and rationalizing existing conditions.130 Some better-established and more
prestigious members of the elite may have seen this as degradation, other emer-
ging members of the elite as confirmation of their social claims. Regardless, the
decisive point is that Solon tried to accommodate the elitist pentakosiomedim-
noi, together with the hippeis, by giving them access to the highest office of
127 Zurbach 2013/4: 628–632; Zurbach 2017: 372–386. Flament 2012: 57–76 attempts to correct
the unrealistically high levies, especially of the zeugitai, on the basis of Poll. 8.129.6–8.131.1
and places the introduction of the classes under Peisistratus, but remains speculative.
128 Duplouy 2014: 425–449.
129 This position is close to Rhodes 1981: 137–138; Rhodes 2006: 253; Leão and Rhodes 2015: 129.
The often-raised objection that Solon must have defined the classes according to a unified
system, probably owes more to a desire, in ancient political theory and modern research,
for systematization than to the actual historical circumstances; there is nothing to suggest
that Solon did not simply add a new group according to a criterion of symbolic capital.
130 See also Canevaro in this volume.
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the archonship and exclusive access to the offices of finance.131 Undoubtedly,

the introduction of the appointment to the archonship by lot in order to bal-
ance the power relations within the elite also belongs in this context.132 With all
the will to legitimize his rule to the Athenian elite and to balance out different
claims and interests, it is indeed difficult to imagine how such far-reaching and
profound measures could have been imposed on Solon’s peers from a position
other than that of sole ruler and tyrant.
Solon’s various measures for establishing law and order can thus be under-
stood throughout as strategies for legitimizing his own tyrannis. This also ap-
plies to Solon’s poem about eunomia, which he wrote either before, during, or
after his political activities and which has always been one of the main focuses
of attention for scholars.133 If Solon describes the state of the community as
dysnomia, if the inhabitants of the city have brought misfortune upon them-
selves without the intervention of the gods but because of their greed, if the
leaders of the people act out of an unjust and arrogant attitude (hybris) and
nothing is enough (koros), if justice (dike) is trampled underfoot and only the
restoration of order leads to eunomia, then there is nothing in Solon’s account
that goes counter to the possibility of establishing a tyrannis: only an ordered
and pacified society provides a suitable basis for a stable autocracy.134 Solon
himself sums up this program in his accountability poem, when he claims to
have reconciled bie and dike.135 Bie refers to a fundamentally violent form of
force, which Solon himself uses to distance himself, rhetorically, from tyran-
nis and which is usually associated with the harsh intervention of tyrants.136
Solon himself, however, reconciles bie with dike and can thus stabilize the social
order of Athens—tyrannis, law and order go hand in hand and together form
something that can aptly be called nomocratic tyrannis.137
131 Ath. Pol. 26.2; 8.1; 47.1; van Wees 2013: 39–61 argues that the office of naukraroi was also
reserved for the pentakosiomedimnoi.
132 Ath. Pol. 8.1. For different information Arist. Pol. 1273b35–1274a3; 1274a16–1274a17; 1281b25–
1281b 34; Rhodes 1981: 146–150; 2006: 254–255.
133 For extensive bibliography see Mülke 2002: 88–159; Noussia-Fantuzzi 2010: 217–265.
134 Solon fr. 3 G.-P.2 = 4 West2.
135 Solon fr. 30 G.-P.2 = 36 West2 ll. 15–17: ταῦτα μὲν κράτει | ὁμοῦ βίην τε καὶ δίκην ξυναρμόσας |
ἔρεξα καὶ διῆλθον ὡς ὑπεσχόμην.
136 Solon fr. 29 G.-P.2 = 32 West2 l. 2; fr. 29b G.-P.2 = 34 West2 l. 8; 31 G.-P.2 = 37 West2 l. 4. Hom.
Il. 16.387–388 and Hes. Op. 275 see bie and dike as in clear contrast; Mülke 2002: 385–388.
While with Thgn. 38–51 the call for a strong hand becomes louder, the harsh intervention
of the tyrants Deioces and Cypselus is tangible Hdt. 1.96–100; 5.92–93. Cf. Balot 2001: 97–
98; Irwin 2006: 221–230; Sagstetter 2013: 113–119.
137 Noussia-Fantuzzi 2010: 475–476 argues that Solon’s kratos is a combination of bie and dike
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438 bernhardt
Solon’s much-discussed laws on tyrannis and stasis also belong to this con-
text. In principle, the laws for preventing tyrannis attributed to Solon in several
sources may be seen as contradicting the image of Solon developed here.138 Yet,
the Athenaion Politeia records that these laws were particularly lenient; and,
most significantly, this particularly lenient legislation is mentioned in the con-
text of the tyrannis of Peisistratus, which Solon’s legislation did not prevent
from occurring; Peisistratus, moreover, did not abolish Solon’s laws.139 Tyran-
nis and the laws against it are thus by no means mutually exclusive and are best
understood from the perspective of the tyrant himself: especially given Solon’s
attempts to legitimise his own rule across the board, these laws provided a
means of effectively defending himself against competitors and those aspiring
to his position. The same applies to Solon’s law on stasis, which prohibited neut-
rality in a stasis and the understanding of which has caused considerable prob-
lems from antiquity to the present day.140 While this law has often been inter-
preted as an attempt to contain conflicts within the elite, Winfried Schmitz has
advanced the convincing interpretation that stasis in Solon’s poems is not yet
to be read as internal war, but more generally as serious discord, that can lead
to internal war.141 In order to prevent open civil war, it can be concluded from
the law that a procedure existed before the Areopagus which meant that its
members were not allowed to remain neutral under threat of atimia.142 Like
the prosecution by ho boulomenos, the law can be conceived of as a regulation
aimed at resolving conflicts in disputes that endangered the community, which
later developed into the procedure of ostracism and included ever wider circles
of the Athenian population as time went on.143 Since Solon certainly did not
and clearly sets him apart from the pure bie of tyrants; since kratos probably alludes to
Zeus, dike being his daughter and kratos and bie dependent on him, he appears as the
human equivalent of the ruler of the gods.
138 Ath. Pol. 16.10; 8.4; Plut. Public. 25.4 = Solon fr. 37a–c Ruschenbusch.
139 Ath. Pol. 16.10: ἦσαν δὲ καὶ τοῖς Ἀθηναίοις οἱ περὶ τῶν τυράννων νόμοι πρᾷοι κατ’ ἐκείνους τοὺς
καιρούς, οἵ τ’ ἄλλοι καὶ δὴ καὶ ὁ μάλιστα καθήκων πρὸς τὴν τῆς τυραννίδος ⟨κατάστασιν⟩.
140 Solon fr. 38a–k Ruschenbusch; for the extensive bibliography see Rhodes 1981: 157–158;
Walter 1993: 195; Schmitz 2011: 23–29; Schmitz 2013: 81–83; Leão and Rhodes 2015: 63–66;
Grote 2017: 131–138.
141 Schmitz 2011: 37–42 interprets stasis in Solon fr. 3 G.-P.2 = 4 West2 l. 17–32 with reference to
Hom. Il. 9.64 and Thgn. 51–52 as ‘Zwietracht’ and further refers to the stasis passages Hdt.
1.60.1; 3.82.3; 6.109.5; 7.2.1; 8.3.1; 8.79.3; 9.27.6; Thuc. 4.84; 4.88; Xen an. 6.1.29; Pl. Resp. 351d–
352a; 487e–489a; 545d. See further Schmitz 2013: 85–90; 2014: 58; 68; Schubert 2012: 23–26
and the counter model Grote 2017: 138–143.
142 Schmitz 2011: 42–45; 2013: 90–91; Schmitz 2014: 68.
143 Schmitz 2011: 45–50; 2013: 92–99.
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expect the stasis law to be used against his own rule, this law can also be seen
as a strategy to stabilize the social order and as a valuable instrument against
potential competitors.144
With regard to Solon’s reflections on community and eunomia, one can even
go a step further. Most of what Solon denounces in his poems—e.g. the obses-
sion with dike and the portrayal of the threat to the community posed by
hybris and the koros of the elites—is typical of early Greek poetry.145 While the
Archaic poets have often been characterized as a veritable movement of polit-
ical thinkers, Tanja Itgenshorst has plausibly described the political thinking of
the authors of the lyrical fragments as interested in their communities but, at
the same time, distant from them.146 As critics, the Archaic poets pursued the
field of political thinking with the same ethos as the elites and claimed intellec-
tual superiority through their incisive analyses, while there is little evidence for
the often assumed causal connection between political thinking and the form-
ation of the polis.147 Solon stands out from the ranks of surviving Archaic poets
as his poems are to be regarded as an integral part of his political activities.148 It
is, therefore, more than likely that it was precisely the achievement of a tyrannis
and the quasi-natural goal of each member of the elite which brought Solon to
reflect critically on the elitist ethos and made him the exhortator of eunomia.
Ultimately, it comes down to the old parable of the mote and the beam: ‘why
beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother’s eye, but considerest not the
beam that is in thine own eye?’ (Mt. 7.3) Therefore, the following poem should
not be seen as in contradiction with the notion of Solon’s tyrannis, but primar-
ily as a cynical commentary from the perspective of a nomocratic tyrant on the
competitiveness of the elite:
A city of great men is perishing utterly, and through ignorance

The people have fallen into servitude to a ruler (monarchos).
For the man who has gone too far it is not easy for him to make land
Afterwards, but he should already have had all good things in mind.149
144 I shall return to this point in section ‘4. Exile and Return’.
145 Gagarin 1974; Fisher 1992; Canevaro in this volume.
146 Itgenshorst 2014: 79–108.
147 Diog. Laert. 9.21 = DK 28 A 1 = Parmenides fr. 1 Gemelli is, besides Solon, the only exception
of a politically and legislatively active thinker.
148 Itgenshorst in this volume.
149 Solon fr. 12 G.-P.2 = 9 West2 ll. 3–6: ἀνδρῶν δ’ ἐκ μεγάλων πόλις ὄλλυται, ἐς δὲ μονάρχου | δῆμος
ἀιδρείηι δουλοσύνην ἔπεσεν. | λίην δ’ ἐξάραντ’ ⟨οὐ⟩ ῥάιδιόν ἐστι κατασχεῖν | ὕστερον, ἀλλ’ ἤδη
χρὴ ⟨περὶ⟩ πάντα νοεῖν (trans. Dillon and Garland 2010).
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440 bernhardt
In the later tradition, this poem was interpreted as a warning against the
tyrannis of Peisistratus, but more plausibly it can be seen as part of an elitist
discourse about Solon’s own rule.150 In this respect, it is particularly interesting
that Solon does not speak of tyrannis in this poem, but of monarchia, which
here, mentioned through the voice of his opponents, perhaps gives an indic-
ation of Solon’s self-designation of his rule. In the end, however, neither the
insistence on law and order, nor the rhetoric of imminent dangers helped. Since
Solon tried to integrate as many people as possible into his order of the com-
munity, everyone was dissatisfied. Several poems deal with this problem,151 in
his accountability poem he sums it up in an almost programmatic way:
A foolish and greedy man,

Would not have restrained the people; for if I had been willing to do
What then pleased their opponents,
Or again what the other side contrived for them,
This city would have been bereft of many men.
For this reason making a defence on every side,
I turned about like a wolf among many hounds.152
Decisive in this case is the metaphor of the wolf defending itself against
hounds. Similes of wild animals at bay are part of the Homeric tradition, yet,
following this tradition one would expect a lion or wild boar for Solon’s role.153
The break with tradition is undoubtedly deliberate and aims to make a clear
statement: the imagery contrasts two related species, whereby the lone wolf
stands for fearlessness, intelligence, and cunning, and is therefore superior to
150 For comprehensive studies to this poem see Mülke 2002: 202–213; Noussia-Fantuzzi 2010:
309–318.
151 Solon in fr. 7 G.-P.2 = 5 West2 defends himself against attacks of the people and the rich
with a powerful shield; cf. also fr. 8; 9 G.-P.2 = 6; 7 West2. Mostly these fragments were dated
after Solon’s political activity; critically Mülke 2002: 179–184, 193; 200–201, rather approv-
ing Noussia-Fantuzzi 2010: 283–284. Fr. 31 G.-P.2 = 37 West2 Solon finally describes himself
as a horos between dissatisfied groups; this iambic fragment is unanimously interpreted as
a retrospective and almost combative justification, cf. Mülke 2002: 398; Noussia-Fantuzzi
2010: 488–489.
152 Solon fr. 30 G.-P.2 = 36 West2 ll. 21–27: κακοφραδής τε καὶ φιλοκτήμων ἀνήρ, | οὐκ ἂν κατέ-
σχε δῆμον. εἰ γὰρ ἤθελον | ἃ τοῖς ἐναντίοισιν ἥνδανεν τότε, | αὖθις δ’ ἃ τοῖσιν οὕτεροι φρασαίατο,
| πολλῶν ἂν ἀνδρῶν ἥδ’ ἐχηρώθη πόλις. | τῶν οὕνεκ’ ἀλκὴν πάντοθεν ποιούμενος | ὡς ἐν κυσὶν
πολλαῖσιν ἐστράφην λύκος (trans. Dillon and Garland 2010).
153 Hom. Il. 12.41–46 is the closest parallel; cf. also 11.548–549; 17.281–283; 17.657–664. Lin-
forth 1919: 190; Anhalt 1993: 115–139; Mülke 2002: 394–397; Noussia-Fantuzzi 2010: 482–485;
Brock 2013: 90–91.
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the hounds; precisely because of these traits, the wolf is a metaphor for the tyr-
ant.154 While Solon oscillates ambivalently between his own elitist ethos, the
vilification of tyrannis in the poems discussed above, and suggesting his own
failure as a tyrant, in this simile he speaks plainly: he enforced his measures as
a tyrant, appealed to the common spirit of the Athenians, but failed due to the
resistance of the divergent interests of various groups—the struggle to attain
legitimacy and order did not create a synthesis, but remained piecemeal.155
4 Exile and Return
Solon left Athens following his legislation and the reorganisation of society in
the late 570s bc. According to Herodotus, the Athenaion Politeia, and Plutarch,
he committed the Athenians under sacred oath not to change the laws and
avoided potential manipulations through his absence; instead, he embarked
on an educational journey in the eastern Mediterranean.156 Especially in the
earliest tradition by Herodotus, this journey is recorded in elaborate detail and
placed entirely in the tradition of the Seven Sages. After a stay at the Egyptian
court of Amasis, Solon came to the Lydian court of the immeasurably rich Croe-
sus. When the latter asked him the rhetorical question about the happiest man,
he allegedly named several people who ended their lives unspectacularly and
without heavy luck reversals; since the deity was thoroughly envious, one could
not judge the happiness of a person by his present wealth, but only by the end
of his life.157 A little later, Croesus’ misinterpretation of the famous Halys oracle
sealed his fate: after he had been defeated by the Persians and was to be burned
on a pyre, he is said to have proclaimed the name of Solon and in later conver-
154 Pl. Resp. 8.565d–566a is the locus classicus: a man who has licked the blood of leadership
becomes a tyrant and wolf; it is interesting that in this context there is also mention of
debt cancellation and land distribution; cf. Arruzza 2019: 200–219. On the wolf metaphor
closer to Solon Pind. Pyth. 2.81–88. Particularly revealing are the fables Aesop 215–217; 221;
225 Chambry, which contain several allusions to tyrannical wolves in political contexts
and outright wars with dogs; in Aesop 228 Chambry a wolf even appears as a lawgiver. On
the connection between Solon and Aesop Plut. Sol. 5.3; Alexis fr. 9 Kassel-Austin = Ath.
431d–e as well as Kurke 2011: 142–158; 356; Loddo 2018: 76–82. On all this Irwin 2005: 245–
261; Sagstetter 2013: 133–143.
155 Solon’s failure may also have been a reason for the choice of the wolf metaphor, as it places
him—contrary to his nomocratic stance and entirely in the line of tyrants—outside soci-
ety; cf. Anhalt 1993: 131–134; Noussia-Fantuzzi 2010: 483–484.
156 Hdt. 1.29.1–1.30.1; Ath. Pol. 11.1; Plut. Sol. 25.4–5.
157 Hdt. 1.30.2–1.33.
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sations with the Persian king Cyrus praised Solon’s wisdom—claiming every
powerful ruler should seek the advice of this wise man.158
These literary accounts are questionable. On the one hand, it would fit in
well with the interpretation developed here that Solon, after the failure of his
tyrannis, went to the court of a king of the eastern Mediterranean; similar man-
oeuvres are attested for other tyrants and expelled members of the elite.159 On
the other hand, Solon’s stay at the court of Croesus poses considerable chrono-
logical problems, since Croesus’ reign can only be dated to around the middle
of the 550s bc, the Persian conquest of his empire came in 541 bc and Solon is
said to have died around 560/559bc.160 And, finally, the story of Solon’s journey
follows the traditional narrative of wise lawgivers such as Zaleucus, Charon-
das and Lycurgus, as well as other members of the Seven Sages such as Bias
of Priene or Thales of Miletus. The paradigmatic nature of the narratives is
standard throughout and they describe the transition from a state of anomia
to eunomia: at the beginning the community is in a severe crisis; the widely
travelled and divinely inspired lawgiver appears and solves the crisis by mak-
ing new laws; shortly afterwards, however, the community questions the laws,
so that the lawgiver leaves the scene.161 In this way, Herodotus also reports the
stays of other Seven Sages at the court of Croesus.162 Ultimately, the attractively
staged encounter between the wise Solon and the powerful Croesus is a histor-
ical non liquet.
From a critical perspective, however, the story offers important insights into
Solon’s political career, as the narrative of the wise lawgiver breaks at one point:
while the lawgivers usually do not return or meet death after leaving their
communities,163 Solon returned to Athens after ten years.164 Therefore, Solon’s
absence of ten years can be regarded as reliable information and is consist-
ently recorded in all other sources.165 This ten-year absence is, in fact, suspi-
ciously reminiscent of the later practice of exile by ostracism, and thus ties in
158 Hdt. 1.86–90.

159 Cf. for instance the fate of the Peisistratid Hippias after his expulsion from Athens Hdt.
5.63–65; 91–96; Thuc. 6.59; Ath. Pol. 19; Austin 1990: 298–305; Forsdyke 2005: 101–133.
160 Plut. Sol. 32 quotes for Solon’s date of death Heracleides Ponticus and Phanias of Eresus:
according to the former, Solon lived long after Peisistratus’ first attempt at tyrannis, accord-
ing to the latter he died in the archonship of Hegestratus 560/559bc. With Rhodes 1981:
224, the latter date is the more concrete and probable.
161 Szegedy-Maszak 1978: 199–209; Hölkeskamp 1999: 44–59.
162 Hdt. 1.27; 1.29; 1.75.
163 Suda s.v. Ζάλευκος; Diod. Sic. 12.11–19; Plut. Lyc. 29.
164 Ath. Pol. 14.2; Plut. Sol. 29.2.
165 Ath. Pol. 11.1; Plut. Sol. 25.5.
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with the model developed here. As already mentioned, Winfried Schmitz has
convincingly argued that Solon’s stasis law was an attempt to settle disputes
peacefully by means of a voting procedure, that it introduced a form of proto-
ostracism, and that this was further developed under Cleisthenes, or in several
steps, into ostracism and a vote by the entire demos.166 Even if there is a lack of
information in the sources on the consequences of Solon’s stasis law, it is quite
plausible to suggest that this procedure for the peaceful settlement of disputes
already included a ten-year exile.167 At the same time, this plausible hypothesis
provides an important clue as to why Solon’s tyrannis ultimately failed: after
large parts of the Athenian population no longer considered his rule as legit-
imate and his support dwindled, his stasis law was against all expectations and
intentions ultimately applied against himself—and since Solon apparently set
law and order absolutely, the nomocratic tyrant gave in and went into exile for
ten years.168
This assessment can also be approached from another direction: Solon re-
turned to Athens when another tyrant came to power. All surviving sources
agree that Solon’s legislation and reorganisation of society could not end the
disputes between members of the elite. After he left Athens, the Alcmaeonid
Megacles, Lycurgus, son of Aristolaides, and the later tyrant Peisistratus com-
peted for supremacy, each of them relying, respectively, on Attic followers from
the coastal region, the plain and behind the mountains.169 The accounts of
these conflicts are characterized throughout by political thinking in spatial
metaphors and anachronisms, but there can be no doubt about the existence of
the conflicts themselves.170 According to the sources, Solon returned to Athens
at the very time when Peisistratus in 561/0bc made his first attempt to establish
166 The introduction of ostracism is much debated: Ath. Pol. 22.1; Philochorus FGrH 328 F30;
Ael. VH 13.24; Diod. Sic. 11.55.1 assign it to Cleistehenes, according to Androtion FGrH
324 F6 = Harp. s.v. Ἵππαρχος it only began with the first implementation 488/7 bc; on
the debate Thomsen 1972: 11–60; Rhodes 1981: 267–271; Mann 2007: 58–61. Of particu-
lar importance is the Byzantine Codex Vaticanus Graecus 1144 fol. 222rv Steinbach, which
reports that ostracism first took place in the council. Schmitz 2011: 46 and 2013: 92–93
has integrated this information into a convincing account of its development: after Solon
introduced a form of proto-ostracism with a vote in the Aregopagus with his stasis law,
Cleisthenes extended the vote in 508/7 bc to the newly established council of 500, until
finally the entire demos was included with a quorum of 6,000 votes.
167 Cf. in this direction Develin 1977: 10–21; Forsdyke 2005: 283–284.
168 This has certain parallels with the report in Ael. VH 13.24 that after the introduction of
ostracism Cleisthenes himself is said to have been the first to be ostracised.
169 Hdt.1.59.3; Arist. Pol. 1305a23–1305a.24; Ath. Pol. 13.4–13.5: Plut. Sol. 13.1–13.2; 29.1–2; Diog.
Laert. 1.2.58.
170 Schmidt-Hofner 2014.
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444 bernhardt
a tyrannis in Athens.171 This coincidence cannot be accidental: as already men-

tioned, Solon is said to have been a relative of Peisistratus through his mother’s
line, and there is no clear motive for fabricating this piece of information—
rather, the return to Athens was certainly much easier for an exiled tyrant under
the rule of a new tyrant who was his relative.
Indeed, there must have been a tradition in antiquity that placed Solon
and Peisistratus in close relation to each other and even attributed a love
affair to both of them.172 The Athenaion Politeia sharply rejects this informa-
tion, but this is certainly due to Solon’s portrayal as an exponent of the mixed
constitution, and it is precisely this rejection that speaks for the existence
of such a tradition.173 Plutarch, too, in his Vita of Solon, tries to distinguish
Solon from Peisistratus, but reports the love affair without comment and—
against his intentions—stresses the connection between the two politicians
time and again.174 Important in this regard is the aforementioned fight of Solon
against Megara for the strategically significant island of Salamis, which played
an important role in the development of Solon’s charismatic persona;175 ana-
logously, Peisistratus is said to have fought a war against Megara, which one
must surely also see as an important source of his charisma.176 Plutarch even
refers in this context to a popular story that Solon and Peisistratus fought
the war against Megara together.177 Moreover, the political actions of the two
politicians in Plutarch show striking parallels: both politicians resort to feints
and theatrical staging to manipulate the Athenians and, in doing so, follow
the narrative paradigm of the cunning tyrant: while Solon fuelled the war
against Megara with his staged madness, Peisistratus establishes his tyrannis by
wounding himself, creating a group of club bearing bodyguards and occupying
the Acropolis.178 In the context of the war against Megara, both Solon and Peis-
istratus are credited with the manipulation of the Homeric catalogue of ships
in order to enforce Athenian claims.179 All these points raise historically signi-
171 Ath. Pol. 14.2; Plut. Sol. 29.2.

172 Ath. Pol. 17.1–2; Plut. Sol. 1.1–3; Ael.VH 8.16.
173 Irwin 2005: 268.
174 Plut. Sol. 1.1–3.
175 See n. 37.
176 Hdt. 1.59.4; Frontin. Str. 2.9.9; Just. Epit. 2.8; Aeneas Tact. 4.8–11 Lavelle 2005: 30–65.
177 Plut. Sol. 8.4–6; Ath. Pol. 14.1 accepts the connection, Ath. Pol. 17.2 rejects it; Rhodes 1981:
199–200.
178 Hdt. 1.59; Ath. Pol. 14.1; Plut. Sol. 30.1.
179 Dieuchidas FGrH 485 F6 = Diog. Laert. 1.57; Hereas FGrH 486 F4 = Plut. Sol. 10; Strabo 9.1.10;
Irwin 2005: 277–280.
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ficant problems, especially given the fact that the war against Megara is poorly
documented, and it is probable that there were several campaigns.180 Decis-
ive, however, is that there apparently existed an alternative tradition to that of
Solon as the wise lawgiver, which placed him in clear relation to Peisistratus to
the point of interchangeability of individual actions.181
On a strictly historical level, this also applies to Solon’s legislation and his
reorganisation of society. As already mentioned, the very laws against tyran-
nis introduced by Solon were so lenient that they did not prevent Peisistratus
from establishing his tyrannis.182 Nor is there any other indication that Peis-
istratus changed anything of Solon’s order;183 on the contrary, later tradition
has even attributed some Solonian laws to Peisistratus.184 After Solon’s return
to Athens and Peisistratus’ first establishing himself as tyrant, Plutarch even
writes: ‘However, when Peisistratus had become master of the situation, he paid
such court to Solon by honouring him, showing him kindness, and inviting him
to his palace, that Solon actually became his counsellor and approved of many
of his acts. For he retained most of Solon’s laws, observing them first himself,
and compelling his friends to do so.’185
All in all, the tyrannis of Peisistratus is best seen in connection with Solon’s: it
continued what Solon had begun. This tyrannical continuity is demonstrated
especially well in Plutarch’s Vita of Solon, in which the delineation of tyran-
nis is made, above all, by the composition of the text itself and the framing of
individual episodes with quotations from Solon’s rhetorically charged poems
or simply invented conversations. In fact, the sources cite only one supposedly
oppositional act against the establishment of Peisistratus’ tyrannis—the most
detailed version of which is found in Plutarch:
Then it was, too, that he [Solon] uttered the famous saying, that earlier it
had been easier for them to hinder the tyranny, while it was in prepara-
180 Piccirilli 1978: 1–13; Rhodes 1981: 199–200; 224; Lavelle 2005: 60–65; Noussia-Fantuzzi 2010:
208–210 and Hübner in this volume.
181 Irwin 2005: 271–272; Meister 2020: 311–312.
182 See n. 139.
183 Hdt. 1.59.6; Thuc. 6.54.6; Ath. Pol. 16.8; Plut. Sol. 31.2. Zur widersprüchlichen Nachricht Ath.
Pol. 22.1 see Rhodes 1981: 261.
184 Ath. Pol. 16.2–4; Plut. Sol. 31.2; Irwin 2005: 271.
185 Plut. Sol. 31.1: οὐ μὴν ἀλλ’ ὁ Πεισίστρατος ἐγκρατὴς γενόμενος τῶν πραγμάτων οὕτως ἐξεθερά-
πευσε τὸν Σόλωνα, τιμῶν καὶ φιλοφρονούμενος καὶ μεταπεμπόμενος, ὥστε καὶ σύμβουλον εἶναι
καὶ πολλὰ τῶν πρασσομένων ἐπαινεῖν. καὶ γὰρ ἐφύλαττε τοὺς πλείστους νόμους τοῦ Σόλωνος,
ἐμμένων πρῶτος αὐτὸς καὶ τοὺς φίλους ἀναγκάζων. (trans. Perrin).
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446 bernhardt
tion; but now it was a greater and more glorious task to uproot and des-
troy it when it had been already planted and was grown. No one had the
courage to side with him, however, and so he retired to his own house,
took his arms, and placed them in the street in front of his door, saying:
‘I have done all I can to help my country and its laws.’186
Aside from the framing of this passage by Solon’s sayings, the core of this epis-
ode is the symbolic laying down of arms. To see this as an act of opposition
to Peisistratus may seem obvious, but this interpretation is almost certainly a
‘false friend’. Against the background of what has been said so far, it is much
more plausible that Solon, due to continuing tensions among members of the
elite and actual opposition, is again insisting on his stasis law for the peace-
ful settlement of conflicts. In fact, in the version of the stasis law found in the
Athenaion Politeia, there is a phrase that has often been translated as ‘taking up
arms’, but which ought to be interpreted as ‘resting arms’ and therefore corres-
ponds exactly to Solon’s symbolic gesture in Plutarch.187 It is precisely because
of this mistaken assessment of the later tradition that the scene can be accep-
ted as historical, thus closing the circle: Solon seems to have made law and
order absolute, not only in the case of his own tyrannis, but also in the case of
Peisistratus’—whether in the concrete historical situation a vote against Peis-
istratus according to the stasis law was to be feared or, rather, a vote for him
would have strengthened his position even more can be left open here.188
186 Plut. Sol. 30.5: ὅτε καὶ τὸ μνημονευόμενον εἶπεν, ὡς πρώην μὲν ἦν εὐμαρέστερον αὐτοῖς τὸ κωλῦ-
σαι τὴν τυραννίδα συνισταμένην, νῦν δὲ μεῖζόν ἐστι καὶ λαμπρότερον ἐκκόψαι καὶ ἀνελεῖν συνε-
στῶσαν ἤδη καὶ πεφυκυῖαν. οὐδενὸς δὲ προσέχοντος αὐτῷ διὰ τὸν φόβον ἀπῆλθεν εἰς τὴν οἰκίαν
τὴν ἑαυτοῦ, καὶ λαβὼν τὰ ὅπλα καὶ πρὸ τῶν θυρῶν θέμενος εἰς τὸν στενωπόν, ‘ἐμοὶ μέν,’ εἶπεν, ‘ὡς
δυνατὸν ἦν βεβοήθηται τῇ πατρίδι καὶ τοῖς νόμοις (trans. Perrin). Cf. to this story Ath. Pol. 14.2;
Diod. Sic. 9.4; 9.20; Plut. Mor. 794f.; Ael. VH 8.16 as well as the somewhat differently ori-
ented variant Diog. Laert. 1.49; Rhodes 1981: 201–202. The alleged opposition is also part of
the account of POxy. 664 from the late fourth or early third century bc; Noussia-Fantuzzi
2010: 309.
187 Ath.Pol. 8.5 = Solon fr. 38a Ruschenbusch: ὃς ἂν στασιαζούσης τῆς πόλεως μὴ θῆται τὰ ὅπλα
μηδὲ μηδὲ μεθ’ ἑτέρων. In antiquity the formulation was interpreted by Gell. 2.12 as ‘taking
up arms’; in modern research it was interpreted along similar lines also by Goldstein 1972:
543–545. For the correct reading see Rhodes 1981: 157–158; Schmitz 2011: 34–37; Leão and
Rhodes 2015: 63–64; on the connection of the stasis law with this episode, Lavagnini 1947:
92–93; Goldstein 1972: 538; Goušchin 2016: 107–110.
188 Plut. Sol. 31.2 informs us, along these lines, that Peisistratus was once accused of murder
in the Areopagus, but the plaintiff did not appear.
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5 Becoming Democratic
The history of the Archaic period in general and the assessment of the figure of
Solon in particular raise the classic problem of contingency, with which every
analytical historiography is confronted: what may seem proto-democratic in
retrospect or from a teleological perspective needs not to have had anything
to do with the objectives of the historical actors, and initially created noth-
ing more than an open space of possibility.189 If one attempts to understand
Solon strictly in his own time, evaluates his statements in the tradition of the
Homeric ethos, applies sociological standards of legitimacy to his measures,
and reads the later tradition against the grain, then the model of a tyran-
nis seems almost inevitable. Nevertheless, Solon of course continues to have
an important place in the process of Athens’ formation into a polis, which
in the long-term led to the emergence of democracy. His publicly displayed
laws contributed to the integration and rationalization of societal relations and
procedures; the creation of classes, responsibilities, and participation circles
fostered the condensation of and focus on the common polis; and Solon’s
engagement with his own tyrannis has led to reflections on the community
and the reflexivity of the political itself.190 If the model of Solon as a tyrant
developed here is followed, the only question that remains is why, and under
what circumstances, the image of Solon as the founding father of democracy
arose.
The conditions for the creation of this image were certainly ideal. Solon not
only veiled his own tyrannis rhetorically, but also provides the first evidence
of negative and violent connotations associated with the idea of tyrannis. This
prima facie strange finding is certainly not accidental, but is best seen as a con-
sequence of the tyrannis of Cylon, which had already failed before Solon, and
189 On the contingency problem Heuss 1985; Hoffmann 2005; Vogt 2011; Walter 2016.
190 Ismard 2010: 72–121; 2018: 145–159 has shown, on the basis of Bruno Latour’s network
theory and Plut. Sol. 24.4 = fr. 75 Ruschenbusch; Dig. 47.22.4 = fr. 76a Ruschenbusch,
how the process of polis formation up to Cleisthenes can be seen as a condensation of
a multitude of associations of villages, demes, phratries and gene; Duplouy 2014: 425–
426 has also included the tele of Solon in this model (although under different premises
than those developed here). Seelentag 2015 describes, with a view to the Cretan poleis,
a very similar process of consolidating circles of participation. Dimitriev 2018 argues,
with a somewhat forced argument yet in a similar direction, that Solon’s legislation led
to the overlapping kinship community of the astoi, the legal community of the poli-
tai, and the political community of the demotai. Cf. Duplouy 2019: 27–61 for a com-
prehensive discussion of the model of an open and experimental development of the
polis.
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which, due to its bloody outcome, was a real stigma for the Athenians even
in the Classical period.191 The ambivalence of Solon’s own statements and his
oscillation between rejection of tyrannis and claiming the power of a tyrant
make perfect sense against this backdrop; and in view of his own need for
supporters, his comparatively frequent remarks on the demos are also hardly
surprising.192 Finally, Solon seems to have been serious about his nomocratic
tyrannis, so that, entirely in line with the stasis law, there is no hint in the
sources of him murdering competitors, disarming the population or occupy-
ing the Acropolis.193 Thus, when the Athenians in the fifth and fourth centuries
bc, under the circumstances of fully developed democracy, historiography, and
political theory, were looking for the origins and precursors of their specific
form of constitution, Solon’s poems and laws offered many starting points and
an almost ideal breeding ground194—as such, Solon became part of the inten-
tional history of Athens, could be used in heated debates on the patrios politeia
as an argument for a wide variety of positions, and became a lieu de mémoire
of democratic identity.195
It is difficult to determine when exactly this intentional history began. Solon
appears, above all, in Athenian court speeches of the fourth century bc as a
reference point for various positions. So it has long been argued, with differ-
ent accentuations, that Solon was for a long time only interpreted as a wise
lawgiver. The interpretation of Solon as the founding father of democracy
did not begin until the end of the fifth century bc or even after 356 bc, as
a result of the ideological disputes about the patrios politeia; in this context,
the Athenaion Politeia defended him as a representative of the mixed consti-
tution.196 Recently, however, Laura Loddo has convincingly argued that this
notion is a distortion of the evidence and that even the early sources of the
fifth century bc presuppose the image of the democratic lawgiver.197 In fact, a
closer look at the earliest evidence in Herodotus and the poets of old comedy
reveals, at least to some extent, which interests particularly favoured the image
of a democratic Solon.
191 Hdt. 5.70–5.71; Thuc. 1.126; Plut. Sol. 12.

192 Cf. Loddo 2018: 153–154.
193 On the repertoire of tyrannical transgressions Luraghi 2014; 2015.
194 Cf. Sagstetter 2013: 174–181.
195 On the concept of intentional history Gehrke 1994; 2014; 2019; on the concepts of cultural
memory and lieux de mémoire Assmann 1992; Nora 1984–1992.
196 Ruschenbusch 1958: 399–408; Mossé 1979: 425–437; Hansen 1989: 71–99; Sagstetter 2013:
90–102.
197 Loddo 2018: 39–88; Canevaro in this volume.
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Following journeys in the eastern Mediterranean, Herodotus came to Athens

in the 440s bc and performed his developing Historiai there.198 Because of the
strong focus of his work on Athens, older research has long considered it a
certainty that he came into close contact with the circles around the Alcmae-
onid Pericles and adopted their positions.199 In any case, this would chime
in well with the observation that in Herodotus’ work the Alcmaeonid Cleis-
thenes clearly appears as the founding father of democracy.200 However, more
recent research has also emphasised that Herodotus does have critical under-
tones towards Athens, and that his historical work can be read as a warning
against the expansion of Athens initiated by Pericles and the impending Pelo-
ponnesian War.201 In this respect, one can also see the special focus on Solon,
who did not originate from the Alcmaeonid family and who had already begun
to introduce laws and a constitution two generations before Cleisthenes. What
is decisive, however, is that Herodotus’ image of Solon as a wise lawgiver takes
a central position in his own historical work and introduces his ideas of histor-
ical processuality: by presenting Solon as a warner figure against hybris and the
envy of the gods, and by presenting Croesus as bringing about his own downfall
for this reason, he creates a paradigm for the central theme of the Persian Wars
at the outset of his work, in which the same fate befalls the Persian kings from
Cyrus to Xerxes.202 By choosing the Athenian Solon for this purpose and giving
him a Panhellenic aura, Herodotus himself appears to provide a Panhellenic
warning against Athenian expansionism.203 On the whole, it would therefore
be quite plausible that Herodotus, in his portrayal of Solon as a wise lawgiver
and Cleisthenes as the founder of democracy, drew on a laboriously negotiated
cultural memory from Athens’ leading circles.204
In old comedy, Cratinus, Aristophanes and Eupolis present a completely
different image of Solon. Cratinus has Solon appear in person in his play Cheir-
ones, probably written around 431bc: since the Alcmaeonid Pericles is sharply
attacked in several of the surviving fragments and depicted as a tyrant in the
198 Plut. Mor. 785b reports the friendship between Herodotus and Sophocles, who refers to
Hdt. 3.118–119 in his Antigone 904–920, probably dated in the late 440s bc; furthermore,
Herodotus was honoured in Athens according to Diyllos FGrH 73 F3 and Jer. Chron. Ol. 83;
finally Thuc. 1.22.4 refers to historical lectures which undoubtedly include Herodotus.
199 Jacoby 1913.
200 Hdt. 5.66–70; 6.131: τούτων δὲ συνοικησάντων γίνεται Κλεισθένης τε ὁ τὰς φυλὰς καὶ τὴν δημο-
κρατίην Ἀθηναίοισι καταστήσας (…).
201 Rengakos 2011: 340–341.
202 Shapiro 1996: 362.
203 Hollmann 2015: 108–109.
204 Cf. also Thomas 1989: 266–272.
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450 bernhardt
tradition of Peisistratus, Solon’s performance most likely served to establish a

direct contrast between Pericles and the good old days of true democracy.205
In his play Nomoi, Cratinus then dealt directly with one of Solon’s poems,
which criticised the cunning shrewdness of the Athenians which, according
to later interpretations, was responsible for Peisistratus’ tyrannis. This was also
probably aimed, once again, at Pericles.206 And finally, Plutarch’s Life of Solon
contains a direct quotation from Cratinus, alluding to the oath of the demo-
cratic prytaneis on the laws of Draco and Solon.207 While with Cratinus one
can already see the contours of the democratic lawgiver in contrast to tyrannis,
Solon also appeared in Eupolis’ famous comedy Demes from the 410s bc. In the
face of the crises of the democratic system in the advanced Peloponnesian War,
Eupolis conjures up the return of Solon, Miltiades, Aristides and Pericles to save
the polis from the current politicians.208 Finally, Aristophanes refers twice to
Solon’s laws in the Clouds and the Birds, and these references essentially func-
tion as parodies of the references to Solon’s laws in court speeches that can be
found at a later date in extant evidence (but which must have already been
common then, for Eupolis to parody them).209 Above all, the Clouds, safely
dated to 423bc, are revealing: in one scene the character Pheidippides refers
to a law of Solon in order to ‘help’ his father Strepsiades out of debt, with much
sophistic skill; in this context, the Solon of ancient times is not only referred
to as a lawgiver, but also as being particularly friendly to the people (philo-
demos).210 This evidence from old comedy is at least as important, if not more
so, as the references from the Attic orators, since these plays were written with
a broad audience in mind, and therefore had to refer to commonly held notions
for the entire audience to understand the jokes and ironies.211 Precisely because
205 Performance of Solon Cratinus fr. 246 Kassel-Austin = Diog. Laert. 1.62; attacks against the
‘tyrant’ Pericles Cratinus fr. 258 Kassel-Austin = Plut. Per. 3.4; fr. 259 Kassel-Austin = Plut.
Per. 24.6; cf. also fr. 73; 118; for the dating and interpretation Noussia 2003; 74–86; Martin
2015: 68–69; Loddo 2018: 53–57.
206 Cf. Cratinus fr. 135 Kassel-Austin = Suda s.v. ἀλώπηξ οὐ δωροδοκεῖται and Solon fr. 15 G.-P.2
= 11 West2 l. 5; Martin 2015: 69–75; Loddo 2018: 59–61.
207 Cratinus fr. 300 Kassel-Austin = Plut. Sol. 25.1–2; Martin 2015: 82–83; Loddo 2018: 58.
208 Eupolis fr. 99 Kassel-Austin = PCair. 43227; cf. Martin 2015: 66–68; Loddo 2018: 70–76, who
also discusses the possible attributions of fr. 101 and 128 to the Solon of this play.
209 Ar. Nub. 1187; Av. 1660; Martin 2015: 79 ‘Surely a target for Aristophanes, in all these scenes,
was the facile citing of Solonian legal precedent by speakers finding themselves in tight
spots. It occurs dozens of times in 4th century oratory.’ Cf. on the orientation of Ariso-
phanes to the real legal circumstances also Harris 2002b.
210 Ar. Nub. 1178–1195.
211 Cf. Loddo 2018: 50.
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of the sharp attacks on leading politicians and the Alcmaeonids, they provide
useful insights into the development of a democratic image of Solon.
The distortion of the memory of Solon, thus, seems to have started in the
period after the politics of Ephialtes and Pericles in the 460s bc and the
subsequent self-designation of the Athenian constitution as demokratia, then
gained special momentum during the Peloponnesian War and, due to differing
interests, led to the establishment of Solon’s image as a wise lawgiver and demo-
crat.212 Therefore, it is hardly surprising that in the democratic restorations
following the oligarchic overthrow of the Four Hundred in 411 bc and the rule of
the Thirty in 404bc, this by now traditional image of Solon was already being
used intensely, and that Solon remained a point of reference in the struggle over
the patrios politeia in the fourth century bc.213 It is probable that this struggle
also contributed to the fact that the intentional history of Athens developed
increasingly into a rather schematic dialectic between tyranny/oligarchy and
democracy. From a historical perspective, however, one will probably have to
come to terms with the possibility that the decisive driving force on the path
to democracy was tyrannis throughout, which in the struggle for supporters
and legitimacy increasingly involved the demos in the rule of the polis, until it
could no longer control the spirits that it had summoned.214 It is telling that
a historian such as Thucydides took little part in these debates and does not
even mention Solon in his work—yet, he is perhaps the most important wit-
ness to the startling realisation that emerged at about the same time, that the
democratic polis had now become a tyrant itself.215
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank Mirko Canevaro, Christian Mann and Jan B. Meister for
their suggestions, comments and criticism of the written version; of course I
alone am responsible for the views expressed here.
212 On the significance of the era of Ephialtes for the development of the image of Solon Aloni
and Iannucci 2016: 161–165; on the emergence of the term demokratia: Hdt. 6.131.1; Ath. Pol.
29.3; Isoc. 16.26–27; Debrunner 1947; Hansen 1986.
213 Rhodes 1981: 376–377; Shear 2011: 49–69; Carugati 2019: 44–61.
214 Cf. Martin 1974, who traces the same mechanisms from Cleisthenes to Ephialtes; cf. also
Mann 2007, who argues for the full functionality of democracy after the introduction of
ostracism.
215 Thuc. 1.122.3; 1.124.3; 2.63.2; 3.37.2; 6.85.1; on the emergence of the expression polis tyrannos
Raaflaub 1978. Szegedy-Maszak 1993 argues rather speculatively that Thucydides implicitly
used Solon as a model.
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452 bernhardt
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Concluding Remarks: Archaic Greece and the
Consciousness of Community
In these concluding remarks, my aim is to highlight some findings that emerge

consistently from the entirety of the volume, return to the contingency prob-
lem of Archaic history raised in the introduction, and develop a few perspect-
ives for future research. As pointed out in the introduction, the fil rouge of all
the chapters of the volume is a recognition that the key historiographical issues
of the Archaic period can be better tackled by casting aside the teleological
DNA of the field to investigate institutions, social structures, and cultural habits
for evidence of long-term continuity and slow, open-ended development. The
results of the volume can be summarised under the three headings of method,
periodisation and narrative.
1 Method
Methodologically, all papers attempt to avoid the pitfalls of anachronism by

relying preferentially on actual Archaic sources rather than on the more recent
ones from the Classical period; by avoiding teleological arguments whose end
point is invariably the emergence of later, more tangible institutions; and by
assessing critically accounts found in later sources for prejudices and misun-
derstandings. In all the papers, this methodological orientation leads to the
abandoning of traditional Quellenforschung in favour of other methodological
strategies for the purpose of clarifying their deliberately open research ques-
tions. Some chapters use archaeology as a corrective to literary and, more
generally, written sources (e.g. Bintliff’s general overview or Duplouy’s con-
crete examples of performative hippotrophia); some resort to anthropologically
based comparisons (e.g. Zeller’s systematic comparison with medieval Iceland
or Meister’s reconstruction of marriage customs among Archaic peasants); oth-
ers provide systematic discussions of phenomena by situating them in the
larger economic context (e.g. Lewis’ study of the origins of helotage and Zano-
vello’s of manumission); others still resort to close re-readings of entire corpora
of source material (e.g. Seelentag’s study of Archaic Crete, Harris and Lewis’
review of all Archaic laws, Itgenshorst’s observations on all political thinkers
and Scharff’s study of all colonial foundations by several oikists); some, finally,

concluding remarks 463
provide critical reassessments of phenomena such as tyrannis, or of crucial fig-

ures such as Solon, in the broader context of Archaic developments (e.g. the
contributions of Taylor, Hübner, Canevaro, and Bernhardt).
Despite the arrangement of the volume into specific treatments of particu-
lar topics, this methodological approach also offers more general insights into
the Archaic period as a whole. The essays on helotage and manumission, for
example, not only bring the wider economic context in as a shared framework
of interpretation, but their results are in productive interplay, and reinforce
each other. Thus, in the back and forth of pars pro toto and totum in parte,
what emerges is far more than just single pieces of a future Archaic history.
Rather, the contributions tread a common path that heads towards such a his-
tory. Above all, by avoiding taking notions and conceptualisations of state and
statehood as an a priori, all chapters contribute to a new and fairly coherent
picture of the diverse processes that led to the formation of larger (and increas-
ingly institutionalised) communities in the long continuities of the Archaic
period. This is particularly clear in the essays on civic participation in Crete,
on civic performance in hippotrophia, on the substantive dimension of law, as
well as in the essays on tyrannis and on Solon. Although the chapters deal with
different topics, they contribute to a new picture of the norms of behaviour
that constituted and guided the communities of Archaic Greece (and of their
processes of institutionalisation).
Of course, the volume has its limits. If the question of continuity and change
is answered in favour of continuous change, questions naturally arise about the
respective starting points of these continuities. All too easily, however, such a
question can lead to an infinite regress and to the complicated problem of con-
tinuity and change since the Mycenaean period and the Dark Ages, which is
why the chronological framework from Homer to Solon deliberately excludes
this dimension. Moreover, it must be acknowledged that the theoretical shift
from assuming a priori the presence of conceptualisations (and connected
institutions) akin to modern notions of statehood to a more processual account
of community formation and institutionalisation does not solve all the prob-
lems: the volume presents a wide spectrum of processes of community form-
ation and institutionalisation operating in the Archaic period, ranging from
hetairiai and village societies to more abstract notions of elites and classes.
All essays are characterised by a certain self-critical attitude in their recourse
both to emic terminology and to etic concepts and sociological abstractions, in
order to avoid uncritically projecting misguided post-Archaic or even modern
notions into the subject matter. Although a systematic thematization and typo-
logisation of the different processes of community formation was not attemp-
ted in this volume, what these essays, collectively, make a case for is the cent-
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464 bernhardt
rality of the question of community formation as the most productive starting

point for developing a new synthetic account of the Archaic period. This can
be better appreciated by going back to the historiographical problem of contin-
gency in the construction of Archaic history, which was touched upon already
in the introduction.1
2 Periodisation
In principle, historical periods and epochs are no more than historiographical

conventions. In ancient history especially, understanding them as such is often
the most reasonable approach: the Classical and Archaic periods, after all, ori-
ginated in art-historical and normative debates, while the Hellenistic age has
always had a strong cultural-historical quality, and periodisations in Roman
history have been structured around political turning points. But even if one
attempts to escape the conventionality of the various definitional criteria by
defining the Archaic period simply as a discrete unit of time, in the actuality
of historical research a distinct period will always end up being understood
as characterised by certain particular features. Accordingly, transitions from
one period to the next (say, from the ‘Dark Ages’ to the Archaic period, and
from the Archaic to the Classical period) will always be understood as involving
significant historical changes. If, on the other hand, one understands construct-
ing epochs rather as paramount to proposing highly developed (and inevitably
experimental) theses,2 then under cultural-historical conditions in general,
and in the case of the Archaic period in particular, it makes sense to deal with
the problem of contingency in historical processes not only on the analytical
level of historiography, but to pose the question of how to deal with contin-
gency from the perspective of the historical actors. In other words, in order to
get to the heart of the Archaic period, it is best to start from basic anthropolo-
gical conditions—the conditio humana, as it were—and to ask questions about
the specific contingency culture of the period.3
Surprisingly, this shift from the etic to the emic perspective and to a new
focus on the contingency culture of the historical actors have not yet occurrred
1 On the contingency problem Heuss 1985; Hoffmann 2005; Vogt 2011; Walter 2009; 2016.
2 See the excellent discussion in Osterhammel 2014: 45–48.
3 The concept of contingency culture was introduced into the debate by Hans Blumenberg to
describe the modern era and further developed by Michael Makropoulos; cf. Blumenberg
1957; 1981; 1987; Makropoulos 1997. For the extended use and historical phases of contingency
culture, see the interesting debate by Paul 2020 and Makropoulos 2020.
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even in complex reconstructions and conceptualisations of the Archaic peri-

od.4 In pointed characterisations of the Archaic period as a time of ‘existential
uncertainty’,5 as an age of experiments and new reckonings,6 or as the birth of
Greece,7 one can already see implicit attempts to come to grips with the contin-
gency culture of the epoch. If one does not simply presuppose a notion of ‘the
Greeks’ and phenomena that can be better grasped in the Classical period, and
asks instead in an open perspective for a central characteristic, one can formu-
late an even clearer thesis for the Archaic period: from Homer to late Archaic
legal texts, the experimentation with the integration of the individual into the
community runs through like a basso continuo and is reflected in a multitude
of community formations—which extend in a complex fabric of overlappings
and networkings up to the formation of a Panhellenic identity.
The centrality of these concerns and of this kind of experimentation emer-
ges forcefully from the sources themselves, e.g. in the polarity between idios and
koinos, stressed in recent years particularly by Arnaud Macé and John Ma. The
concept of idios encapsulates an ambivalent conception of the individual as
both in contrast to and as part of a community;8 the concept of koinos, on the
other hand, while also having both an exclusive and an inclusive dimension,
concerns primarily the distribution of common goods, and therefore is deeply
rooted in social practices and needs to be negotiated constantly in the form-
ation of communities.9 Therefore, it is fair to say that the contingency culture
of the Archaic period had to do first and foremost with open experimentation
with a variety of community formations, and the centrality of this theme can be
grasped in the emergence of a specific consciousness of community. The present
volume is by no means exhaustive, and its analyses need to be expanded in a
multitude of directions (e.g. with investigations of these themes in the sphere
of religion), but its recurring focus on norms of behaviour, community forma-
tion, and institutionalisation can provide important building blocks for a more
systematic history of the Archaic period.
4 Heuss’ 1985 profound reflections on contingency follow his fundamental reflections on the
Archaic period Heuss 1946; 1963a; 1963b; 1981; cf. also Walter 2013; 2016.
5 Heuss 1946.
6 Snodgrass 1980; Lavelle 2020.
7 D’Ercole and Zurbach 2019; Ulf and Kistler 2020.
8 Benveniste 1969.
9 Macé 2014 based on the systematic review of Macé 2012 and Vernant 2013. See also Ma 2016,
which develops Macé’s analysis.
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466 bernhardt
3 Narrative
Finally, these reflections on method and periodisation also open up perspect-

ives for developing a new narrative. As noted above, the key conceptual prob-
lems in the study of Archaic Greece can be mapped quite precisely onto the
problem of contingency, yet there has been so far no real engagement with this
problem. The paradigm shift in the study of the Archaic period that began in
the 1980s has had less to do with theory-led reflection on these problems than
with modern social and political developments such as increasing globalisa-
tion, events such as 9/11, and the fundamental uncertainty of the individual
in relation with the world. More theoretical attention to the problem of con-
tingency can, however, offer a valuable starting point towards more closely
integrating the current galaxy of concepts, methods and perspectives in the
study of Archaic Greece. But first, any historiography focusing on contingency
must face the central problem that open historical processes cannot be meth-
odologically conceptualised a priori.10
In fact, the only way to solve this problem for both the etic and emic perspect-
ives is to put the contingency problem from implicit intuitions into the centre
of explicit debate. As already mentioned, the studies in this volume, in con-
trast to older positions, rather tend to emphasise long-term developments in
the question of continuity and change, and thus are often better able to explain
the source material, but a strict veto of the sources can nevertheless often not
be invoked for deciding on which aspect should be more emphasised;11 and
this is all the more true since continuity and change usually stand in a com-
plex relationship to each other, are merely two sides of the same coin, and it is
precisely for this reason that it makes sense to characterize the Archaic period
through the notion of continuous change. In this respect, recent research has
developed a wide range of methodological approaches to describe precisely
historical experiences, actions, structures, and change under contingent condi-
tions and to develop more complex research questions.12 A central and partic-
ularly fruitful role in this context is played by the renaissance of the concept of
emergence, which describes the genesis of novel phenomena from chaotic and
non-linear contexts, and is already frequently applied in research on Archaic
Greece in connection with the emergence of the polis or the birth of Greece.13
Therefore, at the centre of the development of a new narrative of the Archaic
10 Walter 2009: 33 speaks of a ‘Historik der Offenheit’.

11 Koselleck 1977 on the ‘Vetorecht der Quellen’.
12 See the excellent discussion in Walter 2016.
13 On the concept of emergence e.g. Luhmann 1997; Bedau and Humphreys 2008.
- 978-90-04-51363-1
period should be the explicit reflection of the problem of contingency and the
emergence of the consciousness of community.
Due to the difficult source situation, classical narratives of the Archaic
period are not feasible: because of the multitude of processes running in par-
allel, one cannot resort to a general development model, and because of the
lack of securely ascertained and reconstructed events, one cannot resort to
the forms of narrative political history either. A new narrative can only be
achieved by paying careful attention to the interweaving and linking of equally
important themes. The experiments of more recent syntheses with different
‘worlds’ determined by the source material, or more modern categorisations
of the material according to society, economy and culture can be productively
developed in the direction of question-oriented structures based on the dif-
ferent forms of community formation:14 from the individual human via oikos,
komai, poleis and ethne to the development of a Panhellenic identity. In dia-
chronic long-term sections, open questions about the formation, continuity
and change of the various forms of community could find their place, in such a
way as to make sense both of their unity and of their variance.15 In synchronic
cross-sections, the overlappings and networkings of these communities could
be highlighted, and the specifics of their connectivity in terms of spatial mobil-
ity, social exchange, cultic involvement, and cultural affiliation could be shown
and profiled in a comparative Mediterranean perspective.16 Through such a
framework, the Archaic period could come to be conceptualised as a relatively
open historical period, both in its beginnings and in its transition to the Clas-
sical period, and the literary and archaeological sources related to each other
in a question-oriented manner. If the focus on contingency and the formation
of the consciousness of community is accepted, the transition to the Classical
period can finally be understood as the formation of a new contingency cul-
ture. As Christian Meier has shown in his fundamental studies on the discovery
of the political, the full formation of democracy in the period after the Per-
sian Wars was essentially conditioned by the intellectual reflexivity of political
14 Stein-Hölkeskamp 2019 speaks of the coexistence of ‘worlds’; Hall 2014 uses the categories
of society, economy and culture. Osborne 2009 is already pursuing a focus on communit-
ies.
15 Cf. for the early Archaic period the archaeological considerations of Knodell 2021.
16 Horden and Purcell 2000 and 2020 have introduced the concept of connectivity to define
the Mediterranean, composed of a multitude of micro-regions, as a relatively open entity.
Malkin 2011 has further attempted to capture the formation of the Greek world using net-
work theory. On the Mediterranean dimension, see further Horden and Kinoshita 2014;
Dabag 2016; Manning 2018.
- 978-90-04-51363-1
468 bernhardt
orders and a new consciousness of ability.17 Thus, the outlines and flexible limits
of a new narrative of the Archaic period are already discernible—it will take
another project to flesh them out.
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Index Locorum
Aelian fr. 885 PMG 210n25
V.H. fr. 1018 (b) PMG 210n25
6.1 147
8.16 444n172; 446n186 Antiochus of Syracuse
12.50 217n49 FGrH 555 F2 275n64, 66
13.24 443n166, 168
14.46 147 Archemachus of Euboea
FGrH 424 F1 69; 70
Aeneas Tacticus
4.8–11 444n176 Archilochus
fr. 2 West 86
Aeschines fr. 19 West 51n60; 213n37
1.141 370n31 fr. 23 West 426n70
fr. 102 West 266n9
Aeschylus fr. 109 West 211n26
Agamemnon fr. 114 West 53n70
485 392n114
1154 392n114 Aristophanes
Acharn.
Aesop 606 276n75
215 Chambry 441n154 Av.
216 Chambry 441n154 1660 450n209
217 Chambry 441n154 Nub.
221 Chambry 441n154 1178–1195 450n210
225 Chambry 441n154 1187 450n209
Alcaeus Aristotle and Ps-Aristotle

fr. 70 LP 53n70; 210n22; 254; Ath. Pol.
426n70 1 335n29
fr. 112 LP 140 2.1 397
fr. 141 LP 254; 428n78 2.1–3 421n45
fr. 348 LP 51n60; 53n70; 254 2.2 371
fr. 426 LP 140 3.1–4 321
3–4 429n88
Alcman 4 369
fr. 89 West 391n112 4.1–3 372
5 372; 422n43; 429n89
Alexis 5.1–2 372
fr. 9 Kassel-Austin 441n154 5.2 370; 422n42
5.3 419n30
Androtion 5–12 414n2
FGrH 324 F6 443n166 6.1 371; 419n28; 422n46
FGrH 324 F34 373; 424n58 6.1–2 372; 397
7.1 231; 400
Anonymus Fragment 7.2–4 321
fr. 505 (c) PMG 209n20 7.3–4 374; 434n118
- 978-90-04-51363-1
472 index locorum
Ath. Pol. (cont.) 1264a21–22 184n54

7.4 374; 435n120 1267b 252
8.1 400; 437n131–132 1268a 252
8.4 431n100 1268b39–41 121n32
8.5 446n187 1271b41–1272a1 79
9 369 1272a12–21 185n59
9.1 371; 397; 398; 1273b35–1274a5 398n137; 432n101;
432n101 437n132
9.2 371 1274a15–18 398n137; 432n101
10.1 419n28 1274a15–21 434n119
11.1 441n156; 442n165 1274a16–1274a17 437n132
11.2–3 380n74 1274b 252
12 429n84 1274b40 162
12.4 257 1274b18–23 428n79
13.1–3 430n91 1275a23 142
13.4–13.5 443n169 1276a23 140
13–17 430n90 1281b25–1281b34 437n132
14.1 334n19; 418n26; 1285a29–35 428n77
444n178 1289b33–40 145; 147
14.2 418n27; 442n164; 1289b36–40 288n141
444n171–172; 1289b39 152
446n186; 448n186 1295a10–18 428n77
15.2 152 1296a18–20 388; 419n31
16.2–4 445n184 1297b16–19 145
16.4 257n75 1305a23–1305a.24 443n169
16.8 445n183 1306a35 152
16.10 425n61; 438n138– 1306a 35–36 290n148
139 1307a1 386
17.1 429n88; 444n172 1317a40–1317b13 253n58
17.2 334n19 fr. 57 Rose 380
18 338n48 fr. 586 Rose 79
19 442n159 fr. 603 Rose 289n143
20.3 432n100 Rhet.
22.1 443n166; 445n83 1375b30 337n37
26.2 400; 437n131
29.3 451n212 Aristotle of Chalchis
34 389 FGrH 423 289n144, 145
41.2 368n23
47.1 374; 400; 437n131 Athenaeus
Eth. Nic. Deipn.
1140a1 468n17 12.520c 149
Lac. Pol. 12.519c 149
5.3 77 15.50 338n48
Oec. 15.695f–696a 86; 192n74
1343a20–23 116n7
Pol. Bacchylides
1252b9–12 116n6 Ep.
1263a35–37 76n47; 85 11.114 148
1264a20 165n11
- 978-90-04-51363-1
index locorum 473
Callimachus Diodorus Siculus

fr. 43 Pfeiffer 281n95; 282n100, 101; 5.26.3 68n15
284n117 8.23.1 278n84, 85
9.4 446n186
Codex Vaticanus Graecus 1144 9.20 446n186
fol. 222rv 443n166 11.20.3 218n50
11.55.1 443n166
Cratinus 12.11–19 442n163
fr. 135 Kassel-Austin 450n206 13.62.4 283n103
fr. 246 Kassel-Austin 31.38 86n83
450n205 31.45 86n83
fr. 258 Kassel-Austin 450n205
fr. 259 Kassel-Austin 450n205 Diogenes Laertius
fr. 300 Kassel-Austin 1.2.58 443n169
364; 450n207 1.13 428n78
1.46 337n21
Critias 1.49 432n100; 446n186
88B F37 DK 72 1.51 432n108
88B F44 DK 82n66; 85 1.53 419n29
1.57 331n7; 333n14n18;
Cyril of Alexandria 350n147
Adv. Iul. 1.13 344n88 1.62 418n26
1.79 428n79
Demosthenes 1.110–113 335n29
18.320 144 9.1 220n60
19.252–255 334n19 9.21 219n57; 439n147
21.47 233n21
23.37–43 234 Diogenianus
23.37–39 371 2.71 214n40
23.49 246
23.60 234 Dionysius of Halicarnassus
24.105 432n102 Ant. Rom.
37.59 234 2.9 69
46.18 132n79 7.3 287n131; 288n140
43.51 132n79
43.57–58 232 Diyllos
47.70 246 FGrH 73 F3 449n198
55 250
61.49 334n19 Dosiadas
FGrH 458 F2 178n38; 186n60
Dicaearchus
fr. 72 Wehrli 77 Ephorus
FGrH 70 F1 288n139
Dieuchidas FGrH 70 F114 288n139
FGrH 485 F6 333n14; 334n18; FGrH 70 F117 69; 70; 76n47
444n179 FGrH 70 F236 288n139
Digesta Etymologicum Magnum

47.22.4 149; 447n190 s.v. Γέλα 276n75
- 978-90-04-51363-1
474 index locorum
Eupolis Hereas
fr. 99 Kassel-Austin 450n208 FGrH 486 F4 444n179
Euripides Herodotus
Andr. 1.2 87n82
2 123n39 1.27 442n162
153 123n39 1.29.1–1.30.1 441n156; 442n162
873 123n39 1.29–33 414n2
Or. 1.30.2–1.33 441n157
1000 147 1.53 425n66
1.59 334n19
Eusebius 1.59.3 443n169
Chron. 1.59.6 445n183
35 335 1.59–64 430n90
92–93 284 1.60.1 438n141
1.66 83
Fornaldarsögur 43n26 1.75 442n162
1.86–90 442n158
Frontinus 1.96–102 321
Strat. 3.39–44 344n89
2.9.9 444n176 3.80 322
3.82.3 438n141
Grágas 43n25 3.118–119 449n198
4.161–162 322
Harpocration 5.39–48 271n46
fr. 43 Keaney s.v. ὅτι οἱ ποιητοί 5.47.1 272n49
367n17e 5.55–57.1 338n48n50
5.63–65 442n159
Heilagra manna sögur 43n26 5.66–70 449n200
5.67 331n8
Hellanicus 5.70–72 335n22; 429n84;
FGrH 4 F188 70 448n191
FGrH 4 F82 274n60 5.72 432n100
5.77 147; 288n141
Hemodorus 5.91–96 442n159
fr. 72 Gemelli 213n34 5.92β.2 426n65
5.92β.3 426n65
Heraclides Lembus 5.92ε.3 426n65
fr. 11 Dilts 85 5.94.1 290n151
fr. 13 Dilts 85 5.94–95 331n7
fr. 39 Dilts 4 6.57 84
fr. 611.15 Rose 170n23 6.109.5 438n141
6.126–130 270n43
Heraclitus 6.131.1 449n200; 451n212;
DK 22 A 1 212n33 451n212
DK 22 B 29 212n32 7.2.1 438n141
DK 22 B 42 331n3 7.153.1 276n76
DK 22 B 56 331n3 7.154.3 284n117
8.3.1 438n141
- 978-90-04-51363-1
index locorum 475
8.77 382 Hesiod (fragments)

8.79.3 438n141 26.37 MW 122n38
9.27.6 438n141 43a.21 MW 122n38
198.10 MW 122n38
Hesiod 199.9 MW 122n38
Op. 200.4 MW 122n38
27–32 211n27 204.54 MW 122n38
27–41 53n68; 54n72
185–188 129n72 Hesychius
189–201 254 s.v. Ἀριστοτέλης 367n16; 414n1
212–237 53n68
212–294 54n72 Hippias of Elis
213 381n75 FGrH 6 F6 324
222–224 384
238–241 384 Hipponax
249–255 387 fr. 27 West 74n43
256–262 384
256–269 53n68 Homer
275 437n136 Il.
331–332 129n72 1.1–7 343n84
376–377 118n20; 128n67 1.14–15 101n48
380 128n69 1.20 101n49
405–406 115; 117 1.22 101n50
405–407 304 1.29–31 308
406 122n32 1.34–54 101n52
441–447 116n5 1.68–100 307
458–461 304 1.94 101n51
469–471 304 1.113–115 125n50
492–501 211n27 1.114 101n54; 105n65
498 432n109 1.123–129 306
502–503 304 1.231 54n72
559–560 117n10 1.278 49n48
573 304 1.281 49n49
589 121n28 1.300–303 303
597–598 304 1.366–369 100n46
602–603 74n43; 305 1.376–377 101n50
635–640 128n70 2.300–332 308
653–658 216n46 2.336–341 49n51
656–659 121n28; 222n64 2.402–431 308
695–697 118n20; 129n68 2.484–493 342n78
700 123n41 2.546–547 337n36
Theog. 2.557–558 334n16
1 342n77 2.576–580 49n49
1–4 343n8 2.661–668 303
22–23 343n84 2.699 391n112
69 391n112 2.716–728 126n54
80–92 52n67; 208n17 2.727 126n53
3.182 49n49
3.278 391
- 978-90-04-51363-1
476 index locorum
Il. (cont.) 11.102 82

3.301 307 11.106 97n26; 98n28
4.238–239 307 11.131 97n26; 98n28
4.253 306n22 11.131–135 99n41
4.264 310 11.188 306n22
4.341 306n22 11.203 306n22
4.414–428 101n53 11.243–245 121n30, 31; 123n43
4.458 306n22 11.489–490 82; 126n55
4.495 306n22 11.548–549 440n153
4.499 82; 126n55 11.697–700 303
4.505 306n22 11.744 306n22
5.69–70 126n55 11.783–793 51n62
5.69–71 82; 127n60 12.41–46 440n153
5.472–474 310 12.310–321 86; 257n75
6.37–38 100n43 12.310–312 306
6.38 97n26; 98n30 12.313–314 303n9
6.45 100n44; 308 12.315 306n22
6.46 97n26; 98n28 12.320–321 306; 306n22
6.46–50 99n41 12.421 392
6.92–95 308 13.270 306n22
6.152–205 52n66 13.291 306n22
6.191–195 303n9 13.365–369 121n30
6.208 420n35 13.377–382 121n30
6.215–236 309n30 13.660–661 309
6.273–278 308 13.665–669 54n72
6.289–292 74n43 13.694–697 126n53
6.463 308 13.726–735 52n64
7.467–475 121n29 13.760 306n22
8.22.48 130n75 14.93 49n49
8.160–163 306 14.274 391
8.281–284 82 15.36 391
8.283–284 127n59 15.333 82
8.284 126n53 15.333–336 126n53
8.304–305 130n75 15.715 391n112
9.38 51n63 16.178 121n30
9.64 438n141 16.190 121n30
9.69 49n46 16.331 97n26; 98n30
9.73 49n49 16.384–388 53n69
9.89–95 49n47 16.387–388 437n136
9.149–156 257n75 16.542 53n69
9.279–280 306 16.572 54n72
9.318–319 390 16.588 306n22
9.336 105n65 16.737–738 126n55; 127n57
9.336–343 125n50 16.738 82
9.449–452 125n49 16.831 308
9.576–580 303n9 17.150 309
10.378 97n26; 98n29 17.224 307
10.378–381 99n41 17.281–283 440n153
11.101–103 126n55; 127n57 17.316 391n112
- 978-90-04-51363-1
index locorum 477
Il. (cont.) 4.669–672 310

17.657–664 440n153 4.690–694 53n69
18.28 97n27 4.736 105n65
18.99–103 310 5.184 391
18.497–508 49n45 5.800 50n58
18.593 121n30 6.6–10 303
19.259 391 6.643–644 81
19.295–299 101 7.4–6 123n42
19.297–299 125n51 7.63–68 128n66
19.298 105n65 7.103–105 305
20.111 306n22 8.72–78 349n135
20.184–186 303n9 8.261–264 346n113
20.464 97n26; 98n29 8.487–520 349n135
21.36 97n26; 98n29 8.585–586 109n87
21.102 97n26; 98n30; 99n36 9.39–43 307
21.441–449 74n43 9.41 307
21.441–454 305 9.197–200 100n47
21.77–79 308 10.38–45 310
22.46 99n37 10.84–85 74n43
22.472 121n30 11.282 121n30
22.488–489 303 11.289–290 121n30
23.292 99n39 11.365 391n112
24.731–734 307 11.401–403 307
24.750–753 308 11.485 103n57
Od. 11.488–491 102n57; 103n57; 304
1.187–188 309n30 11.587 391n112
1.376–379 303 13.13–15 257n75
1.397–398 303 13.181–183 308
1.389–398 50n55 13.267 310
1.430–431 103n62, 120n27 14.20–25 77
1.432 125n49 14.24–28 305
2.13 50n53 14.26–28 77
2.40–79 323n70 14.61–65 103; 105–106
2.192 54n72 14.61–67 79; 104
2.196 121n30 14.64 106n68; 117n13
2.229–251 50n54 14.80–81 78
2.367–369 303 14.100–108 78
2.527–530 50n58 14.105–108 78
3.4–8 308 14.108–111 127n62
3.304 54n72 14.191–359 52n65
4.1 127n64 14.199–206 81; 127n61
4.10–12 82 14.199–359 87n82
4.12–14 128n65 14.200–203 127n62
4.34 105n66 14.202 121n27
4.238–239 307n26 14.211–213 307
4.244–245 103n59 14.229–234 307
4.623 105n65 14.239 54n72
4.634–637 303 14.245–265 307
4.642–644 81 14.340 308
- 978-90-04-51363-1
478 index locorum
Od. (cont.) 24.353–354 323n70

14.449–452 107n72 24.383–390 79
14.462–506 52n65 24.386–390 304
14.513–514 305n17 24.389 74n43; 105n65
15.10–13 303 24.411 105n65
15.196–197 309n30 24.426–437 323n70
15.383–388 96n18 24.496–501 80
15.417 74n43 24.497–498 304
15.417–484 308 24.531–548 51n61
15.428–429 121n27 Hymn. Hom. Ap
15.505–507 310 1–178 348n128
15.531–534 309 14–18 349n142
16.51 78 149–150 349n134
16.69–72 309 160–161 349n134
16.114 54n72 165–166 348n130
16.305–315 80 177–178 348n130
16.371–382 50n54 178–546 348n129
16.376–384 254
16.424–429 52n66; 254; 323n70 Ibycus
16.424–430 54n72 282a PMG 331n4; 342n75;
17.152–161 309 343n86
17.212 79 282a PMG 1–9 342n76
17.249–250 74n43; 254n65 282a PMG 10–23 342n77
17.297–299 78 282a PMG 46–48 342n79
17.422 305
17.428–434 307 Íslendingabók 43n24
17.487 387
17.522 309n30 Íslendingaþættir 43n26; 44
18.85 53n69
18.322 79 Íslendinga sögur 43n26
18.356–364 74n43
18.379 306n22 Isocrates
19.111 391n112 4.159 340n68n73
19.194–198 257n75 16.26–27 451n212
19.527 54n72
20.105–119 103n58 Jerome
20.162–163 78 Chron.
20.173–175 78; 78n55 103b 344n88
20.185–187 78 Ol. 83 449
20.351–370 309
20.374–383 74n43; 254n65 Justin
21.13–35 309 Epit.
21.213–216 80; 104; 106 2.8 444n176
21.216 109–111
22.421–423 305 Konungasögur 43n26
22.430–473 103n60
24.105–114 309n30 Landnámabók 43n24
24.106–113 307
24.206–207 128n70; 303
- 978-90-04-51363-1
index locorum 479
Lexicum Rhetoricum Cantabrigensis Philochorus

72.3–6 432n108 FGrH 328 F30 443n166
Livy Philodemus
8.22.5–6 286n127 9.8.35–40 116n8
1.30.31ff. 218n51
Lycurgus
1.102 341n73 Phocylides
1.139 145 fr. 4 GP 211n26
fr. 5 GP 211n27
Lysias
10.16 432n102 Pindar
Ol.
Mimnermus 1.54–58 382
fr. 7 West 212n28 2.38 144
fr. 9 West 384 2.93–96 285n118
4.14 147
Menander 9.10 123n39
fr. 891 Kassel-Austin 68n15 13.1–8 215n45
13.9–10 382
Molpis Pyth.
FGrH 590 F2c 77 2.81–88 441n154
3.85 425n62
Myron 3.94 123n39
FGrH 106 F1 81n65 4.247–249 207n15
10.71 212n29
Nicolaus of Damascus 11.25–30 212n29
FGrH 90 F57–59 290n151 11.51–54 213n38
FGrH 90 F95 65n5 fr. 58 Werner 207n15
Schol. Pind.
Pausanias Nem. 2.1 349n137
2.18.6 128n66 Ol. 2.16c 285n125
3.4.1 271n46 Ol. 2.29d 218n50
3.20.6 69 Ol. 2.166 285n118
4.23.6–9 282n96 Ol. 2.168 285n118
4.23.7 280n89
Plato and Ps.-Plato
Pausanias the Atticist Charm.
F 48 a–b Ruschenbusch 157e 339n60
132n79 Hipparch.
F 50 a–b Ruschenbusch 228b 340n69
132n79 228b–229d 331n8; 337n40;
F 57 Ruschenbusch 132n79 338n42; 350n148
K33 s.v. Καλλικύριοι Erbse 228b–229b 338n41
69 228c 338n43; 340n64n65
228e 338n44; 339n59;
Philistos 341n74
FGrH 566 F15 284n117 229b 339n54
229b–d 338n47, 52
- 978-90-04-51363-1
480 index locorum
Hipparch. (cont.) 3.2 370n30

232a–c 337n39 4 335n27
Ion 5.3 441n154
530a–531a 340n66; 349n136 6 335n27
Leg. 8.1 420n40
625c–626b 184n54 8.2 334n20
814d 184n54 8.4–6 444n177
834a–d 184n54 8–9 420n37
Lysis 369n24 9 334n20
205c 144 10 331n7n15; 337n21;
Prot. 350n147; 444n179
343a 428n78 10.1–3 336n34
Resp. 10.3 336n35
351d–352a 438n141 11 335n28; 420n38
487e–489a 438n141 11.1 420n41
545d 438n141 12 335n22n29; 448n191
565d–566 441n154 13.1–13.2 443n169
14.2 370n28; 421n42
Plutarch 14.3–6 419n28; 426n65
Ages. 14.5–6 424n60; 425n67
20.1 144 15.2–3 372
30 85 15.2–5 397
Apoph. Lac. 15.3 422n47
223a 85 18.1–2 434n119
Arist. 18.2–3 398n137; 432n101
1.1–3 419n32 18.6–7 398n137; 432n101
Conv. sept. sap. 19.1–2 431n100
10.153 f.–154a 222n65 19.4 367n17
Inst. Lac. 22.3 399; 432n108
34.239b 85 24.4 447n190
Lyc. 25.4–5 441n156
6 347n119 25.5 442n165
12.2 77 29 418n27
28.4–5 85 29.1–2 443n169
29 442n63 29.2 442n163; 444n171
Mor. 30.1 444n178
493e 132n80 30.5 446n186
760 f.–761a 152 31.2 445n183; 446n188
785b 449n198 31.5 432n108
794 446n186 32 442n160
Per. Theseus
13.6 340n67 20.2 336n35
Public. 32.5 336n35
25.4 438n138
Sol. Poetae Melici Graeci
1.1–2 419n29; 444n172, 175 fr. 281c 218n52
1–3 419n30 fr. 520.4–6 390
2 335n26
2.1 419n32
- 978-90-04-51363-1
index locorum 481
Pollux fr. 564 PMG 345n104

Onom. fr. 584 PMG 426n70
3.83 69
8.42 432n108 Solon
8.129.6–8.131.1 436n127 fr. 1–3 West 420n37
8.132 374 fr. 4 West 53n70; 254; 378–379;
10.14 68n15 390; 392; 393; 397;
398; 421n43; 437n134;
Polyaenus 438n141
Strat. fr. 4b–c West 370; 390; 421n43;
1.20.1–2 420n40 440n151
7.2.2 147 fr. 5 West 380; 388; 390; 392;
440n151
Polybius fr. 6 West 212n31; 370n30; 380;
4.38.1–4 68n15 380n74; 388; 390;
392; 440n151
Posidonius fr. 9 West 212n31; 380n72;
FGrH 87 F8 69 429n88; 439n149
FGrH 87 F38 65n5 fr. 10 West 379; 420n40
fr. 11 West 212n31; 450n206
Ps.-Scymnus fr. 13 West 207n14; 380; 383-386;
235 287n131, 421n43
133 fr. 15 West 387
283–290 280n91 fr. 19 West 420n36
292–293 285n120 fr. 23 West 144; 420n36
986–997 293n161 fr. 25 West 420n36
995 266n7 fr. 26 West 420n36
fr. 32 West 214n39; 254; 321;
Pyrgion 389; 424n59; 426n71;
FGrH 467 F1 178n38 437n136
fr. 33 West 254; 321; 389n59;
Pythagoras 426n68
fr. 38 Gemelli 212n29 fr. 34 West 389; 390; 427n74;
437n136
Quintilian fr. 36 West 74n43; 212n31; 254;
Institut. 371; 372; 383n84;
5.11 337n37 385; 390; 397; 399;
421n44; 440n152
Riddarasögur 43n26 fr. 37 West 212n31; 380; 391;
437n136; 440n151
Samtíðarsögur or Samtímasögur fr. 5a Ruschenbusch 429n87, 88
43n26 fr. 23c–d Ruschenbusch
432n102
Sappho fr. 37a Ruschenbusch
fr. 1 West 391n112 425n61
fr. 16 West 391n112 fr. 37a–c Ruschenbusch
438n138
Simonides fr. 38a Ruschenbusch
fr. 11 West 339n61; 343n82 446n187
- 978-90-04-51363-1
482 index locorum
Solon (cont.) Theognis

fr. 38a–k Ruschenbusch 19–23 206n12
438n140 39–52 209n21; 254; 384
fr.48a–b Ruschenbusch 41 379n69
132n79 51–52 438n141
fr. 50a–b Ruschenbusch 153–154 382
132n79 183–192 151
fr. 57 Ruschenbusch 132n79 191–192 379
fr. 70 Ruschenbusch 430n94 237–252 207n13
fr. 75 Ruschenbusch 430n94; 447n190 287–292 384
fr. 76a Ruschenbusch 603–604 384
195n83; 447n190 833–836 379; 384
fr. 148a–e Ruschenbusch 1103–1104 384
432n108
Theopompus
Sophocles FGrH 115 F13 70
Antig. FGrH 115 F122 68n15; 70
904–920 449n198 FGrH 115 F358 276n75
Ichn.
199 189n69 Thucydides
1.5 87; 280n89
Stesichorus 1.20.1–2 338n48n50;
fr. 16 PMG 210n24 339n53
fr. 270 PMG 210n23 1.24.2 268n28; 271n45
1.103 79
Strabo 1.122.3 451n215
5.4.4 286n128; 288n138 1.124.3 451n215
6.2.3 273n60; 289n91 1.126–127 335n22; 429n84n86;
6.2.4 271n45; 290n149 448n191
6.2.5 285n120 2.63.2 451n215
8.4.10 386 3.37.2 451n215
8.5.4 69 3.104 349n138
9.1.10 444n179 4.84 438n141
10.1.8 190n142 4.88 438n141
10.1.10 152 6.3.1 275n68
14.1.28 147 6.3.2–3 271n43
6.3.3 273n60
Suda 6.4.3 276n73; 290n150
s.v. ̓́Ιβυκος 343n87 6.4.4 285n119, 118
s.v. Πύθια καὶ Δήλια 348n126 6.4.5 280n89; 287n131
s.v. Ζάλευκος 442n163 6.4.6 282n96
6.5.1 266n7; 283n104, 110;
Terpander 291n155
Test. 9 Campbell 217n49 6.5.3 284n114; 284n117
6.12.2 144
Thales 6.53.3–60.1 338n48n50
fr. 4 Gemelli 218n54 6.54.6 445n183
6.56 338n51
6.59 339n62; 442n159
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index locorum 483
Thucydides (cont.) Xenophon

6.85.1 451n215 Anab.
7.77.7 140; 162n5 6.1.29 438n141
8.40.2 72 Hell.
3.3.5–7 77n53
Timaeus 5.3.9 81
FGrH 566 F80 271n45 Lac. Pol.
FGrH 566 F92 285n123 2.10 84
FGrH 566 F157 116n8 3.4–5 85
4.6 84
Tyrtaeus 5.3 77
fr. 12 West 84 6.1–2 84
fr. 14 G.–P. 347n119 6.3 85
8.4 324
Velleius Patercolus 9.5 85
1.4.1 287n129, 129, 130; Mem.
288n1.4.1 2.8.3 120n24
Oec.
Xenophanes 2.6 145
DK 21 B 2 212n30
DK 21 B 3 212n30
DK 21 B 8 216n47
DK 21 B 11 331n3
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484 index locorum
Inscriptions and Papyri
Fornara (Translated Documents of Greece Inscriptions de Délos

and Rome I, 1983) I.Délos 68 239
63 324 I.Délos 69 239
Inscriptiones Creticae Inschriften von Ephesos

IC 1.8.4 171n26; 185n58 I.Ephesos v 1678B 244
IC 1.10.2.2–3 168n17 I.Ephesos v 1678C 244
IC 1.30.1 171n26; 185n58
IC 2.5.1 167n16 Inschriften von Erythrai und Klazomenai
IC 2.5.1.15 175n32 I.Erythrai 17 243
IC 2.5.2 169n19
IC 2.5.9.8–11 176n34; 191n71 Inscriptions of Sinope
IC 2.12.3 180n43 I.Sinope 62 278n81
IC 2.12.4 180n43
IC 2.12.22 182n46 Inscriptiones Graecae
IC 3.4 169n19 IG I3 1 233
IC 3.6.7 182n46 IG I3 3 233
IC 4.5 169n19 IG I3 4 233
IC 4.13 i2–g2 180n42 IG I3 8 233
IC 4.14 g–p 188n65; 190n71 IG I3 14 243
IC 4.30 188n65 IG I3 21 244
IC 4.41 iv 254n65 IG I3 52 244
IC 4.41 iv 6–14 69n21 IG I3 82 244
IC 4.42 B 168n17 IG I3 104 234; 429n87–88
IC 4.42 B 11–14 176n33 IG I3 245 234
IC 4.58 187n64 IG I3 250 234
IC 4.63 182n46 IG IV 177 234
IC 4.64 179n39 IG IV 493 235
IC 4.72.1.1–3 176n36 IG IV 506 235
IC 4.72.5.5–6 192n73 IG IV 544 235
IC 4.72.2.2–45 184n54; 194n79n80 IG V 262 236
IC 4.72.3.22 194n80 IG IX 1.609 237
IC 4.72.4.31–37, 46–48 IG IX 1.718 167n15;
183n49 238
IC 4.72.5.53 194n80 IG IX 2.1202 239
IC 4.72.6.46–55 180n43 IG IX 2.1226 239
IC 4.72.11.10–17 188n66 IG XII 5.108 240
IC 4.72.11.46–55 168n17; 195n82 IG XII 5.150 240
IC 4.75 b 194n80 IG XII 7.1 241
IC 4.77 A–C 176n33; 185n55 IG XII 9.1273 242
IC 4.78 186n62 IG XII 9.1274 242
IC 4.79 168n17; 188n66
IC 4.80.3–9 192n73 Inschriften von Olympia
IC 4.80.8 180n42; 182n47 IvOl 2 167n15; 236
IC 4.80.8–12 176n33 IvOl 3 236
IC 4.87 176n33 IvOl 4 236
IC 4.184 181n45; 185n56 IvOl 7 236
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index locorum 485
Inschriften von Olympia (cont.) GP G 79 250

IvOl 11 166n15 GP G 81 250
IvOl 16 237 GP G 82 250
GP G 83 250
Gagarin&Perlman (The Laws of Ancient GP G 84 250
Crete c.650–400 bce, 2016) GP G 85 250
GP A 1 246 GP G 86 252
GP A 2 246 GP G 87 252
GP A 3 246 GP K 2 245
GP A 4 246 GP L 1A 245
GP A 9 246 GP L 1B 245
GP A 12 247 GP L 2 246
GP Dr 1 245 GP L 3 246
GP Dr 3 246 GP L 4 246
GP Dr 4 246 GP L 5 246
GP Dr 5 246 CID I 3 237
GP Ele 3 247
GP Ele 4 247 Koerner (Inschriftliche Gesetzestexte der
GP Ele 9 247 frühen griechischen Polis, 1993)
GP Ele 11 247 Koerner 31 323
GP Ele 13 247 Koerner 90 322; 323
GP Ele 16 247
GP Elt 2 246 Local Scripts of Archaic Greece
GP G 1 247 LSAG 405 234
GP G 8 247
GP G 9 247 Lois sacrées des cités grecques
GP G 13 248 LSCG 108 240
GP G 14 248
GP G 20 248 Lois sacrées des cités grecques. Supplément
GP G 21 248 LSS 27 235
GP G 22 248 LSS 32 236
GP G 23 248 LSS 129 241
GP G 30 248
GP G 41 248 Meiggs&Lewis (A Selection of Greek Histor-
GP G 42 249 ical Inscriptions, 1989)
GP G 44 249 ML 8 240; 432n100
GP G 45 249 ML 86 321
GP G 46 249
GP G 47 249 Nomima
GP G 51 250 Nomima 1.12 188n67; 180n43
GP G 52 250 Nomima 1.27 176n33
GP G 55 250 Nomima 1.31 167n15
GP G 57 250 Nomima 1.32 186n60
GP G 72 252 Nomima 1.62 322
GP G 73 250 Nomima 1.68 195n82
GP G 75 250 Nomima 1.91 323
GP G 76B 250 Nomima 2.89 195n82
GP G 77 250
GP G 78 250
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486 index locorum
Osborne&Rhodes (Greek Historical Inscrip- Sammlung der griechischen Dialekt-

tions 478–404 bc, 2017) Inschriften
OR 102 243 GDI 5125A 171n25
OR 103 241
OR 122 242 Supplementum Epigraphicum Graecum
OR 123 244 SEG 4.64 245
OR 132 244 SEG 4.171 240
OR 194 233 SEG 11.244 170n24
SEG 17.377 241n39
PBerol. SEG 26.72 241n40
21107 116n9 SEG 26.1084 245
SEG 27.631 172n27
PCair. SEG 28.731 179n39
43227 450n208 SEG 29.203 369n24
SEG 30.380 235
PEleph. SEG 39.1866 179n39
3.3 168n17
Sylloge inscriptionum graecarum (3rd edi-
POxy. tion)
15 343n86 Syll. 3 37 428n77
17 343n86 Syll. 3 38 428n77
664 446n186
1790 331n4; 342n75
2081 331n4; 342n75
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Index of Names and Places
Abdera 243, 244 Archias 271n45, 290
Achilles 39, 48, 49, 51, 54, 98n29, 99, 100, Archilochus 38, 82n67, 86
101, 102n57, 103n57, 107, 111, 121, 125, Argos 32, 147, 185, 235, 285, 319n56, 342, 205,
303, 306, 310, 312 211, 213, 216, 266
Acragas 283, 285, 286, 292 Argoura 239
Adrastus 99–100, 111 Aristides 450
Aeantides 314 Aristonoos 285
Aegean Islands 15, 231, 239, 350 Aristophanes of Athens 364, 449,
Aegean Sea 30, 31, 32, 33, 74 450
Aegina 34, 234, 429n89 Aristophanes of Byzantium 69
Aeneas 306n21–22 Aristotle 2, 12, 16, 37, 69, 76, 77, 79, 82, 85,
Aeschines 144, 370n31 116, 119, 121, 122, 132, 140, 142, 143, 145,
Aetna 273n60 149, 152, 156, 157, 165, 184, 185, 212, 252,
Agamemnon 39, 49, 51, 54, 99n41, 100, 101, 253, 257, 288, 289, 312, 318n54, 319n56,
121n30, 125n50, 303, 306n22, 307–312 323, 337, 341, 363, 366, 367, 368, 369,
Agarista 316n46 370, 372, 374, 377, 402, 414, 416, 419,
Ajax 312 428, 434
Alcibiades 144, 157 Arkesine 241
Alcinous 128, 308, 312 Artamitios 240
Alkimos 244 Artemis 152, 220, 221
Alyattes 147 Ascra 128n70, 222
Amarynthos 152 Asia Minor 15, 31, 287n134, 324n74
Amasis 441 Asius 306n22
Ambracia (Gulf of) 290 Astyanax 303
America 105n65 Athena 51, 54, 83, 105, 155, 235, 236, 241, 308,
Amorgos 241 317, 374, 379, 400
Anacreon 337, 339, 340 Athens 2, 18, 19, 30, 32, 37, 72, 86, 87, 94,
Anactorion 290n51 95n15, 130, 132, 145, 146, 147, 148, 149,
Anaxilaos of Rhegion 282n96, 316n49 150, 157, 165, 180n40, 219, 231, 242, 301,
Andromache 101, 308 313, 314, 315, 316, 317, 317n53, 318n55,
Androtion 257, 373, 374, 424n58 320, 321, 322, 331, 334, 335, 336, 337,
Antenor 126, 127 338, 340, 350, 351, 365, 366, 369, 371,
Antinoös 81, 303n70 372, 379, 384, 385, 395n124, 397, 398,
Antiochus of Syracuse 65, 274, 275, 276, 277, 399, 400, 401, 402, 415, 418, 421, 424,
280 425, 426, 427, 428, 429, 432, 437, 441,
Antipater 375 442, 443, 444, 445, 447, 448, 449,
Antiphatas 239 451
Antiphemos of Rhodes (oikist) 276–279 Atreus 147
Antissa 217 Attica 15, 67, 72, 75, 79, 85, 86, 128, 231, 237,
Aphaia 34 254, 256, 257, 307n23, 313, 318, 319, 372,
Apollo 18, 100, 101, 167, 169n19, 185n56, 239, 390, 392, 397, 401, 421, 422, 423, 428,
241, 274, 275, 281, 317n52, 342, 348–349, 433
352 Aulon 179, 181, 182, 183n48, 188, 191
Arcadia 82, 86, 236 Axos 13, 153, 167, 169, 170, 171, 175, 176n34,
Arcesilaus 318n53 179, 191, 246, 247
Archemachus of Euboea 70 Azoria 33
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488 index of names and places
Babylonia 105 Crimea 239

Bacchylides 148, 215 Crisa 420
Battus (of Cyrene) 318n53 Critias 69, 72, 82n67
Bias of Priene 442 Croesus 218, 219, 343, 416, 425n66, 441, 442,
Bithynia 86 449, 447
Black Sea 68n15, 87, 293n161 Croton 272
Boeotia 74, 146 Cyanippus 343
Branchidae 219n54 Cylon 314n39, 317n53, 318n55, 335, 336, 425,
Briseis 101, 111, 125, 303 429
Byblos 121 Cyme (Aeolic) 13, 146, 147, 150, 277, 287
Byzantium 42, 43, 70, 287 Cyme (Euboean) 287, 288, 289
Cyme (Southern Italy) 277n78, 279n88, 280,
Calchas 309 281n94, 283, 286, 287, 288, 289
Camarina 283, 284, 285n117, 286, 292 Cynaethus 349
Campania 266 Cypselus 314n39, 317n52, 425,
Cassandra 121n30, 311 437n136
Castor 127 Cyrus 146, 218, 442, 449
Catane 273, 274
Cebriones 82 Darius 218n54
Chalcis 147, 148, 150, 152, 216, 222, 222n65, Daskon 284
270, 280, 283, 284n111, 286, 287, 288, Datala 14, 167, 172–177, 179, 191,
289, 290 229n6
Chaleion 167n15, 239 Deinomenes 276, 277n78
Chersicrates 271n45, 290 Deioces 319, 437n136
Chersonese 314n39, 316n45, 317n49 Deiphobos 306n22
Chios 65, 66, 164, 229n6, 240, 322, 432n100 Delos 239, 317, 348
Chryseis 125n50, 308 Delphi 204, 233, 237, 271n46, 317n52,
Chryses 100, 101 318n53, 338, 425, 425n66
Cleisthenes (of Athens) 30, 164, 321n64, 331, Demeter 211n25, 236
365, 435, 443, 447n190, 449, 451n214 Demetrius of Phaleron 369, 429n88
Cleisthenes (of Sycion, tyrant) 270n43, Democoön 82, 306n22
316n46, 319n56 Demodocus 345, 349, 352
Cleomenes (half-brother of Dorieus) 271, Demonax 322
318n55 Demosthenes 2, 144, 378n63
Cleomenes III 69 Deucalion 166n15
Cleonae 229n6 Dicaearchus 77
Clytemnestra 101n54, 125n50 Dieuchidas 17, 333, 334, 336, 340, 341, 350,
Codrus 419 351, 352, 444n179
Colophon 384 Diogenes Laertius 219, 220, 333, 334, 336,
Corcyra 271n45, 290 418
Corinth 32, 155, 214, 215, 270, 290, 317, 425, Diomedes 99, 306, 309, 312
428 Dionysius of Gortyn 167, 179, 180, 182, 183,
Cratinus 364, 449, 450 184, 191, 193
Cresphontes 244 Dionysius of Halicarnassus 69, 78
Crete 13; 15; 30, 33, 34, 67, 72, 75, 79, 81, Dionysius of Syracuse 130n75
86, 146, 163, 167, 170, 172, 178, 180, Dolius 79, 80
181n45, 182, 184, 185, 187n62, 188, 190, Dorieus 16, 17, 271, 272, 292
192n74, 193, 196, 230, 231, 245, 276, 279, Doryclus 82
290n147, 312, 322, 396n128, 462, 463 Dosiadas 185
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index of names and places 489
Draco 74, 164, 228, 229n6, 231, 232, 234, 321, Northern 15, 35, 231, 239
364, 365, 369, 371, 429n88–89, 450 Third 16n31, 163
Dreros 54, 164, 176n34, 191n73, 195n82, 228, Grinnus 317n52
229n6, 245, 248, 253, 322, 323 Gyges 213, 317n53
Echepolus 306n22 Halicarnassus 244, 245

Echiades 290n51 Halieis 235
Elea 219, 236 Halys 441
Elis 71n30, 166n15, 237 Harmodius 338
Eltynia 195n82, 246 Harpalion 309
Entimos of Crete 276, 277–279 Hecataeus 218n54, 275
Enyalios 240 Hector 51, 52, 99, 126, 306, 308, 309, 310,
Ephesus 212, 220, 221, 244 312
Ephialtes 435, 451 Hegesistratus 290n151, 315, 316
Ephorus 16, 65, 69, 70, 75, 76, 280n91, Hegesypile 317n49
288 Helen 125, 128, 342, 346
Epidamnos 271n45 Helenus 306n22
Epidaurus 316n49 Hera 235
Eretria 13, 151, 152, 229n6, 242, 270, 288, 290, Heraclea Pontica 69, 86
315, 323 Heraclitus 206n11, 212, 213, 220, 221
Erythrae 242, 243 Hermione 127, 128
Euagoras 290n51 Herodotus 2, 16, 37, 84, 218n54, 271,
Euarchos 273, 274 272, 275, 276, 277, 301, 313, 314, 315,
Euboea 146, 280, 286n127 316, 317n52, 318, 319, 320, 321, 322,
Euclides 283 323, 324, 331, 332, 335, 344, 350,
Eumaeus 52, 77, 78, 79, 80, 95, 102–107, 109, 354, 364, 414, 416, 441, 442, 448,
110, 111, 117, 305n17 449
Eumelus 275n68, 312 Hesiod 2, 3, 4, 11, 33, 38, 39, 48, 52, 53n68,
Euneus 121 66, 67, 68, 73, 74, 95, 110n87, 115, 116,
Eupeithes 323n70 117, 118, 119, 120, 121, 122, 123, 124, 125,
Eupolis 449, 450 126, 128, 129, 130, 131, 132, 164, 205,
Euripides 123, 147 207, 208, 211, 215, 216, 222, 256, 301,
Europe 42, 118, 120, 129, 130 303, 304, 305, 312, 318n54, 323, 324,
Euryalus 344n95 380n74, 381, 383, 384, 385, 401, 414, 428,
Eurycleia 79, 95n15, 102, 103, 120, 121, 124, 125 432
Eurymachus 306n22 Himera 210, 218, 266, 277, 283, 284, 286,
Execestides 419 291n155, 292, 317n49
Hipparchus 331, 333, 337–341, 350, 351, 353,
Gela 17, 218, 276, 277, 278, 279, 282, 284n117, 355
285n119, 292, 317n52 Hippias (of Athens, Peisistratid) 314n38,
Gelon 277, 284n117, 316n45, 317n52 315n44, 316, 317, 320, 338, 442n159
Glaucus 309, 311 Hippias (of Elis) 324
Gortyn 14, 15, 69, 79, 86, 105n65, 132n79, 167, Hippocles of Cyme 286, 287
168n17, 170, 176, 177, 179, 180, 181, 182, Hippocrates 284n117, 316n45
183, 184n55, 185n56, 186, 187n64, 188, Homer 2, 3, 4, 10, 17, 18, 38, 66–68, 72, 73,
191, 192, 194n79, 233, 247, 251, 252, 253, 74, 75, 77, 80, 81, 86, 94n12, 95, 100,
255, 323 101, 106n68, 108, 111, 120n25, 122, 123,
Greece 124, 128, 256, 301, 302, 303, 304, 305,
Central 15, 93n8, 231, 237, 313 306n20, 309n29, 310n31, 311, 312, 313,
- 978-90-04-51363-1
Homer (cont.) 315, 316, 318, 319, 321, 322, 323, Lusias 149
324, 330, 331, 332, 333, 334, 336, 337, Lycia 306, 311
338, 339, 340, 341, 345, 346, 349, 350, Lycurgus (orator) 145, 341
351, 352, 353, 356, 382, 391, 395, 401, 428, Lycurgus (Spartan lawgiver) 442
465 Lydia 31, 33, 34, 317n53, 343
Hybrias 86, 192n74, 194n80 Lygdamis 314
Hylla 237 Lyttos 180n43, 185, 188n67
Hyperboios 246
Magna Graecia 214n40, 217, 219, 220, 286,
Ibycus 214, 221, 331, 342, 343, 344, 345, 346, 288n138, 332, 347
348 Magnesia on Meander 147
Iceland 9, 41, 42, 43, 45, 50 Manes 186n61
Idomeneus 121n30, 306n22, 310, 312 Marathon 233
Imbrios 311 Mariandynians of Heraclea Pontica 69, 86
Ionia 146, 345 Maron 100
Ioulis on Keos 233 Massalia 153
Iphidamas 121 Medesikaste 311
Ismarus 100 Medon 82, 126
Israel 105n65 Megacles 270
Issus 82 Megapenthes 82, 127, 128
Italy 31, 146, 275, 275n68, 286n128, 287n132, Megara 209, 314, 331, 334, 336, 384, 420, 444,
289 445
Ithaca 49, 50, 51, 54, 96, 104, 107, 108, 309, Megara Hyblaea 12, 245
321n62, 323n70 Megasthenes 286, 287, 289
Melanthius 79
Kaudos 181n45, 185n56 Melantho 78n55, 79
Keskora 249 Menekolos 284
Kleonai 235 Menelaus 99, 100, 125, 127, 128, 346
Knossos 32, 171, 185 Menestheus 311–312
Korope 239 Mesaulius 107
Krataimenes of Chalcis 280 Messara 182
Kraton 278 Messene 83, 282
Kyzikos 186n61 Messenia 76, 83n72, 84
Miletus 31, 219n54, 244, 252, 270
Laconia 70, 76, 77, 82, 84 Mitrou 4
Laertes 80, 103, 107, 120, 124, 125, 128n70, Mnasithales 277, 278
303–305, 323n70 Molpis 77
Lamis 273 Muses 207, 208, 216, 222, 340, 342
Latosion 167, 181, 186, 187, 188, 193 Mycenae 235
Lefkandi 4, 30 Myltiades (son of Cimon) 314n39, 317, 450
Leontinoi 273 Myltiades (son of Cypselus) 314n39,
Leto 187 316n45, 318
Libya 17, 271, 272 Mytilene 319, 428
Lindos 240, 277n78
Liskara 237 Naupactus 238
Locris Nausicaa 105n65, 123n42
Eastern (Opuntian/Hypocnemidian) Naxos 153, 273, 279, 280, 288n138, 314
238–239 Neleus 121n30, 303
Western (Ozolian) 71n30, 237, 238 Neoptolemus 127
- 978-90-04-51363-1
index of names and places 491
Nestor 54, 81, 303, 306n22, 308 Phocus 425

Nichoria 4 Phoenix 125n49
Nicias 144 Phthia 101
Nisaea 335, 336 Pindar 34, 123, 144, 147, 207, 212, 213, 215,
Noëmon 303 349
Norway 41 Pithekoussai 281n94, 286, 289n146
Nympharetos 244 Pittacus (of Mytilene) 319n56, 425n63, 428
Nymphs, Cave of 149 Plato 18, 69, 144, 184, 340, 351, 369n24
Plutarch 16, 222, 332–336, 340, 341, 351, 353,
Odysseus 51, 52, 54, 77, 78, 79, 80, 81, 95, 363, 366n12, 367, 368, 373, 376, 399, 414,
99n41, 100, 102–111, 127, 305–312, 323 419, 422, 423, 425, 426, 432, 434, 441,
Oloros 281 444, 445, 446, 450
Olympia 166, 167n15, 215n45, 229n6, 236, Pollux 69, 70
317n52 Polybius 285
Olynthus 81 Polycrates (of Samos, tyrant) 18, 20, 214n40,
Orestes 128n66 316n45, 317n52, 332, 342, 343, 344, 345,
Otanes 320 348, 349, 351, 353
Othryoneus 121n30, 311 Poseidon 165, 215n45, 308
Potyidaea 290n51
Paiania 234 Praisos 182n46
Pala 249 Priam 99, 121n30, 126, 127, 130n75, 308, 310,
Paris 309 311, 312
Parmenides 14, 219n58 Pylades 290n51
Paros 13, 153, 240n38 Pylus 312, 321n62, 384
Patrias 167n15, 191n71, 236 Pystilos 285
Patroclus 99, 101, 107, 111, 125, 308, 310, 312 Pythium 317
Pausanias 69, 70
Pedaeus 82 Rhegium 214n40, 221, 317n49
Pegasus 155 Rhitten 188
Peisander 16, 99n41 Rhodes 240, 285n122, 290n147, 303, 315n42
Peisistratus 16, 130n75, 152, 257, 290n151, Rome 105n65, 129
291n154, 301, 302, 313, 314, 315, 316, 317,
318, 319, 321n64, 324, 334, 335, 336, 341, Sakon 283
352, 353, 417, 419, 429, 431n97, 436, 438, Salamis 233, 333, 334, 335, 336, 337, 340, 341,
440, 443, 444, 445, 446n188, 450 350, 420, 430n94, 444
Peleus 51n62, 101 Samos 18, 214, 343, 344
Peloponnese 15, 75, 82, 220, 231, 234, 237 Sarpedon 306
Penelope 105, 107 Selinous 272
Periander 214, 316n49, 319n56, 428 Sicily 17, 75n44, 79, 146, 231, 245, 268, 271,
Pericles 335, 340, 449, 450, 451 272, 275n68, 278, 279n88, 286, 289,
Perieres of Cyme 280, 281 293n160
Phaeacia 123n42, 303 Sicyon 170n24, 234, 270, 316, 319n56,
Phaleron 429n85 331
Phanias of Eresus 442n160 Sigeion 290n51, 314, 316
Pheidippides 364, 450 Simonides 38, 217, 218, 337, 339, 340,
Philippus of Croton 272 345
Philoetius 79, 80, 107, 109–110 Simos 283
Philolaos 252 Sinope 266, 278n81, 293n161
Phocis 238 Skillous 237
- 978-90-04-51363-1
Smyrna 384 Theagenes (of Megara, tyrant) 317n52, 335,

Solon 8, 18, 19, 30, 66, 67, 68, 71, 72, 85, 94, 336
95, 118n21, 132, 144, 164, 195n83, 205, Thebes 100, 101, 252, 315
207, 212, 213, 214n39, 216, 219, 230n11, Theocles 273, 274, 292
231, 232, 233, 254, 255n65, 256, 257, Theoclymenus 309
320, 321, 323, 324, 333, 334, 335, 336, Theognis 151, 205, 206n12, 209, 216, 254, 379,
340, 350, 351, 352, 363–403, 414–451, 381, 382, 383, 385, 401
463 Theopompus 16, 65, 68, 69, 70, 75
Sophocles 2, 449 Thera 30
Sounion 233 Theron 285
Sparta 2, 6n31, 18, 37, 66, 72, 75, 76, 77, 78, Thessaly 30, 31, 66, 125, 127, 146, 239
79, 80, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 127, 128n66, Thetis 100
132n79, 146, 157, 178, 184n53, 217, 277, Thucydides 2, 16, 17, 69, 72, 82, 87, 121n32,
304n14, 318n55, 332, 334, 346, 347, 352, 140, 144, 157, 268, 269, 273, 274, 275n68,
355 276n71, 279, 280n90, 281, 283, 284, 285,
Spensithios 13, 167, 171–179, 183, 184, 185, 193, 286, 315, 316, 318, 319n57, 336, 338, 339,
229n6 348, 349, 429, 451
Stagira 289 Timonassa 315, 316
Stalai 182n46 Tiryns 4, 229n6, 235, 322, 323
Stesichorus 18, 210, 217, 218, 331, 342, 345– Troilus 343
346 Tros 98n29
Strabo 69, 147, 152, 153n39, 286, 287, 288, Troy 49, 99, 270, 306, 307n26, 308, 309, 311,
289, 317n52, 444n179 321n62, 330n2, 346
Strepsiades 450 Tylissos 171n26, 185
Strymon (river) 313 Tyrtaeus 38, 70, 205, 386
Sybaris 149, 150, 272
Syracuse 271n45, 280n91, 283, 284, 290, 349 Velleius Paterculus 287
Viglatouri 288
Taygetus 83
Telemachus 49, 50, 80, 81, 106, 109, 110, 111, Xanthos 311
119, 127, 302, 303, 309, 310, 323 Xenophanes 212, 215, 216, 275
Teos 243, 244, 324 Xenophon 69, 81, 82, 145
Terillus 317n49 Xerxes 277, 449
Terpander 38, 217
Teucer 82, 126, 127 Zancle 279, 280, 281, 282, 283, 286, 292
Thales 215, 218, 442 Zeus 207, 208, 235, 243, 244, 285, 303, 308,
Thaletas 38 327, 379, 438n137
Thasos 241 Zeuxippus 343
- 978-90-04-51363-1

From Homer To Solon

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From Homer To Solon

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From Homer to Solon

Jonathan M. Hall (University of Chicago)

Jan Paul Crielaard (Vrije Universiteit Amsterdam)

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/mns‑haca

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Bernhardt, Johannes Christian, editor. | Canevaro, Mirko, editor.

Copyright 2022 by Koninklijke Brill nv, Leiden, The Netherlands.

This book is printed on acid-free paper and produced in a sustainable manner.

1 Archaeological Approaches to the Archaic Era 29

2 A Comparative Approach: Early Archaic Greece and Medieval

3 The Homeric Roots of Helotage 64

4 Homer and the Vocabulary of Manumission 93

5 ‘Bought, Not Wed!’ Hesiod and the Aristocratic ‘Peasants’ 115

6 Hippotrophia as Citizen Behaviour in Archaic Greece 139

7 Putting the Citizen in the Citizen-State: Participating in the Early Cretan

8 Inside and Outside the Community: The Role of Political Thinking in

10 Against the Rules: The Plurality of Oikists and New Perspectives on

11 Turannoi in Archaic Greece: A New Phenomenon or a New Name for an

12 Tyrannical and Civic Reception of Homer—A Problem of Sources 330

14 A Failed Tyrant? Solon’s Place in Athenian History 414

Concluding Remarks: Archaic Greece and the Consciousness of

Index Locorum 471

Everything we describe at all could be otherwise. There is no order

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004513631_002 - 978-90-04-51363-1

19 E.g. Schmitz 1999; 2004; 2014; Ulf 2009; Meister 2020.

a new attentiveness to complex networks of interaction,29 as well as to the

29 Malkin 2011; Taylor and Vlassopoulos 2015.

34 Walter 2013; see also Davies 2009.

2 Approaching Early Archaic Greece

44 This approach is fully pursued in Zeller 2020.

45 Luraghi 2002; 2003; 2009.

3 Citizens and Citizen-States

49 On the wider context Meister 2020.

been when and how poleis—already found in the Homeric epics—became

51 See e.g. Vlassopoulos 2007.

57 Duplouy 2019; see also Duplouy and Brock 2018.

do not provide a fully coherent picture, allow us to identify differently con-

59 Itgenshorst 2014; Itgenshorst 2020.

4 Leaders and Reformers

Pseudo-Plato, which deals with the civic appropriation of Homer in Solonian-

62 Van Wees 2001; Duplouy 2006.

Itgenshorst, T. 2020. ‘Intellektuelle Konkurrenz und kanonisierte Weisheit. Konkur-

Archaeological Approaches to the Archaic Era

This chapter summarises my personal view of the most significant recent

1 Cf. for more detailed discussion Bintliff 2012: chs. 8–10.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004513631_003 - 978-90-04-51363-1

4 Popham-Touloupa-Sackett 1982; Lemos 2019.

16 Lang 1996; Westgate 2007; Bintliff 2014.

21 Van Alfen and Wartenberg 2020.

A Comparative Approach: Early Archaic Greece

1 This paper is a condensed version of my doctoral thesis: Zeller 2019.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004513631_004 - 978-90-04-51363-1

2 Archaic Greece as a Historical Period

Modern research has often reduced the Archaic period to a comprehensive

6 See the literature in n. 2.

During the 1980s, an increasing number of scholars started to challenge the

13 Cf. e.g.: Winterling 2006; Hall 2007; Bachmann-Medick 2009.

need to be much better suited to historical modelling. Second, there should be

4 But Why Medieval Iceland?16

16 For a first attempt see: Meier 2010.

24 Especially the Íslendingabók and Landnámabók.

culture in the Sagas of Icelanders. One explanation for a possible transmission

5 The Icelandic Free State Period as a Historical Model34