The Histories and Humanities Journal, TCD, 2010 by Grainne Clear

The Histories & Humanities Journal Volume 1, 2010

Editor in Chief Gráinne Clear

Section editors Jack Clingan Seamus O’Coigligh Katie McCann Secretary Seamus O’Coigligh Treasurer Cian O’Halloran Layout and Design Aoife Crowley Copy Editors Fionnuala Barrett Kyle Hughes Cover Art Cian Markey Sponsorship Committee Ruth Mahony Holly Brennan Suzanne Lawlor Gundula Beeler Committee Francesca Pedri Amy Franck Adrianna Hitchins Michael Larkin Seamus Donnelly Dell Watson

Editor’s note

The foundation of a new publication is always a project which begins with enthusiasm, drive and a huge committee of passionate students. When the idea for this journal was first presented to me, I cannot pretend that I was not a little anxious that everything would fall to pieces as the pressure mounted and we encountered all the problems that come with any new venture. But at every stage, the committee has been willing and exceptionally able to complete every job, whether it be advertising, fundraising, tedious copy editing or attending meetings every couple of weeks to listen to my painfully enthusiastic voice. I cannot compliment them enough for their hard work. I very much hope that this publication will continue in years to come, and hopefully it can be extended to include a History of Art section as originally intended. Sincere thanks again to all of the committee, and congratulations to all of those who succeeded in being published. For those who didn’t make it into this issue, next year is not so very far away. I very much hope that you enjoy the journal, and continue to support this new venture into the future. Omnium rerum principia parva sunt. Gráinne Clear Editor in chief & General Manager

Contents History To What Extent Was the Dutch Revolt a Revolution? Kimberly Moran

What Was the Functionality and Nature of the Violence of the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacres of 1572? Eleanor Farrell

To What Extent Did Scholars of the Thirteenth and Fourteenth Century Enjoy ‘Academic Freedom’? Joan Redmond

Did the Weimar Constitution Lead to the Collapse of German Democracy? Caitriona Dowd

Why were Questions on Anglo-Scottish Union so Contentious During the Reign of James I? 33 Dan Reilly To What Extent is the Two-Risings Theory Applicable to the 1641 Outbreak of Rebellion in Ulster? James Donnelly

Classics Several Aspects of the Aeneid as a Foundation Myth for Rome Cian O Halloran

Vegetarianism and the Greeks Aoife Curran

Comic and Erotic Elements in Theocritus 13 John Schiepers

Christian Persecution Kevin Murphy

“The Son He Never Had”: Zeus’ Parthenogenetic Creation of a Surrogate Son? Melanie Hayes

Archaeology An Analysis of Memorial Erection by Women in Five Graveyards in Co. Monaghan Faith Nolan

Hathor and the Pharaoh: The Iconography of a Dynastic Goddess in Ancient Egypt Aoife Condit

The Methods Employed by the Romans to Provide Water in Rural and Urban Settings Aidan Conway

102

Inlaid Early Mycenaean Daggers Elizabeth Bourke

110

A Commentary on Trajan’s Forum Frank Lynam

115

iii

HISTORY t All careers typically associated with historians tend to involve an extensive amount of writing. It is important, therefore, for undergraduate students to have an opportunity to showcase their work. That is the purpose of this journal and hopefully it will continue to serve this purpose for many years to come. We received a fantastic response to our request for submissions. Many were of a very high standard which made it difficult to choose between them. Our selection process involved identifying those essays which combined strong, cohesive arguments with an accomplished style of writing. We are satisfied that the following essays on Irish, English and European history fulfilled these criteria. Seamus Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Coigligh History Editor

To What Extent was the Dutch Revolt a Revolution? Kimberley Moran

Junior Sophister, History and Politics

eligious oppression under Philip II sparked off the Iconoclastic Riots in the summer of 1566 (Leiden, 1995) which swept the Low Countries and began the long, drawn-out period of warfare now known as the Dutch Revolt. Eventually concluded in 1648 with the Treaty of Munster, the Revolt transformed the political identity of the seven provinces, combined under the name of the United Netherlands (Zagorin, 1982). The concept of ‘revolution’ as promoted by Herbert H. Rowen establishes it as ‘the seizure of the state by a revolutionary party with the aim of total transformation, economic, social, cultural, ideological, and political’ (Rowen, 1990). However, contrary to Rowen’s personal opinion, the Dutch Revolt transformed slowly from resentment towards the Inquisition into a revolution that was guided by the ideological principles of privileges which had previously guaranteed the liberty of the Low Countries. The United Netherlands strove for sovereignty and the establishment of Republicanism along the lines of the Italian States, similar to the principles of Early Modern European thought expressed through the writings of Albada (Van Gelderen, 1992). The idea that the Revolt was essentially ‘backwards-looking’ (Rowen, 1990) rather than forward is an anachronistic approach derived from the concept of modern revolutions. Rather than seeking to liberate the Low Countries from the oppression of a leader in order to institute progress, the Dutch Revolt sought to disregard the policies implemented by Philip II that infringed upon the economic prosperity, political sovereignty, and religious toleration of the provinces. The revolutionary nature of the Dutch Revolt and the development of its political ideology was thus boosted by the irreconcilable differences between the Spanish monarch and his Dutch subjects. This was augmented by the application of the Calvinist ‘Theory of Resistance’ which enabled the establishment of a sovereign Dutch Republic governed along the lines of Italian Republicanism (Skinner, 1978), and protected the liberties which the 2

HISTORY Dutch provinces held so dearly during the eighty years of the revolt. The revolutionary character of the Dutch Revolt was evident from the beginning of the Iconoclastic riots of 1566 which were the first expressions of discontent towards the oppression implemented by Philip II. Although the riots were religiously motivated in an effort to protest against the Inquisition, the relentlessness with which Philip II applied his policies only emphasised ed the irreconcilable cultural differences between the Spanish monarch and his subjects in the Low Countries (Kennedy, 1999). Neither the vehement adherence to Catholicism nor the desire for political control allowed Philip II to easily assimilate the Low Countries into the framework of his Spanish kingdom (Kennedy, 1999). Thus, as the conflict dragged on, the development of concrete political ideology and desire for liberty became inevitable once it became clear that neither side was willing to compromise (Kennedy, 1999). The Dutch people became convinced that the absolutism of Philip II contradicted the privileges that had guaranteed the liberty and sovereignty of the Low Countries in their own affairs, and thus justified the removal of the monarch from his position as leader (Van Gelderen, 1992). Effectively, the transference of power from one monarch to another was, within the context of Early Modern European political thought, innovative due to the deepseated conviction that “hereditary monarchy constituted the only sound form of government” (Skinner, 1978). Contrary to Rowen’s theory that the Dutch Revolt was not revolutionary, the States General effectively seized power through their determination to replace Philip II with the Duke of Anjou in 1581 (Van Gelderen, 1992). This constituted a radical overhaul of the political situation in the Low Countries. The failure of successive leaders to maintain the authority and autonomy of the States-General during the Dutch Revolt sparked the development of republicanism within the United Provinces. The Dutch Revolt is no less revolutionary for having developed accidentally rather than as a result of a genuine political desire to uphold a republican form of government (Rowen, 1990). It was this dedication to the independence of the individual provinces and the unwillingness to accede control to a single ruler that had protected the liberty and independence of the Low Countries and established the momentum for opposition towards Philip II’s government in 1566. In that sense, the failure of successive rulers to establish a satisfactory political relationship with the States-General encouraged the development of political independence to become transformed in accordance with the ‘seizure of power’ (Rowen, 1990) as promoted by Rowen. Although the Low Countries were abundant with economic and cultural riches and amongst the most urbanized of the 3

History European regions at the time, they were severely undeveloped politically due to the lack of a coherent political structure (Zagorin, 1982). Thus, while the Dutch Revolt may not have transformed the Low Countries in all the areas listed by Rowen as necessary to ensure revolution, the fact that the nations were able to digress away from a reliance on a single, unsatisfactory ruler and replace him with a political system based on the liberties and authority of the individual provinces is still, in effect, a revolutionary process. The impetus of the Dutch Revolt was furthermore transformed by the added justification of the Calvinist Resistance Theory in opposing the absolutism of Philip II. The religious oppression under Philip II and the suppression of ‘freedom of conscience’ (Van Gelderen, 1992) provided the initial spark of resistance towards the Spanish monarch and allowed for the development of the Iconoclastic riots into a full revolution. As the Revolt progressed, development of political ideology and the concepts of the Resistance Theory went hand in hand with developing an argument for opposing the rule of Philip II, who, like all kings, “[was] subject to laws and ultimately to the people” (Israel, 1995). In the eyes of Dutch political thinkers of the time, Philip’s Inquisition prevented the promotion of “freedom of conscience [which] was of paramount importance, forming the essence of liberty” (Van Gelderen, 1992), infringing not only upon religious freedom but also, indirectly, upon the freedom of the nation. To that effect, the Calvinist ‘Theory of Resistance’ enhanced the idea that the monarch was entrusted to the people on the basis of a contract – from which Philip II and General Alva’s Council of Troubles had severely digressed, causing widespread discontentment throughout the provinces. However, Philip’s vehement promotion of Catholicism throughout the Low Countries provided fodder for the ‘Theory of Resistance’ by allowing Dutch political thinkers to label him a ‘tyrant’, effectively giving them the justification necessary to legitimately end the contract he had violated. Furthermore, Philip’s staunch defence of the Catholic faith and his unwillingness to compromise with the Low Countries revolutionised the Dutch Revolt because no satisfactory outcome could be achieved for the Dutch if they acquiesced to the demands of the Spanish ruler in the realm of religious matters. From the Iconoclastic riots of 1566, the influence of Calvinism in the Low Countries played a radical role in transforming the development of the circumstances under which the Dutch Revolt was revolutionised. Philip’s desire to eliminate Protestantism in the Dutch provinces through General Alva’s Council of Troubles further enhanced the polarization of sentiments between the Spanish monarch and his Dutch subjects. Religiously, as well as politically, the Dutch Revolt transformed into a conflict of interests between 4

History two irreconcilable views, this allowed for the development of revolution. A revolution further enhanced by the application of the Calvinist ‘Theory of Resistance’ which labelled Philip II a tyrant who had disregarded his obligations towards the Low Countries when he failed to uphold the freedom of conscience that the Dutch political thinkers held as one of the ideological necessities to ensure liberty. The Dutch Revolt had been revolutionised by both strong political and religious sentiments in opposition to Philip II. However, it was the development of a constitutional framework that truly enhanced the status of the Dutch Revolt from a rebellion into a revolution. Although backwards-looking in the sense that the political thinkers of the time relied upon privileges that had been previously granted to the Low Countries in times prior, such as the Joyous Entry of Brabant of 1356 (Van Gelderen, 1992), the adherence to these ideological principles established what the Low Countries were attempting to obtain through the Revolt. During the Dutch Revolt, a “substantial body of Reformed Protestant treatises was published (Van Gelderen, 1992),” emphasising the transformation of interests within the political sphere in the Low Countries. The two main categories of treatises that emerged during the eighty years of the Dutch Revolt dealt both with the political justifications behind rebelling against the tyranny of Philip II as well as providing a constitutional framework for establishing a sovereign government. Both emphasise the revolutionary character of the revolt and exemplify the extent with which the Dutch Revolt had digressed from that of a rebellion into a politically motivated revolution. One of the most important pieces of political thought to emerge from the period was Aggaeus van Albada’s ‘Acts of the peace negotiations which took place in Cologne’ (Van Gelderen, 1992), which was one of the few treatises to connect the Dutch Revolt with “intellectual developments in the rest of Europe” (Van Gelderen, 1992). By linking the Dutch Revolt to Humanist thought and Italian republicanism (Van Gelderen, 1992), Dutch political thinkers were able to solidify the argument against the tyranny of Philip II and the unjust nature of preventing freedom of conscience or other privileges that had been granted to the Low Countries. However, the most revolutionary of the treatises were those of the Union of Utrecht of January 1579 (Van Gelderen, 1992) and the Act of Abjuration of 1581 (Zagorin, 1982), which formally established the independence of the Dutch provinces. The Union of Utrecht formally aligned the seven provinces ‘in all ways and forms as if they were but one province’ (Van Gelderen, 1992), and began the transformation of the weak political unity that had crippled 5

History the Dutch provinces in previous years. The Act of Abjuration was the most revolutionary of the treatises to emerge from the Dutch Revolt, formally renouncing the authority of the Spanish monarch and echoing the sentiments of the treatises and the Calvinist ‘Theory of Resistance’ that determined Philip II had failed to uphold his contract with the Dutch provinces (Blom, 1999). The development of political literature during the Dutch Revolt provided the truly revolutionary character of the revolt, transforming it from simply a rebellion into that of a genuine ideological war for autonomy against the tyranny of Philip II. It was in the realm of political sovereignty that the provinces were desperately lacking and thus, the establishment during the Revolt of a unified political alignment along the lines of Italian Republicanism is indeed revolutionary in itself. Complete seizure of power, as suggested by Rowen, was not necessary for the Dutch provinces as they already contained a sense of liberty and privileges. It was the outrage of the Dutch people towards the policies of Philip II which constricted these privileges that was unsatisfactory for the States-General and the Dutch people thus leading to the transformation of the weakest aspect of the Dutch provinces – their political alignment. The revolution that occurred in the Low Countries between 1566 and 1648 transformed the political structure of the weakly aligned provinces that became the United Netherlands and created the first ‘new nation’ (Zagorin, 1982) of Early Modern Europe. Thus, the consequences of the Revolt exemplify the extent to which it was a revolution, providing a complete overhaul of the Dutch political system and liberating the provinces from Philip II’s oppressive reign, establishing in its stead an independent republic fashioned along the lines of the Italian States. The Dutch Revolt was thus a revolution that liberated one of the most economically, socially, and culturally wealthy territories in Europe, providing a political backbone that allowed the provinces to pursue their interests over the oppressive and thrifty policies employed by Philip II that contravened the interests and beliefs of the Dutch people. Although the political aspect of the Revolt was crippled by a lack of a sufficient political structure to organise and promote the interests of the Low Countries, the Revolt cannot be dismissed as less than a revolution on the basis of Rowen’s definition. The events that took place over the course of eighty years and the development of a political ideology demonstrates the unique circumstances of the Revolt that transformed it from a revolt into a revolution (Zagorin, 1982). Only through the Dutch Revolt were the provinces able to liberate themselves, giving rise to a period of even greater prosperity, the ‘Golden Age’ (Israel, 1995) of the Dutch Republic. 6

History Bibliography J.C.H. Blom & E. Lamberts (eds.), 1999. History of the Low Countries. Trans. James C. Kennedy. New York: Berghan Books. pp. 127-140. T.A. Brady, H.A. Oberman & J.D. Tracy, (eds.), 1995. Handbook of European History 1400-1600: Late Middle Ages, Renaissance, and Reformation. Leiden: Brill. pp. 397-408. Israel, J.I. 1995. The Dutch Republic, Its Rise, Its Greatness, and Fall. Oxford: Clarendon Press. pp. 129-306. Rowen, Herbert H., â&#x20AC;&#x153;The Dutch Revolt: What Kind of Revolution?â&#x20AC;? Renaissance Quarterly, Vol. 43 (1990), pp. 570-590. Skinner, Q. 1978. The Foundations of Modern Political Thought. Volumes 1 & 2 Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. pp. 3-319. Van Gelderen, M. 1992. The Political Thought of the Dutch Revolt. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. pp. 44-287 Zagorin, P. 1982. Rebels and Rulers, 1500-1660. Volume II: Provincial Rebellion, Revolutionary Civil Wars 1500-1660. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. pp. 87-129.

What was the Functionality and Nature of the Violence of the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacres of 1572? Eleanor Farrell

Senior Sophister, History and Political Science

he Saint Bartholomew’s Day Massacre of 1572 remains, to the modern historian, a puzzling event. The brutal – and quite spontaneous – killing of thousands of French Huguenots by their Catholic countrymen is difficult to comprehend from a contemporary standpoint. Multiple theses have been put forward, attempting to attribute the violence of the Massacre to class warfare, social malaise, an ingrained apocalyptic mindset, the friction caused by a decade of religious violence or a deep-seated need on the part of the Catholics for a ritual purification of a society that had become polluted by the spread of heresy. While many of these arguments are convincing it is unlikely that a single one is capable of revealing the true nature or functionality of the violence; an event as complex as the Saint Bartholomew’s Day massacres needs more than a monocausal explanation. While it is difficult to make sense of something that is to twenty-first century eyes essentially irrational, this essay aims to illustrate that the participants of the massacre were responding to incentives that made such behaviour a justifiable and logical option. In order to evaluate what these incentives were, the essay will investigate both psychological influences (religion, purifactory impulses, the feeling that the violence was morally justified) and more material factors also (the impact of the wars, social tensions). It will examine the genesis of the massacres in the provinces, to see what similarities or differences in the events there to those at Paris can tell us about the nature of the violence committed as a whole. The focus will not be on the chain of historical events that acted as a catalyst for the massacres but rather on the underlying factors that 8

HISTORY allowed such violence to happen at all. By this approach, the essay intends to highlight the extent to which the violence of August 1572 represented, to those who engaged in it, both a righteous and a necessary course of action. Both the nature of the violence itself and the social makeup of its participants indicate that there was an accepted rationale behind it. First of all, it is important to bear in mind that the massacres of 1572 were not ‘simple’ killings. The scale and method of the violence were far from being purely functional or utilitarian; the murders were brutal and ritualistic, often involving mutilation, while even figures that were traditionally seen as innocent, such as pregnant women and children, were not spared. A few extracts from accounts of the happenings suffice to illustrate the extraordinary nature of the violence. We are told that “a little baby in its baby dress was dragged about the streets by a belt around its neck by boys aged nine to ten years”, that a crowd in Meaux attacked a prominent local Huguenot, Faron Heren, and “cut off his nose, his ears and his genitals, then gave him many small sword cuts in different parts of his body, forcing him to pass through the crowd.”(Kingdon, 1988, p.38) In Paris, Francoise Lussault broke both her legs attempting to escape her attackers, was dragged through the streets, had her wrists cut off and was impaled on a stake before being finally thrown into the Seine (Holt, 1995, p.86). Even taking into account the fact that the source of information for these events is often Protestant propaganda, the barbarity is impressive. Also significant is the social make up of the rioters; they were not merely a discontented rabble made up of the lowest orders of society, but included respectable professionals, artisans and craftsmen (Davis, 1973, p.53). It is extremely telling that there was (as far as can be told) a lack of remorse after the event. Charles IX claimed (falsely) that the Paris massacre had taken place at his behest, not to take responsibility for a tragedy but in order to claim credit for what was portrayed as a zealous defence of the faith, and perhaps also to present himself as having more control over events than was actually the case. A Swiss student wrote of the king’s “prudence and magnanimity” in ordering the massacre (Diefendorf, 1991, p.105). This is hardly the reaction one would expect had the violence been merely a momentary bloodlust that was afterwards regretted. The fact that the violence spread to the provinces also indicates that it was not an isolated phenomenon but was a response to underlying conditions prevalent throughout much of the country. In attempting to come to terms with the events of Saint Bartholomew’s Day, the most obvious point on which to focus is the religious nature of the violence. After all, religion was the clear dividing line between murderer and victim. The rioters believed that they were doing God’s work and that their 9

History actions were divinely sanctioned. This helps to explain the unrepentant behaviour; a divinely ordered action could not be a sin and held no guilt. One Jesuit preacher described the massacres as the work of “the Angel of God” (Martin, 1973, p.48). Indeed, preachers played a large role in psychologically preparing their audiences for events such as the Saint Bartholomew’s Day massacres and some contend that their provocative sermons were a direct stimulus for popular violence directed against the Huguenots (Diefendorf, 1987, p.399). As a response to the spread of Calvinism Catholic preachers began to place more of an emphasis on explaining Catholic dogma in their sermons and publications, with the effect that the faithful felt more of a personal stake in the theological conflicts of the era and became more readily and actively engaged (Diefendorf, 1991, p.149). Radical preachers such as Simon Vigor made Huguenots the targets of their sermons time and again, portraying them as a threat to the one true faith and French society alike, a cancer in the organic unity of the Church that must be removed (Diefendorf, 1991, p.150). They also preached that disasters and portents were signs of God’s wrath at his faithful continuing to tolerate the existence of heretics amongst them. Continued toleration would, by implication, have catastrophic consequences for both society and the salvation of individual Catholics (Holt, p.403). For sixteenth-century Frenchmen the idea of divine punishment or salvation was always near to their thoughts. Every storm or flood could be a message from God. Denis Crouzet posits that such thinking, alongside a prevalent belief that the End of Days was imminent, created a civilisation de l’angoisse. He sees contemporary pamphlets dealing with strange or prodigious events, prophecies and divinations, as evidence of a littérature panique, which often identified heretics as the harbingers of the apocalypse. It emphasized the idea of an ultimate battle against evil in which all true believers would have to fight, each a “conduit of God’s wrath” (Greengrass, 1991, p.467-9). There is very little evidence demonstrating precisely how widespread such an apocalyptic mindset was, but if true it could have helped to pre-emptively justify actions such as the Saint Bartholomew’s Day massacres. In the light of such ideas, murder became righteousness, with believers wreaking vengeance against those who had sinned against God and had therefore tried to compromise the salvation of the faithful. While the proof for a mass apocalyptic hysteria is, at best, shaky, what is certain is that there was a collective fear among Catholics that Protestantism represented the breakdown of society (Diefendorf, 1987, p.403). This combined a fear of anarchy with an abhorrence of sin, since the social order 10

History was seen as sacred and to pervert it was to rebel against God’s ordering of the world. Huguenot rhetoric, which had become increasingly radical, talked of authority coming from the people rather than a divinely sanctioned monarch, and also of the legitimacy of resisting wicked kings (Holt, 1995, p. 78) Protestant rites ridiculed the mass and profaned the sacred; there were even widespread rumours that sexual intercourse and homosexual activity played a part in their rituals ( Diefendorf, 1991, p. 54). Even the most fundamental institutions of society were under threat; marriage, which was also a Catholic sacrament, held no value for the heretics. A Catholic churchman, Robert Cenau, wrote that “women abandon their husbands and husbands their wives”, while Protestant converts were likened to a husband “turning from his legitimate wife… to chambermaids and whores.” (Racaut, 2002, p.34) Protestants could not be expected to respect even the most basic moral decencies, so that attacking them was a defence of the Church, the sacred social order and even the state itself. Of course, such matters were usually the prerogative of the king and his magistrates. But in the eyes of many Catholics, the authorities had clearly failed in their duties. In the Saint Bartholomew’s Day massacres we see the participants taking on the role of the magistrates, filling in where their government had failed (Davis, 1973, p.61); Coligny’s corpse is given a mock trial by these self-appointed judges (Holt, 1995, p. 87. ). This again helps to explain why the rioters were so convinced that their actions were just. If they thought, even at a subconscious level, that they were acting as pseudo-magistrates then they could not be expected to feel guilty since official violence was legitimate violence. What in other circumstances was murder became execution. Essential to this ‘official’ self-perception of the massacres’ participants was the idea that the king approved of their actions, tacitly or explicitly. On the first night of the killings in Paris, the Duc de Guise was heard to say “It is the King’s command” (Holt, 1995, p.88). While he was almost certainly referring only to the murder of the Huguenot nobles, in which the King was complicit, rumour spread like wildfire. The lack of a coordinated response from the centre heightened confusion about what the King’s wishes were, creating a situation that was easily exploited by the unscrupulous. Animosity towards the Huguenots had of course existed long before the massacres took place, but now these feelings were supposedly being given free reign by the king himself, whose word must be obeyed. In the words of Barbara Diefendorf. “these words transformed private passion into public duty” (Diefendorf, 1991, p.99). This not only legitimized the violence but made participation an obligation. In a sermon preached a handful of months before the massacres 11

History took place, Simon Vigor said that “if the king ordered the Admiral [Coligny] killed, it would be wicked not to kill him” (Diefendorf, 1987, p.408). Despite the king’s attempt to stop the violence from spreading to the Provinces, he was unable to combat the rumour that the massacres were his will. Even respected figures spread word to that effect; the Seigneur du Ruffec rode to Troyes as soon as the Paris massacre began, informing the governor of “royal orders” for the execution of the Huguenots (Benedict, 1978, p.215). Even when the king issued edicts explicitly stating that the Huguenots were not to be harmed it was possible for his subjects to think that they still had royal permission for the killings. After all, rooting out heresy was clearly right and the king, as a defender of the faith, could hardly believe otherwise, whatever petty politics might force him to say. Here was their duty then, but also a chance to righteously release all the pent-up anxieties, anger and fear that had been building through decades of religious war. The violence was also justified by historical precedent. A state war on heresy was no novelty, and in fact we see the example of the extermination of the Albigensian heresy appearing in contemporary writings (Racaut, 2002, p.101-5), while sectarian violence in the wars of religion had perhaps hardened individuals to the thought of killings based on the confessional divide. The pent up fears and frustrations of the Catholic population are key to understanding the mindset that allowed them to perpetrate such heinous acts of violence. Events over the years preceding the massacres had conspired to make the Catholics deeply insecure about their position in society and the future of France. Most obvious was the growth of Calvinism, which had been transformed from a fringe belief into a much more significant challenge to Catholicism in the previous decades. The peace of Saint Germain was seen to drastically undermine Catholic strength, giving Protestants key legal safeguards as well as four strategically important fortified towns. The ultraCatholic Guise faction of court was out of favour, while Protestant leader Coligny was in the ascendant and was even popularly thought to have the king’s ear. Court foreign policy was also a worry, with attempts to create a marriage alliance with Elizabeth I of England, the most famous Protestant monarch in Europe. The marriage of Henri de Navarre to Marguerite de Valois was simply one more incident in a long chain of events unsettling to the Catholics of France (Holt, 1995, p.77). The existence of this insecurity across the country helps to explain the spread of the massacres from Paris. While the incidents there could otherwise have been explained as a tragic fluke sparked by the attempted murder of Coligny, the dispersion of the violence shows it to have a deeper nature. The events 12

History directly preceding the massacre in Paris, while important, were no more than a catalyst acting on forces much more powerful. To demonstrate this it is helpful to examine why the massacres spread to some cities and not others. The affected cities were Orléans, La Charité, Meaux, Bourges, Saumur, Angers, Lyon, Troyes, Rouen, Bordeaux, Toulouse and Gaillac. What all these cities had in common was a Catholic majority with significant Protestant minorities that were seen to pose a threat to the Catholic dominance of the town. Contrastingly, towns where the Protestant population was too small to challenge Catholic authority, or where Protestants were in the majority, such as Nîmes, did not see any violence at that time (Holt, 1995, p.90). The massacres can thus be seen as an attempt to reinforce the supremacy of Catholicism at a time when it had been challenged as never before, giving the violence a definite political facet. Catholics genuinely feared the Protestants, and may have also been motivated by anxiety about reprisal after the first wave of violence had ended – after the initial failure to assassinate Coligny, rumours spread around Paris that the 4,000 strong army camped outside Paris, led by his cousin Teligny, would seek revenge. As well as stoking fears amongst the populace, this probably influenced the royal inner circle in their decision to murder the Huguenot elite. (Holt, 1995, p.84) It is interesting to note that of the towns involved in the spread of the massacre, several of them had been affected negatively by Protestants during the wars of religion. Rouen, Orléans, Lyon, Meaux, Bourges, Angers and La Charité had all been temporarily taken over by Protestants and had been subject to large-scale iconoclasm (Holt, 1995 p.92). Revenge must have played a part in the motivation for violence. The unfortunate Faron Heren, for instance, who is mentioned above, had been an influential official at Meaux during the outbreak of the first war of religion and was responsible for the temporary abolishment of Catholic worship there (Kingdon, 1988, p.38). The massacres provided a chance to right old wrongs and indulge old grudges that had been festering for years. This is seen very clearly in the case of the Gastine cross, in Paris. The cross had been erected as a Catholic monument, to commemorate a ‘triumph’, after tearing down the home of the Gastines, two men who had been executed for holding Protestant rites there. At Coligny’s insistence the cross was removed in order to conform to the requirements of the Peace of Saint Germain in 1571, but city officials did not dare destroy it. Instead it was placed at the Cemetery of the Innocents, nonetheless causing riots among the Catholics of Paris (Holt, 1995, p.79-80). When the Saint Bartholomew’s Day massacre broke out, it was the surviving relatives of the Gastines who were among the first victims (Holt, 1995, p.85)and Richard 13

History Gastine’s sons were made to “[cry] until the blood came out of their noses and mouths” (Diefendorf, 1991, p.102). Some also attribute the need for revenge to class friction, as Protestants were traditionally thought to be formed mostly from the social elite. However, there is little convincing evidence that the victims of the massacre came from any social group in particular (Davis, 1973, p.54). Perhaps the most convincing theory about the nature of the violence of the massacres comes from N.Z. Davis’ classic article, ‘The Rites of Violence’. According to her the major significance of the violence was in its ritual, purifactory role. Protestantism and heresy had infected society and the pollution needed to be removed. A Doctor of Theology wrote in 1562 that “The Calvinists have polluted their hands with every kind of sacrilege.” In order to remove the pollution, participants in the massacre drew from established moral and political traditions (Davis, 1973, p.53-7). In the course of the killings traditional punishments for heresy are acted out. A bookbinder is burned on a bonfire of his books, mimicking the traditional punishment for heresy, burning at the stake (Diefendorf, 1991, p.103), and at least a thousand bodies are thrown into the Seine, echoing the trial by water used to test heretics (Holt, 1995, p.87-8). Davis theorizes that the participants may have seen themselves as clerics, cleansing and purifying society. The violence was an extreme way of preaching. (Davis, 1973, p.55) This is backed up by incidences of forced conversions among the victims and the report of a young woman called Agnes Le Mercier being “baptized” naked in her parents’ blood (Holt, 1995, p.87). The rioters were trying not just to kill their enemies, but to remove their corrupting presence once and for all, to dehumanize them and strip them of everything that made them a threat. (Racaut, 2002, p.24)Hence we see the ritual humiliation of the victims through mutilation. Coligny’s corpse was decapitated, had the hands and genitals removed, was burned and dragged in the street, before the remains were finally thrown in the Seine ( Racaut, 2002, p.24). The need to humiliate and ridicule the victims helps explain the severity and savagery of the violence – simple killings would not satisfy the deeper emotional and ritual needs of the Catholics. In conclusion, the participants in the massacre were responding to incentives in what they saw as a genuine threat to their religion, society and way of life. Years of war, sectarian friction and anti-Protestant preaching had prepared them psychologically to accept such violence as an acceptable mode of behaviour. There was very little to be lost by engaging in widespread violence, since the alternative of tolerating the Protestants peacefully would only ensure divine wrath and the continued breakdown of society. The ‘need’ for such 14

History violence allowed participants to see themselves as clerics and magistrates, doing both God’s work and the king’s, and blessed by both. This adoption of semi-official roles absolved them of any guilt and gave them free reign to indulge their darkest and most violent inclinations. The massacres played a dual role of physically removing an important threat to society while also allowing the threatened society to cleanse itself. The elaborate and ritualistic nature of the violence was designed to remove a corruption, a disease that had been tolerated for too long. As abhorrent as it may seem to modern eyes, the murders perpetrated as part of the Saint Bartholomew’s Day massacres were, to those responsible, righteous, necessary and useful. Bibliography Benedict, Philip, 1978. “The Saint Bartholomew’s Massacres in the provinces”, The Historical Journal, Vol. 21, pp. 205-25. Davis, N.Z., 1973. “The Rites of Violence: Religious Riot in Sixteenth Century France”, Past and Present, no.59 (May), pp. 51-91. Diefendorf, Barbara, 1991. Beneath the Cross: Catholics and Huguenots in Sixteenth Century Paris. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Diefendorf, Barbara, 1987. “Simon Vigor; A Radical Preacher in Sixteenth Century Paris”, The Sixteenth Century Journal, Vol. 18(3), pp. 399-410. Greengrass, M., 1991. “The Psychology of Violence”, French History (5), pp. 467-74, (Review article of Denis Crouzet’s Guerriers de Dieu) Holt, Mack P., 1995. The French Wars of Religion, 1562-1629. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kingdon, Robert M., 1988. Myths about the Saint Bartholomew’s Day Massacres, 1572-1576. Harvard University Press. Martin, A. Lynn, 1973. Henry III and the Jesuit Politicians. Genève : Droz. Racaut, Luc, 2002. Hated in Print: Catholic Propaganda and Protestant Identity in the French Wars of Religion. Aldershot: Ashgate. 15

To What Extent Did Scholars of the Thirteenth and Fourteenth Century Enjoy ‘Academic Freedom’? Joan Redmond

Junior Sophister, History and Political Science

he concept of ‘academic freedom’ is a relatively modern one: the liberty to study and profess any opinions or ideas is one that has come with the relaxation of censorship in the twentieth century. Applying such a concept to the medieval period is clearly problematic, for in one sense academia in medieval times was very limited and had rigid boundaries, set both by authorities and by students’ own expectations. But within these boundaries, some intellectual creativity did occur and students were encouraged to criticise and evaluate. Additionally, we cannot ignore the issue of the freedom of the academic community from the interference of local bishops and other ecclesiastical authorities, and from secular rulers; this became a major issue especially during the Great Schism in the fourteenth century. Bearing all this in mind, can ‘academic freedom’ be said to exist in the later medieval period? This essay will investigate the nature of the academic world in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, examining these issues and the manner in which they affect the ability of students and academics to express themselves. It will highlight the limited nature of any academic freedom in a society so dominated by religion, while also pointing to the opportunities for innovation that nevertheless existed within such restrictions. Ultimately, the essay will attempt to illustrate that - at least to some extent - it is in fact possible to speak of ‘academic freedom’ in the late medieval period. The foundation of medieval education can be traced back to classical times, with the academies and imperial schools of Ancient Greece and Rome. The Greek academies emphasised a well-rounded education for well-rounded in16

HISTORY dividuals, rather than specialised training for a particular career path. (Cobban 1975, 3-4) In turn, Ancient Rome shifted focus onto a more practical training, one for future leaders and administrators. (Cobban 1975, 4) It was this model of education that the early Church adopted, switching imperial control of schools for Church control, with the main aim to produce a body of well-educated clergy that would serve the Church and guarantee its future, just like the Roman Empire’s schools. (Cobban 1975, 6) After the turmoil of the Dark Ages, the increasing stability and prosperity of eleventh and twelfth-century Europe allowed for a re-emergent scholarship and its increasing importance in society. Following on from their classical forbears, the medieval schools increasingly engaged with “re-discovered” classical works, especially Aristotle and his disciples. (Cobban 1975, 6) However, as these were pagan writers their works were viewed with suspicion by the Church, who were concerned with their compatibility with official doctrine and a possible pagan slant appearing in treatises on theology and faith; this Church reluctance and caution in turn affected scholars, so that a less free-ranging study of the classics occurred than what could have been. (Cobban 1975, 7-8) The “twelfth-century Renaissance” and its associated humanist thought failed therefore to form the basis of the emerging education institutions, and thus, a heavily practical Church-and-government orientated curriculum of higher studies emerged to form the basis of medieval education. (Cobban 1975, 8) In terms of lecturing, teaching and studying, it was a strange mix of restrictions and freedom that characterised the university curriculum. Lectures were either “ordinary”, “extraordinary” or “cursory”, with marked differences in the freedom to study broadly between them. The ordinary lectures consisted of detailed, line-by-line analysis of particular works, usually with one chapter dealt with per lecture, and certain books were only to be read in this manner, like the Decretum of Gratian. (Rait 1969, 140-1) However, extraordinary and cursory lectures allowed students to read books that were not prescribed for ordinary lectures, thus providing an opportunity to broaden studies away from the narrow base of set texts. (Cobban 1988, 31) Controversial books that might be prohibited from ordinary lecture courses could be and were read in the course of private reading, so broad and stimulating reading was encouraged, despite the rigidity of lecture courses. (Courtenay, 31) The works of Aristotle were heavily relied upon, especially with new translations of both the works and commentaries on them emerging from Greek and Arabic sources, many discovered from Christian expeditions on crusades. (Rait 1969, 138-9) However, despite this apparent free17

History dom in private study, students were not encouraged to cross the “borders” between subjects, which were strictly defined; there were no “theologising philosophers” or “philosophising theologians”, as interdisciplinary thinking contradicted the rigid notions of the nature of individual subjects. (Thijssen 1998, 2) The role of the student is very much a passive one: he was expected to learn off of certain textual arguments and his lecturer’s analysis of them, rather than investigating his own interpretation. (Cobban 1975, 210) Even bachelors, who were advanced students studying to become masters, were not expected or encouraged to put forward their own determination of texts: they served as masters’ apprentices, and could only assist their master in arguing his analysis. (Cobban 1975, 211-12) Courtenay has noted however, that in the English universities, bachelors reading to become masters had to write their own commentary on Peter Lombard’s Sentences, a key text in theological study. Officially, the students were encouraged to remain within accepted opinions and to employ them in their writing; in practice however, students knew that if they wanted to attract notice as a potential master they needed to attack established opinion and be controversial. (Courtenay, 46-7) So once again there is a disjuncture between official and actual practice, with seemingly very rigid practices that in reality are not as formal. An opportunity for true intellectual inquiry and creativity lay in the disputation. There were several types of disputation, often linked to certain subjects, but the disputation de quodlibet were the freest of them all. Any topic could be put forward for debate, including contemporary ecclesiastical and secular issues; records at the University of Paris show a debate on the trial of the Templars during the reign of Philip IV. (Cobban 1975, 214) However during these debates, including those de quodlibet, students were expected to remain within accepted boundaries, whether religious or political. (Courtenay, 29) However, it has been argued that as scholastic dialectic argument reached its height, the de quodlibet disputes became relatively meaningless and pedantic, less a cutting-edge examination of current arguments than a show of scholastic dexterity by masters and students. (Schwinges 1992, vol. 1) Viewed through modern eyes, there was a fundamental problem at the heart of medieval universities. In a society permeated throughout by religion, university teaching was bounded by the doctrines of the Church, and ideas that challenged established doctrine were quickly suppressed. Regardless of the methods by which students are taught, is it possible in such an environment to talk of true ‘academic freedom’? Undoubtedly, it is important to remember the strict limits under which medieval academia operated. The censures handed down to academics for improper teaching and doctrine show that 18

History ideas challenging orthodoxy were not tolerated. At the same time, academics were not subject to the same penalties as others who proclaimed false doctrine. Masters were exempt from the death penalty, reserved for heresy across Christendom, as decreed by Innocent IV in 1252; penalties for unorthodox views included banishment and a prohibition from teaching instead. ( Levi 2002) In the thirteenth century, there was a high-profile censure of academics by Bishop Stephen Tempier of Paris, which amounted to 219 propositions on theology and philosophy by academics at the university. At the heart of the censure was a conflict between faith and reason, with concern over the examination of philosophy without reference to Christian dogma, and a gravely suspicious idea that there could exist two separate truths - emanating from philosophy and Christianity independently - that were equally valid. In conflicts between reason and faith, in the Church’s eyes, faith always ran true. (Thijssen 1998, 49) The case of William of Ockham was also famous across Europe in the mid-fourteenth century. In 1339 and 1340 statutes were issued forbidding Ockham’s teaching at the University of Paris, as his “non-standard” approach to analysis was open to suspicions of false teaching. (Thijssen 1998, 61) Ockham and his followers were accused of misreading Aristotle through this “false” analytical method; the case represents a good study of orthodoxy against innovation, with orthodoxy gaining the upper hand, as evidenced in the statutes at Paris. (Thijssen 1998, 66) One contemporary writer, Peter of Ceffons, condemned such denunciations of fellow teachers, calling the masters of theology who were charged with discovering heresy as ‘nitpickers’, often finding fault for its own sake and criticising ideas not harmful to the faith. (Thijssen 1998, 89) Ceffons’ disapproval highlights a possible feeling of frustration against the harsh boundaries of what was considered acceptable to teach, and it is probably the case that such constant censuring of ideas can only have negatively impacted academic inquiry and freedom. Masters cautious of having their teaching cited for impropriety would themselves be cautious therefore in their thinking and research. It was considered a “social responsibility” of teachers to instruct according to custom and within orthodoxy, with no “vain curiosities” or unusual avenues of thought allowed in teaching or writing. (Verger 1992, Vol. 1) Nevertheless, it remains possible to speak of some conception of a limited ‘academic freedom’ in this time. For many academics at the time, ‘academic freedom’ concerned the question of the freedom of the university as a whole. Many universities were papal foundations, and there was view held by some Church authorities that universities were a branch of the Church itself, rather than autonomous institutions. (Swanson 1979) The English universities of Oxford and Cambridge 19

History were subject to the authority of the bishops of Lincoln and Ely respectively through the person of the chancellor, the bishop’s representative at the university, and various bishops tried to intervene in or subjugate the university. (Cobban 1988, 278) Bishop Robert Grosseteste of Lincoln tried, through his chancellor, to control who could teach at the university by reserving the granting of the licence as the chancellor’s privilege, and also tried to intervene in the teaching of theology at the university. (Cobban 1988, 278-9) Bishop Oliver Sutton, also of Lincoln, tried to exert his influence at Oxford by demanding that chancellors-elect be subject to episcopal approval; this particular issue raged on into the next century, when Bishop John Gynwell refused to confirm the election of William of Polmorva as chancellor. (Cobban 1988, 278-9) The University appealed to Pope Urban V, and eventually, in 1370, obtained a papal bull that denied the bishop the power to confirm elections to the chancellorship. (Cobban 1988, 283) The University of Cambridge achieved complete independence from ecclesiastical authority in 1430, with a bull from Pope Martin V; their counterparts at Oxford did not gain exemption until 1474, from Pope Boniface IX, possibly due to Oxford’s links with heresies like John Wyclif and Lollardy. (Cobban 1988, 294-298) At the thirteenth-century University of Paris, a similar dispute arose between the masters and the chancellor over the latter’s powers, especially the right to award (or withhold) degrees enabling men to teach. (Cobban 1988, 276) The University appealed to Pope Gregory IX, and obtained the bull Parens scientiarum, which deprived the chancellor, as the Bishop of Paris’s representative, of the power to summarily excommunicate or imprison academics or scholars, and his right to a jail in the university was also revoked. (Thijssen 1998, 8) The bull was issued in 1231, so Paris was relatively early in obtaining complete freedom from outside interference. The growing trend towards the eliminating of episcopal interference can be illustrated by the fact that in the thirteenth century cases of suspicious teaching were decided by the university masters along with the local bishop, while by the fourteenth century, a committee of regent masters of theology, usually with the chancellor as chair, decided such cases; the influence of bishops had waned dramatically. (Thijssen 1998, 9) The issue of the freedom of the university from secular power was also a dominant one, and a good case study of this is the Great Schism of 13781417. Following the Schism, Charles V of France pressured the University of Paris, with its famous faculty of theology, to accept his cousin Clement VII as pope over Urban V. (Swanson 1979, 39) The university as a tool of state and a pawn of policy is clear here; its freedom to deliberate a theological issue 20

History was non-existent when it affected national policy. (Cobban 1975, 119) What served the monarchy served the state, and so the university should follow the royal policy. In May 1379 Charles issued a letter to the University, ordering it to recognise Clement as the rightful pope or suffer severe consequences; the Norman nation within the University declared its support, but the English and Picard nations, as well as the theological faculty, remained silent on their choice. (Swanson 1979, 40) A second royal letter “persuaded” the faculty of theology as to the legitimacy of Clement’s claim. (Swanson 1979, 40-1) The English and Picards again continued their neutral stance as they debated the issue, but the University declared for Clement VII before receiving their support. (Swanson 1979, 41) Debates about the Schism continued even after the University’s official declaration, only to cease abruptly with the threats of Louis of Anjou against the academics. Even before this open oppression the faculties of law and theology tried to suppress any discussion of the issue: a case of academics censoring fellow academics. (Swanson 1979, 41) Louis’s violent curbing of deliberations stemmed from his claim to the Neapolitan throne, sanctioned by Clement VII in favour of Charles of Durazzo: he thus had a personal stake in ensuring visible and steadfast support for his relative the Pope. (Swanson 1979, 42) The Great Schism is an interesting test case, as it shows how universities, despite having freed themselves from ecclesiastical influence, were still subject to secular power, and that secular power had the strength to stifle free discussion of an ecclesiastical issue, even for the faculty of theology. Universities were bound by the doctrines of the Church, and also by the state in some sensitive issues where, like the Schism, careful consideration by men learned in the question could aid in resolving it. Universities’ intellectual freedoms were restricted by dogma and by the state, but in another way students themselves did not contribute greatly to the cause of academic inquiry, due to the nature of education at the time. The student’s view of education was generally very utilitarian: a practical education for a later, lucrative career. (Cobban 1975, 164-165) Students were expected to learn, often by heart, a body of prescribed learning that was delivered through a fundamentally conservative teaching process, of dogmatic analysis. (Cobban 1975, 171) In some of the religious orders like the Franciscans or Dominicans, sometimes students could not even decide what area they would study in: the needs of the order, for example in requiring more teachers, theologians, preachers or lawyers took precedence over the interests of individual students. (Courtenay, 56-7) This emphasis on careers and training for them cannot have much stimulated an atmosphere of creative inquiry: when quick career training was what most students sought, then that was 21

History what the institutions provided. Thus it can be argued that students restricted themselves in their academic journey, creative inquiry sacrificed in favour of practical training for a career. The question of medieval academic freedom is a complex one. Before even beginning to look deeper, it is important to remember the broader context of a society completely directed by religion, and that academics were subject at all times to the doctrines of the Church. They were in some ways ‘free’: the regular disputations did offer some avenues for greater inquiry, especially those de quodlibet, and academics were often not subject to the same severe penalties for teaching false doctrine as other members of society. But their freedom to explore ideas and theories was considerably limited by dogma, and academics like William of Ockham were censured for teaching ideas that were ‘untrue’ in the Church’s eyes. Freedom from both ecclesiastical and secular interference was what academics at the time considered as ‘freedom’ for a university, and many universities did succeed in shrugging off episcopal or papal control; secular control, as shown by the University of Paris during the Schism, was a different, more difficult problem. Finally, students themselves hindered their academic freedom by being driven to seek only a functional, serviceable education for future careers: real academic enquiry was something that was beyond the means of many students. Thus, although medieval education was subject to severe restrictions, it is possible to speak of some kind of freedom within those restrictions, and universities and schools did succeed in producing some great, talented figures despite their limitations.

Bibliography Cobban, Alan Balfour, 1975. Medieval Universities: their development and organization London: Methuen. Cobban, Alan Balfour, 1981.The medieval English universities: Oxford and Cambridge to c. 1500. Aldershot: Scolar. Courtenay, William J., 1987. Schools and Scholars in fourteenth-century England. Princeton (N.J): Princeton University Press. Levi, A. 2002. Renaissance and Reformation: the intellectual genesis. New Ha22

History ven & London: Princeton University Press. Rait, Robert S., 1969. Life in the Medieval University . New York: Reprint. Schwinges, R.C. 1992. ‘Student Education, Student Life’ in A History of the University in Europe, vol. 1, Hilde de Ridder-Symeons (ed.), Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Swanson, Richard N., 1979. Universities, academics and the Great Schism, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Thijssen, J.M.M.H., 1998. Censure and Heresy at the University of Paris 12001400. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Verger, Jacques, 1992. ‘Teachers’ in A History of the University in Europe, vol. 1, Hilde de Ridder-Symeons (ed.) Cambridge: Cambridge University.

Did the Weimar Constitution Lead to the Collapse of German Democracy? Caitriona Dowd

Senior Sophister, History and Political Science

he collapse of German democracy in the 1930s is one of the most intensely studied events in modern European history. A wide variety of scholarship exists positing a link between any number of potential causal factors and the ultimate implosion of the Weimar Republic. This essay will aim to explore one of these potential factors â&#x20AC;&#x201C; the constitution of the Weimar Republic â&#x20AC;&#x201C; and assess the extent to which it was inherently, internally flawed and led to the destabilisation and finally the collapse of the German political system. The significance of this field of study is manifold. On the one hand, it is of obvious interest to try to understand how the first national effort at a democratic republic in Germany was to be replaced by the most notorious totalitarian regime in European history. Furthermore, the institutions of the Weimar Constitution and many of the circumstances in which it was applied are far from unique. Through a better understanding of the reasons for its failure, we might hope to develop broad, general and portable observations and hypotheses about the suitability of constitutional arrangements more generally. It is the contention of this essay that the Constitution was not responsible for the collapse of Weimar democracy, nor can it be said with any credibility that it failed the people of Germany. The Constitution is charged with establishing the framework of political organisation and the parameters within which political actors engage with both each other and the system. However, the Constitution, in essence no more than a written document, cannot ensure obedience within this framework. It is the task of a pro-active and vigilant polity to enforce the parameters of the constitution and an interpretation thereof in keeping with the original vision and intentions of its authors. 24

HISTORY The Constitution of the Weimar Republic provided a theoretically sound, internally consistent and radically democratic framework for the realisation of the republican ideal. It is the tragedy of the German people that its parties and its polity failed to enforce a reasonable interpretation of the cornerstone of Weimar democracy, and accepted instead, the illegitimate actions of the authoritarian anti-establishment faction. Moreover, contrary to some accounts, when we consider the alternatives available to the drafters of the Constitution, we see that many of these would have had similarly if not more disastrous effects on the stability and survival of the Weimar Republic. This thesis will be forwarded by exploring the two most contentious aspects of the Weimar Constitution – firstly, the role of the electoral system; and secondly, the role of the Reichspräsident. Let us turn to the first of these two features now. The electoral system, outlined in Article 22 of the Constitution as being based “upon the principles of proportional representation,” has been much criticised by scholars from a wide range of disciplines. (Hucko 1987, 155-66) Some, such as F.A. Hermens, posit not only a correlation, but a relationship of direct causation between proportional representation and the rise of Hitler. (Hermens 1940) Others have put forward more sophisticated commentaries on the role of PR in Weimar’s political history, primarily concerned with the system’s impact on the number and nature of parties in the parliament. It is certainly true, in general, that proportional representation systems tend to facilitate the entry into parliament of smaller parties, some with extremely limited support nationally; and it is true that specifically in Weimar, the preponderance of small, splinter parties was a feature of the parliament, with as many as thirty parties contesting any one election. (Grofman and Lijphart 1986) (Lee 1998, 18) However, the causal link between multiparty systems and regime instability is much less clear. The fundamental challenge to the Weimar Republic’s parliamentary system lay less in the proliferation of small parties, and more in the ideological camps to which all parties subscribed. In theory, the presence of smaller parties in the Reichstag representing particularist or specific interests is not alone sufficient to undermine regime stability (although it can destabilise stability in forming parliamentary majorities). However, where these parties – regardless of their size – subscribe to diametrically opposed visions of the political system, regime destabilisation is likely. For instance, if a considerable proportion of parties, regardless of their size, are fundamentally committed to the democratic ideal, then even where instability in terms of parliamentary majority formation emerges, the threat to democratic stability overall is minimal. By contrast, where a significant 25

History portion of parliamentary parties are anti-system or otherwise opposed to the existing order, even minor shifts in government formation, party policy, or voter preferences in response to crises, can endanger the underlying stability of the regime. (Linz and Stepan 1978, 35) Lepsius identifies the presence of three deeply entrenched and dramatically divergent conceptions of the political order, firmly institutionalized in Weimar’s party system. (Linz and Stepan 1978, 35) Those competing conceptions are the democratic, the authoritarian, and the Communist, to which Lepsius attributes roughly 45 percent, 35 percent and ten percent of public support respectively in the first two years of the Weimar Republic. (Linz and Stepan 1978, 39) Contemporary constitutional framer Hugo Preuss confirms this tripartite classification of political camps, recognising the presence of a democratic faction in Weimar Germany, alongside “two opposing parties, in whose cross-fire the democratic republican constitution stands with regard to its connection with the social ideal.” ( Jacobson and Schlink 2000, 118) Essentially, the greatest threat to Weimar parliamentary democracy was the preponderance of anti-system parties, rather than the proliferation of parties more generally. Kolb also puts forward the argument that the presence of factional parties was less a threat to the stability of the system than the difficulty of forming coalitions between the larger ones. (Kolb 1998, 151) The Social Democratic Party, as the largest party in the Reichstag, bore primary responsibility for the formulation of viable coalitions, but their concern over electoral losses in the event of cooperation with centrist parties seems to have coloured their policy in this area. (Skach 2005, 52) As a consequence, the SPD essentially removed itself from governing activity from 1923 to 1928, thus rendering the construction of viable, stable pro-system coalitions almost impossible without their cooperation. A further consequence of this policy of non-engagement, is that it pushed otherwise moderate and democratic parties, such as the Centre Party, into coalition with more extreme factions in the parliament. (Skach 2005, 53-4) This served to further aggravate parliamentary factionalism, and drove a number of relatively centrist parties to one or another end of the ideological spectrum where anti-system parties resided in search of government influence. Scholars such as Schanbacher and Hermens have tried to argue that had the Constitution laid out a fundamentally different electoral system – for instance, a majority/plurality single member district model – then the future of the Weimar Republic would have been insured against the ascendancy of the National Socialist Party, as Hitler never managed to secure an outright 26

History majority for his party in the Reichstag. (Kolb 1998, 150-1) Of course it is entirely misleading to systematically re-distribute historical seats in parliament according to the electoral votes won under PR. Electoral voting behaviour varies hugely depending on the system under which people cast their votes, and there is no logical basis to the assumption that under the polarising influence of a majority/plurality electoral system, the ascent of the Nazi Party would not have occurred even earlier. Moreover, it is precisely in ideologically, socially and culturally heterogeneous societies such as the Weimar Republic that many political scientists and constitutional engineers propose the adoption of PR systems, for even though PR can lead to political turbulence, the cost of neglecting the preferences and wishes of a large portion of a divided population under majority systems can prove detrimental to the survival of the system as a whole. (Bingham Powell Jr 2000, 234) (Stein Rokkan 1970, 157) This is particularly true in cases, such as Weimar, where divided minorities’ preferences are extremely intense. In short, it seems the ideological affiliations of the parties in the Reichstag, rather than their composite size or number, undermined stability in the parliament, and not the proportional representation provisions of the Constitution. Furthermore, had an alternative electoral system been outlined by the Constitution, the consequences for the system overall might have been even greater and earlier destabilisation as a result of the potential marginalization and disenfranchisement of a considerable portion of the population. One legitimate, though under explored, criticism of the adoption of a PR system might be the use of list elections in which the parties select the candidates who will represent a given constituency rather than the electorate choosing directly for themselves. It is possible, though we face methodological challenges in attempting to prove this, that given the relatively widespread anti-democratic forces prevalent in Weimar society, the use of list-system elections further undermined the legitimacy of elected officials as it denied a direct link between the electorate and their chosen representatives. (Reynolds, Reilly and Ellis 2005, 36) Let us now look to the second contentious feature of the Weimar Constitution, that is the role of the Reichspräsident. As in the case of electoral system design, the office of the president has likewise been held up to intense scrutiny and criticism by scholars. The Reichspräsident’s term of office was seven years (Art. 43), and it was within the scope of the office to dissolve the Riechstag (Art. 25), to appoint and dismiss the Chancellor and Ministers of the Reich (Art. 53), to delay proposed legislation and put it before the people in a plebiscite (Art. 73) and, most controversially, emergency powers 27

History permitting actions to restore public order in the event of its breakdown (Art. 48). (Hucko 1987, 155-66) A crude assessment of the Constitution contends that the concentration of these wide-ranging powers in the single office of the presidency led directly to the annulment of democratic principles with the coming to power of Hitler in 1933. A more sophisticated treatment of constitutional design, however, would take into account not only the considerable limitations placed on the office of the presidency in the Constitution, but also the role the political community played in failing to enforce these limitations and in accepting the illegitimate usurpation of authority by the Reichspräsident in the later years of the Republic. The office was developed partly in imitation of the much-admired American model in which the three cornerstones of the state were independent and mutually limiting, leading to the formulation of a constructive democratic tension between the executive, the legislative, and the judicial branches of government. (Lee, 17) A Reichspräsident, elected directly by the people to represent the nation at a level above the cut and thrust of volatile and turbulent Weimar party politics, seemed a necessary inclusion to the framers of the Constitution. The office would serve, in their view, not only to curb any possible dictatorship of the parliament, which given its unstable nature could not alone be charged with governance of the state, but also as a figure to unite the populace. (Stolleis 2003, 266-80, 271) The extraordinarily influential social and legal theorist and co-drafter of the Constitution, Max Weber, described the office of the Reichspräsident as “the palladium of genuine democracy.” (Weber 1994, 308) Weber insisted upon the need for a president in order to ensure the unity of the Reich in the face of geographical, ideological and social divisions, while asserting that it lent legitimacy to the political system through its unmediated relationship with the direct will of the people. (Weber 1994, 304) Similarly, the rapporteur on the Constitutional Committee, Dr. Ablass, described the Reichspräsident as emanating from “the undiluted will of the people,” and emphasised the importance of its role as a check and balance against parliamentary power and vice versa. (Hucko 1987, 54) By contrast, Carl Schmitt pithily declared “Sovereign is he who decides on the state of emergency,” although it is more revealing to consider the relationship between the various organs of state authority as the cause of democratic atrophy rather than any one institution in isolation. (Schmitt 1985, 5) The image of a balance of powers between the various organs of governance is an appropriate one, as it implies that if each section of the state apparatus is active, vigilant and assertive, something akin to a constructive fulcrum devel28

History ops between the competing and complimentary branches. By contrast, when one or more branches, in this case the parliament, is weakened by internal divisions and the abdication of responsibility, the dynamic shifts dramatically in favour of power accumulation in one specific area, in the case of Weimar, in the presidency. Skach’s treatment of the accumulation of power in the office of the president recognises this trend as not so much the result of flawed constitutional design, but rather of a pathological dynamic leading to “a circular pattern of presidential emergency rule.” (Skach 2005, 61) Skach proposes a model of self-reinforcing legislative destabilization, whereby divided minority governments resulted in legislative paralysis, as a consequence of which the president came to invoke emergency powers as a substitute for attaining a legislative majority. This led to political parties neglecting their parliamentary responsibility, developing a psychological and systematic familiarity with the regularised use of presidential powers, leading parties, in turn, to tolerate minority governments and/or president-appointed apolitical cabinets (Fachkabinette). This provided a lack of incentives for the formation of coalition governments, which finally, in turn, resulted once more in divided minority government. (Skach 2005, 54) Lepsius lends a further dimension to this argument, by contending that the rejection of parliamentary responsibility which permitted the abuse of presidential powers developed historically as a result of Bismarckian political culture where parties became accustomed to limited policy-making influence. Consequently, parties came to associate effective representation with dogmatic and inflexible approaches to politics, which were not conducive to the formulation of effective and viable governing alliances or the development of active and united policy opposed to the abuse of presidential powers. (Linz and Stepan 1978, 41-2) Contemporary commentators too saw this trend of diminishing parliamentary power, with Franz Neumann charging:

“It cannot be doubted that the Parliament and parliamentary groups are responsible for the decay of parliamentary democracy...Parliament was never anxious to retain its authority. Little by little it lost power, authority and dignity.” (Neumann 1993, 525-34, 532)

The original framers of the Constitution had envisaged serious curtailments on the power of the Reichspräsident, with Weber going so far as to threaten potential presidents with “the gallows as the reward awaiting any attempt to interfere with the laws or to govern autocratically.” (Weber 1994, 305) Strict29

History ly interpreted, Art. 48 allows the Reichspräsident no legislative powers whatsoever, only the freedom to introduce individual administrative acts in the event of serious public disturbance. (Hucko 1987, 161) The dynamic which evolved, however, between a reluctant parliament and a series of ambitious presidents was one which witnessed the gradual regularisation of legislation by emergency decree. Art. 48 came to legitimise any kind of legislation which might be seen as difficult to pass in a divided parliament. By July 1930, when parliament finally acted defensively by refusing to permit emergency budgetary legislation, the concentration of power in the office of the president was so advanced that the president could, without any mass opposition or outcry, simply dissolve the parliament in order to pass the desired legislation. ( Linz and Stepan 1978, 48) This set a precedent which would pave the way for the establishment of dictatorial rule. Similarly, the Constitutional framework lays out a complex system of checks and balances whereby the President is charged with the appointment of the Chancellor and Ministers, but they in turn depend on the confidence of the parliament to operate. (Art. 54) (Hucko 1987, 161) In the case of an active and vigilant parliament, the authority of the president and his cabinet could be checked by parliamentary intervention. In the case of Weimar, however, the parliament adapted to the limitations placed on its power by the President over time, resulting in the appointment of apolitical “technocratic” cabinets under President Hindenburg in the 1930s, which served to consolidate Hindenburg’s own authority and result in legislation which almost entirely by-passed the parliament. (Skach 2005, 57-8) It must be reiterated that these cabinets depended formally on the toleration of the parliament to function, and only the informal erosion of parliamentary authority permitted the emergence of an autocratic presidential rule where a stable and balanced democracy had been envisaged. In conclusion, it has been the purpose of this essay to consider the degree to which the German Constitution of 1919 was responsible for the collapse of democracy in the Weimar Republic. This essay has contended that the formal political framework established by the Constitution was radically democratic and could have potentially helped to realise the democratic ideals of the nascent Republic. However, a Constitution can only outline the parameters of political organisation. It is the responsibility of political actors to enforce these limitations, and in the case of the Weimar Republic, the political actors were so weakened by self-destructive political traditions and their own internal fragmentation as to render them incapable of or unwilling to assert the vision of the democratic Constitution. Instead, the dream of Hugo Preuss, 30

History

Max Weber and others involved in its creation was gradually eroded by inactivity and parliamentary atrophy, at the expense of an active, ideologically more unified and dynamic anti-establishment opposition – first in the form of anti-system parties, and then in the guise of ambitious and reactionary presidents. While it is too rigid to declare, as many have, that Weimar was a republic without republicans, and this led to its ultimate collapse, so too is it hollow to contend that the Constitution did not provide sufficiently for the realisation of a democratic ideal. In reality, the formal framework and institutions for the construction of a republican’s republic were available, but they were not enforced by those who were charged with the protection and preservation of this ideal.

Bibliography Bingham Powell Jr., G. 2000. Elections as Instruments of Democracy. New Haven: Yale University Press. Duverger, Maurice, 1986. ‘Duverger’s Law: Forty Year’s Later,’ in Grofman and Lijphart (eds.), Electoral Laws and Their Political Consequences. New York: Agathon Press. Hucko, Elmar M., 1987. The Democratic Tradition: Four German Constitutions. Berg: Learnington Spa. Kolb, Eberhard, 1998. The Weimar Republic London: Routledge. Lee, Stephen J., 1998. The Weimar Republic. London: Routledge. Lepsius, M. Rainer, 1978. ‘From Fragmented Party Democracy to Government by Emergency Decree,’ in Linz and Stepan (eds.), The Breakdown of Democratic Regimes. London: John Hopkins Press. Neumann, Franz, ‘The Decay of German Democracy,’ The Political Quarterly, Vol. 4, No. 4, 1993, pp. 525 – 43.

History Preuss, Hugo, 2000. ‘The Significance of the Democratic Republic for the Idea of Social Justice,’ quoted in Jacobson and Schlink (eds.), Weimar: A Jurisprudence of Crisis. Berkeley: Univeristy of California Press. Reynolds, Andrew; Ben Reilly and Andrew Ellis, 2005. Electoral System Design. Stockholm: International IDEA. Rokkan, Stein, 1970. Citizens, Elections, Parties: Approaches to the Comparative Study of the Process of Development. Oslo: Universitetsforlaget. Schmitt, Carl, 1985. Political Theology. Cambridge, M.A.: MIT Press. Skach, Cindy, 2005. Borrowing Constitutional Designs: Constitutional Law in Weimar Germany and the French Fifth Republic. Oxford: Princeton University Press Stolleis, Michael, ‘Judicial Review, Administrative Review, and Constitutional Review in the Weimar Republic,’ Ratio Juris, Vol. 16, No. 2, 2003, pp. 266 – 80. Weber, Max, ‘The President of the Reich,’ (February 1919) in idem., Political Writings (Cambridge, 1994).

Why Were Questions on AngloScottish Union so Contentious During the Reign of James I? Dan Reilly

Senior Freshman, History and Political Science

“What God hath conjoined let no man separate. I am the husband and the whole isle is my lawful wife; I am the head and it is my body; I am the shepherd and it is my flock. I hope therefore that no man will think that I, a Christian King under the Gospel, should be a polygamist and husband to two wives; that I being the head should have a divided or monstrous body or that being the shepherd to so fair a flock should have my flock parted in two.” (Smith 1998, p.104)

ith these words, James I set out his ambition for full union between England and Scotland. It was a far more difficult task than he ever could have imagined. The succession of the Scottish King James Stuart upon the death of Elizabeth I in March 1603 established a dynastic Union of the crowns of England and Scotland. The Union itself was no different from similar dynastic unions that had done so much to shape the political map of Renaissance Europe. (Ferguson 1977, p.97)The King hoped that a political and institutional Union would follow the dynastic Union of both countries. He aspired to a Union that would open up the prospect of a new ‘British’ leadership in a Protestant Europe battling to resist the antichrist in the form of the Papacy and a Union that would project an imperial vision of Godly monarchy that could draw on traditional English claims to be an Empire free from Papal control while simultaneously countering Presbyterian autonomy (Macinnes 2003, p.9). Why then, were questions of Anglo-Scottish Union so contentious during the reign of James I and VI? This essay seeks to examine why issues such as James’s personal rule, his relations with the English parliament and reforms in commerce, naturalisation and law, coupled with racial tension between both countries made questions 33

History of Anglo-Scottish Union so problematic. The question of Union dominated the proceedings during James’ first parliaments in 1604 and 1607. James desired a Union of hearts and minds, in which the two nations of England and Scotland would, in an atmosphere of mutual respect, merge into one. Yet it was soon clear in parliament that there was a deep hostility towards James’ proposals (Smith 1999, p.105). The historian David L. Smith believes that “No aspect of James I’s kingship reveals his paradoxical blends of strengths and weakness, of wisdom and misjudgement more plainly than his relations with the English parliament.” (Smith 1999, p.103)It was the King’s clashes with parliament that made questions of Anglo-Scottish union so contentious. James trumpeted divine right monarchy and the belief that Kings were above parliament and the law. Therefore no subject had the right to resist a divinely appointed monarch; allegiance flowed simply from the person of the King and was in no way contractual. Many English MPs, who identified allegiance with law and limits, regarded the notion of a purely personal subjection as offensive (Russell 2006, p.2). In Europe, strong Kings had circumvented, marginalised or eliminated once powerful representative bodies. James would soon feel that his prerogative was being undermined (Bucholz 2004, p.209), while MPs believed that the constitution derived from common law, not from the King. James sought the title of King of Great Britain, France and Ireland ruling over one Kingdom intimately governed with uniformity of laws. Such pretensions disturbed English MPs and the title was refused. In the eyes of many MPs, James’ grandiose ideas about being King of a mythical and undesirable entity called Britain which lacked a clear and defined constitutional existence must have appeared lunacy (Wormald 1996, p.154). James circumvented Parliament’s refusal to grant him the title by unilaterally assuming the title of ‘King of Great Britain’ by royal proclamation. This action along with clashes over the election of officials and royal finance soured relations between King and Parliament. This made the English parliament more determined to defend its ancient rights and privilege, thus making the question of Anglo-Scottish Union not only contentious, but one which dominated parliamentary proceedings for the first two terms. By the end of the 1604 parliament an Anglo-Scottish commission was formed to achieve the impossible, (Ferguson 1977, p.102) a complete Union that would still preserve all the laws, honours, offices and liberties of each Kingdom. It was to achieve this by carrying out three specific reforms; the repeal of the hostile laws and the merging of legal systems, parliaments and churches, the establishment of a free trade “Community of commerce”, and 34

History the naturalisation of Scots born since and prior to March 1603. Debates over these reforms exposed the ancient animosity between both countries and made questions of Anglo-Scottish Union highly contentious. Before one delves into the work of the Anglo-Scottish commission in dealing with these reforms, we must examine the fractious question over the structure of the Anglo-Scottish Union. There were too many ways to make one state out of two. The English members of the commission were willing to incorporate Scotland the same way Henry VIII incorporated Wales with the formation of one Kingdom entirely governed without disrupting English practices. Scotland however rejected the idea of the Welsh model of incorporation because they feared that their parliament and Privy Council would be swallowed up by their larger and more powerful English counterparts. They were also frightened by the prospect of being governed by a viceroy fearing that they would become a conquered and enslaved province like Ireland. The Scots preferred a loose personal Union and a federal arrangement that was difficult to fit into the English constitutional idea (Brown 2008, p.19). The structure of a future Anglo-Scottish Union became contentious for both countries. There was a fear among Scots that they would lose their Independence and become a subject nation. For the English there was a marked aversion to accepting any arrangement for a Union that neither accorded supremacy, nor deferred ultimately to common law as the basis of their parliamentary privileges (Sharpe 2006, p.10). The issue of law and the merging of Scottish and English institutions was one of the most contentious questions of the Anglo-Scottish Union. Sir Francis Bacon believed that both churches and parliaments might be induced to merge, but to his legal mind the two systems of law presented a difficulty. Scottish law was beginning to be shaped by Roman principles while English reverence for common law and the supremacy of statute made them suspicious of any Union of jurisprudence (Bucholz 2004, p.206). In Scotland, nothing analogous to the English freehold had developed. Lawyers considered that any attempt of assimilation of Scots into this sphere of law would lead to appalling problem (Ferguson 1977, p.101).The proposal to merge both national churches led to strong opposition from the Scottish parliament, who regarded such a merger as a means of enforcing Anglicanism. In the end, no real effort was made to fuse the laws of England and Scotland. The failure to overcome the obstacle of different institutions and legal systems exacerbated the already contentious nature of the Anglo-Scottish Union. English interests, however, tended to predominate in Scotland through royal prerogative. It was the King of England acting as the King of 35

History Scots who imposed Anglophile policies on another Kingdom, not the English nation acting in its corporate capacity, its laws and statutes having no effect (Ferguson 1977, p.105). The formation of a “Community of Commerce” became a highly contentious aspect of the Anglo-Scottish Union. Opposition arose with important English trading interests inveighing bitterly against free trade. Their logic; when a poor Kingdom was yoked to a rich one there was only one way the money would flow (Miller 2004, p.49). English merchants protested at the idea of Economic Union fearing that the Scots would be on hand whenever a bargain was to be made in England, but would disappear across the border when taxes were due. James I had no great grasp of Economics and his predecessor Elizabeth I left a Kingdom grumbling over high taxes, debt, monopolies, purveyance and wardship. Since the Commons could no longer trust the King to deal with such issues, the lack of support for greater economic integration between England and Scotland is unsurprising. Since the English sense of national identity was so strongly tied to their sense of legislative sovereignty, it is not surprising that some of the bitterest intellectual battles of the Union were fought over the issue of naturalisation (Russell 2006, p.2). One can trace James I’s idea of a ‘British’ citizenship in an address in May 1603. “Two realms as presented united and the subjects of both realms as one people.” (Kishlansky 1996, p.79) Both nations were still poles apart and still animated by ill-worn born of centuries of bitter antagonism (Ferguson 1977, p.103). There was a fear among the English that ante nazi citizenship (citizenship accorded to Scots born prior to the accession of James I to the English throne) would cause an influx of Scots into England who would monopolise James’s person and take a disproportionate amount of patronage for themselves (Smith 1998, p.105). The English viewed Scotland as a nation of beggarly peasants living off robbery. The King’s generosity to favourites whose sole merit was their nationality made the Scots more unpopular than ever (Davis 1989, p.9). Ironically, it was this contempt and hostility towards Scotland that made the King all the more eager to seek sanctuary among his Scottish hunting and drinking friends, thus securing Scottish dominance of the royal bedchamber for over a decade (Miller 2004, p.49). This in turn fuelled English resentment. The King defended claims that he was favouring his Scottish subjects by claiming that his Scottish courtiers profited from personal largesse rather than public office (Miller 2004, p.50). One can certainly see evidence of this in an agreement with English lawyers in 1604 not to give Scots legal positions or English parliamentary seats. While the scale of favouritism to Scots may have been exaggerated, the 36

History perception that Scots were being appointed to government positions at the expense of Englishmen resulted in uproar. In addition to that, Scottish dominance of the political heartbeat that was the royal bedchamber certainly made the issue of Anglo-Scottish Union more contentious. It justified the English fear that “The King had swept down from his poor Northern Kingdom accompanied by the ‘hungry Scots’ who saw England as a treasure to be plundered.” (Bucholz 2004, p.206) In the year 1606 the King ordered a new Union flag to be flown from royal and merchant shipping. The new ‘British’ flag became a symbolic reminder of the confusion which surrounded the notion of ‘Britain’ (Wormald 1996, p.154). The message was not just imprecise but also confusing. James I hoped that the English and the Scots might come together and like one another. This largely failed given that both sides engaged in persistent banditry, marauding at will and re-enforcing cultural stereotypes and ethnic animosity (Kishlansky 1996, p.78). It was the very concept of ‘Britishness’ that made questions of Anglo-Scottish union so contentious during this period. How could you impose ‘Britishness’ over two islands with four distinct peoples, each with a separate sense of identity (Wormald 1996, p.155), all of whom had varying degrees of contempt for one another. While the debates of the Anglo-Scottish commission exposed the ancient hostility between both countries, one also has to examine the personality of James I. James was often regarded as a successful Scottish King. The secret of his success was that he recognised the limitations of the Scottish crown and acted within them. He left institutions without clear lines of authority and this made his personal intervention indispensable in times of crisis (Kisklansky 1996, p.79). James, however, was inexperienced in dealing with a stronger legislature like the English parliament. In one sense, his success in Scotland proved to be a handicap (Loades 1999, p.280). The Scottish Parliament had neither the same political muscle, nor the same sense of its own importance as its English counterpart (Loades 1999, p.280). How could James’s success in governing the Scottish polity be reconciled with the received view of him in England as a would-be absolutist, a slobbering drunkard, a coward and a lazy debauchee who preferred hunting, extravagance and homosexual affairs to the business of ruling (Smith 1998, p.29). This sharpened the criticism of the court and diminished the authority of majesty which depended as much on style and image as on the talents and policies of the ruler (Sharpe 2006, p.210). It was James’s pedantry, clumsiness and inexperience in trying to apply divine-right monarch practice to the English King-in-parliament arrangement that would promote suspicion and conflict with the English 37

History parliament (Bucholz 2004, p.209). To many of his English subjects, James was an insensitive Scot who demanded affection and welcome from his English subjects to Union with Scotland (Wormald 1996, p.149). Limited though it was in itself, the fortuitous dynastic Union would, in time create conditions that were to reduce the independence of Scotland almost to the level of legal fiction (Ferguson 1977, p.97). Four years of fitful negotiations by the Anglo-Scottish commission foundered on the back of English concepts of political hegemony, parliamentary sovereignty and the age-old distrust and hatred between both nations. It was these crucial factors that made questions of Anglo-Scottish Unity so contentious during the reign of James I. If parliament failed to produce a union of hearts and minds, it at least left him painfully aware of what English hearts and minds were feeling (Smith 1998, p.106). The failure to achieve even the watered down version of Union proposed by the commissioners, soured relations between King and parliament for the next decade and bred a mutual distrust that enabled misunderstanding to grow into conflict and conflict into hostility (Kishlansky 1996, p.82). Bibliography Brown, Keith, 2008. ‘Monarchy and Government in Stuart Britain’. In Jenny Wormald, ed. A Short Oxford History of the British Isles, The Seventeenth Century. Oxford: Oxford University Press, pp. 13-51. Bucholz, Robert & Key, Newton, 2004. Early Modern England. A Narrative History, 1485-1714. Oxford: Blackwell Publishers. Davis, Godfrey, 1989. The Early Stuarts, 1603-1660. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Ferguson, William, 1977. Scotland’s Relations with England. A Survey to 1707. Edinburgh: Donald. Kishlansky, Mark, 1996. A Monarchy Transformed-Britain 1603-1714. London: Allen Lane. Loades, David, 1999. Politics and Nation-England, 1450-1660. Oxford: Blackwell Publishers. 38

To What Extent is the ‘Two Risings Theory’ Applicable to the 1641 Outbreak of Rebellion in Ulster? James Donnelly

Senior Sophister, History and Political Science

he use of ‘two risings’ as a means of explaining the development of the 1641 rebellion is far from a definitive version of events, rather it is a historiographical idea that has arisen from the study of the early months of the rebellion. The idea that there were two rebellions had been a popular assumption on the ground at the time of the rebellion. This idea was re-visited by a number of Catholic writers in the aftermath of restoration as a means of excusing Catholic peers and gentry in an attempt to allow them to have their land and estates returned. In many ways the historiography of the rising has been influenced and crafted by the few sources that exist for this period. Indeed, the first history of the Irish rebellion, written by Sir John Temple, who served as Master of the Rolls in 1646 was undoubtedly shaped by the Depositions of the Protestant refugees made homeless by the rising. With the dispute still raging between Parliament and Charles I, no Catholic response was forthcoming over the months that followed. However, in the aftermath of the Restoration of Charles II in 1660 the Catholics of Ireland, specifically those who would have been considered the ‘Old English’ attempted to justify their actions. This debate developed in the 1670s and 1680s with Richard Bellings and Nicholas Plunkett offering interpretations opposed to those of Temple and Edmund Borlase. This paper will first look at how these writers formed the idea of a ‘two risings theory’. It will then examine the manner in which this can be applied to Ulster before looking briefly at how ‘two risings theory’ applies to other parts of the country. The earliest interpretation of the 1641 rebellion was John Temple’s The Irish Rebellion. Temple laid the blame for the plot squarely with the “Popish lawyers as were Natives of the Kingdom and 39

History those of the Romish clergy”. The reference to ‘popish lawyers’, implicates the Old English in the plot, their motive, to “redress their pretended grievances” (Temple, 1646). The accusations of clerical involvement in the initial plot were in many ways unfounded but this helped to fuel popular misconception in England. Edmund Borlase was the son of John Borlase, lord justice from 1640- 1643. Vehemently anti-Catholic, he took the opinion that the Old English had been attempting to maintain the pretence of loyalty, in order to secure the maximum possible advantage. The Old English argument centred on the claim that the decision to join the rebels was not a ‘choice’ each gentry member had to make but a course of action they were pressured into taking by a situation outside their control. A primary reason Nicholas Canny identifies as contributing to the longevity of the Irish Rebellion by Temple, was the failure of the Catholic rebels to make some sort of defence of their decision to join the northern rebels (Canny, 2001). Richard Bellings, a key Old English figure for the duration of the Catholic Confederation had by his death in 1677 composed a history of the Confederate Association. Bellings’ work offered a commentary on the association and ‘exonerated’ the Old English from the actions they had taken throughout the 1640s. As a figure closely connected to many within the Pale gentry Bellings was ideally placed to present the Old English position (O hAnnrachaim). He argued that ‘distrust, aversion, force and feare’ united the Old English with the northern Gaelic Irish rebels, but that this only came about as a last resort. Bellings is critical of the Lord Justices who ‘would make to destroy them (Catholic Landowners)’ and states that when the Ulster rebels went into rebellion the gentry of the Pale ‘beganne to consider the eminent and extreame danger to which they lay exposed’ (Gilbert, 1882-91). Nicholas Plunkett had like Bellings played a leading role in the Confederate Association, though he initially opposed the rebellion in Ulster he attended a meeting on December 24 1641, at the Hill of Tara between the Lords of the Pale and the Ulster rebels. He did not, however, definitively back the Confederate Association until late September 1642 (O Siochru). Plunkett furthered the idea of the ‘two risings’ model when he described the Ulster rebellion of 1641 as ‘only the act of a few persons of broken and desperate fortunes’ and supported by a ‘rude multitude’ (O Siochru, 1999). Plunkett developed the idea of ‘two risings’ still further by ‘drawing a clear distinction between those born “of English extraction and those born in Ireland. (O Siochru, 1999)”’ Plunkett, Bellings and other Catholic writers in this period have helped create the ‘two risings theory’. This essay will attempt to examine the theory playing particular attention to Ulster but also examining its use40

History fulness as a framework to better understand the 1641 rebellion. The ‘two rising theory’ claims that there were two separate and simultaneous risings taking place in Ireland in 1641. The two primary adaptations of this theory have been presented best by Pádraig Lenihan. The more ‘traditional model’ adopted for the rebellion, a geographic one, stated that the rebellion broke out in the north and spread south until the defeat of the government at Julianstown on 29 November 1641 when the southern gentry and peers eventually sided with the northern rebels. A second ‘social model’ presents the rising as a popular revolt breaking out across the country in the two weeks following the rising in Ulster. Having ‘radiated’ out of Ulster, it then ‘proceeds upwards in the social scale’ (Lenihan, 2000). It is necessary to develop a more full understanding of ‘two risings theory’ and exactly how it developed before proceeding to look more closely at the manner in which the rebellion developed in Ulster. It should then be possible to examine ‘two rising theory’ in Ulster through the more detailed local studies of the outbreak of rebellion in the Pale and among the various Old Irish gentry, here specific reference will be made to the control exercised by the rebellion leaders and the motivations behind these situations. When examining the case of Ulster during the 1641 rebellion it is necessary to examine the nature and development of the rebellion during its initial months. The rebellion itself had been planned by a small number of the leading Catholic landowners in Ulster, mostly descendents of the old Gaelic order. This autonomous network of powerful families captured key forts and settlements across central and south Ulster through independent action. Whether it was the O’Neills in Tyrone and Armagh, the Maguires in Fermanagh, the MacMahons in Monaghan or the O’Reillys in Cavan, the Gaelic lords of Ulster joined together to attempt to achieve two critical aims; the overturning of the plantation and attaining the freedom to practice religion (O Doibhlin, 1988). On 22 October 1641 the rebels had in a matter of hours taken control of a vast swathe of central and southern Ulster led by Sir Phelim O’Neill. Although a relative latecomer to the plot Sir Phelim O’Neill signalled the start of the rising, seizing Charlemont fort from Sir Toby Caulfield. Indeed, the manner in which the castles were seized throughout mid-Ulster on the night in question tells us some important information in examining ‘two rising theory’. The seizure of Dungannon and Mountjoy forts has been examined closely by both Pádraig Lenihan and Father Eamon Ó Doibhlin, both noted the manner in which the old Gaelic networks were used to control and manage the early stages of the rebellion at a local level and later how these families 41

History formed the backbone of O’Neills army (O Doibhlin, 1988). The O’Donnellys took Dungannon castle for Sir Phelim, while the O’Quinns seized Mountjoy fort, both septs would go on to feature prominently in O’Neill’s army. Both families had been critical supporters of the O’Neills for hundreds of years and the presence of soldiers he could trust to maintain discipline was a key factor for O’Neill. Indeed sept loyalty was critical in army formation as could be seen when Rory Maguire took ‘4,000 men’ from Fermanagh to try and secure west Tyrone (Percival-Maxwell, 1994). Across Ulster similar risings took place, however, the plot to take Dublin castle led by Conor Maguire, Lord Enniskillen and Hugh Oge Mac Mahon from Monaghan failed due to the betrayal of the plan by Owen O’Connolly. Having seized south and central Ulster, Canny believes O’Neill and the other Catholic landowners hoped this would put them in a position of strength which would allow them to negotiate directly with the king ‘over the heads of the Dublin government, the English government and the Scottish Covenenanters’ (Canny, 2001). However, at this point Canny also states his belief that Sir Phelim O’Neill no longer had control over the ‘pace of the action’, in spite of attempts to give ‘direction’ and ‘moral purpose’ to the rising. As the natural leaders of the Ulster Irish challenged the established order, other groups of Ulster Irish society with different grievances and sometimes not mutually exclusive grievances followed suit (Canny, 2001). The rebellion started by the Ulster lords triggered popular local risings launched sporadically over the next week. In addition to the risings in Ulster, violence also broke out in Leitrim, Longford and Mayo within a matter of days. By November and prior to the battle of Julianstown, violence can be found in Tipperary, Wexford, Wicklow, Louth and Meath (Percival-Maxwell, 1994). Indeed it has been noted by Perceval Maxwell from closer study of the Depositions that by 29 October 1641 some members of the gentry may well have been involved in some isolated incidents of ‘popular violence’ (Percival-Maxwell, 1994). When examining the notion of a two rising theory in Ulster, perhaps the single most important area of study is that of the popular violence that proceeded the events of 22 October 1641. The Depositions, perhaps the single most important source for research of this area and several detailed analyses provide an insight into Ulster counties in this period. In her study of Armagh, Hillary Simms described the deposition accounts of a series of events that take place in the north Armagh area over the course of the first year of the rebellion. It is unclear however as to the extent of the knowledge possessed by Sir Phelim O’Neill on the numerous attacks and massacres at this point. It could be argued that while the violence had no central direction 42

History or planning, it was O’Neill’s local military leaders that were responsible for this rather than Sir Phelim directly. Simms states that ‘the massacres were often carried out by local rebels apparently spontaneously rather than as part of a “general policy of extermination” (Simms, 1993). Indeed Simms suggests that ‘unequal relationships’ between the Irish and the settler must have been a critical motivation for the Irish in fighting with Sir Phelim O’Neill (Simms, 1993). It might be claimed that O’Neill did orchestrate violence but there is certainly no comparison between O’Neill’s apparent level of complicity in the murders and massacres that his local leaders oversaw and the level of direct input that the Maguires appear to have had in Fermanagh. Studies of the rising in Fermanagh have demonstrated that ‘two rising theory’ did not apply to Fermanagh and that the Irish gentry rose with the “meaner sort of people” (McCoy, O Siochru, 2008). A look into the deposition of Ann Booths demonstrates the apparent complicity between the Irish gentry and those who were involved in the’ popular rising’. The deposition states “by the hande action & meanes of Captaine Rory Maguire... and other Irish Rebels... that she her husband and two children were all stiprt & all theire Cloathes taken from them”. This deposition goes on to state on three separate occasions that Rory Maguire had been complicit in the violence directed against the settler population (McCoy, O Siochru, 2008). Indeed the nature of the early rising in Fermanagh would appear to have been more violent than the early stages of the rising in mid-Ulster. Raymond Gillespie’s study of the murder of Arthur Champion, a Dublin merchant and justice of the peace for Fermanagh and other leading settler figures has shown that from the very outset the Gaelic figures responsible for the rising in Fermanagh used a great deal of violence to enforce their plans. Donn Carrough Maguire, Edmund Carrough Maguire and Thomas Óg Maguire are closely linked to this violence prior to joining ‘a larger group of rebels under the command of Rory Maguire’ (Gillespie, 1993). The evidence presented in the Fermanagh case has shown that rather than popular violence following the outbreak of rebellion in Ulster, the violence in Fermanagh was very much orchestrated and directed by the Irish gentry and their local leaders. However, in the case of O’Neill in north Armagh, there is little evidence to show a direct connection between O’Neill and the murders and massacres that beset the area at this time, most notably the massacre at Portadown bridge. The evidence that exists, is wholly unreliable given that one of the only two people that claimed to have witnessed the massacre had been in Fermanagh when the massacre took place (Simms, 1993). One of the most insightful studies into the reasons for the popular rising, ‘Religious Violence Against Settlers in South Ulster, 43

History 1641-2’, by Brian Ma Cuarta examines the ‘religious animosity latent’ within seventeenth century Irish society. MacCuarta is able to show that religious violence is not confined to the lower classes at this point. He uses two key examples; one is the hanging of four Protestant clergymen in Armagh prior to O’Neill abandoning the city as the Scottish army approached. It is doubtful whether this would have happened without Sir Phelim O’Neill’s advance knowledge (MacCuarta, 2007). In order to fully analyse the ‘two rising theory’ it is necessary to look at it in the context of the entire island. The rebellion may well have begun in Ulster, but within days it had spread to many isolated areas in the south of the country. There are even cases of the Old English gentry lending their support to attacks on Protestant property at a relatively early stage (Perceval-Maxwell, 1994) . Indeed, there is evidence that the lower and middle ranking gentry had already supported the Ulster Irish, particularly in Louth (PercevalMaxwell, 1994). The decision of the leading gentry men to join the Ulster rebels took some time to arrive and even when it did this did not come about en masse, rather it happened over a period of months with some significant figures such as Nicholas Plunkett and Ulick Burke, Earl of Clanricarde not committing their support to the rebellion until the summer of 1642. The decision of the Old English gentry came about primarily because a choice between the Pope and the King “could no longer be avoided” (Clarke, 1966). A problem for the Old English noted by Aidan Clarke was the “external incompatibility of a heritage and environment” (Clarke 1966). In 1641 the decision taken by the Ulster Irish to rebel had forced the Old English gentry to make a decision between their spiritual loyalty and their temporal loyalty. There were several key events that eventually convinced the Old English that their needs were best served negotiating with the King from a position of strength. In the immediate aftermath of the Ulster Irish decision to rebel the Irish Parliament had been due to sit. However fearing what may happen the session was prorogued despite some trenchant efforts to the contrary (PercevalMaxwell, 1994). The success enjoyed by the Ulster Irish army at the battle of Julianstown against government forces saw many of the Pale gentry join with the rebels. Having led negotiation with the Old English, Rory O’More finally convinced them that the rebels were loyal to the king and they met at the hill of Crofty on 7 December to agree to join together. One of the key reasons for this decision was the use of violence by the Lord Justices and by Sir Charles Coote in Wicklow against the native population. For example, Clanricarde, although initially upset with the Lord Justices for not provid44

History ing him with the means to counter the rebellion, was eventually convinced to join the rebels due to the violence employed by those very same men (O Siochru, 1999). The popular rebellion only reached Cork and Kerry at the beginning of 1642, the stability in the region is attributed to the influence of Donough MacCarthy, Viscount Muskerry. The decision of Muskerry to join the rebellion is perhaps the best example of the ‘two rising theory’. Although initially opposed to the rebellion, Muskerry joined the rebels due to the reaction of the Lord Justices. “I have [seen] such burning and killing of men and women and children, without regard of age or quality, that I expect no safety for myself ” (Perceval-Maxwell, 1994). Perceval-Maxwell states that ‘the violence seems to have moved up the social hierarchy in stages, beginning with a popular riot, thereafter by the gentry and then by elements of the peerage. It would appear that the ‘two rising theory’ may well be a useful model for analysing the rebellion particularly outside of Ulster. The manner in which the rebellion spread up the social ladder from the popular protests of the lowest social classes, to the gentry, and then into the peerage is particularly pronounced in the southern counties and provinces. By comparison, however, the picture of Ulster is far from clear cut. The fact that the gentry triggered the rebellion in Ulster and noted figures such as the Maguires of Fermanagh were closely linked with much of the violence in their county would tend to question the validity of ‘two risings’ theory, in this instance at least. For the rest of the island, the ‘two rising theory’ is a much more useful framework for explaining the 1641 rebellion. The manner in which the government in Ireland responded and the threat posed by Scotland and England eventually convinced the leading figures in Old English circles to join the Gaelic Irish in rebelling. Some motivating factors may well have been different, the Old English seeking to maintain the land they owned and the Gaelic Irish seeking to regain the land they had lost but the one bond they had was the desire to see toleration of their religion.

Bibliography Borlase, Edmund, 1680. The history of the execrable Irish rebellion trac’d from many preceding acts, to the grand eruption the 23 of October, 1641: and thence pursued to the Act of Settlement, 1662. London 45

History Bellings, Richard, 1882. History of the Irish Confederation and the war in Ireland, 1641[-1649] containing a narrative of affairs of Ireland. Dublin Temple, John, 1646. The Irish rebellion : or the history of the beginning and first progress of the general rebellion raised within the kingdom of Ireland, upon the three and twentieth day of October, 1641. Dublin Canny, Nicholas, 1995. ‘What really happened in Ireland in 1641?’ in Ohlmeyer, Jane (ed), Ireland from Independence to occupation, 1641- 1660. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. pp. 22-42. Clarke, Aidan, 1996. The Old English in Ireland, 1625-1642. London: MacGibbon and Kee. Gillespie, Raymond, 1986. ‘The End of an Era: Ulster and outbreak of the 1641 rising’ in Brady, Ciaran and Gillespie, Raymond (Eds), Natives and Newcomers: Essays on the making of Irish Colonial society, 1534- 1641. Dublin: Irish Academic Press. pp. 191- 214. Mac Cuarta, Brian, 2007. ‘Religious violence against settlers in south Ulster, 1641-2’ in Edwards, David, Lenihan, Pádraig and Tait, Clogagh (Eds), Age of Atrocity: Violence and Political Conflict in Early Modern Ireland. Dublin: Four Courts Press. pp. 154- 175. McCoy, Charlene and Ó Siochrú, Micheál, 2008. ‘County Fermanagh and the 1641 Depositions’ in Archivium Hibernicum: Irish Historical Records, 68. pp. 62-77. Ó Siochrú, Micheál, 1999. Confederate Ireland 1642- 1649: A constitutional and political analysis. Dublin: Four Courts Press. Simms, Hillary, 1993. ‘Violence in County Armagh, 1641’ in Brian Mac Cuarta (ed), Ulster 1641: Aspects of the Rising. Belfast: Queen’s University of Belfast Institute of Irish Studies. pp. 122- 138

Classics t

The Classics section of the journal was blessed with a host of interesting, erudite, and well-written submissions. However, the limitations of space necessitated the selection of just five articles. In their essays on ancient vegetarianism, religious persecution, Theocritean humour and eroticism, the image of the father in Homerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s epic and Virgilâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s foundation myth of Rome, our chosen contributors have addressed a wide range of subjects and themes which together demonstrate the scope and variety inherent in a study of the Classics. I trust you will find their work both stimulating and entertaining. My thanks go out to all those who made my job so difficult in submitting such a talented selection of essays, to our chosen contributors, Aoife, Kevin, John, Cian, and Melanie, to the Classics Department for their help and advice and especially to our Editor-in-Chief, GrĂĄinne for all the hard work which made this journal possible. Jack Clingan Classics Editor

Several Aspects of the Aeneid as a Foundation Myth for Rome Cian O’Halloran

Junior Sophister, Ancient History and Archaeology

oundation stories are a common form of narrative throughout antiquity, seen particularly in relation to the Greek cities. We can make a distinction between those where the inhabitants are autochthonous, such as that of Athens, and those where they have arrived from elsewhere, such as Cyrene. While the Aeneid bears elements of both these types, there is an even stronger resemblance to the nostoi, or the returns of the Greek heroes following the siege of Troy. Naturally there is a difference in that Aeneas is a Trojan rather than a Greek and a hero who is not returning home but seeking a new one. The similarity I see here is that we have heroes and mythology “superimposed onto ethnic identities and territories”, particularly for the purposes of aetiology (Malkin 1998, p.7). I shall follow this similarity throughout this essay, examining the interaction of these ethnic identities with territories and religion. I will look at how they act together to give strength to the Aeneid as a foundation myth for Rome, a city whose physical foundation we do not actually see in the poem. As such, examining how these factors work within the framework of how time is portrayed by Virgil (whose specific authorial voice I shall henceforth refer to as the narrator) is also relevant. Initially there is some seeming confusion over what exactly Aeneas founds. At the very start of book 1, even before we learn of Aeneas’ name, we hear in a statement from the narrator that he founded the Latin people (Aen.1.6). Yet as we see in books 7 to 12, the Latins derive their name from King Latinus, being referred to as such by the king himself (7.202). It appears difficult to reconcile the seemingly unambiguous narratorial statement with this later evidence but the possibility emerges that in this the narrator is referring to Jupiter’s decree that the new race born of the mingled Trojans and Latins 48

Cl assics shall retain the name of the latter (12.837) (Syed 2005, p,205). This mingling of ethnicities is key to the foundation of Rome and highlights the multivalence of the identity the Aeneid creates as a foundation myth. Many aspects of the ethnicities presented in the Aeneid are unfixed. An example would be the ethnic variation we see in the two warring sides in Italy: we have Trojans, Greeks and Etruscans set against Latins, other Italians, Greeks and Etruscans. Even within the Trojan ranks there are their Cretan wives (3.136) and Greeks such as Patron and Salius (5.298) (Reed 2007, p.4). Such specific identities, while they may be associated with certain qualities, often vary by time and place, as we see when King Iarbas and Turrnus both insult Aeneas and the Trojans as being effeminate easterners when it suits their rhetoric (4.215-18, 7.578-9) yet how Turnus can himself be called Greek (7.367-72). With such fluidity in this sphere, it is quite difficult to examine the Roman identity forged by the Aeneid as a foundation myth. One extreme option is to disregard ethnicity as a meaningful category and focus on religion’s role in this construction of identity. The role of the Trojan gods is paramount: the narrator declares it at the outset to be an integral part of founding a city (1.6) and when Aeneas is laying out the terms of victory or defeat in prayer (12.189-94), his main rights as victor are to introduce his rites and gods, those of Troy (Adler 2003, p.184). This is mirrored in Jupiter’s celebrated promise (12.836-7) but in specifying that these would be Trojan forms of worship to the new Latins, we see how this returns to ethnicity. Clearly both are vitally important in establishing a story of foundation, with these rites and gods being some of the only identifiers for a Trojan element in this new Latin people; to focus on one subject matter in the foundation of Rome as portrayed in the Aeneid is reductionist. The sense of Roman identity we see here is a cumulative one, “forged out of cross-cultural exchanges from many sides” (Reed 2007, p.5). It is at its most significant when seen in names and wrought in the landscape of Italy. We are told the Trojan warrior Capys gives his name to the town of Capua (10.145). This is somewhat different to the ancestors of notable Roman families brought up in book 5, involving more complexity of ethnic and regional identity. Capua is still referred to as the “Campanian city” but it is named after a Trojan-Roman. This evokes and preserves the Trojan identity but as the city is outside what would become Rome, it implies a degree of separation between the Campanians and the Trojan-descended Romans and to my mind the preeminence of the latter over the former. Names are of great importance here. We can see much the same, once again wrought in the land49

Classics scape, in the case of the river Tiber (Reed 2007, p.6). Here it is referred to as the Thybris by the narrator, the Greek form, most often, being connected to an Etruscan king. This appears natural, as it is often discussed by Evander and his Greeks (8.303-304) yet is significant in its resemblance to the Trojan Thymbris, implying a destiny and a link between the two peoples. However when the god of the river addresses Aeneas (8.36-65), he is referred to as the Tiber, the Latin form, both by the narrator and himself. This implies that the narrator is speaking from a different temporal standpoint (which we know to be the case from his predictions of deaths to come) and/or that the god Tiber associates his Latin name with one of the main themes and purposes of his speech, the foundation of cities, both in directly giving Aeneas an omen and his reference to “lofty cities” (8.65). There is a strong aetiological element in the foundation story laid out in the Aeneid. Two examples of the aetiology are the Ludii Troiae and the opening of the gates of Janus. Both of these were later Roman religious practises which connect the Italy of the Aeneid, lacking a Rome, to a Roman reader and the very notion of Rome. The genesis of the Ludii Troiae or Troy Games is depicted in the Aeneid (5.596-602), though they were very clearly traced to the Trojan ancestors of Rome even before the poem’s publication. What stands out about them is that as a practise they are not tied solely or innately to the Trojan people but are taught (Syed 2005, p.216). Though they maintain their Trojan character in the name, they are passed to the Latins, who become the people of Alba Longa and are then received by the people of Rome. This aetiology of Roman customs is seen again in the opening or closing of the gates of the Temple of Janus to indicate war or peace (7.601-3, 616-17). This is a Latin custom passed on to the Albans and then the Romans. The Roman identity is held in the Aeneid to be broader than Latin or Trojan, drawing on both ancestries and more through religion. We see this once again in Jupiter’s initial prophecy (1.293-96), where he makes explicit and particularly vivid mention of the Roman gates of Janus, highlighting the contrast and forcing us to be aware of the direct lineage in the custom in time when there was no Rome. How time is addressed in the Aeneid and how it interacts with its success as a foundation myth is a logical next step of investigation. We saw this in how the narrator referred to the god of the river Tiber and in predicting deaths of warriors when describing them and I shall look at it in two ways, starting with the general transition of Italian history around the site of Rome and how it is portrayed in the Aeneid. The future site of Rome is where Aeneas meets the Greek king Evander in 50

Classics book 8 and is described quite thoroughly (8.310ff ). Even before Aeneas and the Trojans arrived, the area had been home to successive waves of people according to the text. Initially home to autochthonous natives who were made cultured by Saturn, the imposition of gods and laws appears central to forming an identity. Then other Italians came, bringing knowledge of warfare, followed by kings, implying a new form of social organisation. The most recent arrivals are the Arcadian Greeks under Evander. The Aeneid is depicting the pre-Trojan history of the region as a general ‘nature-to-culture’ transition with little continuity in people. There are some continuous elements, such as veneration of Saturn (7.202) but not many: we see the Greeks unsure as to what god resides on the future site of the Capitol (8.351-2). The Trojans and the Latins are to become the new continuous inhabitants, eventually leading to the foundation of Rome. We as readers know the foundation’s outcome, as would the Roman reader, yet we cannot see them here as they do not take place within the period of Rome’s foundation myth detailed in the poem. There are several ways of addressing this without breaking the temporality of the setting. One is to have it mentioned by omniscient characters such as Jupiter, who mentions Romulus in his first speech (1.275-277) (Heinze 1993, p.310). Another device is prophecy, such as that by Anchises, who details the future to be enacted by his descendants or that depicted on the shield forged for Aeneas by Vulcan. The latter in particular places Aeneas’ arrival at the starting point of a chronology that ends with the battle of Actium, forming the extended history of Rome’s foundation and its arrival at the form of Virgil’s day. The second way of looking at how time is addressed in the Aeneid as a foundation story is by looking at the temporal characterisation of the various cities in the poem. All of these cities are de facto older than Rome but are characterised as antiqua inconsistently and not always with reference to strict age. For example, Troy is often held to be ancient (1.375, 4.312), particularly by Aeneas. This is despite the fact that it was founded only two generations before its fall. Admittedly Priam is regularly characterised as old but it appears to me the city being antiqua can be seen more as in contrast to the new city Aeneas is to found and perhaps, given Roman antiquarianism and conservatism, as a qualifier indicating “ancestral”. Carthage is referred to in book 1 as ancient (1.12-14) and we can take this as being another case of the narrator speaking from a later position as Venus also refers to it as “new” (1.366) and the city is under construction throughout the Trojans’ stay there (Reed 2007, p.136). This temporal position of the narrator, in much the same way as customs such as the opening of the gates of Janus, immediately drags 51

Classics our mind to the aetiology of the whole setup: that Carthage faces the mouth of the Tiber (1.13-14) is only relevant once there is a Rome for it to be opposed to. Its characterisation is based around a Rome-to-come, just as Troy can only realistically be defined as ancient in contrast to Rome, as an ancestral home. On the very site of Rome, Evander indicates the ruins of Saturnia and Janiculum (8.355-58), showing that the area had a pre-Trojan history and one that is now in ruins. So the physical foundation of Rome, despite not appearing in the Aeneid, is already defined in opposition to Carthage, in descent from Troy and on the remains of older Italian cities. The implied difference is visible in Jupiter’s decree for the Roman people (1.278-79), wherein they are granted no limits in time or space (Reed 2007, p.147). While this can be taken as a reference to empire-building, as indicated in the rest of the speech, I believe it also highlights the contrast between Rome and these other cities: it shall not fall, or at least not in the history of Rome laid out in the Aeneid, to Actium. Rome is well-served by the Aeneid as a foundation myth. In the interests of analysing the text itself, I have unfortunately neglected to discuss other pre-Virgilian foundation myths and the intricacies of the pre-Aeneid Aeneas myth in, though they of course offer a great deal of comparison to the elaborate foundation myth given here. Besides the more obviously aetiological elements, the Aeneid lays out the interactions of ethnicity and religion arranged in a specific territory which create a solid foundation story in the epic mode. Rome, despite not physically appearing in the poem, is clearly defined by these interactions and how they are presented across history and in relation to different points in time. Bibliography Adler, E., 2003. Vergil’s Empire: Political Thought in the Aeneid. Oxford: Rowman & Littlefield Malkin, I., 1998. The Returns of Odysseus: colonization and ethnicity. Berkeley: University of California Press Reed, J.D., 2007. Virgil’s Gaze: Nation and Poetry in the Aeneid. Princeton: Princeton University Press Syed, Y., 2005. Vergil’s Aeneid and the Roman Self: Subject and nation in Literary Discourse. Michigan: University of Michigan Press 52

Vegetarianism and the Greeks Aoife Curran

Senior Sophister, Classical Civilisation

any people are under the impression that the ancient economy merely supported a small elite in luxury, while the peasants starved, eking out their existence on the bare minimum. To a certain extent this is true, however living standards were actually well above subsistence levels for millions of peasants and these people managed to live, and indeed eat, better than their prehistoric predecessors and their medieval successors (Morris, Saller and Scheidel 2007, p. 6). People have this idea that “back then” everyone was too poor to afford to eat meat, as if the concept of eating meat was somehow a modern invention. Never mind the fact that human beings evolved as they did because of the introduction of meat into their diets. The ancient Greeks did eat meat, albeit infrequently for the most part and, as we shall see, the eating of meat was a hugely important aspect of Greek religion. In this essay I shall attempt to explain why the ancient Greeks could not be vegetarians. First of all, let us consider the ancient Greek diet. Whenever the Greeks discussed food in any context (medical, political or moral) it was discussed under the headings of sitos and opson (Davidson 1995, p. 205). The word sitos refers to any staple food, such as bread or gruel made from barley and wheat, or pulses, such as lentils. For the very poorest people, this may have been almost all that they would have had to eat in the normal course of events. Along with these staples items of food known as opson were eaten. These foodstuffs are often referred to as “relish”, yet they were much more substantial than what we would think of as relish today. They included vegetables, cheese, eggs, fish (something which became central to the Athenian diet) and, occasionally, meat (more on which anon). Fish later became such an important item of food that by the late classical era the word “opson”, and its diminutive, “opsarion”, came to refer specifically to fish. As is usual with history, we have little evidence about the diet of the very poor in ancient Greece; however, it is probably quite safe to assume that the bulk of their diet consisted of cereals of some sort, perhaps accompanied by vegetables 53

Classics (Wilkins 1995, p. 2). These people would have subsisted on little or no meat or fish, besides that which they could catch themselves. Yet this is not to say that they never ate any form of animal flesh, and certainly not that they followed a vegetarian diet out of conviction. The majority of the meat that was eaten came from domesticated animals, especially pigs, sheep and goats (Dalby 1996, p. 58). Beef was much rarer, as it was much more expensive and cattle were difficult to rear in Greece’s mountainous countryside. In fact, beef is completely absent from the literary menus of the fourth century BC, despite it being a favourite of the Homeric heroes, as we can see, for example, in Odyssey 3.461-72. One type of meat eaten in ancient Greece which modern westerners will be particularly repelled by was dog. However, this was not something that was often talked about as it was probably something which people were not very proud of. Dog – kyon – is never mentioned in comedy menus nor does it appear in the gastronomic poetry of the fourth century (Dalby 1996, p. 60). It does, however, appear in the Hippocratic text Regimen (c.400 BC), where it is recommended for certain diets (79, 82). The Greeks did not believe in wasting meat and almost every part of the animal was eaten. Pigs were especially revered, as there was little waste. All of the organs were used with sow’s womb (particularly just after a miscarriage) being thought of as a delicacy (Athenaeus, Deipnosophists 94c-101b). Country dwellers could also supplement their meat intake through hunting. Hares were the most common mammal to be captured by huntsmen and in Athens they were a typical lover’s gift. This is demonstrated on painted courtship scenes on vases of the sixth and fifth centuries. Other wild animals were also prized as food: wild boar, wild goat, wild ass, fox, red deer, roe deer, even bear and lion – basically anything that could be caught was. However, larger game, as well as larger fish, would have been the preserve of the rich (Wilkins 1995, p. 104). The Greeks seem to have been much less picky as regards food than most Europeans are today. As Wilkins says, “If foods are locally available, people are likely to eat them – unless there is some cultural objection” (1995, p. 103). For example, even cicadas were sometimes eaten as appetisers (Athenaeus, Deipnosophists 133b). In Athens, a bird market also operated and a number of different species of wild bird could be bought from here, either as pets or as food. Thrushes (perhaps with air blown into them to make them look bigger), blackbirds, chaffinches, larks, starlings, jays, jackdaws and sparrows, among other breeds, could be found here (Aristophanes, Birds 13-18, 1079-1085). The Greeks also had an appetite for larger birds such as pigeons, quail, geese and pheasants. Quails were also valued for 54

Classics their eggs and they were among the gifts with which an older man might try to seduce a youth (Aristophanes, Birds 705-7). Domestic hens, which were introduced to Greece from India sometime before six hundred BC, were also an important source of food (Dalby 1996, p. 65). Now, while animal meat may not have been often available to those people belonging to the lower economic groups, for those who lived by the coast there was a convenient supply of fish available. In a city such as Athens, the centre of which being only a few kilometres away from the coast, fish probably made up the majority of the “relishes”. Numerous types of fish are mentioned in ancient literature, including carp (kyprînos), tunny (thynnos), sturgeon (antakaîos), and more unusual fish, such as dogfish. Shellfish were also quite common and these were often pickled so that even those who lived inland may have been familiar with them (Dalby 1996, p. 67-69). As we can see, there were a variety of sources of meat available to the ancient Greeks and they certainly were not fussy about which animal this meat came from. Of course, many of these animals would not have been available to everyone. The ancient Mediterranean sustained fewer animals, especially large animals, than northern Europe (Wilkins 1995, p. 104) and many of the wild animals and birds mentioned above would have provided very little meat. Often, they were more of a status symbol rather than a proper source of food. Nevertheless, it is clear that those who could afford it enjoyed quite a varied diet and the importance of meat in this diet is clear from the numerous recipes and references to it which can be found in classical literature. When the Greeks could eat meat, they did and even if we forget about sacrifices for the moment, vegetarianism was something which no more than a handful of philosophers were likely to have followed given the choice. I have given a brief introduction to the kind of food which the ancient Greeks would have been familiar with. There were those however, the poorest of the poor, who probably could never have afforded to buy any sort of meat product. These people would have lived off sitos, the bare minimum, and whatever herbs and vegetables they could grow or gather in the wild. Surely these people could be said to have a vegetarian diet? Well, not quite. Meat would still have been available to them in the form of sacrifices, even if they themselves could not have afforded to buy it. The ancient Greeks practiced animal sacrifice as part of their religion. Animal sacrifice was essentially ritualised slaughter followed by a meal of meat. It was also an occasion of festivity for the community (Burkert 1985, p. 5657). Families and communities gathered to honour whichever god they were sacrificing to and to ensure that he or she would continue to bestow their 55

Classics blessings upon the community. Animals were also sacrificed at times of crisis in an effort to appease the gods. In the minds of the Greeks, meat eating was inextricably linked with sacrifice (thusia). This is demonstrated by the fact that sacrifice and butchery share the same vocabulary in ancient Greek (Vernant 1989, p. 25). The animal was led to the altar with ceremony and pomp, before being stunned by a blow to the head and having its throat cut. The blood was allowed to drain from the wound into a pot and the carcass was then carved up in a carefully specified order by the mageiros. Numerous vases depict this act of butchery, often with gruesome detail. The gods were given their share, which was consumed by the flames and the edible meat was then boiled and roasted, to be distributed among the people present, while the remainder was sold in the market. This may have been the only meat that the poorer people ever ate. This shared meal was a way of bringing the community closer to both the gods and to each other. Thus we can see just how much vegetarian ideology conflicted with ancient Greek religion. To the majority of people it would have seemed completely preposterous. Sacrifice made communication between gods and humans possible; not taking part was tantamount to blasphemy (Ibid. p. 34). For the vast majority of Greeks the issue of animal sacrifice would not have presented any difficulties. The official ethic was that it was necessary for humans to use animals for their own ends and by not doing so humans risked becoming more like the animals themselves (Detienne 1989, p. 8). Yet, the fact that the Greeks required an animal to nod its head in consent before it could be sacrificed suggests that there was a certain underlying uneasiness about the whole business. There is a certain desire to downplay the violence of the ceremony (Ibid. p. 9). This is demonstrated by the fact that the knife (makhaira) was hidden in a basket until the moment when it was needed. Perhaps, like people today, the Greeks wished to distance themselves and their meat from the animal that was killed for it. Admittedly this would have been much more difficult to do having seen the animal die and subsequently carved up right in front of your eyes. Animal sacrifice was not without its detractors. Plutarch, in his essay titled “Beasts are Rational” (Moralia XII), states that it is unnecessary and cruel for humans to eat animal flesh (991). He is even more outspoken in his diatribe “On the Eating of Flesh” (Moralia XII). Here, Plutarch uses strongly worded arguments against sacrifice and the eating of all kinds of meat. He claims that killing animals awakens “our murderous instincts” and leads to the murder of people (998b) and he describes the brutal methods of slaughter which were 56

Classics used at the time, such as the thrusting of red-hot spears down the throats of pigs (997a). He also uses an argument which is still used by a number of vegetarians today, namely that the human body was not designed to eat meat (994f ). Plutarch even goes so far as to claim that eating meat is an insult to Demeter and Dionysus, as it implies that their crops do not offer sufficient sustenance (994a). However, it is thought that “On the Eating of Flesh” was an early work of Plutarch’s and that he may not have carried such sentiments into his later years. As Helmbold tells us, “these fragments probably depict faithfully a foible of Plutarch’s early manhood, the Pythagorean or Orphic abstention from animal food. There is little trace of this in his later life as known to us” (Helmbold 1962, p. 537). There was also a small number of philosophers, such as Porphyry, Empedocles and, most famously, Pythagoras, who advocated a vegetarian diet. In fact, Pythagoras became so linked with this particular diet that before the term “vegetarian” was coined during the nineteenth century those who followed a meat-free diet were mainly referred to as “Pythagoreans”, regardless of their philosophical inclinations (Spencer 1993, p. 33). Yet, for the vast majority of people vegetarianism would have been viewed with suspicion. Greek religion was a group activity. It was not so much about faith, but rather everyone playing their part. Those who refused to take part in the cultic activities could be blamed for any disaster which occurred and even accused of impiety. Vegetarians, by refusing to participate in religious activities would probably have come under fire from other members of society, unless like the Pythagoreans they established themselves in their own community. Without the support of others, it would have been very difficult for vegetarians to stand by their principles in the face of such opposition. Inevitably vegetarianism led to sectarianism. Stating that you were a vegetarian in ancient Greece was not simply a matter of becoming a slightly inconvenient dinner guest; it was much more than this. It was stating categorically that you did not want to take part in, to be a part of, the state religion. It was a way of segregating yourself from society, akin to becoming a hermit or refusing to watch reality television. Vegetarianism in the ancient world had not so much to do with not eating meat, rather a vegetarian was someone “who did not share in the religious and political system of the city-state” (Wilkins 1995, p. 175). Whether one liked it or not, renouncing meat was equivalent to renouncing society.

Classics Bibliography Burkert, Walter, 1985. Greek Religion: Archaic and Classical. Oxford: Blackwell. Dalby, A., 1996. Siren Feasts. London: Routledge. Davidson, J., 1995. Introduction. Food in Antiquity. Exeter: University of Exeter Press. Detienne, M., 1989. The Cuisine of Sacrifice Among the Greeks. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Helmbold, W., 1962. Introduction to Plutarch’s On the Eating of Flesh. In Plutarch, Moralia XII. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. 537-8. Morris, I., Saller, R. & Scheidel, W., 2007. “Introduction.” The Cambridge Economic History of the Greco-Roman World. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 1-12. Plutarch. Moralia XII. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. Spencer, Colin, 1993. The Heretic’s Feast. London: Fourth Estate. Vernant, J.P., 1989. At Man’s Table: Hesiod’s Foundation Myth of Sacrifice. In Detienne, M. The Cuisine of Sacrifice Among the Greeks. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. 21-86. Wilkins, John, Harvey, David & Dobson, Mike, eds. 1995. Food in Antiquity. Exeter: University of Exeter Press.

Comic and Erotic Elements in Theocritus 13 John Schiepers

Senior Sophister, Classics

his poem has generated a large number of widely varying interpretations which, although they are not mutually exclusive, fail to fully emphasise the essential quality or tone of the work. These interpretations include suggestions that Theocritus merely composed an advice letter to a friend, that the poem is a reworking of Apollonius’ Argonautica (Argonautica I.1207-72), and that this poem is a kind of manifesto of the Hellenistic and Callimachian aesthetic. None, however, has sufficiently examined its humorous and even erotic nature. Theocritus uses many comic techniques, including recourse to the absurd and occasionally the obscene. Proper understanding of this allows one to make sense of supposedly awkward words and passages – such as the passage in lines 12-13, which Gow (1952, p. 234) describes as “consort[ing] somewhat oddly with their heroic setting”, though this is exactly the point – as I will explain. The poem easily divides into four sections (1-24, 25-53, 54-71, and 72-75). Looking at each in turn, the poem’s relationship to others author will also be glanced at. The first section includes the opening address to Nicias, a description of the relationship between Hylas and Heracles and then a summary of the Argonauts’ expedition (up to that point) which comprises the material covered in the first two books of Apollonius’ epic. This same Nicias also appears in Idyll 11 and is again the addressee of a literary work about love. “Idyll 11” posits poetry as medicine to the love-sick and offers the rustic love song of the Cyclops as an example. The ostensible humour in this poem and the parody of the love song genre gives way to a satire of Heracles and pederasty in “Idyll 13”. Theocritus begins the poem with a style that is closer to normal speech as he addresses his friend Nicias; as Hunter puts it, “The opening section is indeed less stylised than the rest of the poem” (1999, p. 261). As the poet then begins to describe Heracles, he employs Homeric language suitable to 59

Classics his heroic subject matter. “Xalkeokardios” in line five marks this change along with the patronymic “Amphistruonos”. It seems that Theocritus may have invented the word “Xalkeokardios” as a combination of “etor” and “xalkeon”; Gow points out that “the adjective does not occur elsewhere” (1952, p. 233) and Van Erp Taalman Kip observes that “Compound adjectives beginning with xalko- or xalkeo- often appear in the Iliad, but they refer to weapons of the combatants, not their hearts” (1994, p. 158). So this epithet, although looking Homeric, could be described as being slightly off and possessing a certain ambiguity, indicating, perhaps, connotations of brutality. This type of playing with Homeric vocabulary is typical of the poem: it has a heroic sound but is also subversive at the same time. The same type of technique is used in line 19 where Heracles is described as “talaergos”, which is a word only applied to mules in Homer. An account of Heracles’ slaying of the Nemean lion is then followed abruptly by the phrase “erato paidos” in line 6. The striking juxtaposition of that heroic feat and pederasty serves to raise Heracles’ affair to the status of a labour. The subject of pederastic love is now fully introduced and Hylas is described as being rather feminine by both the adjective “xapieis” and the “plokamis” he continues to wear; the latter is “More commonly used of braided female hair” (Hunter 1999, p. 268). There could also be a further comic element here: the scholia suggest that the phrase “plokamida foreuntos” means that Hylas had a wig because “falakros en” (Wendel 1914, p. 260). It seems funny that Hylas would be bald and perhaps these ancient comments suggest that the poem has been interpreted as funny in ancient times as well. The companionship of Heracles and Hylas is then described as the perfect pederastic relationship, true to the Platonic ideal. Heracles is a father to Hylas – so much so that he is the mother as well. The simile of lines 12 to 13 in which a hen guides her chicks not only serves to mock the pederastic relationship by rendering Heracles into the ridiculous figure of a hen but also deflates the surrounding Homeric descriptions of dawn and noon. Amidst the following brief synopsis of the Argonaut’s voyage, there appears the phrase “eudron es Argo” in line 23. “Eudron” could be taken as a pun on “eu” and “edra” essentially meaning “having a nice posterior region”. Furthermore, it is possible to take “Argo” as a pun for “argos” – as Henderson remarks, “Paleness is a notorious characteristic of homosexuals” (1975, p. 161). There is therefore a suggestion that there is here an intimate relationship not quite as Platonic as it may seem. The title of Argonaut is also given a new twist; “Nautical metaphors for sexual congress, very popular in comedy, appear as early as Alcman, Sicilian comedy and Theoginis” (Henderson 1975, p. 161). Again, the realm of the sexual has already been invoked since line six 60

Classics with the word “erato”, hence the reader is in a situation where these kinds of erotic connotations come to the surface. Thus there is present in this first section a number of characteristics that will be developed later in the poem, especially those pertaining to sex. The next section embracing lines 25 to 52 describes the landing of the Argonauts at Cius, a pastoral scene of the Argonauts setting up for the night, Hylas’ excursion for water and his abduction by nymphs. Here are numerous sexual references beginning in line 27 with “nautilas” which, as was observed earlier, is a euphemism for sex. There are also scenes taken from agricultural practice and, as Henderson reminds us, “Sexual metaphors from agriculture are extremely common in Greek in both comic and serious writing” (1975, p. 166). The verb “tribein”, which Henderson defines as “to rub/chafe (an organ in preparation for sexual intercourse)” (1975, p. 176) is also used. Furthermore, “leimon” can mean the female genital region. Among the plants, which Theocritus describes as Hylas approaches the lake to gather water, there is something lurking under the surface. “Selina” appears frequently as a euphemism for female genitals. Also, “xelidonion” is related to the word “xelidon”, which means swallow and also refers to female genitals. The nymphs’ seizure of Hylas is only abruptly indicated as erotic after they grab him, making the role that these hints play more marked. In line 52, the only direct speech of the poem happens to be within a simile and the image is again nautical. “Oura”, a variant of “orros” – which means tail, and also penis – is similar to the word “ouros”. One could understand this scene as Hylas’ sexual graduation from “eromenos” to the sexual realm of women. The whole passage, through these words, suggests an impending heterosexual union. Thus these puns of obscene vocabulary comically foreshadow Hylas’ abduction. There is also the simile of the falling comet which introduces the situation to which this direct speech is connected. Again, a sexual interpretation is possible. The burning comet can be related to the idea of burning desire in coitus – “Words for burning, used to describe the effects of erotic passion and to indicate sexual intercourse, are common in all languages” (Henderson 1975, p. 177) – and the lake, which could perhaps be considered female terrain since it is a kind of ditch or hole and after all inhabited by nymphs. It could also indicate that Heracles’ passionate relationship with Hylas is now extinguished. In the following section, Heracles goes off to try and find Hylas, abandoning the Argonauts who subsequently leave without him. It is interesting to note the sexual aspect of the nymphs’ abduction is not highly erotic but rather maternal. Heracles however, grabs his weapons including his “ropalon” which can also mean phallus and searches for the boy. Theocritus now really exposes 61

Classics the true nature of Heracles’ relationship with Hylas. In the following simile, Heracles is likened to a lion searching for its calling prey. There is an element of the erotic here. Heracles’ ravenousness is further emphasized by the use of the word “laimos” in line 58, which, as Payne observes, “is more usually the site of eating rather than speaking” (2007, p.86). Comically, the hero even walks upon “atriptoisin akanthais” in line 64, so much is he driven by love and desire. The final four lines have been a matter of particular contention among scholars, and the last line in particular. Hylas has become immortal and Heracles has rejoined the Argonauts by foot and is mocked for having deserted them. Some, such as Mastronarde (1968, p. 287), tend to read the last line as a redemption of Heracles, others, such as Campbell (1993, p. 104), think that the hero has been completely undermined and still others would even delete the line altogether – Griffiths does “not believe Theocritus wrote it” (1996, p. 104). These interpretations seem to be misguided. Firstly, the grammar does not allow the final line to be taken as separate from the preceding one, and “Heracles’ arrival on foot is in no way marked off from the mockery of his desertion” (Van Erp Taalman Kip 1994, p. 166). The idea that Heracles is forever scarred by this event seems a bit strange because he is still no doubt the greatest hero the world has seen and will later take his place as one of the gods himself. The idea of removing lines because they do not conform to one’s favoured interpretation does not seem to be good editorial procedure, especially if there are no other grounds for doubting them. Instead, one should come to an explanation that fits the text and not fit the text to the explanation. This phrase could be understood as quite a bit more lighthearted than others have thought. This explanation rests on the reading of “ekertomen” in line73. The word may not be as strong as “ridicule” but perhaps more like “poke fun at” – Gow points out that elsewhere it is not used in an “unfriendly” way (1952, p. 255). So, I would argue that as the greatest hero of the ancient world, Heracles is not in need of a serious recovery of his heroic status. This mocking just serves to further emphasise Heracles’ inappropriateness and even awkwardness in his pederastic relationship. The use of the word “peza” is also interesting and furthers a more playful understanding of this line. It not only means “by foot” but is “also the technical word for the word ‘prosaic’ itself ” (Griffiths 1996, p. 108). Although none of the earlier or contemporary poets represent Heracles as reaching Cholcis, the hero did apparently do so in certain prose works (Hunter (1999) discusses these prose authors in his note on line 75). Thus the poem ends with a fascinating metapoetical device. 62

Classics So this is actually a rather funny poem through the use of incongruous juxtapositions, parody, puns, sexual obscenity and even a metapoetical device at the end. Many of these incongruities have been pointed out before but have not, I think, been appreciated fully for their comic value (the idea of Heracles as a mother hen!). Furthermore the abounding sexual vocabulary becomes apparent when looked at in the context of erotic and pederastic love. The nature of the discussion initiates these sexual meanings. Many of these words derive from usages found in Old Comedy and Aristophanes in particular, thus indicating the complexity of influence and allusion in this poem and even in Hellenistic poetry generally. The implications of a comic reading of this poem may also influence an understanding of the relationship between it and the works of Apollonius. It would seem reasonable that a comical poem would stem from a serious one because for a serious poet to take up the subject of a comic poet is already to undermine his own work. The entire poem is in perfect harmony with itself if this reading is adopted and if it is the case that this poem is meant to console Nicias, a comic approach is a very reasonable one. Humour does seem to have the power to lighten grief. Bibliography Campbell, M., 1993. Theocritus Thirteen. In Craik, E. M., ed. Owls to Athens. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Gow, A., 1952. Theocritus. Vol. II. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Henderson, J., 1975. The Maculate Muse. New Haven: Yale University Press. Hunter, R., ed. 1999. Theocritus: A Selection. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Payne, M., 2007. Theocritus and the invention of fiction Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Theocritus, 1971. Select Poems. Dover, K., ed. London: Macmillan. Van Erp Taalman Kip, A., 1994. â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Intertextuality and Theocritus 13â&#x20AC;&#x2122; in De Jong, I. & Sullivan, J. eds. Modern Critical Theory and Classical Literature. Leiden: Brill. 63

Christian Persecution Kevin Murphy

Senior Sophister, Ancient History and Archaeology

hen we examine the extent to which the Roman state persecuted Christians before the rise of Constantine there are several questions we must consider. Central to this issue are the implications of religion in the antique world and how Christianity set itself against these customs. Secondly, we need to define the Roman state and establish what may be a valid interpretation of persecution as directed by the state. Following from this study we shall take into consideration evidence of Christian persecution and demonstrate how we may interpret it, not as persecution, but as mechanisms of national defence and preservation. Moreover, when we consider “Christians”, who exactly do we mean and what are their beliefs? In other words, can we see Christians as a homogeneous group? In truth we cannot analyse Christians as simply a singular, unified section of the Roman Empire; we must analyse Christianity as a varied and multi-faceted phenomenon with varying consequences as a result of its relationship and adherence to the Empire and Roman customs, as well as its relationship with its various sects. In the modern world many people see religion as something private and personal. Our modern, monotheistic “God” is something of an isolated figure, unique and transcendent. Much of ancient worship was communal at imperial and civic level and was therefore political. Psychological states are emphasised in modern religion whereas acts were emphasised in ancient cults – what you did and how you lived according to one’s own customs (Friedriksen 2006, p. 589). During the first two centuries of the Empire, the official state religion was based on traditional native rituals as re-organised by Augustus and the ruler cult initiated by him. The ceremonials of the traditional religion belonged to the senators who were conservative in preserving its priesthoods and legalistic formulae. Except for the Capitoline Triad of Jupiter, Juno and Minerva, the older gods of the state went into steady decline during the Principate and became customary accompaniments to the dominant Imperial Cult (Lewis & Reinhold 1955, p. 552). The significance of the Impe64

Cl assics rial Cult was that it provided a unifying element, designed to transcend the conflicts arising from the interaction of different cultures, and it served as a tool by which subjugated groups could conceptualise imperial dominance through the medium of divine worship (Wells 1984, p. 244). Even in modern times, an important preventative measure of ethnic or cultural conflicts, and even genocide, is to create an element with which different groups, in a state, can identify as a means of reconciliation. Roman practice absorbed and altered the new gods it inherited during its conquests and the openness of antique Mediterranean religion allowed for the absorption and diffusion of polytheistic cults and gods. Christianity consciously set itself against this ancient tradition of tolerance and openness. The first of the Christian Ten Commandments illustrates the sharp dichotomy between ancient religion and Christianity: “Thou shalt have no other gods before me” (Exod. 20:3). This demand immediately sets the tone of relations; quite simply, true orthodox Christians were to submit themselves to, and only to, the one God, and only through this Christian God could one expect divine intervention. Secondly, Christians everywhere were unpopular at a local level for various reasons: there were charges of cannibalism, due to a misrepresentation of the Eucharist, and the Christian terminology “brother” and “sister” to demonstrate the close bonds of the fellow Christians was thought to denote an incestuous relationship (Minucius Felix, Octavius viii. 3-xii). In the Graeco-Roman world, communal eating and public celebration were equated with piety which concerned the state, as the state sought the gods’ favour (Friedriksen 2006, p. 589). Tacitus tells us how the Jewish practices and beliefs were incompatible with those of Rome because of their exclusivity, their monotheism and their lack of regard for the Emperor and the absolute loyalty they hold for their God. The historian even refers to the Jewish religion as “paradoxical and degraded” (Tacitus, 5.5-6). This outlook on Judaism is important as it was from this religion which Christianity grew and, despite its eventual independence from Judaism, Christianity was seen initially as a Jewish sect, possessing much of its characteristics: in Suetonius we are told that Domitian imposed a special tax from “those who lived as Jews without being registered as such” (Suetonius, Domitian 12). Such tenets of faith ran contrary to everyday people and we are told that there was strong religious feeling amongst the pagan population of the Empire (Minucius Felix, Octavius viii. 3-xii). Furthermore, Christians “threaten the whole world and the universe itself and its stars with fire, and work for its destruction” (Minucius Felix, Octavius viii. 3-xii). By this he means the assertion of Christians that, with the imminent return of Christ, 65

Classics the destruction of the world would follow (1 Thess. 1:10) (Friedriksen 2006, p. 603). This notion was abhorrent to Roman sensibilities who felt it necessary to maintain cultus deorum (worship of the gods) so as not to endanger the pax deorum (peace of the gods) (Warrior, 2006, p. 126- 127). This JudæoChristian belief in the Apocalypse is entwined with the Millenarian belief that the saints would reign for a thousand years before the final Judgement Day. The link between the Millenarian view and pagan persecution provides Christian writing with a political slant. John of Patmos, writing at the end of the first century, describes the Whore of Babylon who drank the blood of the saints, fornicated with the earthly kings and sat on the seven hills (Rev. 17:1-6, 9). The reference to the “seven hills” is a clear reference to the seven hills on which Rome was built and the entire passage serves as a diatribe against the validity and unwholesomeness of the Roman state. This illustrates how Christianity set itself up for persecution. It was not simply that it was different, with its intense emotional appeals of a loving God who was made man, the great sense of community and the promise of an afterlife; it was unusually confrontational in that it disavowed the ancient ritual, and was demanding and exclusive while at the same time being inclusive in terms of gender, ethnicity and status. Its mutually exclusive and inclusive nature made it particularly dangerous to the Roman Empire as, unlike the Jews who were viewed as a single race separate from everyone else and who could (theoretically) be dealt with as a single unit, Christian adherents were to be found in all cultures and across all classes and would therefore be much more difficult to control (Barrow 1949, pp. 178-9). In light of such difficulties posed by the Christians, how may we look upon the evidence of their persecution, and to what extent can we say that it was perpetrated by the Roman state? Much of the evidence of the Christian persecution comes from the writing of ecclesiastic Christians, which gives the impression of an unshakeable faith and people who suffered terrible persecutions until its final triumph under Constantine. The statement of Orosius that “the Church of Christ suffered ten persecutions from Nero to Maximian” (Orosius, History Against the Pagans VII. xxvi. 9) is patently false as there is simply no evidence which supports this (Lewis & Reinhold 1955, p. 596), though such exaggeration was necessary for the appeal of the Church as there was a link between the suffering of persecution and vindication (Dan. 12:2-13). Before the midthird century Christian persecution was local and unsystematic, based on police measures and popular anti-Christian sentiment. Here we may define the “Roman State” as all officials from the Emperor to the minor officials in the provinces. The first unambiguous reference to Christians in Graeco66

Classics Roman literature is in Tacitus (Annals 15.44). This refers to the blaming of the Christians by Emperor Nero for the fire that decimated Rome in AD 64. However this persecution had no lasting significance. The Christians may have simply been scapegoats for Nero in an attempt to defuse the rumour that the fire had been started intentionally (Tacitus, Annals XV). During the reign of Claudius there was an expulsion “because the Jews constantly cause disturbances at the instigation of one Chrestus” (Suetonius, Claudius 25) – this may be the first reference to those who believed Jesus was the Christ (Messiah), and it is this belief, the belief of Christ being the Messiah, which fundamentally differentiated Christianity from Judaism. Once again, however, we do not see any lasting effect of this expulsion. Flippant persecution continued with Domitian at the end of the first century, but it seems that his “persecution” lead to his assassination on 18 September AD 96. His wife Domitia and others were fearful of Domitian because of his execution of Flavius Clemens, his cousin, whose sons Domitian had adopted as his heirs. If Clemens was put to death, no one was safe (Wells 1984, p. 168). The charge against Clemens was “atheism, for which offence a number of others also, who had been carried away into Jewish customs, were condemned, some to death, others to confiscation of property” (Dio Cassius, Roman History, Ixvii. 14). It seems that, at least in this instance, the level of persecution was relatively superficial and based on the whim of the Emperor. Later Christians saw Nero and Domitian as the first two great Christian persecutors (Eusebius, The History of the Church 4 26.7) though, as the evidence illustrates, this was somewhat exaggerated. Few, if any, longterm effects of their persecutions can be found after their deaths. In general, the first persecutions appeared to have been local, unsystematic and sporadic measures caused by popular indignation. Polycarp the Bishop of Smyrna was burnt alive as the people rallied to have him executed, and he is amongst the first martyrs recorded in the early Acts of the Martyrs, which were derived from contemporary literary sources and which receive the evidence from the official records of legal procedures (Lewis & Reinhold 1955, p. 593). This example was recorded by Eusebius, the Bishop of Caserea (A.D. 260-340), in his Ecclesiastical History (iv. 15.), who also tells us that he was only the twelfth Christian to have perished there in similar circumstances. In AD 177 forty-eight martyrs were tortured and killed in Lyons and Vienne sparked by the Emperor Marcus Aurelius (ruled 161-180), ruling during a period of internal and external strife, though its direct cause was because of public indignation against them (Eusebius, Ecclesiastical History v. i). A group of Christians in an obscure town near 67

Classics Carthage were executed by proconsul Vigellius Saturninus in AD 180. The official transcript of their trial was preserved in the Acts of the Sicilian Martyrs: seven men and five women were put to death. Two were native African and five seem to have been of humble origin, which indicated the lack of distinction between the social classes (Wells 1984, p. 241). Vibia Perpetua and a group of her friends, including slaves and members of her household, died in the Carthage arena to celebrate Geta’s birthday, the son of Septimius Severus, in 203 AD. She was “of good birth, well-educated and respectably married” (Martyrdom of Perpetua and Felicity 2). From these examples we gain several insights into the nature of Christianity and the level of persecution at this stage. Christianity was an inclusive religion in the sense that it did not exclude people on the grounds of gender, social class or ethnicity. It also attracted adherents from completely different areas of the Roman world, not only the capital but areas such as Gaul and North Africa. What we can say about the persecutions is that they were sporadic and based on popular hostility, and that they were marshalled by local officials, rather than directed by imperial concerns. There is an impression throughout the sources that the number of deaths occurring as a result of the persecutions was relatively small. A telling illustration, not only of the unsystematic and incoherent nature of persecution, but of the lack of any firm policy towards Christians and the lack of any notion of persecution, is a letter sent by Pliny the Younger, the governor of Bithynia-Pontus, to the Emperor Trajan in AD 112, asking advice on the Christian question. Since he felt that Christianity may be a potential crime, Pliny applied a worship test to possible Christians to find out if they honoured the Emperor and the pagan gods: those who refused to renounce their faith and submit to the test were executed (Pliny the Younger, Letters 10.96). Trajan’s response may be summarised as follows: a universal rule could not be applied to the question of Christians and their religion; they should not be hunted but if those accused prove to be Christian they should be punished. However, no anonymous complaints or accusations should be considered (Pliny the Younger, Letters 10.97). This is indicative of the lack of direction or consideration placed on the Christians. Though they were seen as troublesome and should be dealt with accordingly, they were not a serious enough threat to warrant the formulation of an elaborate and costly imperial policy to stamp them out. As we can see from the letter, Trajan does not appear to have thought the Christians were an active threat despite the large numbers in the province of Bithynia reported by Pliny (Barrow 1949, p. 180). 68

Classics We now move from the unsystematic, sporadic “persecution” to what we might call organised persecution, in that it stemmed from the highest power in the Empire and was part of a policy of eradication or at least subjugation. The reason for this policy change was to counter a more organised Christianity. The religion had, by this stage, become an entity which was developing an independent existence of its own regardless of the Empire and her religion, and was thereby denying the good fortune which the gods granted to those who propitiated them. The first organised state persecution was conducted by Decius (ruled 249-251). He passed an edict requiring everyone to take a “loyalty oath” to the state cult in front of commissions in all communities. When this was satisfactorily completed the applicant was given a certificate, fifty of which (libelli) are still extant in Egypt (Lewis & Reinhold 1955, p. 596). Decius did not forbid Christianity, he merely insisted the acknowledgement of public cult to ensure the gods’ goodwill and so to preserve the Empire (Friedriksen 2006, p. 602). Furthermore, Decius may have feared for the military efficiency of the Empire due to Christians unable to serve in the army for the pagan days the armed forces celebrated (Barrow 1949, p. 180). Though his persecution was fierce it was brief, and it did cause lapses which became a bone of contention within the Church as to whether or not the lapsed (libellatici) could be re-admitted (Lewis & Reinhold 1955, p. 596). There was a general persecution under Valerian (ruled 253-60), due to military defeats in AD 257 to the Goths and Shapur I, king of Persia. It lasted until 260, and the sole attempt was to destroy the Church as an organisation, to lessen it as an internal threat. An account of the measures is given by Cyprian, Bishop of Carthage, who died in the persecution: those who “persist in being Christians should … be punished capitally” (Cyprian, Letters 1xxx). The persecution of Diocletian and his rulers was the last Empire-wide persecution but it was the worst and the longest-lasting (303-311). According to Eusebius, in March 303/4 an edict was issued ordering the destruction of the churches and scriptures, the loss of civil rights, jail, and the forcing of bishops to sacrifice after they had been jailed (Ecclesiastical History VIII. ii). Diocletian’s measures probably stem from his co-ruler convincing him finally that the Christian Church had become a “state within a state” and needed to be dealt a killer blow to preserve the empire, which had at this stage been split into the Western and Eastern Empires. The Christians were proclaimed public enemies conspiring to kill Galerius and Diocletian (Lactantius, On the Deaths of the Persecutors xii-xiv). Yet despite these measures Eusebius is still exaggerating when he says “And then, once more, how could one here number the multitude of the martyrs in each province” (Ecclesiastical His69

Classics tory VIII. ii, vi). However, on 30 April AD 311, the Edict of Toleration was passed by Galerius which made the Christian religion legal (Lactantius, On the Death of the Persecutors xxxiv). This Edict was the turning point and in AD 313 the Edict of Milan, as given by Lactantius (On the Deaths of the Persecutors x1viii) summarises the instructions, which Constantine (ruled 307-337), who converted in 312, sent to his officials in AD 311-13, completely emancipating the Christian religion and all religions: the state now observed a position of religious neutrality and announced complete religious freedom (Barrow 1949, p. 183). What we may now consider is why simply discussing Christianity as a single homogeneous group, or even accepting the persecution of “Christianity” as ending with the accession of Constantine, is incorrect. Not only is there evidence of Christian persecution in the East after the accession of Constantine, the Christianity which Constantine favoured was one of many and the story of the rise of this particular orthodoxy tells a story of almost complete hostility in the face of the true Church, from the crucifixion of Christ through the persecutions until the defining moment of dramatic reversal by the accession of Constantine, and through this is reflected the unchanging orthodoxy of this Church and its separation from the world (Friedriksen 2006, p. 589). This cannot be held to be true as the history of the Christians and the “persecutions”, conveyed to us, was written by the winners, the adherents of the triumphant orthodoxy. The views and beliefs of other Christian sects would have been the first to suffer in the face of this orthodoxy and much of their writings would have been destroyed (Friedriksen 2006, p. 588). In the Sermon on the Mount in the first century AD, Jesus’ Matthew admonishes other Christians who do not follow Matthew’s community (Matt. 7:15-23). Paul acknowledges the existence of other gods but demands that his gentiles come over to his god (1 Cor. 15-24). What this evidence illustrates is not only the intolerance of the orthodoxy, which wrote the history of the persecutions, but the multiplicity of Christianities rather than a single religious group that had paid its dues and was now triumphant. Moreover, what is not considered, but which affects the nature of the extent of the persecutions, is how Christians could live as such but still participate in popular culture. Neither are those Christians who may have lapsed back into Paganism and Judaism acknowledged. When the kingdom of God did not arrive some baptised gentiles participated in pagan public cult again (1 Cor. 8:7-12). We also see Torah-observant Christian Jews in the ancient evidence ( Justin the Martyr, Trypho 47.3). As we can see from the evidence, the Christians were not a distinct unam70

Classics biguous group whom we could simply label. They were a diverse entity comprising different groups, the final orthodoxy being hostile to them. When we view this in light of the persecutions, we must not only take the evidence of the persecutions with a grain of salt, but we should also be wary of the extent of the persecutions. The evidence as we have it does not take into account the many varieties of Christianities which existed or those Christians who could live as such and who did not antagonise Roman pagans or the Empire. What is also striking is that when we think about the extent of the persecutions it becomes clear that for at least the first two centuries, they were relatively slight and it was due more to Christianity itself which flaunted and asserted its exclusivity in the midst of a polytheistic world, rather than a focused hostile attitude adopted by the pagan Romans and their Empire. Moreover, the organised persecutions were attempts to secure the unity of the Empire, rather than an attempt to wipe out Christians for the sake of doing so, through the maintenance of the ancient cults, the goodwill of the gods and the political integrity of the Empire.

Bibliography Barrow, R., 1949. The Romans. Harmondsworth: Penguin. Friedriksen, P., 2006. â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Christians in the Roman Empire in the First Three Centuries CE.â&#x20AC;&#x2122; In D. Potter, ed. A Companion to the Roman Empire. Oxford: Blackwell. Reinhold, M. & Naphtali, L., eds., 1955. Roman Civilisation Sourcebook II: The Empire. New York: Harper & Row. Warrior, V., 2006. Roman Religion. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Wells, C., 1984. The Roman Empire. London: Fontana.

‘The Son he Never Had’: Zeus’ Parthenogenetic Creation of a Surrogate Son? Melanie Hayes

Senior Sophister, History of Art and Architecture

“The image of the Olympian family is determined by the image of the father.” (Kerényi 1975, P.59)

his statement establishes the premise of this discourse, that Homer in his creation of a patriarchal society on Olympus defined the characterisations of the gods, though more noticeably the goddesses, in terms of their relationships with the patriarch. This treatment will claim that in subverting traditional aspects of the goddesses’ mythological personas, Homer highlights those characteristics that assist his creation of gender paradigms; characterisations reflecting gender concerns of contemporary Greek society. Positing the claim that an examination of the relationships that develop within this divine clan reveals a dichotomous divide, I will harness the exemplum of the divine coterie that emerges to highlight the gender concerns established by patriarchal relationships. One goddess, through her conflict with the patriarch, illustrates male concerns about the destructive power female sexuality; the other, through her very existence, signifies male appropriation of female reproductive functions. This disquisition will examine the validity of the title statement, that in subverting the female contribution, Zeus created an image of himself, a surrogate son in the androgynous Athene, who owed her loyalty to the male alone. As a mythopoetic creation, Homer’s Olympic family is not representative of any established system of Greek mythology (Kerenyi 1975, p.42). Homer goes to great lengths to portray a picture of a divine family all inhabiting the Olympic home of “father Zeus”. In establishing Zeus as the dominant male, 72

Cl assics the lord of the gods ruling over a collective community, this form of patriarchal society reflects that of Mycenaean Greece. Homer’s goddesses in turn act as mirrors to their mortal counterparts in their dependence on the dominant male for self definition. These characterisations are developed at the expense of traditional aspects of these goddess’s cult and mythic personas. Hera for example, the earth goddess and protector of marriage as Zeus’s consort is characterised as the archetypal nagging wife who keeps a jealous watch over her husband’s movements. The powerful nymph Thetis, champion of Zeus and Hephaestus is cast as a helpless but devoted mother, supplicating “father Zeus” on behalf of her son. Aphrodite, an ancient fertility goddess born from the seed of Uranos (Blundell 1995, p.36) becomes the rather “pathetic” daughter of Zeus and Dione, whose relationship is juxtaposed against that of beloved and powerful Athene, the parthenogenetic daughter of Zeus. As a result of this androcentric community a subtle sort of theomancy occurs on Olympus, a cold war between the goddesses, each competing for the attention of Zeus, seeking his favour to grant their desires, vying for prominence and respect amongst the gods. This tension results in what Louden refers to as “catfights” between the goddesses: bitchy retorts are exchanged to undermine the opposition and elevate the goddesses in Zeus’ eyes (Louden 2005, p.95). Take Athene’s attempt to humiliate her half-sister Aphrodite (5.418-430), calling to Zeus’ attention Aphrodite’s lack of warrior prowess and her crushing defeat at the hands -- but at the bidding of Athene -- of the mortal Diomedes. This scene emphasises the parodic nature of Aphrodite’s role as protector of Paris and Aeneas to Athene’s as mentor to Achilles (Louden 2005, p.97). More importantly it illustrates the divide that emerges between the goddesses: with Hera and Athene as wife and “beloved daughter” occupying the inner sanctum closest to Zeus, jealously guarding their influential positions from the other goddesses. (5.418-420) “But Hera and Athene glancing aside at her began to tease the son of Kronus, Zeus, in words of mockery: the goddess grey-eyed Athene began to talk among them” The other side of the coin is represented in book 21. Having been scolded by Hera for her insolence in taking on the “august consort of Zeus” (21.481) Artemis turns tell tale. Her pride and ears sore from the boxing, she flees to Olympus in tears laying her troubles before Zeus, (21.510) implicating his wife as her abuser, who had “done this rash thing to her.” The goddess Thetis inspires the jealousy of both Hera and Athene for her position of influence with Zeus. Noting the secret encounter between Zeus and Thetis (1.536546) Hera rebukes Zeus for plotting behind her back, feeling as his wife she 73

Classics deserved to be privy to his counsels. Athene confides in Hera her jealous fears that Thetis has usurped her influential position in Zeus heart, (8.370, 8.374) “Yet now Zeus hates me, and is bent to the wishes of Thetis … Yet time shall be when he calls me again his dear girl of the grey-eyes.” So what unites this “divine coterie” against the others? (O’Brien 1993, p.91) Homer in a brief but controversial allusion to the “Judgement of Paris” offers for some the uniting element; their hatred for (24.27-30) “Priam and his people, because of the delusion of Paris who insulted the goddesses when they came to him in the courtyard and favoured her who supplied the lust that led to disaster.” O’Brien posits that it is the injured pride of the two goddesses, their jealousy at Paris’ preference for the allure of Aphrodite that inspires the combined wrath of Hera and Athene against the Trojans. While this theory fits with the Homeric characterisation of Hera as a jealous and vindictive goddess,-one could believe that ‘this petty affront’ as Slater puts it, could be the “source of [Hera’s] devastating rage” -- it does not sit so easily with the portrait of Athene, the obliging asexual goddess. Shearer, rejecting the theory that Athene’s endless scheming and her energetic action on the battle field was because she was “miffed” over Paris’ choice, posits rather that Athene, like the other gods, took part in this tug of war between sides for sheer sport and love of battle (Shearer 1996, p.9). What this debate does highlight is the contrasting characterisations of these two goddesses; their alternative methods of reaching their common goal, to win the favour of Zeus to achieve the destruction of Troy. This duo juxtaposes, in their relationship to Zeus, the nagging wife against the dutiful daughter; the vindictive matron and the helpful virgin. Highlighting the importance of sexuality in female characterisations, the sexual power of a female in her re-productory role correlates to negativity and antagonism while “benevolence among goddesses is highly correlated to virginity”(Slater 1968, p.66). “Virginal and boyish Athene… [is] the most helpful female deity in the Greek pantheon”, Hera, maternal and sexual is the “most vindictive and persecutory”( Slater 1968, p.66). Finley describes Hera as the “most complete female… whom the Greeks feared a little and did not like at all” (Slater 1968, p.66). Homer’s portrait of the Olympian family would appear to place Hera in this light. Referred to as a “brazen-faced mother” by her son (18.395), “reckless of word” by her brother-in-law (8.209), she is honoured among the Gods only as Zeus’s consort, as one “who lie[s] in the arms of Zeus” (14.213). Zeus continually fails 74

Classics to grant Hera her due respect as his wife; by his constant infidelities, and in excluding her from his counsel. He exerts his position of dominance (1.565) by threatening to whip her, reminding her of previous punishments at his hands (15.17-20). Zeus is “lord of Hera” (7.411), but while he reverts to displays of brute strength to sub-ordinate her, Hera is characterised as utilizing her inherently devious and deceitful female nature, harnessing her sexuality to assert her will. Through her seduction of Zeus in book 14 (14.153-360), linked to the tale of her delusion of Zeus (19.91-138) by the refrain dolophrosunê (guile[ful]), Hera is cast as the manipulative female. “Hera seeks to manipulate, to outwit her spouse with calculating charm, deceit (apatê), and superior intelligence” (O’Brien 1993, p. 179). While this picture of the “scheming wife” does not present a positive image of women it does highlight the strength of Hera’s character, fighting her subordinate position to the patriarch. Blundell describes her “strong and vigorous personality” (Blundell 1995, p. 34.), Hera herself reminds Zeus of her dynastic claims to power, (18.364-5) “As for me then, who claim I am highest of all the goddesses both ways, since I am eldest born and am called your consort.” Though Hera’s claims rely on a patriarchal framework of male control, according to Pomeroy “the domination of Zeus over Hera … is constantly threatened. Hera, as her husband’s sister, is his equal, and is never totally subjugated” (Pomeroy 1975, p.7). While Zeus does not appear to take Hera’s claims for honour seriously, he “rebukes his wife-sister when it serves his purposes (eg. 1.544-50),” he does fear her wrath (O’Brien 1993, p. 84). When being supplicated by Thetis Zeus’ main concern is the reaction of his wife. (1.518-19) “This is a disastrous matter when you set me in conflict with Hera, and she troubles me with recriminations.” While the threat of Hera’s wrath is a cause of anxiety for her spouse (15.18), --note Zeus’ desire that Thetis “go away for fear she see us” (1.523)—“the strongest of all the immortals” does not concede to the wishes of his wife. For all her “forcefulness the pattern of male domination” on Olympus remains in tact (Blundell 1995, p. 34). Athene’s close relationship with her father throws the fraught interaction between Zeus and his wife into greater relief. Among the Olympians it is his virginal daughter that Zeus seems to admire and trust most. “Athene is warrior, judge, and giver of wisdom, but she is masculinised and denied sexual activity and motherhood” (Pomeroy 1975, p. 8). Homer’s characterisation of the goddess Athene encapsulates the attributes of her father, to the detriment of many of her cultic attributes. She is the “destroyer of cities, divider of booty, goddess of spoil, marshaller of the host; bellowing she joins the action 75

Classics on the battle-field” (20.48). Adopting aggressive male stances, she dons the aegis of her father (5.736). She is not, however, a goddess of uncontrolled violence, as Hera is characterised, rather her disciplined nature identifies her with the controlled male, ruled by the head instead of passions. Athene is known for schemes and strategy, she is Athene polyboulos (5.260), and like her father she is known for sophia (wisdom) and practical intelligence. Homer contrasts the controlled anger (4.20-25) of “the clever and supportive Athene, the child of the father” (Blundell 1995, p. 34) with Ares, who in his uncontrolled menos is associated with his mother (O’Brien 1993, p. 85). As an honorary male and obvious favourite is Athene the son Zeus never had? Zeus’ distain for his son Ares is categorically stated “to me you are the most hateful of all the gods” (5.890) but what of strong-minded Apollo? Though he is ‘beloved Phoibos’ (15.221), Apollo “the worthiest son of Zeus’” is only once referred to as Zeus’ son (7.37); like Ares he is linked more with his mother Leto (Kerényi 1975, p. 55). Athene is the child, as far as Homer is concerned, of Zeus alone. Athene it would appear owes her position in the Olympian family as a surrogate son to her parthenogenetic birth, Zeus’ creation of a child in the image of her father. Athene is the son he never had… thank goodness. For while Homer suppresses any direct mention of the alternative traditions of Athene’s birth, of her mother Metis, in order to present Zeus as the sole parent, usurping the female reproductive role, this tradition can in many ways account for the bond between father and daughter. It was the act of swallowing Metis that assured Zeus’s triumphal dominance of the Olympian order; “he put her in his belly, fearing that she would give birth to something else mightier that the thunder-bolt” (Doherty 1995, p.1-2). Thus the patriarch prevented the prophesied birth of a son to Metis, one destined to over throw him as the supreme Olympian. “Zeus can rule forever because he has prevented the birth of an heir” (Doherty 1995, p. 7). Athene, the result of a union between Zeus and Metis, born subsequently from Zeus head, as a female is no threat to Zeus hegemony. The circumstances of her birth dictate her ambiguous nature. Athene is the androgynous daughter who owes her “allegiance to her father and to the males he favours”( Doherty 1995, p. 7). This ambiguity seems to be encapsulated in her patriarchaly determined virginity; (Blundell 1995, p. 26) being “born to her father” and desiring to belong to him has produced, according to Kerényi, “the virginity of the father’s daughter” (Kerényi 1975, p. 53). The feminine aspects of Athene’s character, not overtly emphasised by Homer, reveal themselves in tender moments between father and daughter. She is “Tritogenia, dear daughter” who Zeus has hurt with his disregard for her 76

Classics wishes; but she must “take heart” his “meaning toward [her] is kindly meant” (22.183-185). Zeus addresses Athene with the epithet, “bright” or “grey eyes”, his “favourite appellation for his favourite daughter”; one that may indicate a level of intimacy (Clay 1997, p.206). Athene acknowledges the special relationship and the signalling of intimacy with this epithet, predicting that the enmity between the pair caused by Thetis request will subside and he will “again call me his dear girl of the grey eyes” (8.373). As the favourite child Athene has special privileges, but “because her words have a special way of reaching her father’s ear, there’s an especially delicate balance to be kept.” (Shearer 1996, p. 15) Note Zeus’s indignation with Athene (8.406-8), more so than with Hera, for the goddesses attempt at thwarting his plan; he is used to this behaviour from his wife, “it is his daughter’s defiance that has hurt and enraged him” (Shearer 1996, p. 15). In turn accustomed in getting her way with her father Athene sulks when rebuked (8.460), her “wicked” father has “crossed [her] high hopes.” So Athene as both beloved daughter and surrogate son walks an ambiguous line. Blundell purports that Athene “transverses and transcends the boundary between masculine and feminine roles” in many of her activities. Doherty states that “Athene is consistently portrayed as male-identified, most notably in her role as patron of warriors” (Doherty 1995: 174n.39; Clay 1997, p. 181). To Blundell, however, this role as “koutrophos” to young men evokes a feminine quality: the role of helper, depicted in 18.204 when Athene arrays Achilles for battle, in its subordinate status is often associated with the female. The tradition of Athene’s birth which relates that she emerged from Zeus’ head dressed in battle gear sits comfortably with Homeric Athene, the archetypal warrior goddess. Shearer, however, describes an lesser known aspect of this tale, that when Athene had “gained some distance from her father Zeus’s head …she was able to take off her armour”, “the fundamental elements returned to their accustomed ways”, her feminine nature restored (Shearer 1996, p.5). Is Athene then truly “just for the male”? Returning to the non-Homeric tradition of Athene’s conception we should consider the fact that Metis remained inside Zeus becoming his attribute, as proclaimed by the epithet Metieta, meaning “counsellor” or deviser (Shearer 1996, p.5). Metis is cleverness personified, “Zeus the deviser” uses metis to consolidate his rule over the gods. Athene in turn absorbs this attribute, one which seems to associate her with her father, but could also be construed rather as coming from her mother. That Homer was aware of this tradition is proclaimed by Athene herself… “I among the gods am renowned for my metis and wiles” (Odyssey 13.299) 77

Classics (Clay 1997, p. 199). Metis as “the personification of prudence” transfers this attribute to her daughter; a quality Athene reflects in her first act of the Iliad (1.197-222.), in her prudent intervention she appeals to Achilles’ reason(Bell 1991, p.306). A link between mother and daughter remains; Metis is held captive in Zeus’ belly acting as advisor, while Athene who is “ostensibly free and powerful”, “is likewise an advisor to males”, and controlled ultimately by the patriarch Zeus (Doherty 1995, p. 8). Athene, half of the divine coterie that emerged on andocentric Olympus, is a female whose primary ties are to males. She is the favourite child of Zeus who owes her loyalty to her father. Homer, in suppressing the role of Metis, claims Athene for Zeus alone, demonstrating that it is the father as sole parent and the dominant male who defines her character. The special relationship between father and daughter, a vivid contrast to the conflict between patriarch and his consort, is explained by the circumstances of her birth; one which has “secured the stability of Zeus’ political regime, and has at the same time validated patriarchal control within the family.”( Blundell 1995, p. 28) “Yes, with all my heart I am my father’s child” (Eumenides 739); Homer has succeeded in establishing a patriarchally determined characterisation of Athene, which like those the other Olympian goddesses, would define her persona throughout antiquity; portrayals reflective of broader gender concerns. However in the tender relationship between father and daughter; in the obtuse references to Athene’s association not just with the male, but also the female, her mother Metis, Homer portrays Athene as an androgynous “tom-boy” daughter rather than the son he never had; doted on by her father, her virginal status negating her feminine threat to the patriarch’s hegemony. Bibliography Bell, R.E., 1991. Women of classical mythology: a biographical dictionary. New York: Oxford: Oxford University Press Blundell, S., 1995. Women in ancient Greece. Harvard: Harvard University Press Clay, J.S., 1997. The wrath of Athena: Gods and men in the Odyssey. Lanham: London: Rowman & Littlefield

Classics Dietrich, B.C., 1965. Death, fate and the Gods: the development of a religious idea in Greek popular belief. London: University of London, The Athlone Press Doherty, L.E., 1995. Siren songs: gender, audiences, and narrators in the Odyssey. Michigan: The University of Michigan Press Griffin, J., 1980. Homer on life and death. Oxford: Clarendon Press Kerényi, C., C. Holme (trans), 1975. Zeus and Hera: archetypal image of father, husband, and wife. London: Rutledge & Kegan Paul Lattimore, R.( trans), 1951. The Iliad of Homer. Chicago: London: The University of Chicago Press Louden , B. 2005. “The Gods in epic or the divine economy” in Foley, J.M. (ed), A companion to ancient epic. Oxford: Blackwell Publications O’Brien, J.V., 1993. The transformation of Hera: a study of ritual, hero, and the goddess in the Iliad. Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers Morford, M. & R Lenardon, 2007. Classical Mythology. New York :Oxford: Clarendon Press Pomeroy, S.B., 1975. Goddesses, Whores, Wives and Slaves: Women in Classical Antiquity. New York: Schocken Books Shearer, A., 1996. Athene: image and energy. London: Viking Arkana, Penguin Slater, P. E., 1968. The glory of Hera: Greek Mythology and the Greek family. Princeton: Princeton University Press Slatkin, L. M., 1991. The power of Thetis: Allusion and Interpretation in the Iliad. Berkeley: Los Angeles: Oxford: University of California Press

Archaeology t

There were many worthy submissions for the Archaeology section of this journal, and the final selection will hopefully represent a diverse range of topics within the study of Archaeology. They include work on Roman engineering, Imperial monuments, graveyard excavations, Egyptian mythology and daggers of the Greek Bronze Age. These essays epitomize the work of the undergraduate archaeology student. They show the level of quality to which the students work and the varied themes which they encounter and ably discuss. I would like to thank our Editor-in-Chief and the Department of Classics for their help in compiling this selection of papers. I would also like to thank our worthy contributors, Elizabeth Bourke, Aoife Condit, Aidan Conway, Frank Lynam and Faith Nolan whose essays I am sure you will find both thought provoking and enjoyable! Katie McCann Archaeology Editor

An Analysis of Memorial Erection by Women in Five Graveyards in Co. Monaghan Faith Nolan

Junior Sophister, Ancient History and Archaeology and Greek

hen recording inscriptions from the five graveyards studied this year as part of the graveyard surveying project of Dr. Harold Mytum, I became intrigued by the apparently sudden rise in women erecting monuments in the Co. Monaghan area. I felt that a study of these monuments was worthwhile, not only for what they could tell us about women’s history and gender history, but also of mainstream history of the modern period. In their 1992 article An Agenda for Women’s History in Ireland, 1500-1900, Mary O’Dowd and Maria Luddy argue that many aspects of Irish women’s history have been ignored and considered as unimportant to the political and military focused history of the island (O’Dowd, Luddy 1992, p.55). They argue for increased research into this field as many of Irish history’s important events may take on a different light when viewed through the eyes of contemporary women. A very important point. I believe that through a study of the graveyard monuments of this area and incorporating the larger corpus already recorded that much knowledge can be gained about the religious practices of the day with regard to memorial practice and about wider issues affecting the women of the day. For instance, is there a connection to the suffragette movement? Is the wider education of women a factor? Is the establishment of a huge amount of nunneries, meaning more active female role in the Roman Catholic Church and more freedom of women (in the early days), leading to lay-women wanting to be active, a factor? How does it fit into the wider changes in memorial practice? This is a very sudden change in a society which very much restricted the actions of its women both culturally, religiously and legally. The five graveyards looked at this year and for this brief analysis were Magh81

Archaeology

eross (code MAG09), Donaghmore (code DMN09), Iniskeenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s old graveyard (code INN09), Iniskeenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s new graveyard (code IKN09), and Knockbridge (KNB09). These codes are those used by Mytum for recording and analysis purposes. All results from these graveyards have as yet not been published. The analysis carried out was done very simply. I chose a few certain types of fields for interest and noted these down in the case of every stone recorded which had an inscription. These fields were monument number, family name (erected by or including), and the dates of the stone. I then cut this down to the stones mentioning women and those erected by women (Table 1). I also made note of the numbers involved, i.e. how many stones were inscribed, how many mention women and how many by women (Table 2). In each the earliest by a woman was noted. A visual analysis to determine trends was then done by graphing the information (Graphs 1-3, Tables 1, 3-6). These fields were chosen in order to determine what stones mention women and how, as those erecting monuments or those being remembered. Also I wanted to discover whether an increase in activity by women occurred in monument erection by women, and if so, to ascertain when it began. From this then it may be possible to conclude why it happened and why it happened then. MAG09 The Magheross graph (Graph 2), indicate quite clearly a rise in the numbers of stones dedicated and erected by women throughout the period of its use from 1664, the earliest dated stone legible (MAG09/64), to 1951. Many of these fall within the period of 1720 to 1900. However there is not many over this period of use, as can be seen by the numbers in Table 2: of the 229 stones recorded only 12% were by women, the earliest being 1744. This is the oldest stone encountered this year erected by a woman. Magheross, however has the second highest number of gravestones erected by women, but the third highest percentage overall. IKN09 has the highest percentage at 18.36%. This relatively low number and percentage by women in this long period of use, the single longest period of use of a single graveyard that was surveyed this year, may indicate a number of things about the social status of women at the time. It also indicates that graveyards which have been used into the past century, and after the advent of suffrage as well as increased female education and changes in general memorial practice (the change in styles and practice toward remembrance of the dead) tend to have an increase in the number of stones erected by women (Mytum 2002, p.39). This is interesting, 82

Archaeology as this increased activity also occurs during the early period of emigration which was usually dominated by women. Could both (memorial erection and emigration) be part of a female search for independence? Is this sudden rise, as seen on Graph 1, in this activity a form of feminist activity? More research encompassing many more graveyards would need to be done to answer this question. IKN09 Similar to the Magheross graph, the Iniskeen graph (Graph 3) indicates a definite rise in the number of memorials erected by women throughout its period of use from 1812 (IKN09/35) to the present. Most of the memorials pertaining to women fall between 1840 and 1920. Unlike Magheross though, there is a relatively large number of stones erected by women in this time, as can be seen on Table 2, in fact Iniskeenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s new graveyard has the largest amount of any of the graveyards surveyed this year with 18 stones erected by women of the 104 recorded. This means that 18.34% of the stones over the 80 year period of 1840-1920, were erected by women. This is just under a fifth of all stones in the graveyard. That is a huge percentage and must indicate a rise in religious and public activity amongst the women of Iniskeen, especially in the highly dense time of erection by women of 1880-1920. Also, I believe there are obvious links to the suggestions given for Magheross earlier with regard to suffrage and education opportunities for women and girls, especially as erection of memorials by women definitely kicks off in Iniskeen after 1880. There are only four previous memorials to this with a wide gap of 10 years. Money is a factor in all of this too, as memorial stones are quite expensive. Is it a case that more women were getting the possibility to inherit some form of money or land at this time? DMN09 In contrast to the previous two graveyards, the graph of Donaghmore (Graph 4) shows that very few women were erecting memorial stones over a very long period of time, from 1722 (DMN09/39) until 1912. All of the memorials known to be erected by women of the legible stones are spread fairly evenly over the 140 year period of 1760-1900. As Table 2 shows, Donaghmore had the second smallest percentage of stones erected by women, 4.9%, with only 5 of the 102 stones, which were legible, having been erected by a woman. This is extremely small for the length of time which is covered by the graveyard. 83

Archaeology It does indicate at least that there was a varied experience of women across the Monaghan area, and it can therefore be inferred that there was varied levels of memorial erection by women across the island, depending likely on the level of education allowed in each area for lay Catholic and Protestant women. Or is it possibly due to long periods of disuse of the graveyard? Most of the memorial stones were erected in the 20 year period between 1820 and 1840. Is it possibly due to a rise in monetary freedom at this time in Donaghmore? No more are erected until the 1880â&#x20AC;&#x2122;s. Memorial erection appears, therefore, to have been very much a controlled activity of remembrance by men. Men were able to afford the inscription. This is not to say however, that the numerous headstones which were unmarked were not mostly placed there by women - a definite illiterate group on the whole at this time. KNB09 The Knockbridge graph (Graph 5), indicates a downward trend in this area in memorial erection by women. For such a modern graveyard, the period of its use being from 1815 (KNB09/72) until the present day, there are very few memorial stones erected by women, in complete contrast to Iniskeenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s new graveyard which had the highest number of stones and the highest percentage per graveyard (Table 2), most of which are before 1910. The highest density of erection of memorial stones in Knockbridge is between the 20 year period of 1840 to 1860. The earliest was in 1840. As is shown in Table 2, Knockbridge only has 11 stones by women of the 97 recorded and legible. This is only 11% of the total, and the median percentage. Five of these are between 1840 and 1860, half of all those erected by women. This results in the downward trend in Knockbridge. It is interesting to note here that most of those erected by women in Knockbridge were done during a period of huge agricultural and social hardship in Ireland. Is the trend here, therefore connected to this hardship, changes in memorial practice, population fluctuations due to famine and emigration, increased Roman Catholic control, and the feminist/suffragette action? Also, it is noteworthy that Knockbridge and Inishkeen have such different profiles. The other two have relatively few later memorials so they are better for the earlier period but are probably not reprensentative of later, by which time both communities served by these also had newer catholic graveyards to bury in and those would need to be added for this sort of analysis. But Inishkeen and Knockbridge are different. Perhaps that Knockbridge was a centre of 84

Archaeology IRA activity in the early 20th century reflects attitudes to maleness that is also seen in the lesser decision-making role of women compared with Inishkeen (Mytum, H. Personal communication, 28 November 2009). INN09 Iniskeenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s old graveyard was in use from 1505, as is indicated by the earliest legible stone- INN09/13, until 1880 (INN09/48). The graveyard then moved its activity, permanently, to a new graveyard, IKN. There was a period of some overlap in burial activity permanently, however the dates of the two stones erected by women in the old graveyard fit into the pattern of IKNâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s graph. Indeed they have little effect on it at all only to indicate that memorial erection by women in Iniskeen began a bit earlier but that there was a gap of some 20 years between this activity. They do not change the upward trend of memorial erection by women in Iniskeen. It is obvious then that INN09 would have lowest percentage of memorials by women at 4.08% (Table 2) with only 2 of the 49 stones recorded having been erected by women. The two stones also fit into the change of memorial practice toward remembrance which would link those dedicating the stone to the old family plot. Women, generally, are more linked to the family, especially in the social perception of the day, so they are most likely to have an interest in this activity of remembrance. Memorial erection, however, hovers in the area between acceptable behaviour for women at his time. It would be a public activity and so not approved off as acceptable behaviour, but it is part of the acceptable public action of religious duty and devotion to family and therefore fits with the idea of good feminine activity, as well as the idea of more freedom being sought by Irish women at this time (Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Dowd, Luddy 1992, pp.13-14, 2325). However, this fact is disputable in that we do not really have any account of how acceptable this behaviour may have been perceived. It is clear then for this analysis that there was a general rise in the number of memorial stones erected by women, beginning in the first half of the 19th Century and increasing heavily in the second half of the century. This makes me inclined to think that social changes at the time with regard to the suffrage movement, the greater education of women, as well as changes in memorial practice all had a huge bearing on this change. However, this simple analysis needs to be expanded further in order to find more definite results and to possibly answer why it appears to be such a sudden change and to see if it really was out of the blue or if it spread to these graveyards from outside the area. It could be expanded to answer further questions which 85

Archaeology Mytum brought up in his books (Mytum 2002, p.54; Mythum 2004, p.128). The wider sample at his disposal would also make these questions more answerable. Tables and Graphs Table 1: Stones mentioning women and by women. Graveyard MAG09 MAG09 MAG09 MAG09 MAG09 MAG09 MAG09 MAG09 MAG09 MAG09 MAG09 MAG09 DMN09 DMN09 DMN09 DMN09 DMN09 KNB08 KNB08 KNB08 KNB09 KNB09 KNB09 KNB09 KNB09 KNB09 86

Number 23 30 40 44 79 159 162 168 180 186 193 202 13 27 45 115 120 27 28 35 46 47 48 49 76 79

Family name Halfpenny Marron Moore McVeagh McKinhe Johnston Hill Marron Duffy KenKeelan Steele Reed Overend McGroder Callan Byrne Scully Heirty McDonnell McGinn Byrne Kirk Lavery Murray

By Wife Wife

Year 1844 1822

Woman and niece Sister for brother Wife Wife Woman for woman Mother for daughter Wife Daughter for parents Wife Wife Wife Wife Wife Wife Wife Wife Daughter for parents Wife Wife Daughter for father Wife

1770 1815 1827 1758 1840 1744 1884 1884 1856 1826 1886 1836 1779 1817 1903 1941 1848 1875 1846 1859 1888 1896 1846

Archaeology Graveyard KNB09 KNB09 IKN09 IKN09 IKN09 IKN09 IKN09 IKN09 IKN09 IKN09 IKN09 IKN09 IKN09 IKN09 IKN09 IKN09 IKN09 IKN09 IKN09 IKN09 INN09 INN09

Number 84 95 3 20 21 22 28 34 39 45 46 48 60 63 66 67 68 75 78 87 18 43

Family name Byrne Quigley Johnston Dooley Finegan Brady Kirk McMahon Brennan McHugh Grant Finn/Byrne McGeene Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Sullivan Kirk Quigley Quigley Callan Shevlin Hamill MacMahon Fitzsimons

By Wife Wife Wife Wife Daughter for father Daugther for father Wife Daughter for parents Sister for brother Wife Mother for son Daughter for father Daughter for father Daughter for mother Wife Wife Wife Wife Wife Daughters for father Sister for sister Wife

Year 1840 1908 1891 1893 1898 1885 1847 1884 1902 1906 1901 1914 1855 1912 1910 1908 1867 1911 1916 1912 1815 1821

Table 2: Table showing the percentage of stones erected by women in each graveyard Graveyard No. of No. of stones stones inscribed MAG09 229 99 DMN09 140 102 KNB08/09 99 97 IKN09 104 98 INN09 49 38

No. mentioning women 36 13 39 29 5

No. by Earliest by % by women women women 12 5 11 18 2

1744 1799 1840 1855 1815

12.12 4.9 11.34 18.36 4.08 87

Archaeology Table 3: Magheross table for year of erection analysis Entry No.

Monument code

Year

Entry No.

Monument Code

Year

1 2 3 4 5 6

MAG09/023 MAG09/023 MAG09/040 MAG09/044 MAG09/079 MAG09/159

1844 1822

7 8 9 10 11 12

MAG09/162 MAG09/168 MAG09/180 MAG09/186 MAG09/193 MAG09/202

1758 1840 1744 1884 1884 1856

1770 1815 1827

Table 4: Iniskeen table for year of erection analysis Entry No.

Monument code

Year

Entry No.

Monument Code

Year

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12

IKN09/020 IKN09/021 IKN09/022 IKN09/028 IKN09/003 IKN09/034 IKN09/039 IKN09/045 IKN09/046 IKN09/048 IKN09/060 IKN09/063

1893 1898 1885 1847 1891 1884 1902 1906 1901 1914 1855 1912

13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23

IKN09/066 IKN09/067 IKN09/068 IKN09/075 IKN09/078 IKN09/087 IKN09/067 IKN09/068 IKN09/075 IKN09/078 IKN09/087

1910 1908 1867 1911 1916 1912 1908 1867 1911 1916 1912

Archaeology Table 5: Donaghmore table for year of erection analysis Entry No.

Monument code

Year

1 2 3

DMN09/013 1826 DMN09/027 1886 DMN09/045 1836

Entry No.

Monument Code

Year

4 5

DMN09/115 1779 DMN09/120 1817

Table 6: Knockbridge table for year of erection analysis Entry No.

Monument code

Year

Entry No.

Monument Code

Year

1 2 3 4 5 6

KNB08/27 KNB08/28 KNB09/35 KNB09/46 KNB09/47 KNB09/48

1903 1941 1848 1875 1846 1859

7 8 9 10 11

KNB09/49 KNB09/76 KNB09/79 KNB09/84 KNB09/95

1888 1896 1846 1840 1908

Table 7: Table analysing the erection per decade by women determined from table 1 of IKN MAG and KNB. Courtesy of Harold Mytum. This is based on Table 1 data; to be meaningful this would have to be compared with the total numbers of stones erected in these decades, but it is interesting to note more in the first half of the 19th century, then fewer, then more again from the 1880s and then into the early 20th c. (Mytum, H. Personal communication,28 November 2009)

Archaeology Entry No.

Decade

No. of Stones

Entry No.

Decade

No. of Stones

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

1740 1750 1760 1770 1780 1790 1800 1810 1820

1 1

10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18

1830 1840 1850 1860 1870 1880 1890 1900 1910

1 7 2 1 1 6 4 6 6

3 4

Graph 1: Scatter graph of Magheross based upon table 3 and 7. The graph is very similar in trend but not detail to data Mytum has already collected from other County Louth graveyards. His sample (about twice the size of this) shows far more in the 1850s and 1860s and it may be that larger samples would â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;smooth outâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; this pattern. (Mytum, H. Personal Communication, 28 November 2009). 8 7 6 5 4 3

Series 1

Linear (Series 1)

1 0

1700

1750

1800

1850

1900

1950

Year KNB08/28 IKN09/48 IKN09/63 IKN09/66

KNB09/95 KNB08/27

IKN09/46

IKN09/3

DMN09/27 IKN09/34

MAG09/186 IKN09/68

MAG09/202 KNB09/35 KNB09/79

Monument number

KNB09/76

MAG09/23 MAG09/168 MAG09/159

MAG09/30 DMN09/120

MAG09/79

1700 1650 1600

2000 1950 1900 1850 1800 1750

MAG09/44 MAG09/180

Year of erection

Graph 1: Trend of Erection of Monuments by Women in 5 Graveyards in Co. Monaghan based upon table 1

Archaeology

Archaeology Graph 3: Scatter graph of Iniskeen new based upon table 4 1920 1910 1900 1890 1880

Year

1870 1860 1850 1840

Graph 4: Scatter Graph of Donaghmore based upon table 5

1900 1880 1860 1840 1820

Year

1800 1780 1760

Archaeology Graph 5: Scatter graph of Knockbridge based upon table 6 1960 1940 1920 1900 1880

Year

1860 1840 1820

Graph 6: Graph of IKN09 and INN09, the two dimonds at 24 and 25 correspond to the two INN09 memorials. 1940

1920 1900 1880 1860

Year

1840 1820 1800 0

Archaeology Bibliography Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Dowd, Mary, Luddy, Maria, 1992. An Agenda for Womenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s History in Ireland, 1500-1900. Irish Historical Studies, 28 (109) p.5 Mytum, Harold, 2002. Recording and Analysing Graveyards. London: Council for British Archaeology Mytum, Harold, 2004. Mortuary Monuments and Burial Grounds of the Historic Period. New York: Kluwer Academic/Plenum Publishers

Hathor and the Pharaoh: The Iconography of a Dynastic Goddess in Ancient Egypt Aoife Condit

Senior Sophister, Ancient History and Archaeology

athor, one of the famous names of ancient Egyptian religion, was a popular and enduring deity throughout Egyptian history at both the state and popular levels of religious practice. This powerful goddess had innumerable aspects - she was seen as a fierce protector of the Pharaoh and Egypt, a potential destroyer of mankind, and a goddess of childbirth and rebirth and of music and dance, to name but a few (Robins, 1993). Hathor was intimately bound up with the cult and power of the Pharaohs. The connection made between the Pharaoh and Egyptian deities was extremely important for the rule of the Pharaoh since the king was seen as a god on earth, a semi-divine link between the common people and the gods. It is argued that kings became divine by assimilating the sacred power of female deities (Hassan 1992, 1998). Since religion and state power were inextricably linked in Egypt, the endorsement of Pharaohâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s rule by the gods played an important role in validating his (or her, as we shall see) rule. Hathorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s very mythology displays her power and the uses to which this could be put to protect the Pharaoh and what he (or she) represented for all the people of Egypt. The case of Hatshepsut, a female Pharaoh of the Eighteenth Dynasty, will be studied in order to highlight the ways in which Hathor could be used in the iconography of the ruler to support the legitimacy of the king and favour of the gods. Finally, we shall briefly delve into the theories surrounding the origins of Hathor in order to understand how she developed to be such a key means of support to the Pharaoh. Mythology and Iconography Hathor is involved in various myths, some of which would seem to our eyes to cancel each other out, but this is not the case in Egyptian mythology. 95

Archaeology Competing mythologies, genealogies and different views of various deities were common and accepted. Each deity was seen to have various, innumerable aspects, represented by their different names and sometimes dependent on their location, so that a single goddess such as Hathor could be seen to have tens, if not hundreds, of different names to be called on to invoke a particular aspect of her power or personality. Her different aspects are represented quite clearly in iconography and the different mythologies associated with these can be extrapolated from the imagery, as well as surviving texts. Hathor can be depicted in a number of ways: as a woman (often with cowâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s horns above her head), a full cow, or a woman with bovine features (Wilkinson, 2003). The cow form is most associated with her, but it is not unique to Hathor. Bovine imagery is shared by most Egyptian female divinities, but Hathor is most likely the best remembered because of the survival of columns that incorporate a Hathor head as a female head with bovine features, such as at Dendera. Hathor head, incorporating bovine features on temple column Hathor is closely connected with another major Egyptian deity, the sun god Ra, whom she is often said to have helped with his daily journey across the sky (Wilkinson, 2003), whether as his daughter, wife or consort, or as the Eye of Ra (Hassan ,1992; Wilkinson, 2003). We can see this aspect of the goddess noted in iconography by the sun disc located between her cow horns. This disc could appear whether she was depicted as human, cow or a mixture of both. We know the sun disc represented this association with Ra from writings surviving in the Pyramid Texts (Lesko, 1999). The sun disc was not unique to Hathor, and, along with the cow horns, came to be a symbol common to many Egyptian goddesses. Some of these goddesses could be seen as aspects of Hathor, or were also as the daughter or Eye of Ra, such as Maat or Sekhmet; others, such as Isis, shared some of the same functions as Hathor, and over time, came to adopt much of her iconography. In the case of Isis, this was to such an extent that in later Egyptian iconography, the only way to differentiate between the two is by their name (Wilkinson, 2003). The uraeus, or cobra, became closely linked with Hathor by the Nineteenth Dynasty (Lesko, 1999). This was one of the many links made between Hathor and the Pharaoh since the uraeus was one of the most important emblems of sovereignty in Egyptian iconography (Troy, 2003; Robins, 1993). It could be shown being worn by the Pharaoh, the queen, and many female deities 96

Archaeology (Troy, 2003). It is thought that the uraeus was seen as the aggressive protector of the Pharaoh and Egypt and it could be said to be a manifestation of the aggressive power Hathor possessed (Lesko, 1999). The uraeus was originally associated with another goddess, Wadjit, who, along with the goddess Nekhbet, represented the Two Lands of Egypt and the two parts of the Pharaoh’s crown (Robins, 1993). The cobra on the headdress became a common iconographical feature of female deities and the Pharaoh and queen, making a clear link between the two in terms of divine strength and protection. From the late Eighteenth Dynasty, the uraeus could also be decorated with the solar disk and cow horns most often associated with Hathor (Robins, 1993). This was yet another link to Hathor in that the uraeus was also seen as the Eye of Ra, his divine protection, which Hathor was called, along with other goddesses (Troy, 2003; Lesko, 1999; Robins 1993: 23). As the Eye of Ra, Hathor was a great protector of Egypt, the Pharaoh, and Ra’s interests. In contrast to her perceived image as a goddess of love and the ‘Egyptian Aphrodite’, Hathor had an extremely fierce and warlike side. In a myth where Ra became distraught with mankind and wished to end humanity, it was Hathor who was sent as the Eye of Ra to wipe man from the earth. Mankind was only spared when Ra changed his mind and got the implacable Hathor drunk on beer disguised as blood (Robins, 1993). In her fiercer aspect, Hathor could be seen as the lion headed goddess Sekhmet (Lesko, 1999; Troy, 2003). Hathor was also seen as the mother or consort of Horus. Hathor’s name, meaning ‘House of Horus’, has been taken to mean that she could be seen as the mother of Horus, and by extension, perhaps of the universe in general (Lesko, 1999). In her aspect as Hathor of Dendera, she was also consort of Horus of Edfu, and a great annual celebration surrounded the transporting of her cult statue from Dendera to Edfu for the two to take part in a ritual ‘union’ (Lesko, 1999). As mother of Horus, Hathor again shared an aspect and mythology with Isis involving the house of the Pharaoh. She was also known as The Golden One, likely a reference to her relationship to either Ra or Horus or both, since both gods had titles involving Golden (Lesko, 1999; Wilkinson, 2003). Therefore, Hathor played an essential role as the divine mother of Horus. Horus, as the living god, was the ancestor deity of the line of Pharaohs, and, by extension, each Pharaoh was a child of Hathor and could count on her aid. In addition to this, the Pharaohs also called themselves ‘Son of Ra’, which formed another familial tie between them and Hathor, whether she was to 97

Archaeology

be seen as the daughter of Ra or his consort. A Sixth Dynasty Pharaoh, Pepi I, called himself the Son of Ra and the Son of Hathor (Lesko, 1999). Also, as the Eye of Ra she was a violent protector of the Pharaoh and Egypt. This protection of the Pharaoh is shown in iconography as the uraeus, ready to strike at any enemy. Hatshepsut An interesting example of how the Pharaohs used their connections to deities (and Hathor in particular) to support and authenticate their rule is the reign of Hatshepsut during the Eighteenth Dynasty. Hatshepsut was, in fact, a female Pharaoh; she neither the first nor the last woman to wear the two crowns, but she is interesting in that she became king in the middle of a flourishing dynasty rather than at the end of a flagging one, which was more usual (Robins, 1993). One of the more interesting aspects of her rather short reign was how she used Hathor in her iconography to support her claims for the validity of her rule. A daughter and wife of Pharaohs (Thutmose I and Thutmose II respectively), Hatshepsut acted as her step-son Thutmose IIIâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s regent when he came to power, and, by the seventh year of his reign, she had had herself dubbed Pharaoh alongside him, adopting the titles and iconography of a king (Robins, 1993). Her iconography reflected her claims to being the choice of her father and the gods to rule as Pharaoh. She claimed that her father had chosen her as his successor and had presented her to the gods and the people of Egypt (Robins, 1993; Troy, 2003). Scene of seated Hatshepsut and Hathor in cow form. Deir elBahri. While Thutmose III still reigned, the iconography of Hatshepsut depicted her as a single Pharaoh in the usual male style (Troy, 2003). As was normal, she created funerary monuments in which her relations with the deities and her right to the throne were the paramount iconographical themes. Imagery includes her mother being visited by Amun in the guise of her father, various deities attending her birth, and Hathor sheltering her in cow form (Robins, 1993; Lesko, 1999; Troy 2003). She was the first Pharaoh to use the image of being suckled by Hathor in cow form [see Fig. 3]. This image was adopted by Thutmose III and continued to be used by later Pharaohs. In terms of propaganda, this not only showed Hathorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s favour for the king, but it also equated 98

Archaeology Hatshepsut with Horus, as one myth told of the infant Horus being suckled by Hathor in cow form (Pinch 1982: 140; Robins 1993: 51). Another image found in Hatshepsut’s funerary monument at Deir el-Bahri was of her as a giant seated Pharaoh with Hathor in cow form licking her hand [see Fig. 2] (Lesko, 1999); Hathor was present again to show the gods’ approval for Hatshepsut’s reign. Hatshepsut also used the menit necklace in her iconography, as did a number of Pharaohs after her. The menit necklace is thought to have been an instrument of noise and rhythm in cult worship, and is often shown in iconography being held by Hathor or women involved in the cult (Robins, 1993). This was another symbol of Hathor’s benevolent protection of the king. Hathor in cow form is shown sheltering the Pharaoh in front of her, as the king stands surrounded by the menit necklace [see Fig. 6]. Hathor and Pharaoh scene. Deir el-Bahri. Origins An ongoing debate still continues in scholarship concerning the origins of Hathor. Some see her as the earliest deity of prehistory, tracing her roots back to the theorised Mother Goddess and arguing that she is seen in Egypt in prehistoric cow worship (Hassan, 1992, 1998). The other side of the debate argues that Hathor’s origins do not date back to the beginnings of Egyptian religion but that she was in fact a later deliberate creation of the priesthood of Ra to be his consort (Lesko, 1999). The proof given for the argument of the creation of Hathor by the Ra priesthood is that Hathor does not appear in text or image until the Fourth Dynasty (2613-2498 BC), long after Egyptian religion had been established on both a local and state level. Rare mentions in the Pyramid Texts are also used as proof to support the idea that she arrived late on the religious scene (Lesko, 1999). A possible obstacle to this theory is the discovery of what may have been a temple of Hathor in Gebelein dating to the Third Dynasty (Wilkinson, 2003). If this is correct, it would contradict the theory that Hathor was a very late creation of the Ra priesthood. However, much of the origin debate centres on what we interpret as the imagery of Hathor; here, the common imagery of many Egyptian goddesses becomes a major obstacle to any concrete answer. For instance, the Narmer Palette is a key bone of contention – cow heads are shown clearly on the Palette, but who or what they are meant to represent is not so obvious. Advocates of the prehistoric origins of Hathor see this as unquestionably a 99

Archaeology representation of her rather than any other goddess, while exponents of the deliberate creation theory interpret this as the iconography of Bat, another goddess with bovine imagery, or simply as showing the importance of cows in Egyptian cult in general (Wengrow, 2001; Lesko, 1999). The importance of cows in Egyptian ritual is undeniable. As early as 10,000, BC horn cores of cows were placed on burials in Nubia; by 6000 BC, there were elaborate burials of cows and bulls in Egyptian Sahara (Hassan, 1998). This does indeed suggest the centrality of cows to religious rituals and beliefs. However, this fact cannot be extended to make the argument that the cows were seen as part of the belief in the Mother Goddess and that is why they continue to be used as part of Hathorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s iconography. Another point, perhaps incidental, is that mortuary treatment in Predynastic times is also found to have been accorded to dogs, goats, gazelle, and one elephant (Wengrow, 2001). This shows that while cows were probably central in these funerary traditions, they were not unique. Proponents of the Mother Goddess theory use the abundance of cows in prehistoric cult and their later imagery associated with Egyptian goddesses, especially Hathor, to argue that Predynastic Egypt was, if not a matriarchy, a society where women played an important role in governing the community. Male domination is seen to have intruded in Dynastic times and power of women was relegated to the power the queen wielded in religion (her titles and iconography) and priestesses of female deities such as Hathor (Hassan 1992, 1998). Hassan argues that a shift in funerary tradition can be read as the shift from the primeval Mother Goddess to the ascendance of the male dominated Ennead and rule of the king (1992, p. 317). He sees this in the transition from the oval pits of prehistory to the pyramid structures of the Dynastic period. These, however, could as easily be read as the use of funerary monuments by a select elite group, which included both men and women (illustrated by the discovery of a pyramid complex belonging to a queen mother in the Sixth Dynasty) (Troy, 2003) to differentiate them in a more hierarchical society, and also, the development of larger and more complex funerary monuments coinciding with a development in technological innovation. No matter her origins, Hathor became an essential component of the Pharaohâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s divine connections. Her strength and ferocity made her an ideal protector of Egypt while her nurturing aspects as personified by the cow meant she could be seen as the protective mother of the dynasties. She was not the only female deity involved in the propaganda of the Pharaohs, but, while Isis may have become a more universally worshipped deity in Hellenistic and Roman times, Hathor was not forgotten and remained an important goddess 100

Archaeology in popular cult as well as state religion. Hathor’s connection with the king was neither her only aspect nor necessarily her primary function, but she provided an iconography and mythology that Pharaohs such as Hatshepsut could make great use out of to define and justify their divine rule of the Two Lands. Bibliography Hassan, F., 1992. Primeval Goddess to Divine King: The Mythogenesis of Power in the Early Egyptian State. In R. Friedman & B. Adams, eds. The Followers of Horus: studies dedicated to Michael Allen Hoffman / 1944-1990. Oxford: Oxbow Books, pp. 307-321. Hassan, F., 1998. The Earliest Goddesses of Egypt: Divine Mothers and Cosmic Bodies. In L. Goodison & C. Morris, eds. Ancient Goddesses: The Myths and the Evidence. London: British Museum Press, pp. 98-112. Lesko, B., 1999. The Great Goddesses of Egypt. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press. Pinch, G., 1982. Offerings to Hathor. Folklore 93(2), pp. 138-15. Pinch, G., 1993. Votive Offerings to Hathor. Oxford: Griffith Institute, Ashmolean Museum. Roberts, A., 1995. Hathor Rising: The Serpent Power of Ancient Egypt. Totnes: Northgate. Robins, G., 1993. Women in Ancient Egypt. London: Belitha Press. Troy, L., 2003. She For Whom All is Said and Done: The Ancient Egyptian Queen. In S. Milledge Nelson, ed. Ancient Queens: Archaeological Explorations. Oxford: AltaMira. Wengrow, D., 2001. Rethinking ‘Cattle Cults’ in Early Egypt: Towards a Prehistoric Perspective on the Narmer Palette. Cambridge Archaeological Journal, 11, pp. 91-104. Wilkinson, R. H.,2003. The Complete Gods and Goddesses of Ancient Egypt. London: Thames and Hudson. 101

The Methods Employed by the Romans to Provide Water in Rural and Urban Settings Aidan Conway

Junior Sophister, Ancient History and Archaeology

he provision of water in the ancient Roman world, as is the situation in modern times, was essential to the quality of life of the citizens of both Rome itself and the numerous Roman provinces. This essay aims to analyse the various different methods used by the Romans to collect and distribute water to the urban and rural facilities which provided sustenance, hygiene and recreation to the people of the empire. It shall be shown how aqueducts, reservoirs, town distribution centres and pipelines, cisterns, wells, and dams were all involved in Roman waterworks schemes, and the success of such features in providing a ready supply of water to the people of the empire will be examined. Undoubtedly the best-known method by which the Romans transported and provided water to towns in the ancient world was through the use of aqueducts. These water channels rank among the most famous and impressive examples of the achievements of the Roman civilization, showcasing the skill of Roman hydraulic engineers in carrying water over great distances to provide the population in urban areas with plentiful supplies of water. Our main source for the study of Roman aqueducts and how they functioned is the book The Aqueducts of Rome, published by Sextus Julius Frontinus, who was appointed as director of the Rome metropolitan waterworks by Emperor Nerva in 97 AD (Hodge 1989, 127). This work now provides half of our information on the Roman aqueducts; the other half is provided by archaeological study of the remains. By combining the two sources of information a generally clear overall view of the functioning of aqueducts can be obtained. Although aqueducts are commonly associated with architectural grandeur, it is important to acknowledge that the arches and bridges which 102

archaeology come to mind when one thinks of aqueducts formed only a very small part of the overall waterworks. Most aqueducts ran on arches for less than 10% of their total length. The water channel itself, the actual ‘aqueduct’, usually ran at ground level or was more often buried about a metre below it, out of sight. It was usually lined with water-proof cement which accelerated flow by reducing friction (Hodge 1989, 137). The great bridges and viaducts perceived by a great many people to dominate the entire aqueduct length were in fact only used when absolutely necessary. Some aqueducts even had none whatsoever. For example the first aqueduct at Rome, the Aqua Appia, was entirely underground (Hodge 1989, 129). The aqueduct was usually fed continuously by a natural water spring, and with taps being rare this generally meant most outlets were running twenty-four hours a day. Thus the quantity of water that passed through the system continually was enormous, no matter the time of day or the volume of usage at that time. Estimates for the total volume supplied daily to Rome range from half a million to a million cubic metres, which when reduced to a per capita basis, is calculated to have given Rome in the first century AD a water supply almost twice that of New York City’s in 1986 (Hodge 1989, 128). The conduit of the aqueduct was covered on top to stop dirt entering the channel, containing sufficient space to allow access to maintenance workers (Hodge 1989, 131). The aqueduct channel was basically an artificial river. Depending on rainfall amounts it could have high and low seasons. It could not be turned off; one could only divert the water elsewhere. The entire system exploited the pull of gravity to guide the water along in the channel. This meant that most of the aqueduct route had to be gradually downward sloping. Yet the aqueduct had to arrive at a city well above ground level if the water supply was to reach the higher parts of the settlement This meant that cities approached across a flat plain required the aqueduct to be raised on a continuous arcade, thus keeping the water high and thereby making it easier to distribute throughout the city once it arrived. The distance from the water source also had significant implications for the construction of the aqueduct. The longest known aqueduct was at Roman Carthage, having a channel length of 132km, but even at Rome lengths of up to 80 or 90km were common. If the source was far from the city it meant the aqueduct had to be placed high, allowing the channel to run at a downwards slope. Thus the source was frequently in the mountains, meaning the engineer had to get the channel to cross a valley most likely. Going around the valley would encompass a long detour with higher costs (Hodge 1989, 132). One solution to avoid this problem was to use the inverted siphon 103

Archaeology method, in which the water was guided down one slope via up to nine lead pipes, across the bottom of the valley, and back up the facing slope by means of the force thus exerted. It was then transferred from the pipes back into an aqueduct channel. To reduce the depth the pipes had to plunge, and therefore the pressure inside them, they were frequently carried over the bottom of the valley on a masonry bridge. Such inverted siphons were relatively common and the Romans were able to make pipes which could withstand the pressure. The siphons were very few in the aqueducts of Rome itself, and are most numerous around Lyon (ancient Lugdunum), which had nine, divided among the four aqueducts that served it. However Siphons were very difficult to clean and expensive to build due to the lead used. As a result large-scale bridges were preferred for crossing valleys, the highest aqueduct bridge being the Pont du Gard in Provence, France, which carried the aqueduct supplying NĂŽmes over the river Gardon (Hodge 1989, 133). The purpose of such bridges was to maintain the level of the conduit. To maintain this height a series of tall, narrow arches were used in the construction. The piers were built of cut stone or concrete and thus were able to cope with the overhead weight. To keep the height of the bridge manageable without the structure becoming insecure, one solution adopted was to construct the bridge of two or three tiers of arches atop one another, as seen at the Pont du Gard (Hodge 1989, 134). With regards the opposite situation, in places where the height of the aqueduct needed to be dramatically lowered, cascades could be introduced along the aqueduct route, forming a repeated series of waterfalls and ensuring a rapid loss of height. An example of this was at Recret/Grezieu, on the Craponne aqueduct at Lyon, which had about fifty such falls each of them about 2.5m high and 30-100m apart (Hodge 2000, 87). Archaeological evidence suggests that the majority of aqueducts were constructed to supply urban centres, however it also seems that smaller aqueducts were built to supply rural communities. Public wells have been discovered in the Alban hills towards Tusculum which were once joined to a small, littleknown, rural aqueduct called the Aqua Augusta (Thomas & Wilson 1994, 147). Smaller aqueducts may have been constructed by an individual for his own use or by groups of individuals, who by investing in such a structure could gain great advantage from the increased water supply to their agricultural holdings (Thomas & Wilson 1994, 148). Examples of rural aqueducts serving industrial needs are known from remains at gold mines in Spain. In his book, Frontinus informs the reader that a large enough volume of water destined for Rome via the aqueducts was used by some rural users, who paid to draw water from the urban aqueducts where they passed through or near 104

Archaeology their estates. From the evidence highlighted thus far it is clear that aqueducts were a highly successful method of providing water to urban areas, into which the water flowed in abundance, and to a somewhat lesser extent, to rural areas. As one historian states “It could be, indeed has been, argued that the abundant provision of pure water and hygienic sanitation must rank as one of the greatest achievements of the Roman genius” (Hodge 1989, 128). Under the Romans supplies to existing towns were improved and water supply became an important feature in the development of new towns: “Aqueducts became a common and widespread feature of urban planning. Furthermore their construction was often instrumental in the revitalisation of cities” (Owens 1992, 159).. By the end of the first century AD Rome was supplied by nine aqueducts drawing their supply from sources between 19km and 80km away, a fact which highlights how important aqueducts had become to urban life (Owens 1992, 159). However the aqueduct system had some important faults. The aqueducts mostly used hard water that left a material deposit on the channel floor which would eventually build up and block the water passage. Thus it had to be regularly cleaned out (Hodges 1989, 139). Also as the population and water requirements of a city increased more aqueducts were added. Frequently in cases where a suitable arcade already existed, the new conduit simply used it also, thus saving lots of extra architectural construction (Hodges 1989, 141). But the original structure, not built to carry this extra load, sometimes could not cope and strains could manifest themselves in the form of leakage and spillage. Such continual maintenance and repairs of the system doubtless resulted in occasional disruption to a city’s water supply. As one historian interestingly observes: “The endless series of inscriptions in which one emperor after another proudly announces how he has renovated and repaired such-and-such an aqueduct only emphasises how often and how readily they broke down” (Hodges 1989, 143). So far we have seen one method by which water was gathered and guided towards urban areas. However it is of equal importance to assess the method by which the water emerging from the aqueducts was stored and distributed once it reached the towns and cities. On arrival at the city the aqueducts could be carried along the top of the city walls, this can be seen at Orange in France for example, to a suitable distribution point (Hodges 1989, 145). Filtration often took the form of a series of settling chambers through which the water moved slowly, allowing materials in the water to settle at the bottom. Such a settling chamber can be seen at the Aqua Virgo at Rome. In a few cases the channel entered a large reservoir before reaching the distribution point. The 105

Archaeology reservoirs were normally divided up into rows of piers, aisles between being roofed by barrow vaults to cover the water below. There are two such in Campania, the ‘Piscina Mairabilis’ at Bacoli, and the ‘Cento Camerelle’, serving a villa at Misenum which has not yet been fully excavated (Hodges 1989, 145). It is believed such reservoirs must have acted as a backup, filling up during the quieter hours of water usage during the night and supplementing the aqueduct during the day-time if demand for water was too high. However such reservoirs were generally uncommon. Usually on arrival at the city the water was fed directly into a castellum divisorium, or distribution tank. The answer to the question as to how these functioned remains unclear. Of those castella found, the best preserved are at Pompeii and Nîmes. The one at Pompeii is housed in an architecturally unremarkable square brick building, but the hydraulic installation inside is well preserved, despite being complex. The one at Nîmes is simpler. It is a shallow, open round tank 6m across, and built of masonry. The aqueduct enters at one side and on the other side the water leaves via thirteen large (40cm diameter) lead pipes, ten in the side wall and three in the floor, proceeding to different parts of the city (Hodge 1989, 146). From such distribution centres the water passed through pipes which ran underneath and along the surface of the streets to the many public fountains (Owens 1992, 118). Some inhabitants of Roman towns had water delivered directly to their home. This was achieved by having individual storage outlets fed from raised tanks at the street corners (Owens 1992, 128). People thus had easy access to water, and because it arrived under pressure, the wealthy could use it in fountain displays. The many fountain remains found in houses throughout the Roman Empire highlight how successful and widespread such water exploitation was ( Jansen 2000, 111).. Yet aqueducts were not the only means the Romans had of providing water to urban and rural areas in antiquity. It is obvious even from modern geography that “Many cities were so situated as to take advantage of naturally occurring supplies of water from springs, wells, and even rivers.” (Owens 1992, 118). These natural supplies could be supplemented by the digging of private and public cisterns. Frontinus makes it clear that before the aqueducts were built at Rome the river Tiber was the chief source of water. The Anio Novus aqueduct for example drew its water directly from the river Anio, which was artificially forced to form a lake behind the great dam built by Nero at Subiaco. Other forms of water-collection were generally preferred over drinking from the city’s rivers however, because they were usually polluted and dirty (Hodge 2000, 27). In antiquity the Tiber was infamous for its pollution, frequently referred to as the flavus Tiber, or ‘yellow Tiber’ (Hodge 2000, 28). 106

Archaeology In both town and country the storage and conservation of water collected from roofs was widespread. Town houses commonly held an underground cistern. The atrium-peristyle house type was built with the roof designed to drain rainwater into a shallow impluvium in the middle of the atrium, overflow from this filling the underground cistern. The impluvium also acted as a settling basin, stopping debris washed off the roof from entering the cistern. In the case of rural settlement the water could then be stored for dry periods (Robert & Wilson 1994, 140). Wells were another popular and widespread method used by the Romans for obtaining water, both in urban and rural areas. Aqueducts were relatively late in being constructed and were mainly built following the construction of large bath houses, which used copious amounts of water. But prior to this all water supplies came from cisterns and wells, and these still remained in use. As one historian makes clear, well usage in Roman times should not be underestimated: â&#x20AC;&#x153;Indeed, in most cities it is a good question whether one should think of domestic wells as supplementing the aqueducts or the other way roundâ&#x20AC;? (Hodge 2000, 29).. Wells involved digging down to the water table, which was at different depths in different places. Wells were generally lined with either masonry or wood. A simple bucket on a rope would have been mostly used to get the water. However development of pulley systems and use of animal pulling would have allowed faster speed and larger amounts to be brought up. Yet despite their positive simplicity in being a relatively easy way to obtain water, wells had their faults. The output of individual wells was low, being enough for the needs of a house or villa but not for the much greater demands of irrigation. Even successful wells could dry up, requiring new ones to be constructed. For example, ninety-nine well shafts have been found within the Roman frontier fort of the Saalburg, near Frankfurt (Hodge 2000, 30-33). Finally rural areas were unique in some ways in their methods of gathering water. Rainwater could be obtained from large areas of impervious rock for example. Limestone in the Rome region contains cracks and fissures into which rain can run and be guided along. At Cosalle delle Grotte, near the Roman colony of Cosa, there are large Roman cisterns supplied by runoff from the hillside to the west, where collection channels had been cut into the limestone. Also river diversion structures could be built to guide many of the lesser streams associated with the Tiber drainage pattern towards villas or wherever was necessary. A late Republican villa at Pian delle Salse near Sperlonga (half way between Rome and Sicily) had large cisterns fed by a dam built at a nearby gully (Robert & Wilson 1994, 141). Evidence suggests 107

Archaeology such small scale river diversion and conduit systems were common in many rural areas (Robert & Wilson 1994, 145). Indeed, the villa in itself and the area immediately around it frequently “represented a focus of water-management” which was independent and unique (Purcell 1995). In conclusion it can be seen how the Romans employed various techniques to obtain and distribute water, techniques ranging from very basic, such as the bucket and rope of the well, to very advanced and technically outstanding, such as the broad-ranging aqueducts. Although each of the methods had its own strengths and weaknesses, it is of great importance to remember that each method was never used completely independent of the others. People in the ancient Roman world could not afford to depend on simply one means of obtaining water, and thus there emerged a “general pluralistic approach which many cities had to the question of the supply of water, whereby public and private efforts were harmonised in order to reduce the dependency on one source alone” (Owens 1992, 161). Such a harmonisation of efforts resulted in the general reliability and success of the waterworks systems in most of the cities of the Roman empire. Bibliography Corbier, Mireille. 1992. City, territory and taxation. In John Rich and Andrew Wallace-Hadrill, eds. City and Country in the Ancient World. London: Routledge. pp. 211-241 Hodge, Trevor A. 1989. Aqueducts. In Ian M. Barton, ed. Roman Public Buildings. Exeter: University of Exeter Press. pp. 127-151. Hodge, Trevor A. 2000. Collection of Water. In Örjan Wikander, ed. Handbook of Ancient Water Technology. Leiden: Brill. pp. 21-29. Hodge, Trevor A. 2000. Wells. In Örjan Wikander, ed. Handbook of Ancient Water Technology. Leiden: Brill. pp. 29-35. Hodge, Trevor A. 2000. Aqueducts. In Örjan Wikander, ed. Handbook of Ancient Water Technology. Leiden: Brill. pp. 39-67. Hodge, Trevor A. 2000. Purity of Water. In Örjan Wikander, ed. Handbook of Ancient Water Technology. Leiden: Brill. pp. 95-103. 108

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Jansen, Gemma C.M. 2000. Urban Water Transport and Distribution. In Ă&#x2013;rjan Wikander, ed. Handbook of Ancient Water Technology. Leiden: Brill. pp.103-127. Owens, E.J. 2000. The City in the Greek and Roman World. London: Routledge Purcell, Nicholas. 1995. The Roman villa and the landscape of production. In T.J. Cornell & Kathryn Lomas, eds. Urban Society in Roman Italy. London: Routledge. pp. 151-179. Thomas Robert & Wilson, Andrew. 1994. Water supply for Roman farms in Latium and South Etruria. Papers of the British School at Rome, 62. pp. 139-196.

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Inlaid Early Mycenaean Bronze Daggers Elizabeth Bourke

Senior Sophister, Ancient History and Archaeology

When it comes to a discussion of the inlaid bronze daggers found at Mycenaean palace sites dating from between the sixteenth and the fourteenth centuries BCE, one encounters the problem of publication. Many of the daggers were discovered during excavations in the early part of the 20th century, and as a result much data regarding the context of these finds that would have been useful to us is either unavailable or available in abbreviated form. In many cases the majority of our information comes from examination of the daggers themselves. These daggers, along with some silver vessels, which are inlaid in the same manner, share sophistication in both technique and theme of decoration. They display marine and floral motifs, hunting scenes, and animal and human figures. The technique, known as ‘painting on metal’, consists of inlaying gold, silver, electrum and copper to form the images on a black background (assumed to be niello) which is itself inlaid on the bronze or silver body of the object. Artefacts decorated in this manner have been found in the Argolid, Messenia, Achaea and Laconia, and also Thera and Cyprus (Demakopoulou, 1995). This essay shall examine the decorative technique and then discus the daggers’ imagery and possible purposes. These discussions shall then be applied to the so-called “Lion Hunt” dagger from Mycenae shaft grave IV. Martin Boss, in his article “Mycenaean metal inlay: a technique in context” (Boss, 1997) examines the evidence for whether the decoration utilises a niello technique (where the black or dark grey inlay is melted onto the object), or if we ‘have to see the material as some sort of “irogane”-alloy, stained black in “shakudo”-style and hammered in a cold state in the mosaic of various materials’ (Boss, 1997). X-ray fluorescence analysis (XRF) and atomic absorption analysis (AAS) have detected the metallic parts of the black inlays, which appear to be roughly comparable to the metals referred to by Pliny 110

archaeology the Elder in the first century CE in the first known instructions for making niello (Pliny). Based on the presence of black inlay within incisions, short lines, and impressed dots - which black inlay could not, in these cases, have been applied by hammering without deforming the shape of the cuttings - the absence of visible joints between black fillings and black background and in addition the fact that “the back sides of those pieces... show irregular holes in which the gold front plate is visible; the dark material seems to have flown under the gold during the process of melting like solder” (Boss, 1997), among other evidence. He concludes that the technique is most likely niello or a variant thereof. However, on certain pieces, cold hammering is also used (Boss, 1997). As Boss points out, it may seem improbable to assume that such a sophisticated technique was in use in the second millennium BCE. However, its use does not depend on the existence of artificial niello compounds, as naturally-occurring sulphide compounds were available, such as lead sulphide and silver sulphide. Both lead sulphide and silver sulphide (the latter, once mixed with borax) can be used without the need for further refining. Copper sulphide is also common. K. Demakopoulou et al (London, 1995) analyse and discuss the composition of six bronze daggers from Athens’ National Archaeological Museum. Two daggers, one from Pylos and one from Prosymna, consist of high tin bronze. Another dagger from Prosymna, and three from Mycenae, consist of low tin bronze. However, “the composition data for bronzes... from the Mycenaean mainland hints at a relatively low level of correlation between composition and either function or method of production” (Demakopoulou, 1995) and in addition to this, the chronological disparity between the daggers (they date across a period greater than a century), mitigates against using compositional variances to point to the existence of different workshops. In the daggers of Demakopoulou’s study, five of six possess a panel wider at one end than at the other, effectively mirroring the shape of the dagger itself. The gold and silver decoration is inlaid onto this panel, which is itself bronze with small amounts of gold and silver. On the Prosymna dagger (catalogue no. NM 8446) the panel has the shape of the decoration, to whit a dolphin, and the craftsman has created an illusion of a panel by raising the central section of the dagger’s body (Demakaopoulou, 1995). The inlay in this case consists of copper and gold only. With regard to the composition of the gold and silver foils, evidence for use of pure metals is slim. The gold foils consist of gold and silver with traces of copper or bronze. The silver foils consist of silver with small but significant amounts of copper and small amounts of 111

Archaeology gold (Demakopoulou, 1995). There is evidence to suggest remarkable adaptability in working with alloys of copper or bronze and gold and silver, and as Demakopoulou points out, the “relative proportions of the three components... alter in keeping with the desired decorative effect” (Demakopoulou, 1995). The black inlay or patina was most likely intentionally produced on the surface, which was to be decorated. It is an open question whether these techniques were introduced into mainland Greece during the late seventeenth/early sixteenth century BCE by Cretan or Levantine craftsmen, or whether this was an indigenous development. Despite the Minoan motifs present on several of the daggers, no comparable material parallels have been discovered in Crete, and as Demakopoulou notes, comparable analytical data from Syria is lacking (Demakopoulou, 1995). As noted above, several of the daggers possess motifs that owe much to Minoan art. In the case of the 25cm blade from a tholos tomb at Pylos, dated to c1500 BCE, the imagery is distinctly of the Cretan Marine style. In the case of another dagger from Mycenae shaft grave V, dated c1570-1550 BCE (Marinatos, 1960), which depicts some form of cat (which Marinatos interprets as a leopard) chasing birds among plants interpreted as papyrus (Marinatos, 1960), one must note that the ‘papyrus’ plant is identical to the ‘papyrus’ plant found in Minoan art of the Middle to Late Bronze Age (Hood, 1978). The image of the stalking cat is also not unknown in Minoan art. It can hardly surprise one that such borrowing or transfer of imagery and motifs occurred between the Mycenaean palaces and Minoan Crete. In addition to the existence of trade links, the possibility always exists that skilled artists were a mobile population and also that intermarriage between elites from both regions took place, among other factors (not excluding war and invasion, as we know there was a Mycenaean presence in Knossos during part of the Late Helladic period) which might lead to a broader and possibly shared iconographical palette. Further study, however, is needed to examine the question of whether these borrowed themes and motifs shared the same, or similar, significance in both Minoan and Mycenaean contexts. Lion imagery is found across the Aegean, at Akrotiri on Thera, in Minoan Crete, and on the Mycenaean mainland. It is also found in the Near East. The remains of lion bones discovered on the mainland and in Balkan/Ukrainian sites (Thomas, 2004) indicate that Mycenaean lion, at least, may be a product of real experience as much as artistic imagination. Moreover while we can trace developments in lion iconography in Mycenae from their presumed external origins in Near Eastern and Minoan art, the depictions of lions 112

Archaeology found at Mycenaean sites are unusual for the number, which depict violent encounters between man and lion. Nancy Thomas suggests (Thomas, 2004) that lion imagery is a “marker of dominance” and a symbol for competing masculine power roles, which could include that of hunter, warrior, leader and ritual-maker. Thomas also notes that lion behaviour can be compared to human hunting and military tactics. It should perhaps be mentioned here that the lion is a distinctly elite image, occurring in as part of the iconographic assemblage in sites flush with rich material. The “Lion Hunt” dagger from Mycenae shaft grave IV, 23.8cm in length and dated to the mid-sixteenth century BCE, provides us with a clear example of this man-on-lion/lion-on-man violence (Marinatos, 1960). In the right corner of the panel are two running lions, one which is certainly in flight, one which, with its back-turned head, could be interpreted to be either in flight or about to turn and go on the attack. On the left side of the panel (nearer the hilt) are five human figures and a lion. The lion appears to be in an aggressive posture, with one of the human figures either dead or dying beneath its front paws, his rectangular shield no longer any use. As for the other human figures, the two closest to the lion appear to have shields (one rectangular, one figure-eight) and spears. Behind them is an archer, bare from the waist, and closest to the hilt is a man with a figure-eight shield and a spear, levelled as if for stabbing or throwing. The bodies of the men and the lions are rendered in a gold foil, while the shield and the men’s abbreviated clothing are rendered in silver. The iconography of the lion hunt, then, is iconography of power and risk. The power of the lion, which is clearly no easily defeated enemy, is juxtaposed with the power of the men of the hunt, who choose to confront it. Here neither side is in obvious possession of the upper hand and both risk death by the confrontation. Thus it is iconography of both bravery and competition, as well. Perhaps we see in this a manifestation of elite values and elite self-understanding, but the question of how precisely to interpret lion hunt imagery in relation to elite values is, beyond surface generalities, a problematic one considering all that we still do not know about Mycenaean society and how it functioned. Is the lion hunt imagery an attempt to link the elite to the attributes of the lion? In this case one might question just what, precisely, are the attributes of the lion? Strength? Vigour? Sheer killing power - the lion, like any great cat, is a creature optimised for violence - which is overcome by the elite warrior/ hunter(s) represented, thus demonstrating their own might? Is it a representation of an actual lion hunt, however far-fetched such a possibility might 113

Archaeology seem? Is it symbolic of some kind of rite of passage? Does it have reference to a god or gods? Is it a representation of some mythological or ritual event? Questions such as these are hard to answer in any definitive way, although they are worth posing, and pondering. To return to the location of the imagery - that is, in precious material on a bronze dagger discovered in a funerary context - we find other questions arising. There is little doubt that these daggers were produced for members of an elite class within Mycenaean society. Unlike, for example, the boar’stusk helmet, which we know of from wallpaintings, they were unlikely to be seen from any distance. It is therefore likely that they were not a public - or public only in a very limited fashion - marker of status. Thus we must consider their purpose. As precious objects, it is probably unlikely that they were used for warfare or hunting, unless in a ceremonial or ritual context, and it must likewise be considered unlikely that they were used for more domestic purposes. As many have been found in funerary contexts, one might consider that they could have a primarily funerary purpose, but the evidence does not completely support this hypothesis. It seems likely that as a semi-private marker of status, these inlaid daggers may have had a ritual or ceremonial function. Alternatively, as precious items they may have functioned primarily as a display of wealth and status within the elite group. These two possibilities are not mutually exclusive: an object may function both as a display of wealth within the group and as an object with ritual use. Barring exhaustive further study, and more recent discoveries, many of these ambiguities will remain unresolved. Bibliography Boss, M., 1997. ‘Mycenaean metal inlay: a technique in context’, in Laffineur, R. and Betancourt, P. (eds), TEXNH Craftsmen, Craftswomen, and Craftsmanship in the Aegean Bronze Age. Austin: University of Texas at Austin. Demakopoulou, K. et al, 1995. “Mycenaean black inlaid metalware in the National Archaeological Museum, Athens: a technical examination” in The Annual of the British School at Athens 90. London: The School. Marinatos, S., 1960. Crete and Mycenae. New York: H.N.Abrams Thomas, N.R., 2004. ‘The early Mycenaean lion up to date’ in Chapin, A.P. (ed. XAPI∑ Essays in honour of Sara A. Immerwahr. Athens, American School of Classical Studies at Athens. 114

A Commentary on Trajan’s Forum Frank Lynam

Senior Sophister, Ancient History and Archaeology

his paper comments on the plan of the imperial fora in Rome specifically in relation to the sections that were constructed during the reign of the emperor Trajan (98-117 CE). The first of the two provided plans gives the pre-2000 view of the area and the second shows the updated interpretation (I would hesitate to call this revised plan an ‘accepted’ interpretation as it would appear that the subject is still hotly contested. In fact, it would now seem that following a more recent publication, the Temple of Trajan, which is omitted in our updated plan, is now back and in roughly in the same position as before. It should be noted that this document does not take this new publication into account). The plans will be discussed in their own right and in the context of the seminar ‘Imperialism in the Roman World’. The Imperial Fora Julius Caesar established the precedent of constructing imperial fora when he purchased land to the north of the Forum Romanum and started the construction of a large open public space, the Forum Iulium, in 54 BCE (Caesar spent the vast sum of 60 million sesterces on the purchase of the land. See ‘Forum Caesaris’ in Oxford Dictionary of the Classical World.). After his death, his adopted son Augustus continued the practice by overseeing the building of his own Forum Augusti, again using private funds. Various other emperors followed the example set by Julius Caesar and Augustus over the coming century. Trajan contributed the final forum which was to be the grandest and largest of all the imperial fora. At 300m x 185m, it was almost as big as the combined area of all the other imperial fora.

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Recent Excavations and Research Figure 1: Pre-2000 plan of the imperial fora

Figure 2: Revised plan of the imperial fora

Two plans of the imperial fora are given, thus reflecting the recent scholarly debate over the correct layout of the complex following the excavations carried out during the 1990s. Both plans have been denied the luxury of a complete site excavation due mainly to the fact that the fora area is situated in the centre of modern Rome and thus has experienced constant occupation during the post-Roman period (The decision by Benito Mussolini in 1931 to build the Via dei Fori Imperiali in a direct line from the Piazza Venezia to the Colosseum did not help matters as it now covers a substantial section of the west side of the imperial fora). Therefore, in order to supplement the 116

Archaeology archaeological record, researchers have had to place a heavy emphasis on numismatic, epigraphic (including the FUR), and literary evidence to construct the overall plan. The major area of contention among scholars after the publication of the findings of the 1990s excavation report surrounded the siting of the Temple of the Deified Trajan, which was built by Trajan’s successor, Hadrian, and the character of the area between the Forum Traiani and the Forum Augusti (There is no dispute as to whether or not the temple was built. Its dedicatory inscription can be viewed today in the Vatican Museums (CIL VI.966). See Historia Augusta, Hadrian, XIX.IX for an account of Hadrian’s construction of a temple in honour of his deified father). Pre-2000 opinion located it to the NW of the Basilica Ulpia. It is omitted from the revised plan. The Dacian Wars and Their Commemoration Trajan was first and foremost a military man and the majority of his time was spent campaigning away from Rome. His most noteworthy campaign involved the defeat, plunder, pacification, and eventual annexation of the Dacian region, an area that had first drawn the attention of Domitian but had been left unresolved. The Dacian campaigns were noteworthy for a number of reasons, not least of which was the amount of booty that they yielded for the conquering forces, particularly for the army and its general (In general, the aerarium did not benefit during the early phases of expansionist activity. It was only later, and especially after a satisfactory taxation system had been established during the 1st century CE, that the state profited from the annexation of new territories). Since Republican times, a commanding consul was entitled to a personal share of the spoils after the defeat of an enemy. This continued on into the imperial period and saw the emperors receiving the consul’s share. As a result, the emperors were in a position to vastly increase their personal wealth, either directly or through the imperial fiscus, when on campaign. The astute emperor used these funds in lavish acts of public munificence following in the footsteps of Augustus. Trajan, whose position had largely come about as a result of an unorthodox and therefore potentially dangerous adoption by Nerva, was aware that he must tread carefully in order to maintain his position. The forum project was the ideal tool with which to continue this policy of ingratiation towards the various Roman institutions: army, senate and plebs. The Dacian campaign not only served to support the project financially but provided a font of iconographic and symbolic influences. 117

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The Layout Trajan employed the services of Apollodorus of Damascus (The use of an eastern architect shows how the beginnings of a policy of cultural and social openness towards the provinces should not only be attributed to Hadrian. There are many examples of Trajanic policy that highlight the start of a shift towards cultural decentralisation) and, although in many ways the project can be seen as a return to Augustan architectural principles, it may also be seen as an influential evolution of the form (The new model of forum used for the Forum Traiani was adopted by many of the northern provinces in the years following its construction [Bennett, 1997]). The total project can be split up into five separate components that can be considered in their own right but also in their interaction which each other: the open-air forum area itself, the covered Basilica Ulpia, the twin libraries, Trajanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Column and the network of markets to the east. One interpretation of the overall form is that it mirrors the plan of a military principia building in a Roman legionary fort. The colonnaded forum and basilica are schematically very similar in both the Forum Traiani and the principia and the two libraries at the back of the basilica take the place of the tabalarii and the aedes at the back of the principiaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s basilica building. Perhaps as Trajan spent so much of his time in the environs of the principia it is not so surprising that there is such a similarity in designs. Augustusâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; shadow is figuratively and literally cast over the new forum; the entrance to the Forum Traiani meets the Forum Augusti on its northern side in an area that is now believed to have contained a portico-type structure ( Numismatic evidence had previously led scholars to believe that a triumphal arch had been constructed at the entrance to the Forum Traiani despite the lack of any archaeological evidence to support this claim). The twin exedrae plan of the Forum Augusti is mirrored by its neighbour. Scholars have also suggested that, based on the archaeological and literary evidence, Apollodorus made great use of caryatids, again in homage to the Augustan architectural principles. This is no coincidence. Just as Vespasian had done, after a time of uncertainty, Trajan was consciously establishing a very visible link back to the time of Augustus. He may not have been of Julio-Claudian blood, but he was a successor to Augustus in action and mindset. In fact he was not even of Italian stock having hailed from the Spanish province of Baetica. Another similarity between the two men is the obvious attention paid by both to the construction of public works during their reigns. They were not happy to leave the conceptual planning of these projects to anyone 118

Archaeology but themselves or their courts. The Forum in the Context of Imperialism as a Whole Traditionally, Roman imperialism has been considered largely defensive in nature. The Romans reacted to frontier realities and exploited the resulting aftermaths; they did not have a consciously expansionist policy (North, 1981). Imperialism is a complex subject and it is dangerous to try and oversimplify it by resorting to trite categorisation. It is also worth emphasising the length of time that we are referring to when we talk of the Romans as imperialists; it is a period that stretches from the conquest of Sicily in the 3rd century BCE to the end of the western empire in the 5th century CE. This millennium of imperial activity and policy inevitably saw change and evolution. Bearing this difficulty in mind, the Forum Traiani does tell us quite a bit about Roman imperial policy in the early 2nd century CE, especially in its use of iconography which, as previously mentioned, makes extensive use of the Dacian campaign as its subject matter. The dominant motif is of the civilised Roman army in the act of putting down the barbarous Dacian hoard. This image is fundamental to how the Romans would have understood their imperialism; it imposed order on previously unordered societies. Roman aristocrats had war in their veins from the beginning. During the Republic, military campaigning was the way of advancing the honour of oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s family and of advancing oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s political career (North, 1981). Republican consuls were first and foremost military leaders. This served to drive expansionist policy. With the end of the Republic, the emperor became the head of the army and he adopted the consulsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; military ambitions (Of course not all the emperors were as interested in leading men into battle as they should have been. Interestingly the majority of those who were found deficient in this department ended up meeting a premature death). Romans were proud of their empire, or at least the policy makers wanted to remind them of it at every opportunity to encourage civic pride. By constructing his Forum Traiani, Trajan is pointing out to all the citizens of Rome, in a highly accessible and public way, firstly that Rome is a great military power and secondly that Trajan is a great leader of it. He is also showing that war, brought about by imperialist policy, can be hugely profitable and beneficial to all in Roman society. This ability to mould public opinion using culture and public munificence was a crucial part of Roman imperialist policy. One hesitates to use the term propaganda, but certainly a conscious effort to affect the public 119

Archaeology subconscious was important in an effort to maintain a contented populace. The statues of the Dacians become symbolic of the defeated people. We are being given a summary of the practicalities of Roman expansionist procedure in the scenes represented. The Dacians have been defeated and they will now be assimilated into the empire. First, however, a large number of them will become Roman slaves (In fact, most slaves were not obtained as a direct result of imperial expansion. It would be incorrect to suggest that Roman imperialist policy was fundamentally driven by a demand for slaves to work the latifundi of the wealthy as some scholars seem inclined to believe [Harris, 1985]) In summary, Roman public works operated at various levels: utilitarian, political, and cultural. The imperial fora were no different, and, by reflecting on them today, we can seek to breach the fog of time and learn something of the attitude that the Romans themselves, both lowly and powerful, would have had towards their stateâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s imperialist agenda. Bibliography Bennett, J., 1997. Trajan Optimus Princeps. London: Routledge. Harris, W. V., 1985. War and Imperialism in Republican Rome 327-70 BC. Oxford: Clarendon press. North, J., 1981. The Development of Roman Imperialism. Journal of Roman Studies, 71, 1981, pp. 1-9. Ramage, N. H. & Ramage, A., 2005. Roman Art: Romulus to Constantine. London: Pearson Education. Sear, F., 1982. Roman Architecture. London: Routledge. Standford Digital For a Ubris Romae Project, 2008. Home, [online] October. Available at: Available at: http://formaurbis.stanford.edu [Accessed 21 February 2009]. Whittaker, C. R. 1997. Imperialism and culture: the Roman initiative. In D.J Mattingly, ed. Dialogues in Roman Imperialism: Power, discourse, and discrepant experience in the Roman Empire. Portsmouth RI: Journal of Roman Archeology, pp. 143-163 120

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